Chapter 51

Avery’s POV

The drive stretched on beneath a pale amber sky, the city dissolving into the rolling silence of open fields and long roads. The bruised light of the late afternoon gave the world a cinematic quality, but my focus remained on the asphalt unraveling beneath the tires.

My hands gripped the wheel tighter than usual, not from nerves, but from the raw, humming anticipation of where I was taking her. This secluded space, my sanctuary, was about to become our sanctuary, and that thought alone made my stomach clench.

Tiffany had been a whirlwind of questions since the moment she sat in the passenger seat, buckling her seatbelt with that familiar air of unflagging curiosity that never let her rest. She wore an expression of studied patience that didn’t reach her eyes—eyes that, I knew, were cataloging and compiling data on me.

She was the professor, and I was her fascinating, frustrating subject. Her gaze lingered on me, those sharp, assessing eyes flicking between the road and my profile as if trying to piece together the blueprint of whatever surprise I was hiding.

The silence lasted ten minutes before she broke it, her voice laced with an exaggerated sigh. “Avery…” she said, dragging out my name with that teasing, possessive lilt that always managed to dig under my skin. “You’ve been driving for an hour now, and you’re still not telling me where we’re going. Am I supposed to just sit here and twiddle my thumbs while you play the mysterious, silent film star?”

Her tone suggested the latter was an unbearable proposition. I kept my eyes on the road, watching a hawk circle over a distant copse of trees, but my lips curled into a half-smile I tried—and failed—to suppress. “You don’t have a bit of patience, do you, Professor?” I countered, the small barb delivered with a warmth that betrayed my attempt at nonchalance.

She scoffed, the sound a low, resonant rumble in her throat, and leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, a silent declaration that she was winning this standoff. “Patience? With you? Avery, my dear, I thought you were familiar enough with me by now to know that’s not a word in my vocabulary. I mean…” She paused, her voice dropping into a suggestive, honeyed whisper, “I made it clear back in that hotel room in Italy what I prioritize over waiting, didn’t I?”

The words, though wrapped in her usual playful venom, hit me harder than I expected. They were a sudden, sharp reminder of a shared, explosive memory, a memory that still felt as raw and revelatory as it had that first night.

My breath caught—just for a second, a stuttering, involuntary halt—but she noticed it, of course. She noticed everything. Heat, sudden and fierce, flushed up the back of my neck, burning across my cheeks, and I cursed myself for letting the blush betray my maintained composure.

I was the heir, the strategist, the untouchable, and yet she could reduce me to a teenager with a single, loaded sentence. Tiffany’s eyes widened, a flash of unrestrained delight sparkling in their depths.

She leaned closer, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial, gleeful whisper, “Oh my God. Such bliss. It’s not like every day that Avery Von Carter blushes. This is… priceless.”

The emphasis she put on my full name was a deliberate theatrical flourish, a reminder of the public persona she was shattering. I clenched my jaw, trying to look unfazed, fixing my gaze on the vanishing point of the road, but I knew the color had already painted my shame, or perhaps my pleasure, for her viewing. “Can you please stop teasing me?” I muttered, my tone edged with exasperation, though the final word softened, losing its battle against the underlying affection.

“Okay, okay,” she relented, raising her hands in a mock gesture of surrender, though the wicked, victorious grin on her face betrayed her every word. “I suppose I’ll give you a temporary reprieve from the ‘Blushing Von Carter’ title. But admit it, this is fun.”

I shot her a sidelong look that was meant to be judgmental, but fell short. “You mean teasing me until I’m embarrassed is fun to you?”

She didn’t even hesitate. She simply hummed low in her throat, a sound almost like a purr, warm and unsettling in its implication, and then redirected. “So… where are we going, Avery?”

I exhaled through my nose, a slow release of air, refusing to take the bait this time. “I’m not going to tell you,” I repeated, the challenge back in my voice, a complicated game of push and pull we perpetually played.

Her eyebrows lifted, and then, as if deciding she wouldn’t get answers through words, she moved. Deliberately, with the economy of motion that made everything she did feel significant, her fingers slid across the center console, coming to rest featherlight at the edge of my trouser leg.

Then, bolder, the pads of her fingers crept higher, testing boundaries I’d maintained in public. My thigh muscles tensed beneath the fabric, an involuntary tightening that made her smile widen with triumph.

“Don’t—” I caught her wrist before she could go further, my voice firm, steady, but the slight tremor in my own hand betrayed the internal skirmish. “Not here. Not now.”

She chuckled, a rich, unabashed sound, not pulling her hand away but simply letting it rest beneath the captured weight of mine. “I’m just glad I still have my magic on you, Avery,” she murmured, her eyes holding mine for a long, meaningful moment.

I inhaled sharply, pressing my foot harder on the accelerator, trying to outrun the storm she always managed to stir within me. Her magic—she didn’t know how true that was. Or maybe she did, and that was the most terrifying, thrilling part of it all.

The road curved, leading us off the main highway into a quieter stretch where the city was nothing but a memory hazing the rearview mirror. Trees, tall and ancient, lined both sides, casting long, fractured shadows across the car as the evening deepened.

I slowed down, turning onto a narrow, gravel track hidden behind a screen of old oaks, and pulled the car to a stop in a secluded clearing. Tiffany straightened in her seat, the teasing vanishing, replaced by focused surprise.

Her eyes danced around, taking in the dense trees and the silence. “Oh,” she said with a soft, surprised laugh. “Did we reach?”

I didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched for a beat, then two, heavy with the weight of the moment I’d delayed for over an hour.

Before she could ask again, before she could break the tension with another teasing remark, I leaned across the console, my right hand cupping her jaw, my thumb stroking her cheekbone, as I crashed my lips against hers. It was not a gentle kiss.

It was an answer—urgent, desperate, an explosion of withheld longing and the promise of the secret world we were about to enter. She gasped against my mouth, a surprised flutter of air, and pulled back just enough to murmur, a note of confused humor in her voice, “Whoa, whoa—easy, tiger. I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“Don’t,” I breathed, desperate, my voice breaking through the thin layer of control I had left. It was a plea, a demand, a confession all at once.

Don’t pull back. Don’t make me wait. Don’t be flippant about this moment.

Her eyes softened, the teasing mischief dissolving. The resistance melted from her body like snow on a warm stone. She tilted her head, giving me easier access, and kissed me back—hesitant at first, then with a sudden, overwhelming fervor that matched my own.

The taste of her was fire and home and complicated truth, and for a long moment, I lost myself in it, in her, letting the silence of the woods absorb the ragged edge of my breath. When I finally pulled back, our foreheads still touching, our breaths mingled in the small space between us, humid and fast.

She looked at me, searching my face with intense, scrutiny, and I could feel the heavy pounding in my own chest. “Don’t ever judge my love for you,” I said, my voice rough, stripped of all the layers of polish and articulation I usually kept in place.

The words felt raw and vulnerable, a wound I was willing to expose. “I will never get over the magic you did to me. The spell you cast—it’s something I can’t come out of.”

Her eyes flickered, receiving the weight of my confession. For once, she didn’t tease, didn’t deflect, didn’t laugh it off. She simply listened, her expression open and serious.

“And as for your question,” I continued, brushing my thumb against the soft skin of her cheek, trying to regain a semblance of my normal voice, “we’re going to the farmhouse. It’s just through these trees. Far from the city. Away from the limelight, away from the media… away from everything else that isn’t us.”

She nodded, the corners of her lips lifting in something softer and more genuine than her usual smirk. It was a smile of understanding, of recognition. “A secret world just for us?”

“Something like that,” I murmured, leaning forward to press one more, quick, necessary kiss against her mouth. The car fell silent after that, but it wasn’t the awkward silence of secrets withheld or questions unanswered.

It was heavy with something else—anticipation, warmth, the solid weight of the unspoken truths that had been acknowledged between us. I started the engine again, creeping down the hidden track.

The farmhouse wasn’t just a place. It was my escape, my sanctuary—a fortress of solitude carved out of the world’s noise. Now, by bringing her here, it would become the most exposed, vulnerable place I possessed, the place I shared with her.

As we drove on, with Tiffany stealing glances at me, a knowing, calm smile playing at her lips, I couldn’t help but wonder if she realized that what I was giving her wasn’t just a house or a weekend. It was everything I had left to give.

The farmhouse, more accurately a modest, beautiful manor house built of dark stone and old wood, leaned around us like a warm, encompassing secret. The evening air was still, the kind that wrapped itself around the mansion like a velvet drape, isolating it from the rest of the universe.

The lamps along the walls glowed, casting pools of honeyed light, and in the profound silence that hung around the corridors, every footstep, every rustle of fabric, felt like a deliberate statement. I stood in the living hall, a grand but comfortable space with a soaring ceiling and a fire already laid in the enormous hearth.

My hands were tucked behind my back, the familiar posture of command, taking in the quiet anticipation before Tiffany’s arrival would pull color and chaos into the space. I turned to the caretaker, an elderly gentleman named George, who was waiting with his stoic patience.

His posture was upright, his expression calm, though his eyes always carried that glimmer of readiness—as if he anticipated my words before I even uttered them, a necessary quality in the employ of a Von Carter. “Is everything arranged?” I asked, my voice firm yet carrying the weight of expectation.

I had given explicit instructions: the pantry stocked, the linen aired, and privacy for the duration of our stay. He gave a polite, efficient bow, his voice steady and low. “Yes, Ms. Carter. Everything is arranged exactly as you instructed. The main kitchen is prepared for your use, and the staff quarters have been retired for the evening. The gate is locked, and no calls will be received.”

A faint nod left me, the assurance tightening into my chest with satisfaction. I didn’t miss the way Tiffany’s curious gaze followed the exchange.

She was leaning against a carved wooden pillar, observing the transaction with that air of amusement she always carried when she watched me take charge—like my presence in command was both fascinating and teasing to her, a spectacle for her private consumption. She watched me operate in my element, the Von Carter element, and seemed amused by the sheer force of it.

“What exactly are you doing?” she asked, her tone casual but laced with that specific playfulness that always managed to make my chest tighten with irritation and pleasure. I glanced at her and allowed myself a soft, knowing smirk. “Well, if you want to get freshened up and settle in, just go upstairs,” I said, pointing toward the magnificent, winding staircase. “The second room on the left. It has the best view of the fields.”

Her brow arched in suspicion, reading the deflection. “And what are you up to, ordering the staff away and making preparations that smell suspiciously like a plot?”

“You’ll see,” I replied, not giving her more than that, clinging to the last shred of my surprise. With a subtle huff of annoyance, she pushed herself off the pillar, the faint roll of her eyes making me bite back a laugh. “Fine. But don’t think I won’t find out,” she warned, a mock threat that only deepened her eyes’ mischievous sparkle, before making her way upstairs.

Her footsteps, light and rhythmic, echoed against the marbled staircase, a diminishing melody that felt like the quiet before a magnificent storm. The moment her form disappeared from view, I let out a exhale and made my way toward the state-of-the-art kitchen.

The golden lights flicked on above the counters, bathing the room in warmth, making the copper pots gleam. It had been a long while since I had stepped into this space with the intention of cooking myself.

Usually, a team of private chefs handled it all, but tonight—I wanted it to be different. This had to be personal, a labor of love, a domestic confession.

I tied the apron—a thick, soft cotton one I hadn’t seen in years—loosely around my waist, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. My fingers reached for the ingredients already set aside on the marble island: the pasta in butterfly shapes, the chopped fresh vegetables, the unsalted butter, and the organic flour, eggs, and buttermilk needed for the pancakes, all stacked just right as George had prepared.

There was something profoundly calming about the rhythm of cooking. The immediate hiss of the butter melting in the stainless steel pan, the fragrant aroma of garlic and fresh basil filling the air, the steady clink-clink-clink of the whisk against the ceramic bowl as I prepared a light, creamy white sauce—it all worked together like a internal symphony.

For a moment, I wasn’t the Von Carter heir the world demanded me to be. I wasn’t the cold, calculating strategist, the name carved out in billion-dollar legacy.

I was simply… Avery, doing something for the woman she loved. I found myself cutting the herbs, savoring the pungent scent released on the chopping block, and humming a low, wordless tune.

The act of creation, of nurturing, was a foreign but satisfying sensation. I was making something real, something tangible, something that would nourish her, not just something I could purchase with a signature.

By the time I had the pasta cooked al dente, the creamy sauce clinging like a velvet cloak to the butterfly shapes, and the pancakes golden brown and stacked, ready for syrup and berries, I could hear the purposeful sound of footsteps descending the stairs. I turned my head, wiping my hands on the apron, and there she was.

Tiffany stood at the threshold of the kitchen, looking transformed. Her damp hair cascaded around her face, still clinging wetly to her shoulders, her skin radiating a gentle heat from the shower.

Her expression, however, was painted with unadulterated surprise. Her eyes widened at the sight of me—the Von Carter heir—standing over the stove, steam curling into the air like delicate, fragrant threads.

“Well,” she began, her lips tugging into that familiar, irresistibly teasing smile, her arms crossing over her chest, “I didn’t know the sole heir of the Von Carters, the Empress of Industry, could cook.”

Her words landed with that softness of hers, but the triumphant, affectionate smirk in her tone was impossible to miss. She was enjoying this far too much.

I rolled my eyes, fighting the warm, silly smile that was threatening to slip past my defenses. “I don’t know when you’ll stop teasing me with this ‘Von Carter’ title,” I muttered, shaking my head.

She let out a laugh, light and melodic, the kind of honest, unguarded sound that always made something stir—something hopeful—inside me. “Never,” she said, her tone dripping with certainty. “It’s far too much fun to watch you react to it.”

“Figures,” I muttered under my breath, shaking my head again, but I couldn’t stop the small, genuine smile that curled at the corner of my lips. She pushed off the frame of the doorway and leaned against the nearest counter, watching me intently, her earlier suspicion replaced by curiosity.

“So, what’s on the menu, Chef? And don’t you dare say ‘you’ll see’ again.” I played along for a moment, enjoying her impatience. “You’ll see,” I said, repeating the exact tone I’d used earlier, refusing to give her the full satisfaction of answers just yet.

“Hmm, mysterious as always,” she tilted her head, studying me like I was the only puzzle worth solving in a vast, complicated world. She took a step closer, the damp scent of lavender and fresh soap accompanying her. “But I’m starving. My patience is truly wearing thin now, Avery.”

“Okay, okay,” I said after a moment, giving in to the look in her eyes. “Come, have a seat.”

Her brows rose, a triumphant arch, but she obliged, sliding into one of the plush, cushioned chairs at the oak table that George had set impeccably. I plated the creamy farfalle pasta, placing it before her with a kind of care that made my own heart race.

Then came the stack of golden pancakes, set with a small pitcher of warm maple syrup and a bowl of fresh, glistening berries on the side. She looked at the spread with widened eyes, a genuine expression of awe replacing the tease, then back at me.

There was something more than surprise in her gaze—it was a deep, appreciation, the kind of awe she didn’t bother hiding, and that was worth more than any compliment. “Impressive,” she murmured, her voice soft, hushed, her eyes never leaving mine. “I’m impressed, Avery. This isn’t just something you bought.”

I waved a hand dismissively, though my chest warmed at the word, feeling a flush of pride I hadn’t expected. “Don’t overexaggerate. At first, have it. It’s better hot.”

Her lips twitched, and then she leaned forward, picking up the serving spoon for the pasta. But of course, Tiffany being Tiffany, she didn’t just taste it like a normal person.

She scooped up a single butterfly of pasta, looked into my eyes, and slid the spoon into her mouth, her lips wrapping around it in a teasingly deliberate way that made the breath catch in my throat.

My jaw dropped. “Are you serious right now?” I managed to articulate, leaning against the counter.

Her eyes gleamed with mischief as she pulled the spoon back out and chewed with thoughtfulness, nodding, savoring the moment more than the food. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of deliberate, delay, she gave her verdict, her voice slow and drenched with over-the-top drama. “Not bad,” she said, her lips curling into a wicked smile. “It tastes… like heaven. You should cook more often, Von Carter.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, fighting the laughter threatening to burst free. “You’re impossible.”

“And you secretly love it,” she countered, grinning triumphantly, scooping up a reasonable amount of pasta.

I sighed, setting down the serving spoon, though the truth in her words stung with its accuracy. Watching her there, teasing yet enjoying the meal, her laughter curling into the corners of the vast room—it was moments like this that made everything else, the empire, the expectations, the media, fade away.

And so the dinner began, but it wasn’t just about the food. It was the way she leaned closer to tell me a ridiculous, animated story about a student in her last lecture between bites, the way her laughter danced over the rim of her water glass, the way I caught myself staring longer than I should, studying the simple, relaxed lines of her face.

Every moment felt stretched, painted in golden strokes of something unspoken yet deep. The pasta grew cold between us as we talked and laughed, yet the warmth never faded from the air.

And when her gaze lingered on me a moment too long, her eyes holding that deep, thoughtful look of a scholar examining a profound truth, I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, she tasted more than just the food that night.

We cleared the dishes together like a private, domestic ritual—Tiffany animated, stirring the conversation into jokes and little asides about the clumsy grandeur of the manor, me watching the way the soft light caught the edges of her smile. The farmhouse leaned around us like a benevolent old secret it had been keeping for years, and the ordinary domesticity of washing plates side-by-side felt intimate, a closeness I hadn’t known I craved.

When the last plate was stacked and the clink faded, she turned, her hand finding mine and giving it a gentle, meaningful tug toward the narrow, concealed staircase that led to the bedrooms upstairs. The hallway smelled of dried lavender and old paper; the light from a single, wooden lamp spilled gold along the worn runner. Our footsteps were a hushed conspiracy; the world beyond these walls felt muffled, distant, and irrelevant.

“You coming?” she asked, already moving toward the low, inviting bed. Her voice was low, suggestive, carrying all the anticipation of the long-awaited night.

I followed, closing the door behind us with a click that sealed the room and its inhabitants off from everything else. The bedroom was small and warm, a low, solid bed dressed in thick linen that had the kind of texture that invited us in.

For a moment, the only sounds were the pattern of our breathing and the distant, lonely cricket-sigh of the fields beyond the window. We sat on the edge of the bed facing each other; she crossed one leg under the other, an island of composed curiosity in the golden lamplight.

She propped an elbow on her knee, chin in hand, eyes serious in a way that thrilled and terrified me. This was the Professor Tiffany, the one who sought truth above all else.

“I have some questions now,” she said. The way she said it—soft but precise—made my pulse hitch as if she were about to read the most damning, secret ledger of my life aloud.

“Ask,” I said, the small, husky sound a full permission.

She smiled—not playfully this time, but with an inquisitive, earnest tilt—and the words tumbled out, direct and without artifice. “In Italy, you said that was your first time when you were doing… ‘those’ things. Is that true, Avery?”

Her voice used that careful, almost-deliberate coyness, pretending at decorum and then dropping the pretense entirely. For half a breath I wanted to deflect, to toss back some sarcastic quip and change the subject.

Old habits were sticky; I’d woven them into how I held myself—ironclad and untroubled. Instead, I surprised myself and let my defenses ease a fraction, willing to be vulnerable for her.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘those’ things, Professor?” I teased, because teasing was an armor that still fit, for now.

She deadpanned.

Her gaze sharpened, flat and non-negotiable, piercing through the attempt at levity. “You know what I mean, Avery. The intimacy that matters. The kind that leaves you shattered and reborn.”

I shook my head, unable to look away. “No. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The lie was weak, transparent. She leaned forward, sudden and sure, dissolving the few inches between us.

Her hand went to my shoulder in a grip more grounding than forceful. She examined my eyes as if she needed to see the truth reflected there, unclouded by the fear of being seen.

The warmth of her palm was steady. The way she held me felt like an accusation and an apology.

“When I touched you—” she began, her voice low, as if she were tracing the memory with her words, “—when I touched you in forbidden places and kissed you until you were breathless and made you come—not twice, not thrice, but five times—the first time I felt that intensity, I realized Avery Von Carter had this much… untapped energy. And when my finger did its magic and you screamed my name, I thought, with surprise—Avery, was that your first time?”

She pulled back with a theatrical shove that left me out of breath. My chest heaved from the raw audacity of the question, from the way she had seen me in my most vulnerable moment and returned with a demand for truth.

She laughed—a sound too bright, too rapid. It was the kind of laugh someone uses to paper over something fierce, something felt. “Oh God, Avery, my darling, my love, you are such a treat to the eyes,” she breathed, then leaned forward until her forehead brushed mine, her breath sweet against my lips. “But right now—answer my question. Be honest.”

I let the world narrow to that single request, that point of truth. The farmhouse made no demands, offered no distractions.

There was only the lamp’s halo, the smell of lavender and clean linen, and the presence of her. “Yes,” I said.

The word came out spare, dry, and honest. “It was my first time.”

Her eyes widened, a flash of surprise, maybe a hint of reverence for the weight of the fact, and then her expression softened into an ocean of tenderness. “Although I’m… well,” I tried to frame it lightly, because it stung less that way, “I’m famous for hookups and one-night stands. The rumors are legendary.”

My lips twisted into a rueful expression. “But with them… nothing. It was always just—kisses, brief and surface-deep. I’ve never let anything get under the skin, or past the persona.”

She cut in, mock-offended and then tender, shaking her head. “And darling, ‘professor’ and ‘hookups’ don’t sound good together.”

We both laughed, the last thread of tension dissolving into the kind of laughter that carries relief and the sweetness of a newly forged intimacy. The room felt fuller, as if the night itself had inhaled and settled around us.

She curled closer, closing the distance between us to inches. Her voice was small, earnest, stripped of its bravado. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have thought… I don’t know. That you might have told me before we began.”

I swallowed, the truth a bitter, complicated thing. “Because I never wanted anyone to see that part of me,” I said, articulating the deep-seated fear. “It felt fragile. Admitting it made me feel like I was giving away a massive weakness someone could exploit. My reputation—my name—has always been a shield, Avery. I built it so nobody could ever touch me.”

I traced the seam of the duvet with a fingertip, aware of how much I had barricaded myself behind persona and power. “And to be honest, I was embarrassed by it. Embarrassed that I was so late to that particular party, and that someone—you—could make me feel so… undone. So new.”

Tiffany’s hand found mine and squeezed, a firm, reassuring pressure. Her thumb stroked the back of my hand, anchoring me to the present, to her. “You are not undone to me,” she said, her voice a low, steady thrum.

The conviction wrapped around the words like a promise. “If anything, you’re more real. More human. I like that version of you, Avery. The one who lets go.”

I let myself tilt my head against her shoulder, a susceptible move that would have been unthinkable in the polished halls of my life. She rested her chin on my head, and we shared a quiet moment that needed no filling.

“Tell me everything,” she murmured. “Not like a reporter prying for the sensational, but tell me like you’re letting me in. Tell me why Avery Von Carter was a virgin.”

So I did. I told her about the endless nights that had been loud and hollow, the way people crowded in for the surface of intimacy—for appearance, not truth.

I told her about the loneliness of it: how it felt to be desired as a trophy and not a person, the way I had learned to keep my heart tucked away, labeled, and out of reach. I told her about the comfort of sameness, the monotony of meaningless relationships, and the way her presence had been an interruption—bracing, bright, and terrifying because it threatened the foundation of control I had constructed.

She listened like someone cataloguing constellations—tracking the spaces between stars, the reason for each silence. When I was finished, she tilted my chin until my eyes met hers again.

“You don’t owe anyone your softness, Avery,” she said. “But you also don’t have to armor yourself for the rest of your life. Not if you don’t want to. Not with me.”

Her words were not a remedy, nor were they a sermon. They were an offer: of patience, of company, of the kind of carefulness that had nothing to do with headlines or the market.

I wanted to promise her then—promises that sounded larger than the farmhouse—and I did promise in the small ways that matter: in a lingering kiss, in the way I curled an arm around her waist, in the quiet I allowed myself to accept. We talked until the lamplight leaned thin and the fields outside the window became a black smear against the horizon.

We traded confessions that were tender and ridiculous, shared little humiliations and enormous, public fears. She told me, with candor, about the pressure of being observed in her own academic world; I told her about the weight of expectation that came with my name.

We laughed until our throats hurt and then, with the ebb of laughter, we fell into a gravity of softness. “Promise me something,” she said, her voice a breath.

“What?”

“That you’ll let me stay. Even on the days you think you don’t deserve someone, or that you need to put the armor back on.”

My chest tightened at the particular cruelty of that request—the way she reframed my private punishments as not only unnecessary but untrue. “I promise,” I said.

The vow tasted like the first honest, untainted thing I had given away in a long time. “I’ll try. I’ll let you in like you asked. Every single day.”

The room was heavy with silence, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the night breeze against the farmhouse windows. We were lying under the covers, the air thick with currents, her body a solid weight beside mine.

I leaned closer, my hand brushing along Tiffany’s waist in a deliberate circle, tracing the curve of her hip. She shifted, her eyes narrowing as if she could sense the dangerous, possessive tilt of my thoughts.

“Ms. Carter,” she whispered, her tone teasing, the professorial air back, “I don’t think your thoughts are so good at this moment. They feel ambitious.”

I didn’t answer. My silence was intentional, heavy.

I turned my body toward her, my gaze intense, unwavering, pouring all the emotion of the day into the single word I let slip, sharp and commanding, foreign to my own ears. “Strip.”

Her brows shot up, a flash of surprise mixed with a challenge. Her lips curved in that trademark smirk of hers, ready for the battle of wills. “Really? Are you ordering me now, Avery? Remember, it’s me who usually gives the orders. It’s me who takes charge.”

I held her gaze, steady, letting the demanding energy fill the space between us. “Strip.”

My voice was a low, velvet command, laced with a need I couldn’t hide. Her smirk faltered for the briefest second, a flicker of shock that delighted me.

Then she tilted her head, studying me with that professor’s sharpness. “Avery,” she said, “are you okay? What happened all of a sudden to your usual patience?”

I exhaled, the words trembling out of me like a confession of need. “I don’t know. I just… I want to feel you in between my bones, Tiffany. Completely. And most importantly, I want you to feel me—deep enough, so that you never, ever forget that I do love you more than anything or anyone in this whole world. I want the armor to be gone for both of us.”

For a moment, her eyes softened, reflecting the vulnerability in my voice. Then, just as quickly, the spark of mischief and challenge flared back into them.

“Alright,” she breathed, her voice rich with the acceptance of the challenge. “Then why don’t you get this dress off me yourself, if you’re so commanding?”

I didn’t waste a second on conversation. My fingers found the zipper at the back of her simple cotton dress, sliding it down in one swift, unforgiving motion.

The fabric fell away from her shoulders, pooling around her waist, and there she stood—raw, breathtaking, illuminated by the low lamplight, and mine. My lips found her forehead first, pressing reverence into that spot above her brow.

Then her nose tip, light. And then her lips, urgent, demanding, stealing her breath as much as she stole mine.

It was a kiss of ownership, a claim of passion that burned away any residual doubt. She moaned into my mouth when my fingers found the hem of her undergarment, tugging it lower, and then, began their path.

My name spilled out of her in a trembling sigh—”Avery…”—and it wasn’t just a sound. It was sacred, a prayer, something that made my chest ache with possessive reverence.

I moved lower, trailing my mouth across the soft skin of her abdomen, tasting every inch of her, a slow, burning tribute. A little further down, my fingers slipped between her folds, sliding inside with a precision born of memory and intent.

Her head fell back, hitting the pillow, and the sharp, involuntary cry tore from her throat. “Avery—!”

The sound shattered something in me, dissolving the last fragments of my control. I pushed deeper, curling my fingers, coaxing her to the edge until her entire body trembled beneath my touch, taut as a bowstring.

Then, just as she was about to shatter, as her breathing hitched into ragged gasps, I pulled back, sliding my fingers out, leaving her suspended in anticipation. She looked at me, dazed, eyes wide and unfocused, her chest rising and falling in quick, frantic bursts.

The shock and need were palpable on her face. And then—with a calculated, excruciating measure—I brought those wet fingers to my lips, slipping them inside my mouth, tasting her.

The expression on her face—a mix of shock, embarrassment, and raw, incandescent heat—was the most beautiful, vulnerable thing I had witnessed. Her eyes widened, shock flashing across her face before a blush, deep scarlet and magnificent, bloomed along her cheeks, rushing up to her hairline.

“Avery, don’t do this,” she said sternly, though her voice trembled, a desperate tremor. “That’s—that’s not fair.”

I caught her wrists when she tried to cover her face, tugging them down, holding her hands on the linen above her head. “Well,” I murmured, my lips grazing her knuckles, my eyes fixed on the magnificent color of her shame and pleasure, “it feels like heaven when you blush, Tiffany.”

Her lips parted, letting out a small, broken gasp of air. And then she whispered, pleadingly, “Hold me, Avery. Just hold me.”

I didn’t hesitate. I wrapped her tightly in my arms, pulling her against the full length of my body, burying my face into her damp hair, my fingers threading through the silk of it.

She clung to me, trembling, her nails digging into my back like she was afraid I would slip away and leave her on that exquisite, terrifying precipice. “You need a shower,” I whispered after a pause, my lips brushing her ear, trying to inject some normalcy into the charged air.

Her laugh came out half-breathless, shaky, full of lingering pleasure. “You’re unbelievable, Von Carter. A complete menace.”

I carried her toward the private, enormous bathroom, lowering her into the deep, ancient tub I had filled with warm water, the air fragrant with essential oils. Steam curled around her skin as she sank in, her eyes never leaving mine, still wide with dazed, satisfied longing.

I stood there for a moment, just watching her—the water lapping against her collarbones, droplets beading down her shoulders—before I forced myself to step back. “I’ll give you a moment,” I said, my voice thick with desire.

I closed the door, went back to the bedroom, and stripped the tangled, damp sheets from the bed, replacing them with fresh linen that smelled of the sun and air. By the time she returned, wrapped in a plush towel, her damp hair clinging to her cheeks, the bed was waiting—crisp, white, inviting, a blank canvas for the rest of the night.

She smiled faintly, shy in a way I had never seen Tiffany before, all the Professor gone, all the armor dissolved. And when she slid beneath the covers, I followed, pulling her against me, pressing my lips against the crown of her head, inhaling the fresh scent of her clean hair.

“Avery,” she whispered into the darkness, her voice muffled against my chest, “you don’t even know what you’re doing to me. You’re breaking me wide open.”

“Oh, I do,” I breathed, tightening my hold around her, a fierce, protective grip. “And I’ll never let you forget what you’ve done to me either, Tiffany. We’re in this together now.”

The night stretched long. Our whispers tangled with our sighs, our laughter melted into our kisses, and when silence finally claimed us, it wasn’t empty.

It was full—of love, of promise, of the kind of passion that didn’t end when bodies quieted.

And somewhere, just before dawn, as the first pale light began to creep into the farmhouse, I heard her murmur against my skin, half-asleep, half-raw. “Don’t ever leave me, Avery. Promise.”

I kissed her shoulder, my voice steady, sure, sealing the vow in the quiet morning air. “Never.”