Chapter 22: The Price of Pride
The sharp crack of the phone hitting the polished mahogany desk echoed in the quiet office. David stood with his back to the room, his broad shoulders rigid beneath his charcoal sweater, his fists clenched at his sides. The twilight through the tall window painted him in bruised purples and deep blues.
“That woman,” he growled, the words scraping out of him. “That goddamn, mercenary woman.”
Dede watched from the doorway, a crystal water glass in her hand. She had heard the one-sided conversation, the low, urgent tones rising to a blunt, final slam. She set the glass down on a shelf and walked toward him, the soft whisper of her silk kimono robe the only sound. She came to stand beside the desk, her hip resting against its solid edge, her pregnant belly a soft curve under the sleek fabric.
“The lawyer?” she asked, though she already knew.
“She wants more.Double. Or she’ll tie it up in courts until I’m dead.” He finally turned, his face a landscape of weary fury. The salt-and-pepper of his beard seemed more pronounced in the dim light, his eyes shadowed. “Calls it ‘emotional damages.’ After what she did.”
Dede’s gaze was calm, pragmatic. She traced a fingertip around the rim of his abandoned whiskey glass. “So pay her.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“Just pay her off, David. Write the check. Be done with it.” She said it like she was suggesting they order takeout, a simple solution to a mundane problem.“You have it. It’s not worth the fight. Not now.”
“Not worth the—” He let out a harsh, breathless laugh. “It’s not about the money. It’s the principle. The prenup was clear. She doesn’t get to win. She doesn’t get to cheat, walk out, and then rob me blind because she’s bored with whatever tennis pro she’s with now.” He picked up the glass and drained the last of the amber liquid, the ice cubes clinking a hollow protest.
“Winning?” Dede moved closer, her scent—vanilla and something sharper, jasmine—enfolding him. “Is that what this is?A game? Look at you.” She reached out and placed a hand flat on his chest, feeling the hammering of his heart. “You’re in your beautiful office, in your beautiful home, with a woman who is carrying your child. Who is here. She’s there. And you’re letting her live in your head, rent-free, while she racks up your legal fees. Tell me, exactly, who is winning?”
He stared down at her, his jaw working. The truth of her words warred with a decade of bitterness, a wound that had never truly scabbed over. He wanted the victory of sticking to the agreement, of seeing her get nothing she hadn’t earned. He wanted her to lose.
“Not a damn penny more than the prenup states,” he said, his voice low and final.
Dede held his gaze for a long moment, her eyes darkening. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips. It wasn’t sweet. It was a solution of a different kind. “Stubborn man,” she murmured, not without affection.
Her hands came up to his shoulders, applying gentle pressure. He resisted, a statue of indignation, but she persisted, guiding him back until the backs of his knees hit his leather desk chair and he sat down with a heavy sigh. She stood before him, the silk of her robe parting slightly. Then, without breaking eye contact, she slowly sank to her knees on the thick Persian rug.
“What are you doing?” he asked, though the tension in his body was already shifting, coiling into a different kind of heat.
“Helping you relieve some tension, baby,” she said, her voice a husky promise. Her fingers went to the buckle of his belt, the deft movements practiced and sure. “Since you won’t let me solve the other problem.”
He watched her, the anger still a low burn in his gut, but another, more primal impulse was rising to meet it. Her confidence was a balm and an aphrodisiac. She didn’t ask permission; she took control of the moment, offering an escape he was too proud to ask for but too weary to refuse. The whisper of his zipper was loud in the quiet room.
Down the hall, the front door opened and closed with a soft thud. Lexi’s sneakers squeaked on the hardwood, then stopped. The house felt different, full of Dede’s boxes and a new, palpable energy. She could hear the low murmur of voices from her father’s office. Not words, just a rhythmic tone.
She padded quietly to her own room, dropping her backpack. The conversation with Ace in the car after school played in her head—his quiet confidence when she’d voiced her anxiety about the crowded house, the changing dynamics. “It’s just stuff, Lex. He’s still your dad. You’re still you.” He’d kissed her knuckles, his touch erasing the chill of her fear.
She pulled out her phone now, curling up on her window seat that overlooked the now-dark yard where Ace’s Mustang usually sat.You home? she texted.
The reply was almost instant. Yeah.Quiet. Too quiet.Miss your noise.
She smiled, a private little thing for the darkened glass. Dad’s on the warpath. His ex is being worse.
Let him fight his own battles. You’re not the peacekeeper.
She knew he was right. But the muffled sound of her father’s voice, strained and sharp, seeped through the walls. It was followed by a lower, softer sound she couldn’t identify. A strange quiet fell over that part of the house.
In the office, David’s head was tipped back against the leather, his eyes closed. One hand was buried in Dede’s strawberry-blond curls, not guiding, just anchored. The world had narrowed to the exquisite, swallowing pressure of her mouth, the skillful swirl of her tongue, the complete and utter focus she bestowed upon him. All the fury, the helplessness, the nagging sense of injustice, was being siphoned away, drawn out and transmuted into pure, shuddering sensation.
He was a man used to control, to domination. In his writing, in his life, in bed. But this was different. This was surrender. She was offering him a way out of his own head, and he took it greedily. His other hand gripped the armrest, the leather creaking under his fingers.
Dede worked with a determined, absorbed rhythm. She listened to the changes in his breathing, the faint tremors in his thighs, the tightening of his grip in her hair. This was her calculus. The money didn’t matter. The principle didn’t matter. Only this mattered—his tension, his pleasure, the way she could unravel the knots others tied in him. She could taste the whiskey and his anger, and she consumed both.
When he finally gasped, a rough, broken sound, and his body locked, she stayed with him, taking everything he gave until he was spent, slumping back in the chair, breathless.
She rose smoothly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She picked up his whiskey glass, went to the decanter, and poured him two fresh fingers. She placed it in his hand, her fingers curling his around the cool crystal.
“Feel better?” she asked, her voice raspy.
He opened his eyes, looking up at her. The storm was gone, replaced by a dazed, sated exhaustion. He nodded, taking a sip. The fight hadn’t been solved, but its sharp edges had been blunted.For now.
“Good.” She leaned down and kissed his forehead, a chaste, dry press of her lips. “Now think about what I said. The number on the check doesn’t measure your worth. Being free of her does.” She picked up her water glass from the shelf. “I’m going to run a bath. Join me if you want.”
She left him there, the scent of her and sex and resolution hanging in the air. David sat in the gathering dark, the ice in his glass melting. He could hear the distant, hollow sound of water rushing into the tub upstairs. He thought of Lexi down the hall, of the boy who looked at her like she was a revelation. He thought of the woman upstairs, carrying his child, who had just kneeled on a rug and given him a piece of peace he hadn't known he needed.
The principle of it all felt very far away. The money felt abstract. For the first time, the idea of writing the check didn't feel like losing. It felt like cutting a anchor rope, watching a rotten old hulk sink into the deep, while his ship, newly laden, finally caught the wind.
It felt like cutting an anchor rope, watching a rotten old hulk sink into the deep, while his ship, newly laden, finally caught the wind.
Dede paused outside his office, listening to the silence within. She adjusted her robe, the silk cool against her skin, and walked down the hall toward Lexi’s room. The door was slightly ajar, a wedge of soft lamplight painting the hardwood floor. Inside, Lexi was sketching in her notebook, curled on the window seat like a shadow.
“Hey,” Dede said, leaning against the doorframe.
Lexi looked up, her emerald eyes wide and momentarily startled. “Hey. Everything okay?”
“Your dad’s… processing.” Dede offered a small, conspiratorial smile. “We’re ordering takeout later. Thai from that place on Elm. Wanted to know if Ace is joining us, or if it’s just the three of us.”
Lexi’s cheeks flushed a faint pink. “I’ll check with him.”
“Do that. Let me know.” Dede pushed off the frame, a hand resting on her belly. “I’m running a bath. Tell your father he’s welcome to join me when he’s done brooding.”
She continued down the hall to the primary bathroom, a large, tile-lined space with a deep, clawfoot tub. She shut the door, the click of the lock a soft, definitive sound. The faucet groaned, then released a torrent of steaming water. She poured in a capful of sandalwood oil, the rich, woody scent immediately thickening the air. She shed her robe, letting it pool on the floor, and stepped into the rising heat, sinking down with a slow, gratified sigh. The water lapped at the swell of her stomach, her breasts. She closed her eyes and waited.
In her room, Lexi picked up her phone. Her thumbs hovered over the screen. Dad’s in a mood. Dede ordering Thai. You want to come over for dinner? She sent it, then immediately added, Only if you’re not working.
The reply was almost instantaneous. Mood how?
His ex. Lawyer stuff.
Three dots pulsed. Then: Be there in 10. Fuck work.
A flutter, warm and urgent, moved through her chest. She put her notebook aside and stood, smoothing her hands over her leggings. She listened. From her father’s office, nothing. From the bathroom at the end of the hall, the quiet slosh of water. The house held its breath.
Exactly ten minutes later, the doorbell chimed, a bright, two-toned sound. Lexi darted from her room, beating her father to the front door. She pulled it open, and there he was, backlit by the porch light, the night air cool around him. Ace. His leather jacket was open over a thin grey t-shirt, his jeans worn and soft. His blue eyes scanned her face, reading the tension there.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“Hey.” She stepped back to let him in.
He crossed the threshold and kicked the door shut with his heel. The sound was final. He didn’t touch her, not yet, but his presence filled the foyer, a live current humming between them. The scent of him—engine grease, cold air, and that uniquely Ace smell of clean skin and impending trouble—wrapped around her.
“Where’s the general?” he asked, nodding toward the quiet house.
“Office. Or maybe the bath. It’s… complicated.”
Ace’s mouth quirked. “Isn’t it always.” His gaze dropped, taking her in—the nervous bite of her lip, the way her arms were crossed over her chest. “You okay?”
She nodded, then shook her head. “Just… feels like everything is shifting. Every day.”
“Come here.” It wasn’t a request. He uncrossed her arms with a gentle touch, his hands sliding up to cradle her face. His thumbs brushed her cheekbones. “It’s just noise, Lex. We’re the signal.” He leaned in and kissed her, a soft, claiming press that quickly deepened. Her hands fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer.
They broke apart, breathing ragged. Without a word, he took her hand and led her down the hall to her bedroom. He closed the door behind them, this lock louder than Dede’s. Her room was a capsule of her—the faint smell of graphite and lavender, sketches pinned to the walls, the rumpled comforter on her bed.
He backed her toward it, his kiss turning hungry, devouring. His tongue swept into her mouth, and she met it with her own, a low moan vibrating in her throat. His hands were everywhere, mapping the curve of her waist, the swell of her ass through the thin fabric of her leggings, palming her breast through her sweatshirt. He peeled the sweatshirt over her head, tossing it aside. Her bra followed, the clasp giving way under his practiced fingers.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled against her neck, his mouth hot on her skin. He took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue circling the tight peak. She cried out, her fingers tunneling into his short, dark hair, holding him to her. The sensation was electric, a direct line to the pooling heat between her legs.
He pushed her leggings and panties down in one rough, urgent motion. She stepped out of them, naked and shivering despite the heat flooding her veins. He stood back for a second, just looking, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical touch. “On the bed,” he commanded, his voice thick.
She obeyed, scrambling onto the mattress. He stripped off his jacket, his t-shirt, his boots and jeans, his movements efficient and swift. In the dim light from her bedside lamp, he was all lean muscle and taut skin, the defined lines of his abdomen leading down. And his cock, thick and heavy and already leaking, stood rigid against his stomach. It was a lot, the sheer size of him, and a fresh wave of nervous anticipation tightened her stomach.
He came over her, bracing himself on his arms, caging her in. He kissed her again, deep and wet, as he settled between her thighs. The blunt, hot head of his cock nudged against her entrance, and she gasped into his mouth, her body arching.
He stopped.
He froze completely, his whole body going rigid with the effort. A tortured sound escaped him. “Fuck. Wait.”
He pulled back, leaving her aching and empty and confused. He rolled off the bed in one fluid motion and grabbed his leather jacket from the floor. He dug into an inner pocket and pulled out a small, square foil packet.
He ripped it open with his teeth, the sound stark in the quiet room. He sheathed himself, the latex glistening as he rolled it down his impressive length. He met her eyes, his own dark with need and something else—a fierce, protective care. “Not going in raw. Not again. We have risked it already far to many times. Okay?”
She nodded, her throat too tight for words. The consideration, amidst all this frantic hunger, undid her.
He was back over her in an instant, his weight a welcome anchor. He guided himself to her again, the latex-sheathed head slick with her wetness. “Look at me,” he said, and she did, her emerald eyes locked on his blue ones.
He pushed in.
The stretch was immense, a burning, full pressure that stole her breath. She gasped, a sharp, startled sound. He stopped, buried only an inch inside, his forehead damp with sweat. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe. It’s okay.”
She let out a shuddering exhale, her body slowly relaxing, accepting. He pushed deeper, a slow, inexorable invasion that filled her completely. When he was fully seated, she felt impossibly full, stretched to a sweet, aching limit. They stayed like that, joined, breathing the same air.
“Okay?” he whispered, his voice strained.
“Yes,” she breathed. “More. Please, Ace.”
He began to move, a slow, rolling withdrawal followed by a deep, driving thrust.
He began to move, a slow, rolling withdrawal followed by a deep, driving thrust.
Each slide was a study in exquisite friction, a hot, wet tightness that gripped him completely. Lexi’s nails dug into the hard muscles of his back, her breaths coming in broken pants against his neck. He shifted his weight, hooking her leg over his hip, angling himself to go deeper, and she whimpered, a sound of pure pleasure.
“God, you feel… fuck,” he gasped, his rhythm stuttering for a second. The pressure was unreal, a perfect, clenching heat. “Lex… you’re so goddamn tight.”
He planted his hands on the mattress on either side of her head, lifting his torso so he could watch himself sink into her. Her face was flushed, lips parted, eyes half-lidded and dark. Her small, perfect breasts quivered with every impact. The sight, combined with the insane sensation, coiled the tension in his gut tighter.
“It’s like the first time,” he groaned, the words ripped from him. His pace quickened, the bedframe starting a soft, persistent knock against the wall. “Every single time. You’re always this fucking tight for me. Like you’re made for me.”
His control was fraying, the raw need taking over. He leaned up onto one hand, his biceps corded with the strain of holding his weight. The other hand came down, his fingers wrapping firmly around the column of her throat. It wasn’t a choke, but a claim, his thumb pressing against the flutter of her pulse.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice a guttural rasp. Her emerald eyes flew open, locking onto his. Held by his gaze and his hand, she was utterly surrendered.
He pistoned into her then, hard and fast, a relentless, driving rhythm that shook the whole bed. The wet, rhythmic slap of their skin filled the room, a lewd counterpoint to their ragged breathing. Each brutal thrust punched a tiny, sharp cry from her lungs.
“Ace… I’m… I can’t…” she choked out, her body beginning to tremble violently beneath him. The coil inside her snapped.
She shattered. A broken cry tore from her throat as her orgasm ripped through her, her inner muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic, milking pulses. Her back arched off the bed, a silent scream on her face. He barely managed to slap his hand over her mouth in time, muffling the loud, trembling wail into his palm.
Feeling her convulse around him broke the last of his restraint. With a final, snarling thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and came, a hot, sharp release that shuddered through his entire frame. He grunted, a low, animal sound, into the sweat-dampened hollow of her neck, his body trembling with the force of it.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their struggling breaths and the fading creak of the mattress. He slowly, carefully, removed his hand from her mouth. She gulped in air, her eyes wide and dazed. He softened inside her and gently withdrew, rolling onto his back beside her. The condom felt heavy, filled. He tied it off and tossed it toward the wastebasket by her desk.
They lay in silence, the sweat cooling on their skin. From somewhere down the hall, the low, indistinct murmur of the television in the living room filtered through the door. Reality, with all its complications, was seeping back in.
Lexi turned her head on the pillow to look at him. “Do you think they heard?”
“The TV’s on. They didn’t hear.” He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. His thumb traced circles on her palm.
“My dad…”
“Is probably still in the bath with Dede.” Ace’s voice was flat, certain. “He’s got his own shit to deal with tonight, Lex. He’s not thinking about us.”
She wanted to believe him. But the old fear, the one that whispered she was a burden, a complication, curled in her stomach. The house felt different now, occupied by a pregnant woman and a man fighting a ghost. Where did she and Ace fit in all that noise?
As if reading her thoughts, Ace squeezed her hand. “You’re with me. That’s the only thing that matters.” He said it like it was a fundamental truth, simple and unassailable.
Down the hall, the bathroom door opened. The soft, heavy tread of David’s footsteps passed Lexi’s door and continued toward the master bedroom. There was a pause, then the click of a door closing. The house settled into a new, deeper quiet.
Ace turned onto his side, propping his head on his hand. He looked down at her, his blue eyes intent. “You’re mine, Alexis Thompson. All this other stuff? It’s just static.”
She lifted her free hand and touched his jaw, tracing the stubble there. The possessiveness in his words should have scared her. Instead, it felt like an anchor in the shifting dark. She pulled him down for a kiss, slow and deep, trying to imprint the feeling of his weight, his taste, the safety of this bubble, onto her memory.
A sharp knock at her bedroom door made them both freeze.
“Lexi?” It was David’s voice, calm but firm, right on the other side of the wood. “You in there? The Thai food is here.”