Ellie Tate was not in a hurry.

She could hear him in the living room—grumbling happily through a mouthful of fries, muttering her name like a prayer laced with salt and sarcasm. She let herself smile. Let herself savor it. The sound of Tyler Harrison being blissfully content in her apartment, on her couch, eating the fries he’d sworn he wouldn’t survive without.

She leaned over the bathroom counter, steadying her breath as the vanity lights buzzed softly above her.

This wasn’t about nerves. It wasn’t even about seduction—not really.

It was about timing.

About reclaiming something. Making space for a softness that didn’t shrink. For desire that didn’t flinch. For love that could be a little wild and a little smug and still feel like home.

She reached for her eyeliner first, dragging a bit more smoke across her lash line than she usually wore. Her lips didn’t need much—still flushed from too many kisses—but she swiped on a hint of gloss anyway. Not because she needed to.

Because she liked to.

Hair down. Always hair down.

And then the final touch: her favorite apron. Soft pink, worn in, with a little cherry stitched over the heart. It wasn’t sexy in the traditional sense—frilly, vintage, a little ridiculous—but it was hers. Tyler had teased her about it a dozen times, usually while trying to wrap himself around her as she baked at midnight.

Now it was the only thing she wore.

She padded quietly down the hall, feet bare against the hardwood, hands smoothing the edge of the apron where it tied at her back.

The moment she stepped into the living room, she saw him—slouched back on the couch, one leg stretched out, a carton of fries balanced in his lap like he was guarding treasure. His mouth was open around a new bite when he finally looked up.

And froze.

Ellie didn’t speak at first.

She just stood there, letting the weight of it settle. The apron. The gloss. The space between them that crackled like live wire.

She tilted her head slightly, letting her hair fall over one shoulder, and watched with quiet satisfaction as his jaw actually went slack.

Good.

She licked her lips slowly, smirk blooming, eyes never leaving his.

Then—soft, wicked, and completely hers—she said, “Still think I’m out of control, Harrison?”

His fry hit the floor.

And Ellie Tate?

She didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t rush.

Because she had him now.

Exactly where she wanted.

Tyler didn’t blink.

Couldn’t.

He was pretty sure basic motor functions had just... stopped. Like his body had issued an internal shutdown order the moment Ellie Tate stepped into the room wearing nothing but that frilly, cherry-stitched apron and the kind of smirk that made religious conversion feel like a rational choice.

His fry hit the floor.

So did about six coherent thoughts.

The carton tipped dangerously in his lap, and he barely caught it before it spilled, which—frankly—was a miracle considering his brain had just hit a mental reboot screen that read: Booting Emergency Protocol: Do Not Ruin This Moment, You Moron.

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Just air.

Possibly the last breath he’d ever take as a free man.

Because this woman. This actual menace in vintage cotton. She wasn’t just reclaiming the moment—she was redefining it. Making it hers. Theirs. Cherry-aproned and gloss-lipped and so goddamn sure of herself it made his ribs hurt.

And still?

Still, she’d looked at him like he was the one worth seducing. Like he was the lucky one.

(He was.)

Tyler slowly set the fries down on the coffee table. Gently. Reverently. Like he was making an offering to a higher power.

He stood.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t joke.

Didn’t dare.

Instead, he walked toward her—quiet and slow and absolutely wrecked—until there was barely any space left between them. His voice, when it came, was low. Unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

And everything to do with awe.

“…Jesus, Ellie.”

His hand found her hip, thumb brushing the tie of the apron like it might burn him. His other hand came up, fingers ghosting over her jaw like he was still afraid she might disappear.

“You—you actually wore the cherry one.”

He swallowed, smiling now, a little breathless. “You planned this. I’ve been emotionally outmaneuvered by a woman in dessert-themed linen.”

A pause.

Then softer—ruined and real and completely hers:

“Ellie Tate… you’re everything I didn’t know how to want before.”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth. Then lower, just beneath her jaw, like he was retracing every moment he’d almost lost her.

“I’m so gone for you,” he whispered into her skin.

Then—grinning, voice rough but steady now:

“And yeah. You’re out of control. Gloriously out of control.”

His hands slid down to her thighs, slow and reverent, like she was something holy wrapped in ridiculous cotton and cherry thread.

“Now tell me, Miss Tate,” he murmured, lips brushing her ear, “was this part of the TED Talk? Or is this just the bonus content?”

Because either way?

He was so ready to be destroyed.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t shift her weight. Didn’t even flutter her lashes the way she usually did when she had the upper hand and knew it.

Because this wasn’t just about teasing anymore.

This was about letting him see it.

All of it.

The softness she used to tuck away in safer rooms. The control she wrapped around herself like armor. The version of her that wanted to be wanted—loudly, shamelessly, irrevocably—and finally felt brave enough to ask for it.

So when Tyler stood—slow, reverent, like he was afraid the moment might break if he blinked too hard—she didn’t tease. She just let him look.

Let him take in the apron, the curve of her hip under his hand, the gloss still clinging to her lips. Let him see her like this. Wanting him. Claiming him. Saying I’m not afraid of being yours anymore.

And when he finally touched her, when he brushed that ribbon at her waist like it might undo the whole damn spell, she smiled.

Quietly.

Tenderly.

Dangerously.

“Oh, I wore the cherry one on purpose,” she said, voice just above a whisper, eyes locked on his. “You looked at me like a man possessed the first time I baked in it. I figured you deserved a full breakdown.”

Her hand found the hem of his shirt, fingers toying with the fabric while her other slid into the back of his hair, slow and possessive.

“And for the record?” she murmured, leaning in just enough to let her mouth graze the shell of his ear. “This isn’t bonus content.”

She paused, lips brushing lower now, across the hinge of his jaw, the corner of his mouth, letting him feel every word like a brand.

“This is the TED Talk.”

She pulled back just far enough to look at him—really look. And there it was again: that flicker of something unguarded. Something real.

“You said I could ruin you, Harrison. I’m just keeping us on schedule.”

Her thumb skimmed his lower lip, slow and devastating. She watched the way his breath stuttered, the way his pupils blew wide with want and awe and something that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with finally trusting the fall.

“I’m not playing, Tyler.”

Not a threat. A promise.

She shifted her hips, pressing flush against him, watching the way his throat worked, the way his hands tightened just slightly at her waist.

“I’m all in. I’m staying.”

Then—soft, breathy, full of sugar and heat:

“And if you think the cherry one’s dangerous…”
A wicked smile.
“Wait till I wear the lemon print.”

She kissed him then.

Slow. Sure. Sweet like a dare.

Because she wasn’t afraid anymore.

Not of wanting.

Not of staying.

Not of being seen.

Tyler breathed her in.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even try to hide the way his body responded when she pressed against him like that—flush, warm, completely bare under nothing but a memory-laced apron and a smirk that could bend the laws of physics.

His throat bobbed once. Twice.

And when she kissed him—slow and sweet, tasting like gloss and goddamn certainty—something snapped loose in him.

Not wild.

Not frantic.

But deep. Feral. Worshipful.

He chased her mouth like a man on the brink, one hand sliding up her spine, the other gripping her hip hard enough to make them both feel it. She’d said she wasn’t playing.

He wasn’t either.

When he pulled back, his breath ghosted across her lips. Rough. Hitched. Reverent.

“Ellie Tate,” he said, voice low and wrecked and wrecking, “if you don’t want me to lose my mind, you cannot—cannot—say shit like ‘this is the TED Talk’ while wearing nothing but that goddamn apron.”

His forehead pressed to hers, his hands moving without thought—curling into the dip of her back, then flattening across her ribs like he needed to memorize every inch of her by feel.

“I’m serious. You’re giving lectures on how to ruin me, and I’m front row—taking notes—trying not to combust.”

She laughed softly, and fuck, it lit something in him. That sound. That ease. That permission.

“I mean it,” he whispered, backing her toward the wall with gentle, unhurried steps. “You come out here looking like this—being like this—owning me like it’s just something you do before breakfast…”

Her back met the wall. His body followed.

“You don’t get to be surprised when I come completely undone for you.”

He kissed her then—deep this time. Like a man possessed. Like a man who’d spent years chasing the ghost of her in every room and finally had her right here, real and warm and staying.

It wasn’t careful.

It was crushing in the way it spoke: You’re mine. I’m yours. I never stopped. I never will.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping, Tyler pressed his lips to the corner of her jaw and murmured—low, heated, wrecked:

“You think I’m turned on now?”

His thumb dragged slowly, deliberately across the bare skin beneath the bow of her apron.

“Wait till I watch you make pancakes in this tomorrow.”

A pause.

Then—

“And lemon print? Baby, I’m not gonna survive the citrus collection.”

He kissed her again—open-mouthed and reverent—like it was the only prayer he’d ever need.

Because Ellie Tate wasn’t just the girl in the apron anymore.

She was the girl he got to stay for.

And Tyler Harrison?

He’d let her ruin him a hundred times over.

Just to feel this again.

Ellie stood over him for a beat—just long enough to watch him fall apart with his eyes alone.

Tyler looked wrecked. Shirtless, breathless, reverent. Like the mere sight of her had reordered his entire nervous system.

Good.

She wanted him ruined for her.

Only her.

Her fingers reached behind her neck, slow and sure, pulling at the knot of the cherry apron. The soft rustle of the cotton slipping from her frame felt like thunder in the stillness. She didn’t look away as she let it fall—first from her shoulders, then down, catching at her waist before sliding to the floor in a puddle of pink and red.

Tyler didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

And Ellie?

She climbed back into his lap like she belonged there—because she did. Every inch of her pressed to every inch of him, heat to heat, pulse to pulse. Her knees bracketed his hips, her hands braced lightly on his chest, and her eyes held his like she was writing scripture.

“You said I was out of control,” she whispered, brushing her lips along his jaw, “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Her thumb traced the curve of his throat, down to where his pulse thundered like war drums beneath skin. She kissed him again—slow, deep, grounding—and then leaned back just enough to look him over.

All of him.

Her voice was low. Certain. Laced with the same fire he used to take for granted.

“I’ve waited a long time to be this sure.”

Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to tip his face toward hers again.

“Let me show you how that feels.”

And then she kissed him again, full and unyielding, wrapping herself around him like she was building a home.

Because she was.

Right there. In his arms. Against his chest. With nothing between them now but breath, skin, and every second they’d fought their way back to.

And Tyler?

He held her like he’d never forget again.

Tyler didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Every muscle in his body felt like it was holding its breath. Like one wrong shift might shatter the moment—or prove it wasn’t real.

But it was.

She was.

Ellie Tate, glowing and wild and stripped down to nothing but certainty, had just ruined him in the quietest, most devastating way imaginable—and he hadn’t even touched her yet.

Not really.

Not the way he wanted.

Not the way she deserved.

His hands hovered at her waist, fingers trembling with the ache of reverence more than lust—though God, there was that too. She was soft heat and skin and strawberry shampoo and strength, settling over him like she was made to be there.

Like this was always the ending.

The reward.

The truth.

And when she said, “Let me show you how that feels,”—?

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since the first night she walked away.

“Ellie…” he whispered, voice gone, gone, gone—cracked open like everything he’d ever been too afraid to say had lived right under her name all along.

His hands finally found her—spanning her waist, her ribs, up her back like he could map her body in one long, aching glide. Every part of her felt familiar and new, like coming home to a place that had been rebuilt with more fire, more grace, more her.

“You have me,” he said into her shoulder, mouth hot against her skin. “You’ve always had me.”

He pulled her closer, impossibly closer, his hands threading into her hair like he was grounding himself there, like the weight of her was the only thing keeping him from coming undone completely.

“And if this is what sure looks like…”

He tilted his head, met her mouth again—this time slower, deeper, a kiss that tasted like heat and hunger and all the forgiveness they never said out loud.

“Then, baby—” he murmured against her lips, chest rising hard against hers, “wreck me.”

And she did.

And he let her.

Not just his body—but all of it. His pride, his past, his fear. He gave it to her willingly, reverently, without defense. Because Ellie Tate wasn’t just in his lap.

She was in his life.

And Tyler Harrison?

He held her like a vow made flesh, like every future he’d ever been afraid to imagine now came with her in it.

Messy. Certain. Wildly out of control.

Exactly the way love was meant to be.

She didn’t speak at first.

Didn’t need to.

Because the way he said her name—Ellie like a prayer he wasn’t trying to take back—had already undone her. Thread by thread, breath by breath, until she wasn’t standing in front of Tyler Harrison anymore.

She was with him.

Inside the gravity of something real. Something vast. Something terrifying in its softness.

And when he said “wreck me,” like surrender, like invitation, like everything—?

She kissed him like she meant it.

Slow at first. Not tentative, but reverent. A quiet yes pressed against his mouth, threaded with all the things she hadn’t said, all the times she’d waited, all the nights she’d wondered if he’d ever see her the way he did now.

He did.

God, he did.

And she felt it in the way he touched her—like she was fire and sanctuary at once. Like her skin was something sacred. Like he was trying to memorize every inch before the moment slipped away.

But this wasn’t slipping.

This was them.

Ellie pulled back just enough to breathe, eyes locked to his, her fingers curled at the back of his neck like letting go might undo the world.

“You’re not the only one who’s sure anymore,” she whispered, her voice roughened by emotion. “I spent so long thinking you’d never let me in. That I’d always just be the girl you almost loved.”

She swallowed hard, blinking against the heat in her eyes.

“But you do, don’t you?”

She didn’t say it like a challenge. She said it like wonder.

Like hope come home.

He didn’t need to answer—not with words. She already knew.

So she kissed him again, this time with the full weight of everything they’d both survived. And when she eased him back—slow, deliberate, palms sliding over his chest like she was claiming him—her voice came out low and certain and laced with fire.

“Then let me show you what it means to be mine.”

Because he was.

Because he always had been.

And for the first time in forever, Ellie Tate wasn’t afraid of what came next.

She was choosing it.

Choosing him.

Ellie didn’t rush it.

Didn’t need to.

She had him now—right here, breathless and reverent, his chest rising beneath her palms like he couldn’t believe any of this was real.

Her hands moved slowly, deliberately, smoothing over the planes of his chest, tracing the line of his collarbone like a secret. She tilted her head, watching him the whole time—watching the way his lashes fluttered when she touched just beneath his throat, the way his breath hitched when her fingers drifted higher.

When they cupped his jaw—light, grounding—he leaned into it.

God, he leaned.

And it wrecked her, the way he gave himself over so fully. No walls. No edge. Just Tyler—open, undone, hers.

She shifted closer, straddling him with slow certainty, her mouth ghosting over his skin—just shy of touch—as her fingers slid up to the nape of his neck.

Then—

She kissed his jaw.

Soft at first. Barely-there heat that made him still beneath her, like he was afraid to break the spell.

She did it again—slightly higher this time, her lips brushing just below his cheekbone, then trailing toward the hinge of his jaw with languid care. Her breath was warm against him. Her mouth hotter.

She licked.

Just a flick of her tongue, teasing and slow, up the edge of his jawline and toward the curve of his ear.

She felt him shudder beneath her.

And she smiled.

Because she hadn’t even gotten to the best part yet.

When her mouth reached his ear, she lingered—lips parted just slightly as her breath traced every nerve ending there. And then, without warning, she nibbled—gentle and deliberate, enough to make his hands tighten at her waist, his head drop back just slightly, like he might lose himself completely if she kept going.

“You still breathing?” she murmured against his skin, voice low, teasing, edged with the kind of hunger that had waited too long to be fed.

She didn’t wait for an answer.

Her teeth grazed again, slower this time. Just enough to drive him crazy.

Just enough to let him know: she wasn’t stopping.

Tyler wasn’t breathing.

Not really.

Not in any way that counted.

Because Ellie Tate—bare, bold, soft in the ways that used to terrify him and sharp in the ones that always undid him—was currently pressed against him like gravity had given up on pretending they were ever separate.

And when she kissed his jaw? Licked up the edge of it? Nibbled his ear with that voice in his skin and that smile in her breath?

He lost his damn mind.

Gone.

Fully.

Utterly.

Gloriously.

“Fuck, Ellie…” he breathed, voice rough and low and already wrecked, hands clutching at her waist like it was the only thing tethering him to Earth. But it wasn’t desperation. Not anymore.

It was reverence.

His fingers—shaky, sure—traced her sides first, then slowly slid upward, thumbs brushing the curve of her ribs with a gentleness that bordered on worship. He didn’t rush. Didn’t grab.

He explored.

Let himself feel every inch like it mattered, because it did. Because she did.

He mapped her skin with open palms and soft groans, his touch deliberate—over her waist, the dip of her spine, the swell of her hips. He was learning her all over again, but this time with no fear. No what-ifs. No almosts.

Just yes.

All in.

And when she whispered “You still breathing?” in that goddamn voice that felt like a slow burn down his spine, Tyler laughed—a breathless, wrecked sound that caught in his throat like he didn’t know whether to moan or worship.

“Barely,” he rasped, fingers sliding up to cup the sides of her face now, thumbs brushing her cheekbones like she was something holy.

“But I’d rather suffocate here.”

He kissed her again—this time with all of it. The fire. The ache. The sheer relief of knowing he didn’t have to hide any of it anymore. His mouth moved against hers with hungry intent, lips parting, tongue sliding slow and deep as his hands roamed lower again—finding the curve of her ass and gripping hard enough to make her gasp into him.

God, that sound.

He wanted to bottle it.

Frame it.

Etch it onto his skin.

“You’re not the girl I almost loved,” he said into her mouth between kisses, voice hoarse and shaking with truth. “You’re the girl I never stopped loving.”

His mouth found her neck now, open and hot, teeth grazing as he breathed her in like she was air and he’d been drowning for years.

“You’re mine, Ellie. Now. Then. Always.”

His hands slid back up, one finding her jaw again, the other tracing the side of her breast with slow, aching care. No rush. No agenda.

Just need.

Just love.

Just hers.

“And I’m yours,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to look at her—really look. “So ruin me, baby. Show me.”

His voice dropped—rougher, deeper, reverent.

“Show me what forever feels like.”

Ellie didn’t answer him right away.

She just looked at him—really looked. Into every inch of him that had once run, once hesitated, once nearly let her slip through his fingers. And now? Now he was here, all in, heart-first, giving her that wrecked devotion like she was something worth being destroyed for.

It broke her wide open.

Softly. Beautifully.

And she let it.

Her thumb traced the edge of his bottom lip, slow and tender, like she was sketching the outline of a truth too big to say out loud. Then—wordless—she grabbed the edge of his t-shirt, tugged it over his head, and tossed it behind them without fanfare. Her hands found the warmth of his bare chest, splayed over the steady beat of him like it was a rhythm she knew by heart.

“You want forever?” she murmured, leaning in until her breath fanned over his mouth. “Then hold still.”

She kissed him—harder this time. Like punctuation. Like promise. Her hands framed his face, her thighs bracketing his hips with the kind of confidence that only came from knowing exactly what he was, and what he wasn’t, going to survive.

And as she rocked against him, slow and intentional, she felt the shift in him—like lightning rolling across water. Like every yes they hadn’t said finally clicking into place.

She didn’t rush.

She didn’t need to.

Because this? This wasn’t about frenzy. It was about finally.

Her lips ghosted along his jaw, her voice nothing more than a breath between them. “You feel that?” she whispered, curling herself tighter into his lap. “That’s what always feels like.”

And when she moved again, guiding them into alignment—one long, fluid motion that made her breath catch and her body hum—she closed her eyes and let it take her.

Let him take her.

Because there was no pretending anymore.

This was theirs.

Tyler’s breath caught—snagged in his throat—when her fingers tugged his shirt off and tossed it aside like it was nothing.

Like she’d waited long enough.

Like this was real now. Finally. Fully.

Her hands were on his chest—warm, grounding, claiming—and his body lit up under her touch like every nerve had been waiting for this. For her. For the girl who used to be a wish and was now skin on skin, slow and certain and utterly his.

She said “Hold still”—and God, he tried.

But the second her mouth crashed into his and her hips rolled with that deliberate, devastating rhythm, Tyler forgot how to follow directions.

He groaned—deep, guttural—into her mouth, his hands flying to her thighs, gripping tight as if anchoring himself to reality. His bare chest met hers with no barriers, no hesitation, just heat on heat and breath between kisses that felt like confessions.

Her confidence wrecked him.

Not because it was new. But because it had always been there, and now she was letting him feel all of it—all of her—like she wasn’t afraid to burn anymore.

“Ellie…” he gasped, voice hoarse, undone, raw. “Jesus—you’re…”

But the words failed, drowned beneath the way she rocked against him again, slow and precise, like she knew exactly how to unravel him thread by trembling thread.

And she did.

She was.

When her lips brushed his jaw and her voice spilled across his skin—"That’s what always feels like”—Tyler lost the last of whatever fragile composure he’d been pretending to hold.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his hands sliding up her back, one weaving into her hair as the other dragged down—over the curve of her spine, the swell of her hips, every part of her that was warm and bare and begging to be worshipped.

He shifted beneath her, the movement fluid and certain, like he’d just remembered exactly how to meet her there. Their hips aligned, friction building, heat pooling deep and low, and God, the sound she made when he moved against her?

He’d never forget it.

He didn’t want to.

“Come here,” he growled, low and commanding now, voice thick with want as he caught her mouth again—tongue and teeth and devotion—one hand fisting in her hair, the other gliding down to cup her ass and pull her harder into him.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Tate.”

He kissed her jaw, her neck, her shoulder—open-mouthed and unrelenting, every inch of his body begging to taste hers.

“But if this is what always feels like?”

He rocked into her again, breath catching at the contact, his forehead pressed to hers now, damp and desperate and so fucking in love.

“Then I’ll die grateful.”

His lips grazed her collarbone, her sternum, and lower still—worship in every kiss, hunger in every touch. His fingers found her thighs again, traced up the outside, then in—closer, teasing, reverent.

And when he looked up?

Eyes dark, chest heaving, completely gone for her?

He smiled.

Ruined and ready.

“Let me feel you, Ellie. All of you.”

Because tonight wasn’t about the rush.

It was about the rightness.

And he was going to make damn sure she felt it—every inch, every second, every promise sealed in skin and breath and the kind of love that never had an ending.

Just always.