Forty

Surrender

 

March 14, 2011

 

He’d been awake long enough to know he wasn’t going back to sleep. Not with her like this. 

 

She was on her back, one arm tossed above her head, tangled in sheets she’d half-kicked loose before dawn. Her curls spread wild—across her face, over the pillow, trailing down her bare shoulder. Claiming the whole damn bed once again. 

 

He couldn’t help but smile. Over the years, he’d become an expert in her sleep habits. The way she always ended up diagonally, somehow managing to steal every inch of sheet, and the uneven snore that started up when she was truly out. 

 

He shifted, noticing how most of the covers had migrated to her side again. He had a single corner left, and a growing certainty he’d lost a fight he could never win. He reached out, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek. The first stripes of morning crept through the curtains and settled in her curls, warming the dark.

 

But this, right here, was his favorite part.

 

The way her nose crinkled slightly, just enough to make him smirk. He waited for it, knowing what came next: that quiet rhythm he knew better than any song he’d ever played. One breath. Two. Three.

 

Then the sigh—soft, content, no edge to it. 

 

She mumbled into the pillow, words lost in sleep, but the tone was unmistakable—bossy, even now. She’d deny the mumbling if he told her, but he knew better. 

 

His gaze traced the familiar line of her body beneath the sheet, settling on the gentle curve of her belly. Another piece of them, right there under his hand. His hand moved before he thought, calloused fingertips brushing lightly over her skin.

 

As if his touch had summoned it, her expression softened into that unguarded smile. It hit him the same way it always did—low and deep in his chest.

 

His thumb lingered, then stilled. Lately, she didn’t do slow.

 

Always quick. Urgent. Like it switched on in her before she even realized. Didn’t matter where they were or what she’d come in for—when it hit, everything else fell away, fast, immediate. Clothing stayed on more often than not.

 

The tempo was always hers to set—what she called control. 

 

A faint grin tugged at his mouth as he looked at her, still soft with sleep, completely unaware.

 

“Today, we do it my way, Crash,” he whispered.

 

His hand drifted closer, fingertips barely brushing her skin—testing, not waking. Not yet.  

Lowering his head, he pressed his lips to the sensitive skin behind her ear, breathing her in—a faint trace of apple lingering in her hair. His tongue flicked lightly against her lobe, easing just enough to make her shift without waking.

 

Another soft, quiet sigh slipped from her lips. She had others— he knew what each one meant. And he’d never get tired of hearing them.

 

Her eyelids fluttered, sleep loosening its hold. A tiny, unguarded murmur slipped out, and he smiled at the sound.

 

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble against her skin.

 

“Mmm…” She shifted, caught somewhere between sleeping and waking. “What time is it?”

 

He didn’t answer. Not this time.

 

Instead, his mouth ghosted down her neck to her collarbone, trailing lingering kisses. He paused at the hollow, savoring her warmth, feeling her breathing beneath his lips—purposeful, patient, deliberate.

 

Yeah. That one—he’d never tire of.

 

His hand slid along her side, steadying her as his lips continued their unhurried path downward, disappearing beneath the sheet. No rush—he let time stretch the moment, drawing it out until he felt her start to ache for more.

 

When he reached her hip, he paused. His thumb traced the faded ink there, muscle memory marking a thousand mornings like this.

 

A lazy grin curved against her skin, and he pressed a playful bite to it—then another, more measured this time, just to tease out her response.

 

That was all it took.

 

Her fingers tightened in his hair, her need surfacing in an instant.

 

“Jon…” Her voice was thick with sleep, but the edge was there.

 

He hummed, refusing to be rushed.

 

His mouth retraced over her hip, then lower, following familiar paths, but this time he traveled them with laziness.  The intimate French kiss was a seductive one —denying her the rush she’d come to expect. A muted release left her, sharper now, betraying how much anticipation he’d coaxed from her with patience.

 

“Jon,” she tried again, her fingers tightening as she tugged at him, threading through his hair, reaching for the reins she couldn’t quite reclaim.

 

She tried to take over. He wouldn’t let her.

 

He didn’t speed up; if anything, he slowed even further. Every touch designed to make her feel it—to linger, to draw it out until it was his and hers alone.

 

His hand pressed more firmly against her side, anchoring her, his pace steady and unyielding. Not ignoring her—just not surrendering to her, not today.

 

“Ugh…” Her breath hitched, giving way into something wordless and wild.

 

He smiled against her skin. That was it—the slow unraveling she pretended not to crave.

 

“You okay up there, Crash?” 

 

“Yeah—,” she managed, voice shaky, not fooling anyone.

 

“Uh-huh. Coulda fooled me.”

 

Her hand tightened again, but now it was pure reaction, instinct taking over.

 

And he had her—right where he wanted, caught between wanting and waiting.

 

Still, she tried one last time.

 

“Jon…” Sharper now, her palm pressing hard at the back of his head. “Up. Now!”

 

A command, clear as day. One he usually answered without hesitation.

 

He stilled, just long enough for her to think she’d won.

 

Her breath lifted, expectation already settling in, that familiar shift—the moment everything snapped back to her lead. 

 

Instead—

 

His grip tightened on her thigh, guiding it over his shoulder, opening her further, anchoring her in place. And then he went right back to what he was doing. Slower. Even more deliberate.

 

A quiet, disbelieving laugh shook through her before fracturing completely. “You—"

 

He didn’t let her finish. “Up?” he echoed, almost amused. “Now?”

 

His hand traced a steady path along her leg, fingertips pressing just enough to leave a promise behind—a reminder of who was calling the shots.

 

“Pretty sure what I’m doing is working just fine.”

 

Her response fell apart in a breath, no words now, just a helpless sound as her grip on the moment slipped. One hand slid into the sheets, searching for anything to hold but him.

 

Didn’t work. 

 

“Jon...” His name now wasn’t a warning. Not even close.

 

He felt it happen. The surrender she couldn’t stop. Tension melting from her body, her hold in his hair loosening, then tightening again, but no longer to steer him, just to hold on.

 

Her leg, still draped over his shoulder, rested there now unguarded, yielding.

 

A soft, broken exhale slipped from her, followed by another, each one quieter, less controlled.  A tiny, helpless sound escaped her lips, and he grinned against her skin.

 

There it was. The slow, inevitable unraveling.

 

His hand stayed firm on her thigh, steadying her as the last of that carefully held tension finally unraveled. Her breath caught… then collapsed completely.

 

He didn’t rush it. Didn’t take anything from her. He let it crest, linger, let the moment pull her under until every trace of that sharp, self-possessed edge she wore dissolved.

 

Until there was nothing left. Only her—soft, spent, satisfied. Right where he wanted her.

 

For a moment, he stayed, smoothing his hand lightly along her leg, anchoring her as she found her way back. A quiet grin tugged at his lips—his victory, small, sure, but undeniable.

 

Finally, he moved.

 

Slowly, he made his way back up her body, pressing a trail of kisses along her skin. Her chest rose unevenly, her eyes heavy and unfocused, barely open. Every flutter of her breath, every lazy blink, reminded him just how completely he had her.

 

His lips hovered mere inches above when murmuring, “Up.”  The single word carried all the triumph he needed.   

 

A flicker—recognition, maybe even the start of a protest—but it didn’t last. 

 

He closed his distance.

 

The kiss was unhurried. Deep, but not forceful. Intentional, a lingering reminder—not an ending, but a confident claim of what had just passed between them. Every brush of his lips against hers, every flick of his tongue, sealed it. He made sure of that.

 

Her fingers curled weakly against him, no resistance left. 

 

He pulled back slightly, eyes locking with hers, a satisfied curve to his mouth.

 

“Enjoy that?” he asked, voice low, teasing.

 

The corner of her mouth lifted, slow and deliberate, as she traced her lips with her tongue, meeting his gaze with that hint of challenge he loved.

 

“I did,” she said, that playful bite in her voice that always left him grinning.

 

“Should hold you over till I’m back.”

 

Her brow arched, a smirk flickering. “You think one slow morning’s gonna tame me?”

 

His grin deepened. “Never said I wanted you tame.”

Thirty-Nine

Riding The Line

 

March 13, 2011

 

Montreal always felt different. The city settled into her bones, making the chaos of tour life feel like it belonged to someone else. The past couple of days off had been exactly what they needed.

Nothing but slow mornings. Sleeping in just enough for the sun to claim the windows, lingering over breakfast and coffee, then bundling Lily up for walks through the still-too-cold March air. Maybe lunch out, then back to the loft. And when Lily was down for the night, it was takeout, quiet fires, and the kind of couch time that felt indulgent instead of rushed.

Today started no differently. Lily’s morning chatter filled their bedroom—half words, half nonsense, all insistently addressed to Meatball, who lay loyally by her crib. Breakfast was easy. Lily perched in her high chair while Jon pilfered bites from her tray whenever she allowed it, acting personally offended when she didn’t.

Afterward, they drifted into their own corners of the loft. Jon disappeared into the studio to tweak something, which could mean anything from ten minutes to two hours. Ari headed for the office with her laptop and a production schedule that wasn’t going to magically finalize itself.

She texted Kennedy about the Las Vegas credentials and adjusted the freight arrival while Lily made her aggressive laps around the office in her walker. Kennedy’s reply came in under a minute—Vegas was locked, with run-of-show updates coming by two o’clock.

Of course it was. Kennedy was better at this than Ari these days.

Vegas. Just the mention of it made something stir inside her. She made a mental note to call Cara later, see if she could make it out for that one. If anyone deserved front-row chaos, it was her.

Lily smacked her palms against the desk and squealed like she was conducting an orchestra. Ari leaned down to brush a kiss over the top of her head.

An hour later, the schedule was cleaner, her inbox wasn’t glaring at her, and Lily’s enthusiasm had officially tipped into fussiness. Right on cue.

“Okay, tiny boss,” Ari sighed, scooping her up. “Nap time before you unionize.”

Lily yawned as Ari carried her to her crib. She reached out for Meatball one last time before Ari gently tucked her in, and within minutes, the room fell into the smallest sound. Lingering at the doorway, Ari savored the moment—until a glance at the clock reminded her the bar was waiting.

She had enough time for a quick shower before she had to leave. By the time she toweled off and slipped into something comfortable, she felt refreshed and alive all at once. Her laptop was shut, production schedules set for the next call with Kennedy, and the loft had returned to that quiet rhythm only found when Lily napped.

One last look at Lily before heading out, Ari set out to find Jon.

Stepping into the gym, she froze at the sight of him mid-workout. She was supposed to tell him she was off to the bar—but nope—armpits first, everything else later. The rhythmic thud of weights echoed through the open space, matching the quickening of her pulse. He stood in front of the mirror, back taut, a sleeveless Patriots T-shirt riding high on his shoulders, sweat gleaming on skin that flexed with every lift. Every lift, each flex—she just couldn’t look away.

And when he lifted the weights again, the worn cotton shifted, baring the hollow beneath his arm.

Her breath caught—yeah, this was definitely a problem.

The scent hit her a second later: salt, skin, sweat… and that unmistakable trace of his cologne.

Well… there went her self-control. Pregnancy had made her avoid more than a few things over the last few months. Somehow, this wasn’t one of them.

Leaning against the doorframe, heat bloomed low, tightening her focus entirely on him.

“Enjoying the view?” he said, lowering the weight. “Or are we calling this… appreciation?”

Ari stepped closer, swallowing. “Yeah… sure. Let’s go with that.”

“You could at least pretend you’re here for the workout.”

“Oh, I care,” she said. “Just… not about that.”

He straightened, a slow grin tugging at his lips. His fingers flexed briefly around the bar as her eyes found him, the reaction subtle but there.

“Oh yeah? Something catch your eye?”

“You know exactly what,” she said—too quick to be casual.

He shook his head. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yeah,” she said. “This won’t take long.”

She grabbed his wrists, nudging him back onto the workbench. His feigned struggle lasted two seconds before he surrendered, shoulders adjusting under her weight, grinning as the gleam in her eyes dared him to resist.

Ari straddled his lap, her knees pressing against the vinyl bench on either side of his hips. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked, breaths quick, hearts racing.

She didn’t hesitate—fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, lips brushing his in a daring kiss. His fingers found her waist instinctively, anchoring her even as she pulled him closer. He barely had time to react before her fingers slid into his damp hair, holding him there. Her mouth skimmed his jaw, dangerously close to the spot she couldn’t resist. Fierce. Unapologetic. The pace was hers, messy and delicious, even fully clothed.

When she pulled back, his breath was gone, and the look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. Ari lingered just long enough to enjoy it, her chest rising with a slow, deliberate inhale.

Then she licked her lips and slid off his lap, smoothing her shirt, pushing a hand through her hair as if nothing had just happened.

“I won’t be late,” she said, already moving.

He let out a breathless laugh. “Leave the money at the door.”

She didn’t turn around, just lifted a hand in lazy acknowledgment as she walked out.

The bar was waiting.

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

 

Thirty minutes later, Ari turned onto Rachel East Street, easing her red Jeep down the block with the casual confidence of someone who’d done it thousand times.

 

Parking, however, was always a gamble.

 

She scanned the curb in front of Petite Soho and muttered a quick prayer to the city’s unofficial patron saint of impossible street parking.

 

“Just one spot. That’s all I’m asking.”

 

Halfway down the block, a car’s reverse lights flicked on.

 

Ari grinned.

 

“Well, look at that.”

 

She spun the Jeep into a quick U-turn, hazards blinking while the car pulled away.  The moment the space cleared, she eased forward and slipped into it in one smooth motion, the Jeep’s tight turning radius doing half the work.

 

She straightened the wheel and killed the engine, pleased with herself.

 

Front row parking in Montreal was basically a miracle.

 

Ari stepped out of the Jeep, the March air biting just enough to wake her senses. She headed toward the backyard, the narrow path curling around the side in a way that felt as familiar as breathing. The tree stood, bare branches scratching against the gray sky. 

 

Kneeling, she traced a finger over the small patch of earth where her grandmother rested, the edges of the plaque peeking out from beneath the leaves.

 

“Hey, Mamie,” she whispered. “Can’t stay long... today. I’m late, and Max’ll kill me.”

She dusted away fallen leaves and lingering snow, brushed the soil from her jeans, and headed back down the cobble path to the stairs.

Inside, the apartment was quiet. Ari dropped her bag on the counter, then opened the door that led downstairs. She took the steps carefully, hand sliding along the worn railing. Before she even reached the bottom, the rhythmic thud of a knife hitting the cutting board echoed through the kitchen.

 

Gabriel.

 

Ari stepped through the doorway just as he slid a pan onto the burner. He glanced up briefly, eyes narrowing in recognition before his face softened into a familiar smile.

 

“Ma petite papillon,” he said warmly. “Et la petite Lily, elle est où?” (and little Lily, where is she?)

 

Ari leaned against the counter.

 

“Home with Jon. She just went down for her nap before I left.”

 

Gabriel chuckled softly. “Ah, cette petite… elle grandit déjà trop vite.” (Ah, that little one… she’s already growing too fast.)

 

From the doorway, Max appeared, a clipboard tucked under his arm and a stack of bar towels draped over his shoulder. He stopped when he spotted Ari.

 

“Let me guess… something distracted you.” 

 

“Yeah. You miss me.”

 

Max just laughed “Bar’s stocked—fruit cutting’s all yours.”

 

 “Oh, my favorite.” Ari pushed off the counter and took the clipboard. “Now, give me those and get out of here. I got this.”

 

Gabriel waved a wooden spoon in their direction without even looking up. “Both of you—out of my kitchen if you’re not cooking.”

 

The familiar chaos of the kitchen wrapped around her like a second skin. 

 

“Alright, alright. We’re going.”

 

Stepping through the swinging door from the kitchen, she spotted him immediately. Sitting at the bar, massive and relaxed, but coiled with quiet awareness.

 

She slipped behind the bar, grabbed a new bottle of water, and slid it along the wood in his direction.

 

“Well, well… what are you doing here?”

 

Cliff looked up, expression unreadable for a heartbeat before his lips twitched. “I was thirsty.”

 

 “They run out of water at the St. James?”

 

He shrugged, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “Was hungry too. Heard this was the best place for Chinese pâté.”

 

 She knew exactly who and why he was sitting here.

 

“Big Red,” she said.  “You’re supposed to be on my side. Not plotting against me.”

You wound me, Lucy. That is me on your side.”

“Protecting me from what? The neighborhood pigeons?”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

She set the cutting board, knife and fruit, in front of him as she started cutting.

 

“So… how are your bartending skills?”

 

“Pretty good actually. Why do you ask?”

 

“Habs game. Might need you to help a girl out.”

 

“Something tells me you’ve done this a time or twelve.”

 

“With my eyes closed,” she scooped up the lemons and placed them in the tray. “Pregnant me might need a bathroom break at some point.” 

 

“I got you Lucy. Just say when.” 

 

She gave him a mock salute and moved down the bar, collecting empty glasses as she went. The bell over the door chimed. She glanced up to welcome the first wave of customers; a couple settling at a high top, a group of friends claiming a stretch of barstools like they’d been waiting all day.

 

Ari fell into rhythm easily, slipping between tasks, trading playful barbs with the locals as the room began to fill in around her. By the time she circled back to Cliff, the stainless steel garnish tray was stocked and ready, everything in its place without her having to think twice about it. 

 

When the game kicked off, the volume surged; shouts, laughter, the sharp crack of reactions hitting all at once until the noise settled into something steady, a warm, pulsing energy that carried the whole room.

 

The game burned itself out the way it always did—loud until it wasn’t.

 

By the final buzzer, the bar had thinned to nothing, the last stragglers drifting out in the cold with lingering laughter and half-finished conversations. Ari locked the door behind them, letting the stillness settle in.

 

Closing alone wasn’t new. Slower, maybe, but not unfamiliar. She moved through it methodically. Glasses racked and washed. Chairs turned, floor swept, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound left.

 

Cliff handled the heavier lifts without a word, hauled the last of the trash out back, checked the alley before coming back in and locked up the kitchen.

 

By the last light, the bar felt like itself again, waiting for tomorrow.

 

“Alright,” she murmured, more to the room than to him. “We’re done.”

 

Outside, the cold hit sharper than before, the street nearly empty now. She pulled her coat tighter and headed for her Jeep.  Sure enough, Cliff’s car started a beat after hers, settling into position behind her at a careful distance.  She shook her head with a faint smile. 

 

Once she was safely parked in the garage, he flashed his headlights and waved. It wasn’t until the door started to lower that he began backing out of the driveway.

 

Upstairs, the loft was dim, warm, and still.  Ari kicked off her Chucks and tossed her coat over the couch before heading upstairs.  She paused at the doorway of Lily’s room, peeking in to see her daughter curled up under the blanket breathing, steadily in sleep. A small smile touched her lips before she continued down the hall.

 

A low lamp glowed in the bedroom. Jon was propped up against the headboard, a book resting loosely in his hands. He glanced up as she stepped in, eyes tracking her in that quiet, familiar way.

 

Crossing the room, she shed her clothes, leaving a quiet trail along the way. By the time she reached the bed, her clothes were in a neat, chaotic pile. She tugged one of his t-shirts over her head, the soft fabric swallowing her in comfort. Without a word, she crawled under the covers, tucking herself against him.

 

Jon shifted, arm coming around her, the book lowering but not quite set aside. His hand found her back as she exhaled, letting the weight of his hand steady her.

 

His thumb traced a lazy line against her side, once, twice. And just like that—she was asleep.

 

“Goodnight, Crash,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.