79 Birthday peaches

**Date = 25 July**
*The days pass slowly, but uneventfully - no more messages or choices.*
**Place = San Francisco (Inferno)**

**POV - Aria**

***WARNING – Sex scene!!!***

I am blindfolded.

Not in the kinky way, though I won’t have objected. No, this is Enrique’s theatrical kind of blindfold — the silk is so soft it probably has a fancier passport than I do. The elevator beneath my feet hums quietly, rising higher and higher until the quiet ping marks our arrival. I feel his hand tighten around mine.

“Are you going to push me off the roof?” I ask, my voice dry. “Because if this is how you’re dealing with your commitment issues, it’s against the contract.”

He laughs. That deep, melted-chocolate sound that always makes my stomach do flips.

“You should read the fine print first.”

The door whooshes open. I smell something sweet — candles? Flowers? Something soft and indulgent in the air, like warmth and peaches. His hand is at the small of my back now, guiding me forward.

One step. Two. My heels click against polished stone, and the sound changes subtly, softer, like plush carpet.

“Okay, hold still,” Enrique whispers near my ear. “Don’t move.”

“I trust you,” I say. And I do. I trust him with my life. And my heart.

“You shouldn’t,” he replies, and then gently tugs the blindfold loose.

Light hits me. Not harsh, but warm. The kind of light you only get from a thousand flickering candles and a sunset so beautiful it makes your heart feel like it’s too big for your chest.

We are in the penthouse suite above the club, but it doesn’t look like it anymore. It looks like a dream. Soft music plays in the background, a lazy jazz tune that makes everything feel like velvet.

The floor-to-ceiling doors open to the decorated outside deck. There are flowers — peonies, roses, those pale pink carnations I like because they look like frosting — spilling from crystal vases. Tiny tea lights float in the splash-pool, dragging my eyes to a view of the Bay. The water glimmers in that late-evening way, dark and shimmering like a spilled secret. Behind it, the city stretches out — glittering and golden, like it is all laid out for me.

At the center of it all stands a table for two, draped in ivory linen, set with real silver and blush-tinted crystal glasses. A little bowl of peaches sits between two flickering candles.

I blink.

“What …” I spat, barely able to get the word out. “You did all this?”

Enrique steps around me, looking stupidly handsome in a deep navy shirt, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his forearms, smugness practically radiating from his foolishly perfect cheekbones.

Then he says, “I tried to get a carousel up here. Since we still can’t go outside together.”

I turn my head slowly. “A carousel?”

He nods, perfectly serious. “The vintage kind. Painted horses. Golden lights. Music box charm. For the atmosphere.”

“In the penthouse,” I say, trying not to laugh. “A full carousel.”

“It would’ve gone in the corner,” he says, pointing. “Well. Half of it. The rest would’ve just … leaned a bit.”

I blink. “You were going to install half a merry-go-round onto a rooftop.”

He meets my stare calmly. “I thought it would be epic. You’re my favorite ride.”

I slap a hand over my face. “You did not just say that.”

He comes up behind me, arms wrapping around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder. “Happy birthday, baby.” My heart does that thing where it aches and swells and flutters all at once.

“You’re absurd,” I murmur, leaning back against him. “This is … beyond.”

He kisses my neck. “Wait ‘til you taste the cake.”

Dinner is ridiculous. Every course is peach-themed. Peach-glazed duck. Peach vinaigrette salad. Even the cocktails have little peach slices floating in them.

“I’m sensing a theme,” I say, sipping my drink and squinting at him over the rim.

“I thought it was subtle,” Enrique replies innocently. “Totally not overdone.”

“You literally shaped the butter into peaches.”

“Presentation matters.”

When dessert arrives, I laugh so hard I nearly cry. The cake is a perfect peach. Like … not just peach-shaped, but with a tiny stem and a glimmering sugar leaf and even a tiny little dimple where a real peach will have that crease. And a cute, friendly worm sticking out at the side.

“This is the most Aria thing I’ve ever seen,” I tell him, poking it.

“It’s peach-flavored inside, of course,” he smirks. “Soft sponge. Just like you.”

“I am not soft.”

“You cry during dog commercials.”

“I have a soul. Unlike some people.”

“Hey. I cried during Shrek 2.”

We banter like that, eating cake, which turned out to be genuinely delicious. Moist and fruity with a cream cheese swirl that nearly makes me propose to the baker.

But then he gets quiet.

Not sad-quiet. Just … that nervous kind of stillness I’ve only seen thrice. Once, after our attack. Again, after the warehouse thing. And once, when he told me he loved me for the first time — though technically he hadn’t said the actual word.

Now, he reaches under the table and pulls out a slim folder.

I tilted my head. “Is that a bill?” He chuckles and gives me a huge BEAST grin.

“New contract,” he says, sliding it toward me. A strange beat passes. My heart does a funny little skip. And my brain comes up with two hundred and fifty-three reasons why a new contract is not a good idea.

“A contract?” I ask, trying to sound playful, but my voice cracks just a little. “You’re giving me paperwork on my birthday?”

He pauses, suddenly serious. “It’s not just paperwork. I’m enslaving you.” My heart stops, ready to break into pieces.

I open the folder.

“You’re really doing this,” I say softly, scanning the pages. He nods. I read.

“Clause One — I’m not allowed to eat all your fries unless I ask nicely?”

“I mean, you do anyway. Might as well formalize it.” I frown. What is this?

I flip the page. “Clause Five — I have to be near you at all times?”

“Preferably clinging to me like a barnacle,” he sneers, “Naked would be best.”

I glance up. “That’s a little obsessive.”

“I’m obsessed with you,” he says simply. “Is that not clear by now?” My heart twirls three times and then belly up.

Another page. “I’m not allowed to look at any other men?” Really?

“Not even fictional ones. Darcy is on thin ice.” My eyebrows shoot up. He remembers my favorite book

I laugh through a lump in my throat. But the next line flatlines my heart.

“You want me to take your last name?” I ask idiotically.

“I want you to be mine. In every way.” His voice lowers. “I want to be your home, Aria Blackburn.”

My fingers tremble.

“And … this last part,” I whisper, reading the closing lines. “‘The undersigned agrees to marry the proposer and keep him forever.’”

I stare at the bottom. Two boxes. YES or NO.

But the NO box … it is printed in faint ink. Barely legible. Totally blacked out.

“You rigged this.” I wheeze in a breath.

“Legally binding loophole,” he says, shrugging.

He holds out a pen.

The ring is looped around it, nestled in a satin ribbon. It glows in the candlelight. The band is rose gold, twisted into a delicate vine-like design. In the center sits a peach-hued Padparadscha Sapphire, oval and smooth with the softest cleft down the middle. It looks like something out of a fairy tale.

I look at him, wide-eyed. “This is real?”

“Aria,” he says, voice shaking, “I peach you. I have for a long time. Even though I am terrified that being close to me might hurt you … not having you terrifies me more. I don’t want a world where you’re not mine. So, yes. This is real. You’re it for me. Forever.”

I blink tears away, laughing even as they fall. “You idiot. You beautiful, dramatic idiot.”

I take the pen.

I check the only available box.

And I sign.

Then I tackle him onto the sofa.

Sex on a velvet sofa surrounded by candles and cake crumbs is maybe not how most people imagined their engagement night. But for us? It is perfect.

Afterward, he carries me to the bedroom. The bath is already steaming, full of peach colored rose petals and bubbles. It smells like heaven.

We sink into it, me between his legs, his arms around me.

For a while, we just soak. My head resting back against his chest. The room warm and misty, lit by soft candlelight.

Then I whisper, “You know Leyla comes with me, right?”

His arms tighten around me just a little. “Assumed as much.”

“I mean, you’re not just marrying me. It’s a package deal.”

“I love that girl,” he says with a low laugh. “I’d gladly be her guardian. If you want me to be. She’s already my family.”

I twist a little to look up at him. “You really mean that?”

He cups my cheek. “I’d adopt her tomorrow if you asked. She’s part of you. That makes her mine, too.”

A lump rises in my throat. My voice comes out softer. “What about my ovary?”

He pulls a skew face. “If you need me to adopt your ovary … I will try … not sure it’s gonna be legally possible though …” I roll my eyes.

“You know what I mean,” I say. “It’s … full of cysts. It doesn’t function properly. There’s a big chance I might not be able to have children.”

His face doesn’t change. He doesn’t flinch. Don’t look away. He just studies me for a second, then kisses my temple.

“We’ll figure that out when we get there,” he murmurs. “Right now, I’ve got Leyla — and I’ve got you. That’s more than enough.”

Tears well again. Is this for real? Is he for real?

“We’re still young, Aria. And there are a million other ways to build a family. If it happens, it happens. If not, we adopt. Or foster. Or just spoil our nieces and nephews and be the weird cool aunt and uncle who travel and give out loud toys to annoy the parents.”

I laugh wetly. “You’d be the worst uncle. You’d give them drums.”

“Every time,” he says solemnly. “Loud, flashing, battery-powered drums. Especially to Jackson’s kid.”

“His kid will probably not play on them — he’ll use them to torture the dog.” He grunts, agreeing.

“I peach you,” I say, burying my face in his neck.

“I know,” he whispers, brushing his lips against my hairline. “I peach you, too. Always.”

We stay like that, soaking in our new forever, the world hushed and warm around us.

After a while, his fingers trail lazily through the water, swirling rose petals. “I’ve been thinking about a date.” There’s a tingling in his voice, low, serious, deep.

“For?” I huff, soaked in satisfaction. I close my eyes to lavish in it.

“For the wedding.” He pauses. Waits. As if holding his breath.

My eyes open, and I turn my head slightly, curious. “Already?”

He nods, still playing with the petals. “I want to get married on my mom’s birthday.”

That makes me pause. “Really?” His mood shifts.

“I want to honor her with something joyful. She would’ve loved you.” I realize it’s his way of an apology. To her. An act of forgiveness. However, he still needs to figure out that he needs to forgive himself. But this is a start.

I smile softly, warmth blooming in my chest. “Then we’ll do it.”

He kisses my shoulder. “Really?”

“Of course,” I say, threading our fingers together beneath the bubbles. “When’s her birthday?”

“August 15.”

I sit up so fast, a few bubbles slosh over the side of the tub. “That’s twenty days away!”

He winces. “Surprise?”

“Enrique!” I splutter, half laughing, half in panic. “We still have to move our clothes and stuff to Black Pit. My books. Leyla’s pet collection. We haven’t even told anyone we’re getting married. Your family …” I pause to think of something to say. “Jackson’s gone …”

“Jackson can be found,” he offers helpfully.

“— Mel and Logan are hiding out in Scotland … I don’t even know if I’ve forgiven her for abandoning me to deal with your drama alone …”

“Fair. But Mel is coming home for the birth soon anyway.”

“— and Ilkay is in Switzerland.”

“But he sends great cheese,” he mumbles.

“I have no dress. No venue. No idea how to plan everything in less than a month.”

“We’ll make it small … since the outside world can’t know about it yet.” True. It won’t be a big thing … only family and friends.

“Do you even know how long it takes to order a cake that isn’t shaped like fruit?”

“But you’ll do it?” he asks, watching me.

I stare at him. At his hopeful, vulnerable face. And then I sigh, dramatically, sinking back into the water with a hand over my eyes. “Of course I’ll do it. It matters to you. And you’re ridiculous, but you’re my ridiculous.”

He grins, pulling me closer, splashing rose petals up my arm. “You’re a miracle, Batnip.”

“Remind me of that when I’m knee-deep in flower samples and screaming at your family about seating charts.”

His focus shifts, gaze cutting to me. He reaches out, brushing his fingers lightly over my cheek.

“They can sit on the ground for all I care,” he hums, “as long as I get the honeymoon. Somewhere with no cell service. No family. Just you, me, and a suspiciously large bed that creaks in six languages.”

I imagine the multilingual moans from the bed as he pumps into me with his hard, hot poker. A warm blush spreads up my neck.

“Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not,” I say, too fast.

One brow arches slowly. Then he smiles wonderfully.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he grunts, gruff with desire. I don’t have words. He picks me up and puts me on the huge vanity. I tremble in anticipation.

“I want you,” I blurt, desperate to redirect.

That does it. He slides his hands from my hips, down the side of my legs, pausing just behind my knees. Then, with a gentle tug, he pulls me forward on the counter until my legs part and he steps between them, heat and purpose rolling off his body.

I exhale a shaky breath.

His arms wrap around my hips, drawing me flush against him as he leans in, his lips brushing mine in a ghost of a kiss. Then, with maddening control, he follows the curve of my jaw with soft kisses, trailing down beneath my ear, then lower, down the elegant line of my throat.

“Are you going to beg?” he whispers. “My beautiful Batnip.”

I choke out a laugh, breathless. “I’m not.” Begging. Not yet.

“You are,” he says, voice rougher now, lips at my shoulder. “You’re so beautiful, you take my damn breath away.” He misunderstands my denial. But for the first time, his eyes are clear — no teasing, no mask. Just raw, honest intensity.

And I feel it. Feel the truth of it, deep in my bones. Fully. Completely. Undeniably.

He leans in and kisses me there, on my neck. Soft. Careful. Reverent. The shift in his stance brings the warmth of his legs brushing against my bare inner thighs. I tremble, my body betraying my composure.

“Now beg,” he murmurs, so innocently wicked it steals my breath.

And just like that, my body arches, hips seeking his, chasing the low groan that rumbles from his chest.

His mouth returns to my jaw, slow and coaxing, until heat flushes between my legs. “Need more?” he asks softly, voice low.

I blink. “Yes.”

“What … no, please?” Oh, I’m willing to beg right now.

“Please.”

“Where do you want me to kiss you?” he huffs.

At that question, something in me cracks a little. But not about to miss an opportunity, I point to my left chest.

He gives it his full attention, fingers grazing my stiff, eager nipple there before his mouth follows, lips lingering a little too long for decency. And then he sucks. I nearly combust.

I shiver at the feel of his warm, wet mouth latching on, nibbling softly with his teeth until my nipple is about to orgasm on its own.

With a low hum, he pulls me tighter, his body warming me like a second skin. His eyes are closed now, thick lashes brushing his cheek, his stubbled jaw rough against my sensitive skin.

“Where else?” he asks again. This time, his voice is low, slow sex itself.

I swallow. Then, quietly and greedily, I point to my mouth.

His expression shifts. Heat flares, and slowly, with an almost predatory grace, he makes his way up my neck with open-mouth kisses. When he reaches my jaw, he slides his fingers into my hair, tilting my head exactly how he wants it.

And then he shoves his tongue deep into my mouth.

I moan, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. His body is all lean strength, steady and solid, and he smells amazing. That familiar scent I’m addicted to — warm and woodsy and heartbreakingly male.

He pulls back, forehead resting against mine. Eyes close. I think he’s working on control. I know I am.

“Sport?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to kiss me here.” I move his hand between my legs.

His breath catches. I can feel it.

“Please,” I whisper.

His eyes open — dark, intense, dangerous. There is no going back now.

“Aria …” he moans, voice barely hanging on. He drops to his knees. I’m a mess. Exposed. Vulnerable. But not afraid. Not with him.

His hands caress my thighs, easing me open, his breath softly blowing over my blooming bud. And all I can do is clutch the counter on either side of me, head back, spine arching, because everything in me is unraveling. Sparks fly through my body as if my nerves have been rewired with desire as he licks slowly through my slit.

Oh, my gosh … his tongue.

A phone buzzes somewhere — unimportant. He licks and nibbles me, and my world narrows to that one pinpoint of pleasure, the only thing that matters.

I shatter. And scream. And pop.

By the time I come back to myself, he is grinning, wicked and smug, and kisses my inner thigh. “So worth it.”

He stands, and my hands slide over his chest, feeling the heat of his abs. His chest is pure sin. And I, still breathless, trace down his hips to find exactly what I am looking for. I hold the rock-hard, thick cock in my hand and stroke.

His gaze burns.

I lean back against the cold bathroom counter while he slides inside me in one slow, consuming thrust.

His mouth closes around my nipple, and I nearly crack. His hands skim across my breasts, coaxing pleasure from every brush of his tongue, every scrape of his jaw.

I whisper his name like a prayer.

My lips press against the underside of his jaw, then graze with teeth. At the sharp inhale from him, his arms clamp around me.

His mouth moves against mine again, hungry and coaxing, tongue stroking in a rhythm that makes my hips rise against him. He groans into my mouth, and I wrap my legs tighter, my body demanding more friction, more heat, more him.

He pulls out slowly. Drives back hard. Deep.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t rush.

Our bodies tangle. His hands grip my ass, holding me as he thrusts deeper, drawing a cry from my throat. My toes curl, my eyes flutter, and my nails rake down his back.

He groans against my ear. “Fuck, I know, baby.”

I clench around him, and he swears, pulling me closer, harder, deeper, until we both come apart in a messy, frantic climax that leaves us sagging against each other, breathless and spent.

After a long, silent moment, I lean back against the mirror, dazed. Sport brace against the counter, naked, sweat-slicked.

Sexy as hell.

He climbs back into the bath and adds more hot water. I slip into my own little comfortable position again, satisfied. Loved. Happy.

And somewhere out there, the world keeps spinning.

But in here, in this ridiculous, beautiful bubble of candlelight and rose petals and peach-scented forever, I am his.

And he is mine.

“Hey, brother,” he says, holding his phone to the side of the bath, and I close my eyes.

“Enrique,” Ilkay mumbles in a sleepy voice over the speaker.

“I’ve got some great news.” There’s a beat of silence.

“Do you know what fucking time it is?” Ilkay asks in a husky voice. I smile softly. Some things will never change.