Bonded by Love: Chasing My Ex

Anna POV

The night hung heavy over Frost Estate, a suffocating blanket of darkness that pressed against the windows of the second-floor master bedroom.

The thick drapes were drawn tight, blocking out the Long Island North Shore moonlight, leaving only the soft, amber glow of a bedside lamp to carve out the edges of the room. The air was charged, thick with something unspoken, a tension that clung to my skin as I stood near the bed, my silk nightgown brushing against my thighs.

Edward was close—too close—his presence a force I couldn’t ignore, even if I wanted to.

He stepped forward, his tall frame looming as his hands found my waist, firm but not brutal, pulling me against him. His touch was insistent, driven by a heat I could feel radiating off him, but it wasn’t cruel.

His fingers slid up my sides, tracing the curve of my body through the thin fabric, and I felt my breath hitch. His dark eyes locked on mine for a fleeting moment, a flicker of raw want burning there before his gaze dropped to my lips. “Don’t hold back, Anna,” he murmured, voice low and rough, a command wrapped in velvet. “I wanna hear you.”

His words sent a shiver down my spine, and before I could respond, he guided me back onto the wide walnut bed, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the warmth of his skin as he pressed against me. My nightgown slipped up as his hands roamed, exploring with a deliberate hunger, peeling the silk away until I was bare beneath him. His fingers brushed over my breasts, teasing my nipples into peaks, and I couldn’t stop the soft gasp that escaped me.

He smirked faintly, a rare crack in his usual ice, clearly pleased with the sound. His touch dipped lower, skimming my stomach, then lower still, until his fingers found the heat between my thighs, stroking my clit with a slow, torturous rhythm that made my hips arch instinctively.

“Edward…” I breathed, my voice shaky, barely audible, but he heard it. His eyes darkened, and he leaned down, his mouth hovering near my ear.

“Louder,” he urged, his tone a mix of demand and desire as his fingers pressed deeper, circling with intent. I bit my lip, trying to stifle the sounds building in my throat, but he wasn’t having it.

His other hand tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze as he worked me open, his touch igniting sparks that I couldn’t ignore. A moan slipped out, raw and unguarded, and his smirk widened. “That’s it,” he growled, satisfaction lacing his words.

My hands gripped the sheets, fingers curling as the tension coiled tighter inside me. He shifted, his weight settling over me, and I felt the hard length of him pressing against my inner thigh through his boxers. He shed them quickly, and then there was nothing between us, just skin on skin, the heat of his cock nudging against my entrance.

I tensed for a moment, overwhelmed, but he paused, his hand cupping my face with a surprising gentleness. “Relax,” he said, softer this time, almost a plea beneath the command. Then he pushed in, slow at first, stretching me, filling me, and I couldn’t hold back the sharp cry that tore from my lips as my body adjusted to him.

He moved with purpose, each thrust deliberate, deep, building a rhythm that had my breath coming in ragged gasps. His hands gripped my hips, not to hurt but to anchor, pulling me closer with every motion. I felt him everywhere—his weight, his heat, the way his cock dragged against my walls, hitting spots that made my vision blur. My nails dug into his shoulders, a desperate attempt to ground myself as the pressure built, and he groaned low in his throat, clearly spurred by the sound.

“Keep going,” he rasped, his voice ragged now, urging me on as his pace quickened. “Let me hear it, Anna.”

I couldn’t stop it—the moans, the whimpers, the way my voice broke as the tension snapped, an orgasm crashing over me like a wave, my body trembling beneath him. He didn’t let up, driving harder, chasing his own release, and I felt him tense, his breath hot against my neck as he buried himself deep one last time.

A guttural sound escaped him, primal and unrestrained, as he came, spilling inside me, his grip on my hips tightening for a moment before he stilled.

We stayed like that, tangled and breathless, his forehead resting against my shoulder as his chest heaved. The room was silent except for our uneven breathing, the air thick with the aftermath.

Then he spoke, his voice quieter now, almost tender, but the words cut deeper than any touch. “I hope this time… it takes. I need you to get pregnant, Anna.”

My heart stopped. The warmth from moments before drained away, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. That’s what this was. Not desire, not even just lust—at least not for me as a person. It was purpose. Duty. A means to an end.

I turned my head slightly, staring at the ceiling as silent tears slipped down my cheeks, hot and unspoken. Three months ago, I’d lost a baby—our baby. A miscarriage that wasn’t just some cruel twist of fate. It wasn’t an accident, no matter what anyone said.

The memory of that day, the pain, the whispered accusations, clawed at me now, a wound that hadn’t healed. And here he was, hoping for another, as if it could erase everything. As if I could.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. The tears kept falling, quiet, invisible in the dim light, as I lay there under the weight of his words, the weight of this marriage, and the weight of a past I couldn’t escape.