Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 147

The House Is Ours.

Sage

Peace is louder than I thought it would be. It fills the house in strange ways, between the walls, under the floorboards, in the spaces where footsteps used to echo and gunfire used to hum. It’s almost disorienting. My body still expects alarms in the night or the weight of a knife at my hip, but what I get instead is laughter. Diego’s laughter, mostly. He’s been home for just a few days, and somehow he’s already learned the layout of the house better than I have. He knows which step creaks, which cupboard hides the biscuits, and which door to open if he wants to find Matteo, who always sneaks him snacks when he thinks I’m not looking. He’s teaching me, too. I’m learning that four–year–olds are small hurricanes disguised as children. That they ask questions about everything, like why grass is green, why Matteo’s hair looks like that, and why Naomi calls Liam “muscle–head.” I don’t always know the answers, but Diego seems to like that. He laughs when I make them up. I’m also learning that kindness isn’t weakness. Connor told me once that I didn’t know how to rest. He was right. Rest used to feel like surrender. Now it feels like something I can build a life on. I see it in Diego’s small victories, like his wide grin when he finally ties his shoes by himself, his pride when he remembers to say thank you without prompting. It’s ridiculous how proud I am of him for things that

once would’ve seemed so small. But I suppose that’s what peace does, it turns survival into a series of miracles.

Tonight, the house smells like cinnamon and soap. Naomi’s been baking again. Diego helped, which means half the flour ended up on the floor, but I don’t think Connor minded. He just laughed, cleaned it up, and told me, “This is what normal looks like.”

I’m still not sure I believe him, but I’m trying.

When I go to check on Diego, he’s half–asleep with his dinosaur clutched against his chest. The nightlight paints him in gold and shadow, tiny breaths puffing against the blankets. I tuck them tighter around him, smoothing his hair back. His lashes flutter, and he mumbles something I can’t quite catch. I don’t need to. He’s safe and that’s all that matters. I stand there longer than I should, just watching him breathe. There’s a kind of reverence in that, like standing in front of something sacred. I never thought I’d have this. A quiet house. A kid who trusts me. A man who looks at me like I’m something worth keeping. I kiss my fingers and touch them to Diego’s forehead before I leave the room.

The hallway lights are low, soft pools of amber. Connor’s office door is half–open, the lamp still on inside. I can see him through the gap with papers stacked neatly, a drink beside his hand, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks tired in that way only men who carry too much can look.

I knock softly against the doorframe. “You’re still working.”

He glances up and smiles, that small, private smile that’s just for me. “Trying not to.”

I step inside. “How’s that going for you?”

He leans back in his chair, stretching until his spine pops. “I’d be doing better if a certain woman didn’t keep taking over my meetings.”

1 feign innocence. “Oh? Did she do well at least?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “She terrified a Don into leaving without a deal. I’d call that a win.”

“Good,” I say, crossing to him. “He deserved it.”

His eyes soften as they track me across the room. I can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing. When I reach the desk, he pushes his chair back slightly, just enough space for me to perch on the edge.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he murmurs.

“I am,” I lie. “Just… upright.”

He smiles again, that slow, melting kind that makes my stomach twist in ways I’ll never admit out loud. “You did good today.”

1/2

The House Is Ours.

“So did you,” I say.

“Diego is asleep,” I say softly.

Connor nods, but I see the flicker of something in his eyes, relief, maybe, or disbelief. “He’s adjusting fast.”

I hum in acknowledgment, my fingers tracing idle patterns on the desk beside his hand. The wood is cool under my touch, a stark contrast to the warmth

radiating from him.

“He’s a tough kid,” Connor says, his voice dropping lower, like he’s sharing a secret. His hand finds my knee, thumb brushing the hem of his oversized shirt,

in slow, deliberate circles. “Takes after his sister.”

I arch a brow, fighting the shiver that races up my spine. ‘Flattery? From you?”

“Truth.” His gaze darkens, pupils dilating as it drags from my face down to where my thighs press against the desk edge. He doesn’t move, but I feel the shift

in the air. “You’ve given him this. Us, this.”

My breath hitches and I lean forward, elbows on my knees, closing the space until our faces are inches apart. “We did it together. My hand slides over his

on my knee, guiding it higher, just a fraction, enough to feel the heat of his palm seep through the thin fabric. His fingers flex, gripping with restrained

hunger.

Connor’s free hand comes up, cupping the back of my neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. ‘Sage…” It’s a warning and a plea, rough–edged with want. I see it in the tic of his jaw, the way his chest rises faster. He’s been patient these past days with stolen kisses in doorways, his arm around my waist while Diego babbles, but tonight, with the house silent and our boy dreaming of dinosaurs, patience feels like a chain we both want to snap.

I tilt my head, lips brushing his ear. “Diego’s asleep. Deep. My voice is a whisper, laced with promise. “The house is ours.”

He growls low, the sound vibrating through me as he pulls me fully onto his lap. I straddle him in the chair, shirt hiking up, my core settling against the hard ridge of his arousal that’s straining his slacks. God, he’s ready–has been, I realise, all evening, watching me laugh with Naomi, chase Diego through the flour–dusted kitchen. His hands roam now, one splaying across my lower back, arching me into him, the other tunnelling into my hair to yank my mouth to his. The kiss is fire, it’s deep and devouring. I taste whiskey on him, sharp and addictive, as I grind down, eliciting a guttural groan that shoots straight to my core. His hips buck up, friction sparking white–hot need. Fingers dig into my hips, guiding the rhythm, while my nails rake his shoulders, bunching the soft shirt.

‘Connor, I gasp against his lips, breaking just enough to see the feral gleam in his eyes. “Now.”

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12:29 am DWWM.

Her Obsession.