The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 234

Chapter 234

Anna's POV

Pascal's house was exactly where he said it would be — tucked away in a remote area on the outskirts of Missford, surrounded by trees and silence. The kind of place where neighbors didn't exist, where questions weren't asked, where people could disappear without anyone noticing.

Perfect.

I pulled up to the front of the modest, nondescript house and turned off the engine.

For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the darkened windows, my hands still gripping the steering wheel.

This was it.

No going back now.

I glanced in the rearview mirror at Hayden, still fast asleep, her favorite stuffed rabbit clutched against her chest.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, stepped out of the car, and carefully opened the back door. Hayden barely moved as I lifted her into my arms, her head lolling against my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck.

I carried her up the short path to the front door and knocked.

Three times.

Sharp. Deliberate.

The door opened almost immediately.

Pascal stood there, backlit by the soft glow of the interior lights, his expression unreadable.

He was tall — taller than Ethan with sharp features and dark eyes that seemed to see straight through people. His presence was commanding in a way that made the air feel heavier, more dangerous.

"Anna," he said, his voice low and smooth.

"Merry Christmas," I said dryly.

Pascal's lips curved into a faint smile.

He stepped aside without a word, gesturing for me to come in.

I walked past him into the dimly lit living room, my eyes adjusting to the space. It was sparse—functional rather than comfortable. A couch. A coffee table. A single armchair near the window. No decorations. No warmth.

Just like Pascal.

"Give her to me," Pascal said quietly, stepping closer.

I hesitated for only a second before carefully transferring Hayden into his arms.

He held her with surprising gentleness, his expression softening just slightly as he looked down at her sleeping face.

"She's beautiful," he murmured.

"She's tired," I corrected. "It's been a long day."

Pascal nodded and carried Hayden toward a small room off the hallway. I followed, watching as he carefully placed her into a crib that had been set up in the corner—simple, clean, clearly prepared in advance.

He adjusted the blanket around her, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

Then he straightened and turned back to me.

"Merry Christmas, Anna," he said again, voice already thick with hunger.

Before I could answer, Pascal ate the distance in two brutal strides.

Then his mouth crashed onto mine.

Hard, filthy and possessive.

Teeth clashed, tongue speared inside without asking. He tasted like whiskey, smoke, and the promise of ruin. I jerked back on instinct, palms slamming against the solid wall of his chest.

Then he took my mouth again.

Slower now.

Filthier.

Deliberate strokes of tongue. Long, lewd licks. He bit my bottom lip hard enough to sting, then soothed it with a slow suck that made my knees buckle. One hand slid up to fist my hair, yanking my head back so he could drag open-mouthed kisses down my throat, teeth scraping, marking. The other hand shoved under my dress without preamble—rough fingers finding soaked lace and pushing it aside.

He groaned when he felt how drenched I was.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered against my pulse. "You’re fucking soaked, Anna. Been wet since you knocked on my door, hadn’t you?"

Two thick fingers plunged inside me without warning—deep, curling, stretching. My hips jerked involuntarily and a broken moan tore out of me before I could choke it back.

He laughed softly, darkly, right against my ear.

"That’s it. Let me hear how much you hate that you love this."

He pumped slowly, obscenely, letting me feel every slick inch of his fingers claiming what I’d tried to pretend wasn’t already his tonight. His thumb found my clit and circled with cruel precision—too light, then too hard, never enough to let me come, just enough to make me shake.

I was panting now.

Dripping down his wrist.

Pascal kissed me again—messy, bruising, swallowing every helpless little sound I couldn’t hold back.

"You can still pretend you don’t want it," he murmured, voice wrecked with want. "But your cunt’s telling me the truth, baby. And it’s begging louder than you ever will."

His fingers crooked harder.

I broke on a sob.

And he smiled against my mouth like a man who’d already won everything that mattered.