“Okay?” I ask, because we learned the hard way what happens when we don’t.
“Okay,” he says, and the word is a promise shaped by breath. “Tell me if it stops being.”
The lamp hums. Rain taps time. I find his mouth with mine in a kiss that isn’t about forgetting; it’s about remembering the one place my nerves stop sparking like downed wires. His palm fits to the small of my back, steady pressure untying knots I’ve been carrying since the elevator. Every point of contact is a pair of parentheses where the world can’t get in.
I pull back enough to see him, thumbs brushing the rough line of his jaw. “Slow,” I say—more order than request.
“Always,” he answers, and means it. His patience wraps around us like a blanket warm from the dryer. He follows my pace, waits for my nods, asks with a look when he needs to, accepts it when I answer with my hands.
Between the rain and the lamplight and the quiet, the fear dissolves at the edges. Wanting steadies the parts of me that were shaking, turns panic into a rhythm I recognize. I breathe in his exhale and the room shrinks to the width of us—heat, fabric,and small reassurances passed back and forth like a secret: here, yes, still okay?
The clock on the dresser throws a red 12:08 onto the wall. Tomorrow is already creeping under the door. I ignore it on purpose and choose now. I choose him.
I shivered as his fingers trailed down my waist, his touch sending sparks of electricity through my skin. My resolve crumbled, and I straddled him, my thighs pressing against the hardness of his erection beneath the sheets. His eyes darkened, his gaze flicking to my lips before dropping to where our bodies met. “Tell me what you want,” he growled, his voice low and demanding.
I bit my lip, my cheeks flushing as I shook my head. I didn’t want to give him control, not yet. Not when I was the one who’d come to him, the one who’d crossed the line we’d both pretended didn’t exist. I leaned forward, my breasts brushing against his chest, and took his lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle. He groaned, his hands gripping my hips, guiding me as I rocked against him, my pussy aching with every movement.
“Fuck, Riley,” he muttered against my mouth, his breath hot and uneven. He flipped me onto my back with a strength that belied his usual restraint, his body hovering over mine as his lips trailed down my neck, his hands roaming over my skin. I moaned, my head tilting back as his fingers slipped between my thighs, finding me wet and ready. His thumb circled my clit, teasing, tormenting, until I was panting, my legs spreading wider in invitation.
“Need you,” I gasped, my fingers tugging at the waistband of his jeans. He smirked, his eyes glinting with a challenge as he shed his clothes, revealing the lean, muscular body I’d only glimpsed in the locker room. His cock was thick and throbbing, and I reached for it, my fingers wrapping around the shaft. He caught my wrist, his grip firm but not unkind.
“Beg for it,” he said, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down my spine.
I flushed, my pride warring with the desperate need pooling between my thighs. But pride had no place here, not tonight. “Please, Jason,” I whispered, my voice breathy and raw. “Fuck me.”
He didn’t hesitate. He pressed the head of his cock to my entrance, teasing me with slow, deliberate strokes before thrusting deep, filling me completely. I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders as he began to move, his hips snapping with a rhythm that was both relentless and intoxicating. The bed creaked beneath us, the rain outside a distant backdrop to the storm raging between our bodies.
“Cum with me,” he demanded, his voice hoarse, his pace quickening. His lips brushed my ear, his breath hot against my skin as he whispered filthy promises, his hands gripping my hips like he owned me. I shattered around him, my walls clenching, my scream muffled by his kiss as my orgasm ripped through me. He followed, his release hot and deep, his body trembling as he collapsed on top of me.
The room finds its shape again in the hush that follows. Rain softens to a whisper; the lamp throws a small, steady halo across the sheets. My skin cools where it’s not pressed to him, a pleasant shiver I tuck closer to chase away. Jason’s chest is a slow, solid metronome under my cheek. I count two cycles of his breathing and dare myself to believe we’re allowed this.
His hand finds mine where it rests on his ribs. He doesn’t grip; he traces. Knuckles first, then the small scar on my index from a scalpel that slipped three years ago. Tiny, unimportant history cataloged like he’s reading braille. “You okay?” he asks, quiet enough that the question feels like a blanket, not a trap.
“Yes,” I say, and that part is true. The rest bottlenecks behind it. My throat tightens around anything bigger.
He hears what I don’t say. Of course he does—when he’s not being loud for the cameras, he’s infuriatingly good at the quiet. “What are you not telling me?” His thumb skims the base of my thumb, patient. “You don’t have to. I’ll take whatever you give. But if it’s eating you, I want a bite.”
I make a sound that’s almost a laugh and not quite. I lift my head enough to see him, our foreheads nearly touching, his eyes shadowed and soft in the lamplight. I pull my mouth into a smile and try to set it down between us like a glass of water neither of us really wants. It doesn’t reach my eyes; it doesn’t even make it halfway.
“I’m fine,” I say, the oldest lie, and even I can hear the echo in it. “Just thinking about seven a.m., and scripts, and… coffee.”
“Coffee is solvable,” he says, like we’re making a list. “Julia will bring counsel. I’ll bring boring. We’ll bring paper with signatures.” His finger goes still where it rests on my knuckle. “What else?”
The question lands in the tender place where fear has been squatting all night. I feel it look up, blinking. I tuck my face back into his chest and let the cotton of his T-shirt muffle the mess. “I don’t want to disappear,” I say, small. “I don’t want to be a cautionary tale they tell rookies about how not to want things.”
“You won’t,” he answers into my hair. “I won’t let them make you a story they can tweet and forget.”
I swallow and the motion catches—there and gone, but he notices. He tips my chin with two fingers, searching me like he’s trying to read text in low light. “Riley.”
The name pries at the lid I’ve screwed on tight. I hold it anyway, because letting it spin free in this bed, in this warm pocket of calm, feels like the most dangerous thing I could do. “I’m okay,” I say again, gentler. “I promise.”
“Promises are heavy,” he murmurs. “Share the weight.”
I don’t. Not yet. I kiss the inside of his wrist instead, where his pulse beats steady against my mouth, and tuck our hands between our ribs as if I can press steadiness into both of us by osmosis. “Sleep,” I say. “We have to be useful in the morning.”
He breathes like he wants to say more, then lets it go. “Bossy,” he says, fond and quiet, and reaches to snap the lamp off. The room slides into a kinder dark, city light threading the edges of the curtains. His arm stays around me; our hands stay laced. I stare at the ceiling where the streetlight paints a soft rectangle and count backwards by sevens like I tell players to do when their thoughts are loud.
By the time I get to fifty-one, the shape I’m not saying is pressing hard against my ribs. I swallow it down and tell myself the truth can live one more hour in the dark.
