Jazz music drifts from hidden speakers—something soft and complex that I never would have imagined Tank Sullivan listening to.
This isn't 'Tank' Sullivan's space. It's the space of a man with a quiet, hidden world, and I feel a sudden, sharp pull to map every corner of it.
15
Sloane
"It feels like the rest of the world has disappeared," I say, curled on his couch with an empty plate balanced on my knees.
Outside, snow falls in thick, muffling sheets, wrapping the world in silence. We're cocooned. Safe in our own private snow globe.
"Let it," he murmurs, voice low, close to my ear.
I turn—and the raw intensity in his gaze unravels the last of my restraint.
Before I can overthink it, before my brain can run the risk analysis, he reaches out and brushes a stray strand of auburn hair from my cheek.
It's a simple gesture. Tender. And it completely undoes me.
I don't pull back. Instead, I lean into his touch, my eyes fluttering shut. When I open them, his hazel gaze has gone dark.
He cups my face in both hands, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. "Sloane."
The way he says my name—like a prayer, like a question—shatters the last of my restraint.
Flashes of our past moments play across my mind: the arena wall. The closet. Frantic, hidden, adrenaline-fueled.
But this is different. This is soft lamplight spilling into a hallway. The quiet warmth of his hands. The deliberate, unhurried way he's looking at me, with no fear of a door swinging open or a voice shouting his name.
This isn't a secret being stolen. It's a choice being made.
I meet his gaze and nod.
This kiss is nothing like I've ever experienced. It's slow. Certain. The kind of kiss that saysfinally. His lips are warm and sure, and when I part mine, he's right there—claiming, exploring, deepening with a thoroughness that makes my toes curl. I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. He groans against my mouth—a low, broken sound that vibrates through my whole body.
He kisses my jaw, then trails a line down the column of my throat. I tilt my head back, gasping when he finds the spot below my ear that makes my vision swim. His hands, once cradling my face, begin to move. One slides down my back, pressing me tight to the solid planes of his chest. The other drifts lower, resting on my thigh, his thumb drawing slow, deliberate circles that make my skin burn.
Need claws up through me—sharp, undeniable. Every rational thought I've ever had about professional boundaries and career risks dissolves under the heat of his touch.
My hands find the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling in my desperation to feel his skin. The first button gives way, then another. He helps me, shrugging out of it and letting it fall to the floor. My palms press flat against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat racing beneath my touch.
His fingers trace the hem of my blouse, a question in his eyes. When I nod, he lifts it over my head with careful reverence, as though I might disappear if he moves tooquickly. The cool air hits my skin, but his gaze—warm and wondering—makes me feel anything but exposed.
"You're beautiful," he whispers, and the words aren't just about how I look. They're about this moment. About us, finally here, finally honest.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his breath ragged. "Sloane," he says, his voice a raw, broken thing against my lips. "I want..." He stops, searching my face. "Are you sure?"
The question holds everything. Not just about tonight, but about what this means. About what we're risking. About whether I'm ready to stop running from this thing between us.
"Yes," I whisper, and the word carries the weight of every wall I've ever built now crumbling down. "I'm sure."
He stands, lifting me with him, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me toward his bedroom. The hallway feels endless and too short all at once. My back hits his bedroom door as he fumbles for the handle, and we're kissing again—desperate now, all pretense of taking our time abandoned.
The door swings shut behind us.
His bedroom is all clean lines and muted colors, but I barely register any of it. There's only him, only us, only the way he sets me down gently and frames my face in his hands like I'm something precious.
"Last chance," he says softly. "We can stop. We can go back to the couch and finish that movie and pretend—"
