Her apartment is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined all at once. Rich jewel tones and soft textures that scream sophisticated taste, but with little contradictions that make me fall harder: a ratty University of Minnesota sweatshirt draped over a dining chair, mismatched coffee mugs in the sink, romance novels with cracked spines stacked on her coffee table.
"Your place is perfect," I tell her, and I mean it. It's professional Sloane and secret Sloane existing in the same space, and I love every inch of it.
"It's home," she says, then pauses. "Do you want some coffee? Wine? I think I have—"
"Sloane."
She stops mid-sentence, looking at me with those green eyes that have been driving me crazy for months.
"I don't want coffee."
Her breath catches. "What do you want?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibility and promise. I take a step toward her, then another, watching the way her pupils dilate as I close the distance.
"You," I say simply. "Just you."
Her response is immediate and devastating. She rises on her toes, threading her fingers through my hair, and kisses me with a hunger that makes my knees weak. This kiss is different from the one at her door—deeper, more intentional. Less about the thrill of stolen moments and more about the luxury of time.
Her hands work at the buttons of my shirt with sure, efficient fingers, and I can feel the exact moment she stops holding back. The tension in her shoulders melts away, replaced by something liquid and wanting.
"Sloane," I murmur against her mouth, and she makes a soft sound that goes straight through me.
"I know," she whispers, her lips trailing along my jaw.
I catch her hands, still them against my chest. Force myself to meet her eyes even though every nerve ending is screaming at me to let her keep going.
"Do you? Because this isn't about the secrecy or theadrenaline or—"
She silences me with a kiss that tastes like certainty.
"It's about you," she whispers against my lips. "About us. About how you make me feel like the only woman in the world when you look at me like that."
My resolve crumbles completely. "You are," I tell her, cupping her face in my hands. "You are."
When she reaches for my shirt again, I don't stop her.
This is slow, deliberate. A conversation conducted in touches and sighs and whispered promises.
She leads me to her bedroom—all cream and sage green, with fairy lights strung around a window that overlooks the city—and I feel like I'm crossing a threshold into something sacred.
"You're sure?" I ask, because I need to hear it one more time.
"I've never been more sure of anything." Her fingers trace the line of my jaw, and I turn into the touch, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Are you?"
Instead of answering with words, I show her.
We undress each other slowly, reverently, with less urgency than last time. Each piece of clothing that falls away feels significant—her sweater, my shirt, the careful reveal of skin that's been hidden for so long behind professional boundaries and careful distance.
When we finally come together, it's not the shock of discovery but the relief of returning to something we've both been craving; a completeness that feels less like falling and more like coming home. We take our time, feeling each other's rhythms, discovering what makes the other gasp and sigh and whisper each other's names like prayers.
There's something profound in the way she looks at me—not just with desire, but with trust. With the kind ofopenness that comes from knowing you're safe with someone. From knowing you're seen, really seen, and accepted completely.
"You're beautiful," I tell her, brushing a strand of hair from her face, and watch the way the words make her cheeks flush pink.
Afterwards, I'm sprawled on my back, Sloane curled against my side with her head on my chest, and I've never felt more content in my life. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my skin while I play with her hair, both of us floating in that perfect haze where the world feels soft around the edges.
"That was..." she starts, then trails off with a satisfied sigh.
