That bloomed inside her, like a strange sort of calm. Part pride, part ache.
He pulled back. His voice dropped. “Tell me if I’m going too fast.”
“You’re not.”
He bent, lifted her easily. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her into the bedroom, not bothering with lights. The faint street glow filtered through the curtains, silvering the sharp line of his jaw, the dark heat in his eyes. He laid her down like he’d been waiting six weeks just to touch her again.
Then his hands were on her—hooking the waistband of her sleep shorts, dragging them down and off in one rough pull. Her shirt stayed on. So did his.
He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, palms pressing her thighs apart. “Open for me.”
She did.
He didn’t tease. Two fingers slid deep inside her. His thumb circled, and her body arched. No hesitation. No buildup. Just the fastest route to ruin.
Her hands flew to the sheets, to his hair. It had been too long. She broke like a code he’d cracked. Hard and fast, body locking, thighs trembling.
Then he stood. Unzipped.
No words. Just the sound of breath and need. He gripped her hips, pulled her to the edge of the bed, and slid into her in one long, hungry stroke.
She gasped into his neck, and he stilled for half a breath. Then he moved.
He was still fully dressed. She was half naked. It didn’t matter.
He thrust again. And again.
The second wave hit harder, tearing through whatever strength she had left. Her legs clamped around him, body arching up, and he followed her over, groaning low against her skin, hips grinding deep as he came.
Silence stretched out. Just breath and sweat and heat.
He collapsed beside her, cooling skin pressed to hers, one arm firm across her waist like a boundary.
Later, he kissed her shoulder. The line behind her ear. The inside of her wrist.
“I should shower,” he said.
“Not yet.”
She wasn’t ready to let him go. She wanted to cling to him, to this moment, when everything felt safe and known.
He stayed.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The apartment was bright and clean, with enough space to feel like a new beginning.
Not too big. Not too small. A balcony that let in more than enough natural light to feel like optimism itself.
It was on the sixth floor. High enough to glimpse the city, low enough to watch people moving on the street below.
Bea stood in the lounge, imagining for a second that she really was just choosing one Northgate apartment over another.
“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” Lillian murmured, hands clasped behind her back as she padded softly across the space.
“About half the size of Mayfield Hall,” Bea said, “which means it’s pretty decent.”
Her and Georgie’s top-floor apartment in Mayfield Hall was palatial by student standards. Comparing anything to that was unreasonable.
