"No, Emma. No, Chase. No baby monitors or toddlers or judgmental cats watching our every move."
"Just us."
She crosses to me and slides her arms around my neck, pressing close. "What should we do with all this privacy?"
"I have some ideas."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
I kiss her, backing her toward the bedroom while my hands find the hem of her shirt. We navigate around boxes, laughing when she trips over one, and I have to catch her before we both go down. The bedroom's barely set up. There's a bed frame assembled, a mattress on top, and sheets somewhere in a box we haven't found yet.
"Good enough," Maya says, pulling her shirt over her head.
I help her with the rest. Jeans, bra, underwear. Until she's bare except for the pendant, she climbs onto the mattress and looks back at me over her shoulder.
"You're a bit overdressed, Ice Capades."
I strip fast, nearly falling over trying to get my jeans off, and join her on the bed. It's different here. No thin walls, no risk of Emma walking in or Ethan asking innocent questions, no need to be quiet or quick or careful. We can do whatever we want, take as long as we want, and be as loud as we want.
The freedom of it hits me hard.
"Wait," I say, remembering something. "Stay there."
I dig through a nearby box until I find what I'm looking for. My Wolves jersey, number twenty-five, the one I wore as captain before I lost the C. The fabric's worn soft from years of wear, familiar in my hands.
"Put this on," I tell Maya.
She raises an eyebrow but takes it, pulling it over her head. The jersey's still huge on her, the hem hitting mid-thigh, shoulders drooping off her frame. My number is across her back, my name above it in bold letters.
"Fuck," I breathe, arousal spiking hard.
"You really do like me in your jersey, don't you?"
"Get on the bed. Now."
She laughs, climbing back onto the mattress with exaggerated slowness. The jersey rides up as she moves, showing glimpses of skin.
I crawl over her and cage her in with my arms, drinking in the sight. "You're wearing my number."
"I am."
"In our apartment."
"Our apartment," she agrees, hands sliding up my chest.
"This is ours. Just ours."
"Just ours."
I kiss her hard, hands sliding under the jersey. She arches into me, making needy sounds that go straight to my cock, because there's no reason to hold back now. No need to be quiet. No need to muffle anything.
I explore her body like it's the first time. Mapping every curve, every scar that tells a story, every place that makes her gasp or moan or dig her nails into my shoulders. She's slick and ready when I slide two fingers inside her, working her open while my thumb circles her clit.
"Jackson..." Her voice is loud, uninhibited.
"So fucking perfect," I tell her, adding a third finger and feeling her stretch around me. "So wet for me."
