This was fire. Chaos. His hands on my body felt like desperation and devotion all at once, and mine returned it in kind, like we both knew this moment was borrowed time. Every press of his mouth told me something words hadn’t. That he was drowning. That I was the air.
He shifted, breaking the kiss only long enough to meet my eyes—his pupils blown wide, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he couldn’t catch his breath. “Daphne,” he whispered, voice low and wrecked, and something about the way he said my name made my knees weak. Like I was the only thing tethering him to the earth.
I didn’t say anything back. I just kissed him again. Because if this was going to ruin us—if this was going to make everything worse—then I at least wanted to remember what it felt like to be wanted like this.
Just once.
By someone who made me feel like I wasn’t a consolation prize, but the goddamn win.
We didn’t stop kissing as we fell onto the bed, like the distance between the door and the mattress was some kind of battlefield we had to cross without letting go. Kieren’s hands stayed on me—fierce and focused—like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between us. My fingers dragged across the hem of his shirt, pulling it upward as his mouth devoured mine.
He broke the kiss just long enough to yank his shirt over his head, eyes burning into mine as he did. I barely had time to breathe before his lips were back on me, hungrier now, like he needed this to survive. My hoodie was next—his hands slipping beneath it, hot and insistent, before he helped peel it away inch by inch, never rushing, never breaking the tension.
My tank top followed, and then his hands were at my waist, thumbs tracing bare skin like he was memorizing me. I reached for the waistband of his joggers, tugging them down without hesitation, my pulse thundering in my ears. There was something sacred about it—not just lust, but the unspoken honesty of two people letting themselves be seen.
The more clothes we shed, the more vulnerable it felt. He watched me like I was something fragile, even as his touch said otherwise—firm, reverent, claiming. I let him look. Let him see every inch. Because somehow, in all this chaos, I trusted him with the pieces I usually kept hidden.
By the time my sweats hit the floor and we collapsed onto the bed, we weren’t just undressed—we were exposed.
Raw.
And I didn’t feel self-conscious.
Not once.
Not under his gaze.
Not when his mouth found mine again like a promise he couldn’t break.
This wasn’t a good idea.
It wasn’t smart. Wasn’t professional. Definitely wasn’t the kind of thing you did with someone whose career was on the line—whose reputation was barely hanging on after a locker room fight and a viral video.
But as Kieren reached out, fingers ghosting across my cheek, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Because this—he—felt like the only thing I’d wanted since the day we met.
His touch was featherlight, like he wasn’t sure I’d let him. Like he was giving me a moment to stop this. To pull away.
But I didn’t.
I tilted my face into his palm, let my eyes flutter shut for just a second, just long enough to memorize the feel of his skin against mine.
His fingers trailed lower, grazing the hollow of my collarbone. I swore I felt it in my knees.
I shivered.
So did he.
And I don’t think it was from the cold.
I opened my eyes and found his locked on mine, pupils blown, chest rising like he was barely holding it together. The world outside the hotel room—the headlines, the group chat chaos, the mistakes and regrets—they all felt far away. Distant. Irrelevant.
There was only this moment. Only him.
Only the way his thumb brushed the curve of my hip like he couldn’t believe I was letting him. Like maybe he was afraid I’d vanish.
“Daphne,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
