The words hung there, warm and heavy, settling somewhere deep in my chest.
I looked up again, finally meeting his gaze, and the rest of the world just… blurred out.
You should leave. You should run. You should not let yourself feel this.
But I didn’t move.
Instead, I just sat there, heart stuttering, trying to remember how to breathe while every part of me whispered the same dangerous truth?—
You want him too.
“Beckett…” His name left my lips before I realized I’d said it.
He moved closer, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his skin. My pulse stumbled, wild and unsteady. He searched my eyes like he was waiting for a sign, any sign, that I’d stop him.
“Be mine,” he said softly. “Just… belong to me tonight.”
The words weren’t a demand. They were a plea wrapped in reverence, in something that sounded a lot like hope.
I exhaled a shaky breath, fingers curling against the fabric of my dress. I wanted to speak, to find some sensible answer, but there was nothing sensible about the way my body leaned toward his. The air between us buzzed, heavy and electric.
And then he kissed me.
It wasn’t rushed—not at first. It was slow, deliberate, a question asked against my lips and answered in the way I rose to meet him. The world narrowed to the press of his mouth, the warmth of his hands sliding up my arms, the sound of our breathing tangled together.
Something inside me cracked open. Months of restraint, of pretending and patience, all dissolving in a single heartbeat. The kiss deepened, fuller, hungrier—still tender but edged with everything we’d been denying. His hands framed my face like he was afraid I’d disappear if he didn’t hold on. My fingers found the back of his neck, tracing the line of muscle there, feeling the tremor in his breath when I did.
Every sense sharpened. The faint taste of champagne, the hum of the city below, the rasp of his stubble against my skin—it all blurred together until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began.
He whispered my name again between kisses, reverent, like a prayer. I didn’t recognize my own voice when I answered. The sound was too soft, too full of wanting.
He kissed me again—deeper, slower this time—until the only thing left in me was yes.
The world outside faded: no cameras, no expectations, no lines we weren’t supposed to cross. Just his heartbeat against mine and the dizzy, terrifying truth of how much I wanted him.
When we finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, both of us were breathing hard. His thumb brushed my cheek, tender in a way that made my chest ache.
“This shouldn’t feel…” I whispered.
He smiled faintly, eyes still closed. “Maybe it’s supposed to.”
And just like that, everything else—fear, doubt, reason—fell away. There was only the warmth of his breath and the quiet promise of something that had already gone too deep to name.
His mouth found mine again, the kiss unhurried but certain. The world shrank to the soft rasp of breath and the rhythmic drum of my pulse echoing in my ribs. Every time I thought he’d stop, he deepened it—careful, steady, asking, promising.
He drew back just long enough for his thumb to trace the corner of my mouth. His eyes darkened.
I nodded. Words didn’t belong here; they’d only make the moment clumsy.
He gathered me with the same confidence he showed on the field, strong arms sliding around my waist. The motion felt effortless, almost reverent. The room tilted, shadows shifting as he carried me through the narrow doorway toward the darker end of the apartment. I could feel the slow rhythm of his heartbeat pressed against mine.
The small bedroom glowed in amber light from the window, the town stretching far below. He set me down as though I might shatter and stepped back half a pace, eyes studying me like he was memorizing a painting.
He reached for the undone tie still hanging loose around his collar. One sharp tug, and the dark silk slid free. Buttons followed, one after another, until his shirt hung open.
I’d seen him in training gear a hundred times, but this was different. No spotlight, no crowd—just quiet strength, the play of muscle catching faint light with every breath. His body looked carved by use rather than ego—lean planes, a narrow ridge of muscle tracing down his stomach. My hand itched to follow it before my mind managed to find any permission.
He bent low, closing the small space between us. When his lips caught mine this time it wasn’t a question; it was an answer. The contact seared through the chill that had lived in me for months, melting all the places loneliness had settled.
