Page 36 of Bad Men's Good Girl

I let out a dry, jagged laugh. "I’m just a very good actor, Baleigh."

I turn my back to the city, leaning my weight against the railing so I can see her face. The irony isn't lost on me. I spendmy life jumping across borders, collecting passport stamps like they’re badges of honor, but tonight, the miles feel like a weight.

"The truth is, days like this leave me feeling hollowed out," I say. I wait for the familiar urge to pivot to a joke, but the impulse doesn't come. "I’ve spent twelve years being the guy with the map and the emergency plan. I’m the constant for everyone else, which means I’m the variable in my own life. I’ve lived out of a suitcase so long that I don’t think I have a 'home' to go back to. Just storage units and empty apartments."

I glance down at my hands, resting on the cold stone.

"I use the humor because people stop asking questions if they’re laughing. It’s a great way to keep everyone at arm’s length while making them think I’m right there with them. But lately... the quiet is harder to ignore. It’s lonely being the only person in the room who isn't allowed to panic."

I expect her to offer a platitude, something about how exciting my life must be. Instead, Baleigh turns fully toward me. Her eyes are dark in the moonlight, searching mine with a terrifying intensity.

"I don't think you're just acting, Amos," she says quietly. "I’ve watched you. I see the man who stays up late checking the rosters long after everyone else is in bed. I see the way you notice when a student is homesick before they even realize it. You aren't just a guy with a joke; you're the person who catches everyone when they fall. You’re a protector."

She reaches out, her hand hovering just inches from my arm, hesitant.

"Everyone relies on you because you're the most reliable thing they’ve ever met. But I see the cost of that. I see that you’re tired, not just from the day, but from carrying it all by yourself."

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. It’s not a confession; it’s a mirror. She’s stripped away the charm and the travel-weary cynicism with a few sentences, leaving me standing there ona Roman rooftop, more exposed than I’ve been in a decade. I realize I’ve been waiting for years for someone to look past the smile, yet now that she has, I’m not sure how to breathe.

The space between us collapses like a bridge giving way. One moment, we’re standing there, raw and exposed, and the next, her hands rip at my shirt, pulling me in. The first brush of her lips against mine is teasing, testing—like she’s waiting for me to laugh it off, to retreat behind the joke. But I’m done retreating.

I cup her face, thumbs tracing the sharp line of her cheekbones, and kiss her properly. She tastes like exhaustion and the cheap espresso we choked down hours ago, and something sweeter underneath—hope, maybe, or just the lingering ghost of the wine we never got to finish. Her fingers slide into my hair, tugging just hard enough to make my breath hitch.

Rome hums below us, indifferent to the way my pulse is hammering. The wind carries the distant chime of church bells, the occasional shout from a street over, but all I hear is the hitch in her breath when my mouth finds the curve of her neck. She arches into me, her body warm and pliant against mine, and I swallow the soft noise she makes.

"You’re shaking," she murmurs against my jaw, her hands sliding under my shirt, tracing the tense lines of my back.

"Adrenaline crash," I lie, but she knows. She always knows.

Her laugh is quiet, breathless. "Liar." She presses closer, her lips brushing my ear. "It’s okay to need something too, Amos."

The words unravel something in me. My hands tighten on her hips, pulling her flush against me, and for the very first time in years, I let myself want without calculating the exit strategy. The city blurs into streaks of gold and shadow, but she’s solid, real—her heartbeat thundering against my chest, her fingers mapping my skin like she’s memorizing the terrain.

I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly we’re stumbling back toward the rooftop lounge, her back hitting the weathered couch with a softthump. She pulls me down with her, legs wrapping around my waist, and for once, I’m not thinking about tomorrow.

The moment her hands slide under my shirt, skin against skin after months of glancing touches and stolen glances, everything narrows to the heat of her mouth on mine and the pulse hammering in my throat. Her fingers dig into my shoulders like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she loosens her grip. I don’t plan to. Not tonight.

She kisses like she’s been starving for it—all teeth and breathless little gasps when my tongue drags along hers. My hands fumble with the buttons of her blouse, but she’s quicker, shrugging it off in one impatient motion. The fabric pools around her bare shoulders, and fuck, she’s not wearing anything underneath tonight. Just a thin cotton camisole with lace at the edges, the kind that makes my fingertips itch to trace every inch.

I don’t ask permission. Just bend my head to press my lips to the fluttering pulse at her throat and feel the hitch in her breath when my teeth graze the sensitive skin there. Her hands fist in my hair, pulling just hard enough to make me groan against her collarbone. “God, you’re impatient,” I murmur, dragging my mouth lower, nipping at the swell of her breast through the fabric.

Her laugh breaks into a gasp as my fingers skim up her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of a nipple. “You talk too much,” she counters, twisting her hands in my shirt and hauling me back up to her mouth.

The protest dies in my throat when her hips rock up against mine, heat and friction igniting under my skin. I swallow her moan, pushing her back against the cushions, one knee settling between her thighs. My fingers trail down herstomach, skimming the waistband of her shorts before slipping beneath. She’s already wet, already arching into my touch with a shuddering exhale that warms the side of my neck.

“Eager,” I tease, but my voice cracks halfway through the word when her hand slips into my waistband, fingers wrapping around my swollen cock with just enough pressure to make my vision blur. She squeezes, slow and deliberate, thumb swiping over the head, and—fuck, she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“You were saying?” she breathes against my mouth as she claims my lips again.

I bite back a curse and dissolve all as branching it into raw need.

For once, I can’t think. Don’t want to strategize or calculate or plan the next fucking step—I just want her, here, now, with my hands tangled in her hair and her breath hot against my skin.

The sofa groans under us as I lift her just enough to drag those shorts down her thighs. She kicks them off, half-laughing, half-panting as I behold her beautiful, flushed skin beneath me. I settle between her thighs, hands hooking under her knees to spread her wider.

"Fuck me, Amos." her voice is a breathless pant that goes straight to my crotch. I don't know how I'm going to keep it together.

I don’t let her finish. Just dip my tongue into her, slow and deep, savoring the way she tenses, the way her hips jerk when I swirl tight circles around her clit. Her thighs tremble around my shoulders, her fingers knotting in my hair as I drag my tongue flat against her, again and again, until her breathing fractures into ragged gulps of air.