Chapter 6
Dahlia
The first thing I feel is heat. It’s everywhere, sinking into my skin, wrapping around me in a way that makes me want to burrow deeper into it.
There’s a weight against my back. Solid.
Unyielding. Xander’s chest is pressed to me, his legs tangled with mine, his arm slung over my waist as if I might try to leave in the middle of the night.
His hand is splayed wide, the rough heat of his palm branding me through the thin cotton sheet.
Even in sleep, he holds me like I belong to him.
The steady pull and release of his breathing ghosts against the back of my neck, warm enough to raise a shiver that has nothing to do with cold.
I can feel the faint stir of each exhale along my hairline, the way his chest expands and compresses against my spine, keeping me in a rhythm that almost feels like it belongs to both of us.
I should move. I should start my day. Instead, I lie there, caught in the weight and heat of him, and let myself soak in the feeling for just a little longer.
The slow, relentless way he pushed inside, the way he knew exactly how to make me come apart. The way he held me after, chest solid against my back, quieting my head like nothing else has in years.
The room lies in that deep gray that settles just before dawn.
I shift, careful not to break the way his arm is draped across my waist. In the dim light, his face has lost its hard edges, smoothed into something almost boyish.
Dark lashes rest against his cheeks. His lips part just enough for each warm exhale to fan across my skin, stirring the fine hairs there.
The sight hooks something deep inside me, the kind of tug I’m not ready to examine.
How many people have seen him like this? Felt his weight pressed along their back, known the heat of his skin in the quiet hours before the day begins, to watch him soften?
A twist of heat coils low in my stomach, sharp and uninvited. I have no right to feel it, but it lingers.
For a moment, I let myself imagine staying here until the sun rises, letting the weight of him keep the rest of the world away. It is almost easy to believe this is more than one night.
But the thought unravels fast, replaced by something colder.
Bradley.
My stomach plummets, and acid stings the back of my throat as last night comes back in brutal clarity. The way his face went pale when I caught him, the split second of guilt before the denial came.
I used to feel bad for wanting more of his time, telling myself I was selfish for missing him.
But it had been my gut warning me. Late nights.
Sudden changes in plans. His phone always out of reach.
I press my palm into my forehead, fighting against the growing headache.
The signs were there, and I still clung to him like an idiot.
And then his voice, tinny and furious, spilling out of my phone while Xander held me open and panting. The venom in his words, like I was the one who had destroyed us.
Xander had made him listen. Had pinned me down and given me something Bradley never had. In the moment, it had felt intoxicating, like justice I could feel in my bones. Like claiming a part of myself I didn’t know I had lost.
Now, in the dim quiet, the memory burns hot and sweet all at once.
I force the reminder through the haze of warmth still clinging to me. It was a one-night stand. Nothing more.
Men like him don’t do relationships. They take what they want, when they want it, and leave the rest behind.
Still, the ache low in my belly remembers how he made me feel. Safe. Wanted. Seen in a way I haven’t been in years. Every touch last night felt deliberate, like he was making promises with his hands, and every single one, he kept.
I pull in a slow breath, steadying myself. I won’t make this awkward for him. He gave me something I won’t ruin by pretending it could be more.
Xander shifts behind me, his arm tightening like his body knows I’m awake. The weight of him presses me deeper into the mattress, solid and warm. It feels too good, too easy, to take comfort in him.
I ease my hips away a fraction at a time, working free from the weight of his arm.
The mattress dips as I shift, and his hand slides into the space I left, searching.
My pulse jumps. I grab the nearest pillow and press it into his reach.
His fingers curl around it, and he pulls it in tight, his breathing never changing.
The faint scent of soap clings to my skin, the kind that wasn’t there when I fell asleep.
My chest tightens. He’d cleaned me while I slept.
The sweetness of it presses warm against something tender inside me, and his words of ruining me for everyone else start to ring true.
I push upright, holding my breath, then plant my feet on the carpet. Every sound feels too loud in the stillness. I snag my shirt from the floor, buttoning it, and bend for my skirt. The wool drags over my thighs and hips, catching on skin still tender from last night.
I glance once toward the bed. He hasn’t moved. The pillow is clutched to his chest like it belongs there. My chest tightens, but I shove the feeling down and scan the room for my panties. They are nowhere in sight.
At the desk, a pad of thick hotel stationery sits beside a heavy black pen. I hover over it and scrawl two words. Thank you.
I start to sign my name, but the pen stills halfway through the first letter. He never asked. Not once.
The sting hits sharp, right behind my breastbone, spreading in a slow burn that feels too big for something so small. My throat tightens. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that it wasn’t supposed to matter. One night. Nothing more.
I force the tip of the pen to move again, my handwriting sharper than it should be. Dahlia. The letters feel final, like I’m leaving more behind than a note.
I set it down and smooth my palm over the paper once before walking away.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator in an attempt to avoid the walk of shame through the lobby. My steps are quick, barely a whisper against the concrete. At the bottom, I push through the metal door into the alley.
A pained moan carries from my right.
A man lies curled on his side, three others standing over him with squared shoulders and faces lost to shadow. The world stalls for a heartbeat, just long enough for my mind to catch up, and ice-sharp fear spears through my chest. My instincts scream to get the hell out.
They haven’t looked my way yet. I shift back a step, weight light on my heels, careful not to draw a sound. Two more feet and I’ll be inside again.
The door clicks shut behind me, the echo ricocheting through the narrow space, locking with finality.