Chapter 19 #3
She should feel lighter, rinsed of it. Instead she felt like she might drown standing up. She hated that her first instinct was to want Gwen back in the room. Hated how much of her was still tethered, knotted, raw. Her chest clenched, messy and overwhelming. Wanting too much. Always too much.
She whispered, just to hear it over the water: “What the hell are we doing?”
And of course, no answer came.
The bathroom door opened again, and Gwen’s voice cut through the rush of water. “I brought your pajamas.”
Maggie cracked an eye. Sure enough, Gwen was standing there like it was the most natural thing in the world, holding up the soft cotton set Maggie always packed for trips — navy shorts, striped tank. The domesticity of it made her want to laugh and scream all at once.
“You planning to dress me, too?” Maggie shot back, stepping out and grabbing a towel a little too aggressively. Water dripped down her legs, pooling at her feet. “What’s next? Bedtime story? Glass of warm milk?”
Gwen didn’t flinch. Just held out the pajamas. “You can barely stand up.”
“I’m fine.” Maggie snatched them, tugging the tank over her damp skin, the fabric clinging. “You know what, Gwen? You don’t get to—” She broke off, pulling the shorts on, fumbling with the drawstring. “You don’t get to swoop in like this. Not after months of silence and complacency.”
“I wasn’t silent.” Gwen’s jaw tightened, her voice still maddeningly even. “I was giving you space.”
Maggie laughed, sharp and ugly. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it now? Space?” Her wet hair was seeping into the fabric of her shirt. “Funny, because from where I’m standing, it looked a hell of a lot like you were giving your attention to Lillian.”
The silence that followed was worse than shouting. Gwen’s eyes darkened, her mouth a thin line.
Maggie hated the way her chest heaved, hated how close Gwen was standing, hated that she could still smell her perfume under the steam. She wanted to shove her. Kiss her. Both.
“Say something,” Maggie snapped, voice breaking.
Gwen did — finally. Quiet, but cutting. “I never chose anyone over you. Not once. You’re the one who walked away.”
The words hit harder than the water had. Maggie swallowed, throat raw. Her fingers fumbled at the towel like it might shield her from the truth in Gwen’s voice.
“What was I supposed to do?” The words ripped out of Maggie before she could corral them. Her chest hurt, tight and messy, but she powered through. “You’re married to your job. You never prioritized me.”
The second it landed, Gwen’s expression shifted into something sharp, jaw tightening, like Maggie had hit the precise nerve she’d been aiming for.
“That’s not fair,” Gwen said, voice clipped. “I worked so hard for us. For our life.”
Maggie barked out a laugh, wet hair plastered to her cheeks.
“Our life? What life was that? The blueprints you spent nights with while I—” She cut herself off, biting down hard before she admitted too much, before she confessed how many nights she’d lain awake staring at the empty side of the bed, wondering if Gwen would even notice if she left.
“I did it for us,” Gwen said again, quieter this time, like repetition would make it true.
“No,” Maggie whispered, shaking her head, the fight leaking into something softer, smaller. “You did it for you. And maybe I was supposed to understand, to wait around forever, but I—” Her throat closed. “I couldn’t.”
The silence that stretched between them was unbearable.
Steam curled in the air, water still dripping from Maggie’s hair to the tile.
Gwen looked at her like she wanted to argue, like she had an entire courtroom of evidence stacked up in her favor — but underneath, Maggie swore she saw something else. Regret. Ache.
“You think I’m on this fucking trip for my own benefit?” Gwen’s voice cut sharp through the steam. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes blazing in a way Maggie hadn’t seen in months. “I’m here for you.”
Maggie blinked, thrown. “Why? Why now?”
“I’m here because I—” Gwen broke off, hands flexing at her sides like she didn’t trust herself with them. “Because you scare the hell out of me, Maggie. And I fucking love you.”
The words lodged in Maggie’s chest like shrapnel. She wanted to throw them back, twist them into something ugly. But her mouth was dry, her pulse wild.
And then — she wasn’t sure who moved first.
One second, there was a gulf of air between them, and the next, it was gone. Gwen’s mouth was on hers, desperate and sure, Maggie’s hands fisted in the fabric of Gwen’s shirt, pulling her closer like she could somehow climb inside the steadiness she both craved and resented.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. Months of silence, weeks of tension, years of history poured out in the press of lips, the scrape of teeth, the muffled sound Maggie made against Gwen’s mouth.
The towel slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, but Maggie didn’t care. Didn’t care about anything except that Gwen was kissing her like she’d been starving, like all that restraint had finally cracked open.
And Maggie kissed back, messy and hungry, because despite everything — despite the anger, the jealousy, the endless ache — god help her, she still wanted her.
The kiss turned feral in seconds. Gwen’s hands were on her face, then her neck, then sliding down, urgent, like she’d been holding back so long she couldn’t remember how to stop. Maggie gasped against her mouth, her back hitting the bathroom wall hard enough to make the mirror rattle.
“Jesus, Gwen,” she muttered, but her hands betrayed her, yanking at Gwen’s shirt, tugging her closer.
Anything between them was suddenly too much.
She wasn’t sure if it was her or Gwen who removed her pajama top.
Months of anger didn’t matter, not when Gwen’s body pressed flush against hers, not when her tongue slid against Maggie’s and she moaned like she’d forgotten how to breathe.
Maggie couldn’t stop touching — Gwen’s shoulders, her jaw, the smooth line of her back. All the restraint, the distance, the cold civility of the past months — gone. Torched.
Gwen kissed her like she was reclaiming something. Maggie kissed back like she was setting fire to it.
Then Gwen lifted her, easy, strong. Maggie let out a startled laugh that dissolved into a groan as Gwen carried her into the room, dropping her onto the untouched of the two queen beds.
“You still mad?” Gwen asked, hovering above her, voice low and ragged.
Maggie stifled a grin, still defiant but breathless. “Furious.”
And then Gwen was on her again, and the rest dissolved into heat, hands, mouths, years of longing crashing into the present.
They were all teeth and hands and years of frustration, every kiss edged with anger, every touch like proof they still knew each other’s bodies too well to pretend otherwise. Gwen’s mouth dragged down her throat, sucking hard enough to bruise, and Maggie arched into it, half moan, half challenge.
“You’re infuriating,” Gwen muttered against her skin.
“Good thing you like that,” Maggie shot back, gasping as Gwen’s hands gripped her hips, holding her down.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was frantic, clawing, Maggie’s sleep shorts and Gwen’s pants stripped and tossed aside like none of it mattered except skin against skin.
Gwen’s weight pressed her into the mattress, solid and grounding, but her touch was everywhere at once — urgent, greedy, like she couldn’t get enough.
Maggie clawed back, nails in Gwen’s shoulders, teeth at her jaw.
The taste of her, the heat of her. It was too much and not enough.
They rolled, Maggie straddling her, riding the line between fury and hunger.
Gwen’s hands gripped her thighs, guiding, demanding, as if neither of them could decide who was in charge.
They kissed until Maggie’s lips ached, until her chest heaved, until she was sure she’d break apart from the sheer force of it.
She shifted until she was riding Gwen’s thigh, taking her own pleasure from Gwen’s body, her hair dripping and Gwen’s fingers tracing the droplets down her breasts, her stomach.
It was all sensation — skin slick with sweat, the rasp of Gwen’s hair against her cheek as she bent, the salt of her collarbone under Maggie’s tongue.
The hotel sheets tangled around them, twisting as they fought for control, neither giving it up, both desperate to win and desperate to lose at the same time.
“You drive me insane,” Gwen muttered, and Maggie could feel the words hot against her ear, could feel the tremor of it all the way through her.
“Good,” Maggie gasped, rocking against her harder, reckless, drunk on the power of Gwen’s hands clutching like she’d never let go.
It wasn’t tender. It was raw and fast and too much, every movement building like a storm, their breaths colliding, bodies slamming together like they were trying to bruise the distance out of each other.
The intensity of Gwen’s eyes as she watched Maggie was enough to make Maggie squeeze her eyes shut. Gwen finally held her hips, pushed her over the edge of orgasm. When everything broke open, it was with a desperate, angry tenderness that undid her.
Maggie clung to Gwen, trembling, hating and loving her in the same breath.
Gwen kissed her like she was angry about it, teeth scraping Maggie’s lower lip hard enough to sting. Maggie bit back, a hiss against Gwen’s mouth, and the sound only seemed to make her hungrier.
But they didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Because months of restraint had snapped, and now they were just two people devouring each other, desperate to feel, desperate not to lose the thread.
Every time Maggie thought they’d die from exhaustion, Gwen pulled her back under, mouth at her neck, hands roaming like she was memorizing every inch all over again. And Maggie gave it back — messy, greedy, biting hard enough to make Gwen curse against her skin.
The room smelled like sweat and perfume, the sheets kicked half off the bed, tangled around their legs. Maggie was vaguely aware of her own gasps and broken sounds she would’ve been embarrassed by if Gwen hadn’t been answering them with her own.
They flipped again, Maggie pressed into the mattress, Gwen above her, steady and relentless as she spread Maggie’s knees, watching as her fingers slid inside, her thumb circling exactly where Maggie needed it.
Then Maggie clawed at her, dragged her down, rolled them over, the two of them locked in this constant struggle of want.
By the third orgasm — or fourth, she lost count — her body was trembling, slick with heat, throat raw from moaning Gwen’s name like it was the only word she still remembered.
And Gwen — god, Gwen — looked wrecked. Hair plastered to her temples, lips swollen, eyes dark and unguarded in a way Maggie had never seen.
They kept going until sleep finally overtook them, until Maggie’s limbs were heavy and her skin hummed, until she collapsed against Gwen’s chest, too wrung out to move. Gwen’s arms came around her automatically, pulling her in, holding her tight.
Maggie wanted to protest — wanted to remind her that she was still furious — but her eyes slid shut instead. The last thing she felt was Gwen’s hand smoothing over her damp hair, steady even now, before sleep pulled her under.