Chapter 6 #2
Her lips parted slightly, not in surprise but in awareness. She got up and crossed the room to the window. No skyline here, just a view of taillights and tired brick buildings. A neon OPEN sign across the street still buzzed like it hadn’t been touched in twenty years.
“I’m not fragile,” she said quietly, one hand resting on the frame.
“I know.”
“You’re treating me like I might break.”
“I’m treating you like someone who just got discarded in public by her mother, interrogated by people paid to smile too tightly, and then chaperoned by two men with earpieces like she’s a goddamn state secret.”
A pause.
“I figured quiet wasn’t the worst thing I could offer.”
Her breath caught on something that wasn’t quite laughter. “You don’t sugarcoat, do you?”
“No.”
“You ever try?”
“I’m not good at it.”
She turned then, resting her back against the glass, arms crossed but not defensive, just folded. “I remember what you said in the car when I said you didn’t have to…”
He met her gaze.
I do. The words held different meaning here. There was no leather upholstery, no tinted windows, only her small apartment and the silence between the walls. She didn’t look away. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because I don’t like watching people get thrown away.”
The heat behind her cooled. Or maybe it was just the way his words sank in. She stared at him for a long beat, then walked back to the table.
They finished eating slowly after that, the silence softer.
It wasn’t a wall anymore, but something shared.
Claire leaned back against the stool, pushing her sleeves up, the borrowed jacket still warm around her shoulders.
She reached into the bag, pulled out the last sweet plantain, and held it out to him between her fingers.
He took it.
Their fingers touched.
He didn’t pull away. Neither did she.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t just quiet anymore.
He cleared the wrappers with quiet efficiency while she stood, stretching the stiffness from her legs. The rain outside had slowed to a whisper against the windows. The hush in the apartment felt heavier now—not oppressive but full.
He looked at her, not as a handler, not as a bodyguard or an assigned escort. He was… himself.
Claire opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come easily. She’d carried silence all night. Now it felt heavy.
“I need out of this dress,” she said softly, heading down the short hallway.
By the time they reached her bedroom door, the quiet between them had shifted. It wasn’t brittle anymore, but it wasn’t easy either. He stopped just behind her. She felt his presence, the steady hum of him, grounded and unflinching.
She turned to face him, his tuxedo jacket still around her shoulders. “You can go,” she said, but it came out too soft, without the edge she’d meant to put on it.
His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Not until I know you’re okay.”
She wanted to lie. Wanted to say she was fine. Wanted to wear the armor she always wore.
But the words wouldn’t come. Not with him standing there, steady and unhurried, like he had all night to wait her out.
And that was when she felt it. The crack in her own composure widened. The fatigue in her bones ached. The sting in her chest had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with a mother who could walk away without a backward glance.
Her voice barely cleared her throat. “I’m not okay.”
She opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of yoga pants and a tee shirt. His jacket stayed wrapped around her like armor she hadn’t realized she needed until it was there.
Reid stayed near the entryway, watching her. Not invasive, just steady, like he was giving her the choice to close him out or let him in.
She turned toward the window, unable to meet his eyes yet. “Do you know what she said to me?” Her voice was low, almost conversational. “That I shouldn’t be who I am. That I don’t belong in rooms like that. That I’m… dangerous.”
Her breath caught, the word piercing like a hook in her chest.
“And she said it like it was fact. Like she wasn’t just talking about tonight, like she was talking about me, my whole life.”
Reid didn’t move right away. She could hear him breathe, then the faint rustle of his pants as he took a step toward her.
“And it hurts,” she said. “It shouldn’t anymore, but it does. I’ve done everything to make myself… more. And I’m still not enough for her.”
When she turned, her vision blurred. Hot tears smeared the dim bedroom light into gold halos.
He was there, close enough to reach her. His hand lifted without hesitation. His thumb brushed the first tear from her cheek. Slowly. Carefully. Like he was afraid she might break if he moved too fast.
“Claire.” Something in his voice reached through her defenses. “You’re not.”
In that moment, she believed him. She leaned into his touch, the warmth of his palm against her cheek anchoring her in ways she didn’t understand. Her hand came up to cover his, holding it there.
He stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the slow, solid rise of his chest. She tilted her face up to him. And then he kissed her gently, measured in a way that gave her room to back away.
She didn’t. She pressed into it, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, slow but unyielding, like something inevitable taking shape. His arms came around her waist, drawing her in with a steadiness that didn’t ask, just held.
When they parted, breath brushing between them, he whispered, “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I’m sure.”
He didn’t rush. He let her lead.
Her fingers curled around his as she backed farther into the bedroom, pulling him in after her. The lights stayed low, soft and golden across the bed.
They didn’t speak again as he helped her slip the jacket from her shoulders, the dress pooling to her feet moments later. She didn’t look away. She didn’t have to. Not tonight.
Claire wasn’t thinking about the gala anymore. Or the eyes in the ballroom. Or her mother’s voice, sharp as glass.
She wanted him, but she hesitated—she needed him to know. “Reid, I’ve never… not completely.” The words were tiny.
Something in his expression shifted, no judgment, no surprise, just a deepening of that steady focus he’d kept on her all night.
Her eyes didn’t break from his. “I know what this is. I know what I’m asking.”
His throat worked. “Claire, that’s a big decision.”
“I’ve already made it,” she said. “I didn’t know if I’d ever trust someone enough to say it out loud.” The room was quiet except for the soft tick of a wall clock.
He studied her. He saw her certainty, her fear, and her hope. “I don’t want you to regret this.”
“I won’t,” she whispered. “Not with you.”
“Okay,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing her cheek. “Then we go slowly. You set the pace.”
Her breath shuddered, but the knot in her chest eased. “Okay.”
At the edge of the bed, he let the straps of her bra slip down her arms, placing soft kisses to her shoulders. His gaze swept over her, warm and unhurried, before he stepped closer. One hand cupped her cheek. “I don’t have a condom. But I will still make you feel good.”
The words landed between them, blunt but not cold, just fact.
“I’m on the pill,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “For medical reasons. My doctor… she’s had me on it for years.”
He searched her eyes, as if making sure she understood. “I was tested one week ago, routine for the job. Bloodwork’s clear.”
She nodded once. “I believe you.”
His mouth curved faintly, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction. “Then we take our time.”
When he kissed her again, it was slow and deep.
His hands traced her in long, steady lines, memorizing without rushing.
Every movement seemed meant to reassure her she was safe here, safe with him.
As she felt herself relax under his touch, the earlier ache, the sharp, old wound her mother had left faded into something warmer, fuller.
“You’re beautiful.” His words came out with such softness and honesty, something in her broke.
Her breath caught, but not from nerves, not from shyness. That wasn’t her. But from the way he said it. Like the words had been waiting, unspoken, at the back of his throat for a long time.
His mouth found her collarbone, then lower. His lips were warm against one breast, his thumb brushing gently over the other. Her nipple tightened under the touch, and her spine arched subtly as a shiver threaded through her.
He stood and sank to his knees. Her fingers hovered at her sides, unsure. She wasn’t used to attention, much less this kind of reverence. His hands slid up her legs slowly. When his mouth kissed just below her navel, her breath hitched.
He navigated her body, lower. She gasped, startled by how good it felt, how warm his breath was against skin no one else had ever touched before.
He looked up. “Tell me if I should stop.”
She shook her head, breath thin. “No. Don’t…”
When he slid her panties down, she stepped out of them without thinking. The air on her thighs made her shiver again. Her heart beat loud and steady in her ears.
His hands traced her legs, then higher, until he reached her center.
She tensed instinctively, but then his thumb brushed her clit, and her knees buckled.
A noise escaped her throat before she could stop it.
It was something soft, shocked, and almost broken.
One hand landed on his shoulder, not to stop him but to keep from falling.
“Okay?” he asked, voice rough.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Please.”
When his fingers slipped inside her, she gasped. Her breath fractured. Her body clung to the sensation. It was new, too much and not enough all at once.
“No one’s ever…” she tried to say, but the words got lost somewhere between her chest and her throat.
He didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk. He just kissed the inside of her thigh and kept going. The rhythm of his fingers was slow and careful. But it undid her.