Chapter 11
ELEVEN
I lean against the kitchen counter, staring at the faint reflection of myself in the darkened window. I had forgotten just how quiet the countryside is. No traffic, no sirens, no raucous revellers on their way to, or from, the pub.
Rory’s voice echoes from the living room, something about how bad movie dialogue is basically a crime against humanity. I half listen, nodding occasionally so he thinks I’m paying attention.
Because I can’t. Not really.
This agreement between us— It’s fine. It’s casual. No strings. No messy feelings. Just two consenting adults who happen to have amazing chemistry.
I’m overthinking again.
The truth is, I’ve made rules for myself. Boundaries. I’ve drawn them with the precision of one of my editorial notes: clean lines, no ambiguity. Rory doesn’t fit into my life in any way that goes beyond… this. He can’t. I don’t have the bandwidth for it, not when I still have so much to achieve, not when?—
“Still brooding, Yates?” His voice snaps me out of my spiral, and I glance up to find him leaning in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. His white linen shirt has creases on the creases, and there’s a lazy kind of confidence in the way he studies me, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Brooding is your department, Keane,” I reply, keeping my tone light. It’s easier that way—banter is safe. Banter doesn’t come with consequences.
“Uh-huh.” He takes a step closer, and my pulse trips over itself. “You keep telling yourself that.”
“Someone has to.” I grab my glass of water, pretending I need something to do with my hands.
“Funny,” he says, closing the distance between us completely now. He’s much taller than me, which is annoying because it gives him an unfair advantage. When he tilts his head, his eyes lock onto mine, and suddenly I feel like I want to just burrow into his chest.
“Rory,” I start, aiming for a warning, but it comes out weaker than I’d intended.
“Relax,” he whispers. “No overthinking tonight. Just… this.”
And then he kisses me.
It’s deliberate, like he’s been planning it for hours, maybe days. His lips are warm, soft, but there’s nothing tentative about the way they claim mine. His hand slides to the back of my neck, thumb brushing my jaw, and just like that, the world tilts.
I forget everything—the rules, the boundaries, the flimsy excuses I’ve clung to like a lifeline. All I can think about is him. The heat of his mouth, the subtle scrape of stubble against my skin, the way he tastes like camomile tea and something sweeter I can’t name.
My breath hitches as he deepens the kiss, his other hand finding my waist, pulling me closer like he can’t stand the idea of space between us. My water glass slips from my grip, landing somewhere on the counter with a dull thud, but I barely register the sound.
It’s consuming. He’s consuming. And for the first time, I wonder if maybe I’ve underestimated just how dangerous Rory Keane really is.
His kiss is a question I don’t remember agreeing to answer.
My hands press against his chest—maybe to push him away, maybe to steady myself—but the second I feel the heat of him beneath my fingers, any thoughts of resistance scatter like loose papers in the wind. His mouth moves with a purpose that steals my breath and replaces it with something far more dangerous: need.
“Wait,” I manage between kisses that leave me dizzy and untethered. “We shouldn’t…”
“Shouldn’t what?” Rory breathes against my lips, his voice low enough to make my knees weak. He doesn’t stop kissing me, not really. His lips graze the corner of my mouth, then my jaw, then just under my ear, where he seems to know exactly how to unravel me.
“Think,” I blurt out, though even as I say it, I can hear how unconvincing I sound. My brain is already mush, and the way his teeth scrape lightly against my earlobe isn’t helping one bit.
“Thinking’s overrated,” he says, his words hot against my skin, and there’s a damn smirk in his voice. Of course there is.
Instead of stepping back, I grip the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer like some traitorous part of me wants to anchor myself to him. The logical part of my mind—the one screaming about boundaries and bad ideas—is rapidly losing ground. It’s hard to argue with logic when your pulse is hammering and your body is enjoying every touch.
Abruptly, he stops and pulls away. “I know what we agreed on earlier. But I need to know. Is this what you want?”
“Rory,” I say, his name coming out soft and breathless. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Yeah?” His lips find mine again. This time, he kisses me slow and deep, a deliberate kind of torment that leaves no room for coherent thought.
I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly we’re stumbling backwards, or forwards, or sideways—I have no idea which direction because all I can focus on is him. His hands are on my waist, and mine are in his hair, and somehow we make it to the hallway and up the stairs without tripping over ourselves.
“Door,” Rory says, his voice rough, and I realise he’s waiting for me to lead the way.
“Right,” I mumble, fumbling behind me for the handle of the nearest bedroom door. My heart is pounding so loud, I’m surprised neither of us comments on it. Finally, the door gives way, and we tumble inside his bedroom, our mouths never breaking contact.
The urgency between us is electric, sparking in every touch and every sound. My back hits the wall, and I gasp, but he’s there, catching the sound with another kiss. His hands slide down to my hips, sending shivers racing across my skin even through the layers of fabric.
“Still thinking too much?” he teases, his voice thick with amusement and something darker that makes my stomach flip.
“Shut up,” I snap, but it comes out more desperate than annoyed, especially when I tug him closer by the waistband of his jeans.
His laugh is low and wicked, and before I can think of a clever retort, his lips are on mine again, silencing everything except the wildfire spreading between us.
The bed finds us—or maybe we find it; I’m past caring about specifics. All I know is that the space between us disappears completely, and the world narrows to the heat of him and the way his hands seem to know exactly where to go.
“Trouble,” I breathe against his mouth, though I’m not sure if I’m talking about him or me. Probably both.
“Good trouble,” he counters, and I hate how much sense that makes right now.
His hands find my hips, firm yet maddeningly gentle, like he’s coaxing something out of me I didn’t know was there. Rory shifts us effortlessly, his movements confident but unhurried, and I realise with a mix of frustration and fascination that he’s leading this—guiding me like we’re in some kind of intricate dance where only one of us knows the steps.
“Relax,” he whispers against my ear, his breath warm and annoyingly soothing.
“Who says I’m not relaxed?”
“Mm, you could’ve fooled me,” he teases, pulling back just enough to look at me. It’s unnerving and thrilling all at once. “But don’t worry, Yates. I’m very good at distractions.”
“Arrogant much?” I shoot back, trying to regain some semblance of control. But then his thumb brushes along my jawline, tipping my face toward him, and whatever pithy response I had dies on my tongue.
“Confident,” he corrects, “there’s a difference.”
Before I can argue—not that I have any coherent arguments left—he kisses me again, slow and deliberate this time, as if daring me to keep thinking instead of feeling. And damn it, I feel everything—his mouth, firm yet soft, the way his hands slide up my hips, eliciting sparks beneath my skin, the heat building between us.
“Better,” he whispers when we finally come up for air, his voice roughened by something primal and impossibly addictive. One of his hands tangles in my hair, tugging gently, while the other skims down my back, finding the curve of my waist and settling there like it belongs.
“Don’t get cocky,” I manage to say. My nails drag lightly down his chest, and I pretend not to notice the way his breath hitches, the way his pupils darken in response. At least I’m not the only one losing their shit here.
“Too late,” he quips, but there’s a softness beneath the bravado, an attentiveness that keeps catching me off guard. It’s in the way he watches my face after every touch, every kiss, as if he’s waiting for permission even while he takes charge. It’s disarming, intoxicating.
I’m about to say something—what exactly, I have no idea—when he lifts me onto the bed, his movements fluid and assured. The mattress dips beneath my weight, and before I can process the shift, he’s hovering over me, his eyes locking on mine with a focus that should be illegal.
“Still thinking too much?” he asks, echoing his earlier comment, but there’s no humour in his tone now, just a quiet challenge. His fingers trail down my arm in a way that has goosebumps springing to life.
“Shut up,” I breathe, pulling him down to me because words are officially useless now. The tension snaps, and suddenly there’s no space, no hesitation, just us—completely in sync, like we’ve done this a thousand times before and still can’t get enough.
Every touch feels both deliberate and instinctive, as if we’re discovering and remembering each other all at once. His hands find bare skin beneath my blouse, and the contrast of cool air and his warm palms sends a shiver rippling through me. He notices, of course he does, and the satisfied smirk that follows is enough to make me want to smack him—or kiss him harder. I choose the latter.
“Trouble,” I say again, my voice muffled against his shoulder.
“Good trouble,” he repeats, his words a low vibration against my collarbone. His lips leave a trail there, igniting nerve endings I didn’t know existed, and I have the distinct realisation that I’m utterly, completely outmatched.
But then he catches my gaze again, his smile softening into something almost reverent, and for a second—just a second—it feels less like a game and more like gravity, inevitable and undeniable.
His mouth moves like it knows me better than I know myself—intentional, consuming, devastating. Somewhere along the way, I lose track of where his hands are, of where mine are, frankly, because he’s everywhere at once. There’s a moment, fleeting but electric, when our movements falter, and then we laugh—low, breathless, the kind of laughter that only makes this more incendiary. His fingers trace patterns down my spine, pulling me closer.
“Testing limits, Keane?” I manage to say, though my voice shakes more than I’d like.
“Just making sure,” he breathes against my ear, “that you’re still okay with casual.”
The sentence is a dare disguised as a question. My laugh catches in my throat, turning into something closer to a gasp as his lips find a spot just below my jaw that makes coherent thought a Herculean task.
“Shut up,” I finally say, but there’s no malice behind it, only surrender.
We’re a tangle of limbs and breath and skin, each movement deliberate yet exploratory, like neither of us can quite believe we’re allowed to do this. And oh, he’s thorough—his hands, his lips, his body—a man who doesn’t just skim a page; he reads every word, twice, looking for subtext. By the time we collapse together, the room feels different, as if the air itself has shifted to accommodate what just happened between us.
I stare at the ceiling, the jagged edge of my breathing gradually smoothing out. My hair sticks to my forehead, my legs feel like jelly, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m already editing this moment into something less… monumental. Something that won’t make tomorrow impossible.
Okay, I think to myself, trying to wrangle my thoughts into submission. This is fine. Normal people do this all the time. Casual. Fun. No strings. No problems.
But the truth is, lying here with him—his arm pressed against mine, his rhythmically steady breathing both grounding and infuriating—I feel anything but casual. It’s not just my body that’s tired; it’s my resolve, my carefully constructed barrier between logic and feeling. Because this wasn’t supposed to be this… much.
I steal a glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He looks utterly unbothered, like someone who just successfully landed a plane they weren’t even aware was crashing. My chest tightens, not from regret or shame, but from stark, terrifying clarity: I’m in over my head. And worse? I might actually like it.
The bed shifts as Rory moves beside me, disrupting the carefully fragile equilibrium I’ve been pretending to maintain. I keep my eyes fixed on the ceiling, like it’s got all the answers written somewhere in the cracks of the plaster if I just squint hard enough.
“You're thinking,” he says, his voice low and maddeningly amused. “I can actually hear the cogs turning from here.”
“That’s impossible,” I reply deadpan, still staring upward. “Thinking isn’t audible.”
“Yours is,” he counters smoothly, and I feel the mattress dip again as he props himself up on one elbow. He’s closer now, and I can feel him looking at me, studying me with that unshakable confidence that makes me want to both kiss him again and throw something heavy at him.
“Go ahead, then,” I reply. “Say whatever smug thing you’re obviously dying to say.”
“Oh, no,” he says lightly. “I’m just basking in the moment. You know, taking notes… for research purposes.”
That gets my attention. My head snaps toward him so fast I think I might have pulled something. “Research?”
“Mm-hmm,” he hums, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Not bad, by the way. For research.”
“Are you kidding me?” I manage, though the words come out weak, half-breathless in a way that betrays how rattled I am. Which, of course, only makes his grin widen.
“Why would I joke about something so important?” he replies innocently, but there’s a glint in his eye that tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s trying to get a rise out of me, and worse, he’s succeeding.
“Unbelievable,” I say. The nerve. The audacity .
“Relax,” he says, his tone softening just enough to disarm me further. “I’m kidding. For what it’s worth… I wasn’t lying about it not being bad.”
“Not bad,” I echo flatly. A pillow connects with his face before I even realise I’ve swung it. It’s a good hit too—solid, direct—though the satisfying whump is short-lived when Rory just laughs, low and unbothered, like he’d been expecting it.
“Really?” His voice is honeyed with amusement as he adjusts the pillow now sitting in his lap, casually leaning back against the headboard like I haven’t just declared war. “That’s your response? Resorting to violence?”
My fingers curl around the edge of another pillow, and I contemplate launching a second strike. “If you think that was violent, you clearly don’t know me very well.”
He raises his arms in a truce, and I lay back down, snuggling into his chest. His right arm wraps around my shoulder, and it feels unbelievably good to be held. To be wanted.
This was supposed to be simple. Casual. A bit of fun to blow off steam, nothing more. But as I lie here in his bed, staring at the ceiling, I can feel the weight of the truth pressing down on me: I’m in trouble. Big, messy, heart-shaped trouble.
The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid. I can feel him there, inches away, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to move my head. Not to look at him again and risk falling deeper into whatever this is.
“Night, Lara,” he says finally.
“Night,” I reply, barely above a whisper.
I lie there long after his breathing evens out, staring at the faint outlines of shadows dancing across the walls. This isn’t supposed to feel like this. It isn’t supposed to feel… big .
But it does.
And that terrifies me.