Chapter 24
Juliet
On the plane the next day, Connor fist-bumps Hunter like nothing ever happened. I watch it from across the aisle and something slides loose in my chest. Maybe that’s progress. Maybe Hunter’s actually learning that not every mistake requires a nuclear response.
The flight back feels endless. Three days away shouldn’t feel like a lifetime, but somehow it does.
I’m exhausted in that bone-deep way that comes from being on for seventy-two hours straight.
Smiling for cameras, managing reporters, making sure Hunter doesn’t accidentally start a riot with an ill-timed comment.
Hunter just shuts his eyes and goes to sleep for the entire flight. Mind-blogging, considering how on edge I’ve been this whole trip. Babysitting him, making sure he doesn’t murder someone.
By the time we get back to the apartment, I’m done. Completely and utterly done with being professional and polished and perfect. I’m not in charge of anyone but me and so fucking glad for it.
I disappear into my room and change into a camisole and shorts. A comfortable outfit that doesn’t require a bra or shapewear or any of the other crap I’ve been wearing for days. But I still put my lipstick on. Some habits die hard.
Red lipstick has been my uniform for so many years that I feel naked without it.
I park myself in front of the TV and flip to PBS, hunting for my Swedish detective show. It’s my guilty pleasure, this slow-burn crime drama where nothing happens quickly and everyone speaks in hushed, meaningful tones. The exact opposite of my real life.
Hunter emerges from his room a few minutes later, wearing a t-shirt and gray sweatpants that should be illegal.
Seriously. The fabric clings in ways that make it impossible not to notice.
.. everything. And Jesus Christ, Ivy wasn’t kidding when she whispered that she heard about Hunter’s massive dick.
I can basically see the outline through the soft cotton. It makes me break out in a sweat and I have to force myself to look at the TV screen instead.
“What are we watching?” he asks, dropping onto the couch next to me.
“We?” I ask. More to fuck with him than anything.
He kicks out his long legs with a smug little grin. I side-eye him. He is so much taller than me, it should be illegal. “Yeah, sweetheart. It’s my downtime, too. Not to mention my TV.”
I don’t push it. “Swedish crime drama. A woman gets murdered in the first episode, and Detective Saga spends the next six episodes drinking coffee and having philosophical conversations about justice.”
“Detective Saga? Sounds riveting.”
“Don’t mock it. It’s very atmospheric.”
He settles back into the cushions, close enough that I can smell his shower gel. “Does anything actually happen?”
“Lots of things happen. They’re just... subtle.”
“Right. Subtle.” But he doesn’t change the channel, just watches with what appears to be genuine interest.
We’re about twenty minutes into the episode when Detective Saga has a hookup with her informant in an abandoned warehouse.
He’s a very handsome dirtbag, and she falls for his lines, even though he’ll almost certainly turn out to be a bad guy.
Once they kiss, it becomes nothing but shadows and tension and barely contained desperation.
I feel the hair on my arms rise.
“Well,” Hunter says, his voice slightly rough. “That wasn’t subtle.”
“It’s character development,” I say. My voice comes out breathier than I intended.
He glances at me, something sharp and knowing in his expression. “Character development. Right.”
Neither of us says anything in the following silence, which is loaded with unspoken thoughts. I can feel the heat radiating off him. I can sense the way his attention has shifted from the TV to me.
“You’ve been... nicer lately,” I say, observing him. “Less Chainsaw, more actual human man.”
He snorts. “It’s because you threatened to beat me with a clipboard.”
“Or,” I say with a smirk, “because you’re trying. And I see it.”
He grunts, but I can tell he’s kind of proud of himself. There’s been something different about him in the last few days. Looser. More comfortable in his own skin.
This is dangerous territory.
See, this whole fake dating thing is still just a game that I excel at. But if I let Hunter touch me, let this go a little further, it might get harder.
I can keep the upper hand. I can compartmentalize it like I do everything else. It’ll just take some real sticking to my own boundaries.
I adjust the hem of my tank top, suddenly aware of how much skin I’m showing. The movement draws his attention. When I look up, he’s watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
“You’re staring at my tits again,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.
Hunter blinks, slow and unbothered. “Not really.”
I glare at him. “Want to try that again?”
“Look, tits are great. Yours seem spectacular.” He shrugs, completely unrepentant. “But I’ve always been an ass man.”
I open my mouth, then close it. That... was not the answer I expected. I was prepared for denial or deflection or even shameless admission, not this casual redirection.
Hunter tilts his head, watching me like I’m something he’s trying to solve. His voice is rougher when he says, “Lately, I think I’m becoming a lip guy. That lipstick you always wear haunts my fucking dreams, Monroe.”
The flush creeps up my neck before I can stop it. It’s the way he says it, like he’s been thinking about my mouth. Like he’s been wanting to do things to it.
He catches the blush, of course he does, and smiles like a man who just won something important.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter.
“And you’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” he says, leaning closer. “And it’s still a good look on you.”
The space between us feels vast and yet too narrow. I lick my lips and glance at him, trying to feel him out. Suddenly, it’s like we’re balanced on the edge of something that will change everything once we cross it.
“Hunter,” I start, but I don’t know how to finish the sentence.
He’s the one who moves first, closing the space between us without a word.
One second I’m staring at the hard line of his jaw, the next his mouth is on mine.
The kiss steals my breath. It isn’t cautious or questioning.
It’s fierce and certain, like he’s been holding back too long and finally snapped.
The taste hits me instantly. Toothpaste lingers in his mouth. A hint of salt clings to his skin, and I nip at him, curious. There’s something sharp tasting to our kiss, like adrenaline. It makes me shiver.
His lips are hot against mine, rough and demanding, moving with a hunger that makes me ache.
I make a sound, a whimper, and he devours it, licking the seam of my lips.
My body answers before my brain can catch up.
I lean in, parting for him, chasing every flick of his tongue like I’ll starve without it.
Heat rushes through me, climbing from my chest into my throat. I catch a faint trace of his cologne, cedar and spice mixed with the clean bite of a fresh shower. His stubble scrapes my chin and I tremble. Everything about it is raw and overwhelming, like I’ve stepped straight into a fire.
I’ve waited for this moment for far too long and now I’m gluttonous.
The more I give, the more he takes. His hand knots in my hair and pulls just enough to tilt my head back. The kiss deepens and I gasp against his mouth. This sound gets swallowed instantly too, and he growls like it sets him off.
My hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging through the fabric, desperate for something to hold.
Every sense is lit up at once. The solid weight of his chest pressed against mine. The heat of his breath on my cheek. He kisses me like he can’t decide if he wants to worship me or ruin me, and maybe it’s both.
I’m not just kissing him back. I’m unraveling.
“Fuck, Juliet,” he breathes against my neck. The sound of my name, raw on his lips like that, makes something deep in my chest crack open.
I think about Patrick suddenly, unbidden. Think about how he never made me feel like this. How he made me feel lucky to be wanted, but never truly desired. Sex with him was pleasant and predictable and completely forgettable. He never really saw me, not like this.
But Hunter is looking at me like I’m something he wants to ruin, like I’m the most fascinating thing he’s ever encountered. It’s in my head, I know, but it seems like he’s been waiting his whole life for permission to touch me this way.
The fear hits me hard and sudden.
It’s not just that Hunter’s good at this. It’s that I feel seen. Too seen.
It’s been a long time since someone wanted me for me and I’ve been aching for this kind of connection on such a soul-deep level.
I need to be needed. Not desired, but wanted for something other than my great tits. Hunter barely notices them. I can feel myself getting lost in the kiss, in him, and that terrifies me more than anything.
But then his hand slides between us, sweeping down my body, parting my thighs. His hot fingers press against the fabric of my shorts, seeking and quickly finding the little wet spot. He rubs hard circles just above it, pressing against my clit, and all rational thought flies out the window.
I gasp, arching my body, eager for more. I’m greedy, seeking friction, seeking more of whatever he’s offering. He barely touches me and I pant for him. It’s embarrassing, but I’m about five seconds from straddling him, ripping off my clothes, and demanding he finish what he started.
He kisses along my neck, nudging my thighs open a bit more. “Let me touch you, Monroe. Let me feel you.”
“Fuck it,” I gasp. Pushing his hands away, I straddle his lap. Hunter’s hands find my hips, encouraging me to roll them against him. It’s not work to spread my legs wide, bury my hands in his hair, and buck my pussy against his steely length.
Something impossibly hard and cool brushes against my clit. My eyes bug out as I look down between us. “What was that?”