15. Skye
Skye
I wake up alone.
The first thing I notice is the silence. The kind of silence that feels deliberate. Heavy. Like the room is holding its breath, waiting to see what I’ll do next. The sheets are tangled around my hips, still warm from my body. But not his.
Not anymore.
I stretch slowly, every inch of me sore. Not gym-sore. Not slept-weird-on-my-neck sore. But deep, bruised, used-in-the-best-way sore. There’s an ache low in my belly that tightens when I shift my hips.
Ow. God.
I wince. Last night wasn’t sex like I’ve ever experienced sex before and Shane wasn’t just a two-hump chump. For everything else he lacked, he certainly knew his way around the bedroom and Reece just made him look like an amateur.
Maybe I should feel stupid or be embarrassed.
Probably ashamed. But all I feel is heat curling low in my belly as I let my head fall back onto the pillow.
His voice is still in my ear. His hands on my hips.
The way he kissed my neck before he pushed into me again, whispering every filthy thought he’s had about me.
I turn my head slowly, looking at the empty space beside me.
The pillow’s still dented where his head was. There’s a faint lingering of his scent on the sheets. He didn’t leave a note. No shirt draped over a chair. No toothbrush in the bathroom sink. Just the memory of him. The mark of him.
I sit up, dragging the sheet with me. My breasts tighten in the cool air, nipples pebbling, the edge of the sheet grazing the darkening bruise where his mouth was.
I brush my fingers over it. He did that.
And I liked it. No— loved it. The way he let go.
The way he stopped being so uptight and finally just let loose.
Raw and unfiltered. I’m not sure I’ll ever get the image out of my head.
I stand, slow and tentative, testing the ache between my thighs. It answers with a throb that steals my breath. I laugh softly. I’d be mad about it if it didn’t feel so fucking good.
There’s a robe on the bathroom door. I shrug it on, cinch it at my waist, and pad barefoot into the suite’s main room.
He’s not here, but I glance around anyway. And I see it. Not him. But the ghost of him.
The glass on the bar with a finger of water still left. The cuff links missing from the dresser tray. And the memory of him, hours ago, standing shirtless in the dark by the window, his back to me, looking out at the city like it might swallow him whole if he let it.
I didn’t call out to him. Didn’t ask what he was thinking. I just watched him and wondered what was keeping him awake. Now, in the light of morning, I pretend that moment didn’t feel like an answer to a question I’m too afraid to ask. I turn away before the thought completely swallows me.
In the bathroom, I shed the robe, step into the shower, and let the hot water sting over every sore muscle. There’s a different kind of ache rising now. Not physical. Emotional. Because I know what this is.
I’ve done the whole “pretend it was just sex” thing before. I’ve worn the brave face, walked out of a guy’s apartment I’ve been seeing thinking it was turning into something more with mascara still on point and a smile I didn’t mean.
I can do it again. But this time… This time something’s different. Not just because of who he is. Not even because of how it felt. But because of how he felt. The things he didn’t say. The things he did.
I tilt my head back under the stream, rinse away the last of the soap, and drag my fingers over my thighs where his hands had gripped. I close my eyes and pretend I’m not imagining his voice again. The way it dropped when he moaned you feel so fucking good like this. The way he looked at me.
I want to hold on to that look a little longer.
But when I step out of the shower and face the mirror, the steam-blurred reflection doesn’t lie.
I dry off, twist a towel around my hair, and reach for my moisturizer with a steadier hand than I expect.
I don’t let myself overthink. Don’t let myself spiral. That’s not who I am anymore.
I slept with him. It was incredible. Now it’s over. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I pull open my suitcase and start sorting through what I packed for the flight home. I opt for clean underwear and a black fitted dress, then reach for my heels, the same ones I wore on the flight out.
They’re still by the door. I slip one on. And breathe. Time to walk out of this room like nothing happened.
Like I didn’t let a man I shouldn’t even want hold me down and fuck me until I screamed his name. Like I’m not already replaying it in my head and wishing I could do it all over again.
There’s a knock at the door just as I’m slipping the second heel on. I freeze, heart punching hard against my ribs. For a beat, I debate not answering. Not because I don’t want to see him. But because I do. Too much. And I’m scared it’ll show.
I walk over and crack open the door.
Reece stands there in his usual attire, slacks and a button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. No tie. Hair still damp from a shower, freshly shaved. Like last night didn’t destroy him the way it’s still quietly wrecking me.
“I had breakfast sent up to my suite,” he says, voice low. “Come over.”
It’s not a question. I open the door wider, ignoring the flip in my belly. “Bossy this morning.”
He steps aside to let me pass, his hand brushing lightly against my back as I walk past. Just a graze. Barely even there. But I feel it all the way down to the backs of my knees.
His suite is identical to mine, but the lights are dimmed and the smell of coffee fills the space. A tray sits on the table by the windows. There are two plates, a silver carafe, berries, croissants. My stomach growls at the sight, reminding me that I worked up quite an appetite last night.
He pulls out a chair and waits for me to sit.
I slide into the seat, smoothing the hem of my dress.
Reece pours some coffee and hands me a cup like we’ve done this before, like he didn’t kiss me so deeply I forgot where we were.
Or make me come so hard I thought for sure my toes would be permanently curled.
I take a sip, letting the bitter heat anchor me.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d still be in your room,” he says.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugs, sitting across from me. “Wasn’t sure how you’d feel this morning.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. “Like I need three Advil and an ice pack for the flight home.”
His mouth quirks, but it’s not a full smile. He tears off a piece of croissant and doesn’t look at me when he says, “I meant emotionally.”
“Oh.” I pause. “Um, fine,” I blurt out, taken aback by his question. I have no idea how I feel emotionally. I didn’t even consider that I should allow myself to even have emotions about last night.
He clears his throat, changing the subject. “Flight’s at eleven. I had the front desk send someone for your bags.”
Of course he did. Efficient and thoughtful. Already slipping back into the role of boss, protector, man in control.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. “That’s… thoughtful.”
His eyes lift to mine then, and for a split second, the control cracks. Just enough for me to see it. The tension in his jaw. The hesitation in his fingers as he sets down his fork. The way his gaze lingers a second too long on the curve of my neck before darting away.
And it hits me… It’s not indifference. It’s restraint. And suddenly I’m warm all over.
I try to break the tension with something light. “You always make post-coital breakfast plans for your employees?”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I don’t have a rulebook for this, Skye.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He leans back, watching me. “You regret it?”
“Do you?” That silences him.
I stand and walk toward the mirror by the minibar, pulling my lipstick from my bag. I swipe it on, my eyes meeting his in the reflection.
“Afraid to get close, Mr. Blackwood?” I tease.
He doesn’t move. But his stare darkens. “If I touch you again, I’m not letting you leave this suite for at least twenty-four hours and we have a plane waiting.”
I cap the lipstick slowly. “That’s a lot of threat for a man who seems to want to pretend like last night never happened.”
His jaw tightens. “Don’t mistake distance for disinterest.”
“Then what is it?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he stands, walks over, and picks up my coat from the chair. He holds it out for me to slip into.
We’re close now. Too close. I feel the heat of him at my back as he slides the coat up my arms, as his fingers ghost over my shoulders, pausing, like they want to pull me back into him, like he wants to whisper something dirty against my neck and bend me over the breakfast table.
But instead, he steps back. “Let’s get to the airport.”
And just like that, he becomes Reece Blackwood again. Untouchable.
The door closes behind us with a soft click.
Once on the plane, I settle into my same seat, legs crossed tightly, while Reece mutters something into his phone, already back in the same position as the flight here. His AirPods in, posture straight, voice clipped and low.
He hasn’t looked at me since we got in the car. Hasn’t touched me since he helped me into my coat. And yet I can still feel him. Everywhere.
I trace a finger along the edge of the armrest, pretending I’m not watching him from under my lashes. Pretending I’m not waiting, hoping, for some sign that he’s still with me in this. That last night wasn’t just a lapse in judgment or a physical indulgence he already regrets.
I try to remember that pep talk I gave myself before he knocked on my door, but the second I saw him, all thoughts of pretending nothing happened between us went out the window.
His fingers drum once against his thigh, like something he’s hearing on the call irritates him. He doesn’t show it on his face. Of course he doesn’t. He’s back in control now. And I’m back to being the girl who makes everything a joke to keep from screaming.
My phone’s still in my lap, screen dark. I unlock it and scroll for a beat, not really looking at anything. Then I glance at him again.
His tie is still absent. His shirt is open one button further than usual. God, he looks good like this. A little unbuttoned. A little human.
I angle the camera down, let the neckline of my dress slip just a little farther, and snap a photo. The angle gives a close-up shot of soft cleavage, flushed skin, and the chain around my neck dipping right between my breasts.
Then I send it to him. The buzz of his phone makes him glance down. And freeze. There’s the briefest pause in his voice, not enough for anyone else to notice but I do. I see it.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t play into the game. Just ends the call with a vague, “We’ll circle back next week.”
Then, calmly, he sets his phone face down on the seat beside him, grabs his laptop, and stands.
“You going somewhere?” I ask, voice lilting, teasing.
“To work,” he says. “Unless you’d like me to fuck you in this seat with the pilot and flight crew ten feet away,” he says, clearly annoyed as he gestures toward one of the flight attendants who most certainly heard him.
My pulse spikes but his tone isn’t inviting or playful and he’s already walking away, disappearing into the small bedroom tucked at the rear of the plane. I stare after him, heat rushing up my neck, skin prickling with irritation and desire. I should be mad. I should be humiliated.
But instead, my thighs are pressed tight together and I can’t stop smirking. I can’t help but love the fact that I am clearly under his skin. I sit back in my seat, sip the still-hot coffee from earlier, and exhale slowly through my nose.
Okay, this might not actually be that bad of a game after all.