29. Skye
Skye
I wake up sore.
Gloriously, exquisitely sore. My voice is half-gone. My entire body feels like it got caught in a hurricane of lust and filthy words and I never want the storm to end.
I stretch, then the smell of coffee hits me. Not just any coffee. My coffee.
The exact cinnamon blend I keep at my place, the one Reece always pretended not to notice I loved until now. I sit up slowly, every muscle deliciously sore. Between my thighs, I’m aching in that perfect way, the kind of sore that makes you smile even when you wince.
The sun is pouring through his windows, painting the sheets gold. The ones we ruined last night.
God… Last night.
My face flushes just thinking about the things he said, what he did to me. How he held me afterward like I was more than just his. Like I was… it for him. The sound of his low voice carries from the kitchen, and a second later, he walks back in with two mugs.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, already shirtless, already ruining my life.
I take the mug he offers and try not to swoon. “You made my blend?”
“I had Michael pick it up this morning,” he says. “I don’t stock subpar coffee.”
I raise a brow. “That’s your way of saying you missed me, huh?”
He smirks. “You have no idea.”
He leans down and kisses my forehead, then my nose, then my mouth. It starts sweet—then turns molten. Tongue, teeth, hunger. I tug his waistband, and he groans into my mouth.
“Again?” he asks.
“Mmm,” I moan against his tongue that swirls inside my mouth. “Never enough.”
He gently pushes me back onto the bed and climbs over me, fingers already dragging up my thigh. “Let’s test that theory.”
I’m still catching my breath when he shifts beside me, his arm curling under my neck to pull me tighter into his side. His chest is warm and damp, his hand sliding absently up and down my spine like he has no intention of letting me go. Ever.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“Define okay.”
He chuckles, low and rich. “Broken in half? Satiated? Thinking about what round we’re on?”
“Somewhere between ruined and blissfully boneless.”
He props himself up on one elbow and looks down at me. His eyes are soft now, without the fire from last night, but the hunger still lingers, like it never really leaves him when I’m around.
“I love seeing you like this,” he says. “Hair messy. Skin flushed. That little smirk you try to hide when you know you got me by the balls.”
I roll onto my side, facing him. “And here I thought you were the one doing all the damage.”
“I think we both know it goes both ways, sweetheart.”
His hand glides up my thigh, slow and possessive, until his thumb brushes just beneath the curve of my ass.
“Reece.” I sigh audibly. “You’re insatiable.”
“I’ve been starving for you for weeks,” he says. “Forgive me if I want a second or third helping.”
I reach for his face and trace my thumb along the stubble on his jaw. “You make me feel like I’m more than just wanted.”
He stills.
“You are.” His voice is low, steady. “You’re not just something I crave. You’re someone I respect. Admire. And yeah—someone I can’t get enough of, even when you drive me fucking insane.”
My throat tightens. I don’t say anything. I just move closer, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that’s soft, reverent. He deepens it, rolling over me with a groan as our legs tangle beneath the sheets. His cock is already hard again, pressing against my inner thigh.
I tilt my hips. He growls.
“Don’t start something you’re not ready to finish,” he warns.
“Who says I’m not ready?”
He slips inside me with one smooth thrust, stealing my breath all over again.
And just like that, we’re right back where we started, wrapped up in each other, in this bed, in something that feels a hell of a lot like feelings.
The next time I come, it’s slower. Deeper. No frantic hands or bruising thrusts. Just him moving inside me like he knows exactly what I need before I do. His forehead pressed to mine. His body wrapped around mine. His mouth whispering filthy things into my skin until I break apart all over again.
And afterward, when we’re tangled in the sheets, limbs wrapped tight, breath catching in quiet gasps—I feel it.
The shift. The pause in his touch. The silence that suddenly feels heavier than anything he’s ever said. His hand drifts from my ribs to my hip, his palm broad and warm. Anchoring me. Like he doesn’t want me to go. Like he wouldn’t let me even if I tried.
“I need to say something,” he says suddenly, voice rough.
I turn my head, find him watching me with that look—guarded, torn, like he’s two seconds from pulling back just to protect us both.
“Okay,” I whisper, my heart thudding against my ribs so hard I can hear it.
He studies me for another beat. Then, without hesitation, he says it.
“I love you.”
My breath catches.
He says it like a confession. Like it’s been buried under years of restraint and regret. Like it’s the one thing he swore he wouldn’t let himself feel for me and he’s feeling it anyway.
“I didn’t plan to say that,” he adds, eyes burning into mine. “Didn’t want to risk changing this. But it’s the truth. I love you, Skye. I’m completely fucking undone by you.”
I blink once. Twice. And then I laugh.
Which is maybe the least romantic reaction I could have. But I’m naked and sore and emotionally fried and completely in love with him too and hearing him say it first makes the laughter bubble up like champagne in my chest.
His brows draw together. “You laughing at me?”
“No,” I breathe, reaching for his face. “God, no. I’m just… I’ve been in love with you for weeks. I think I knew it that night in Boston. Maybe even before that.”
He lets out a long exhale. Some of the tension in his shoulders melts.
“You’re not scared?” he asks quietly.
“I’m terrified,” I admit, brushing my thumb across the stubble on his jaw. “But I also want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
He kisses me again, deeply. And this time, it’s not about lust or obsession or giving in to something taboo.
This time, it’s about everything that comes after.
An hour and two orgasms later, we’re curled in his sheets, coffee forgotten, breath tangled. My phone buzzes somewhere on the floor, and I groan, dragging myself toward it. Maya.
Of course. I answer. “If this isn’t an emergency, I’m disowning you.”
“Okay, so it’s not an emergency, but I had a dream that you got kidnapped by a hot Russian billionaire and forced into marriage, so I figured I should check.”
“Wrong billionaire.”
“Wait… what ?”
I walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. My reflection looks wrecked in the best way.
“Reece,” I say softly. “I stayed over.”
There’s silence on the line for a few seconds. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah.”
“Was it…”
“Everything,” I say. And then some. “He made me feel like I wasn’t just wanted. I was worshipped.”
Maya lets out a dreamy sigh.
“He said he loves me.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I love him too.”
Another pause. Then her voice is softer.
“And do you?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I do.”
And this time, I don’t feel scared saying it. I feel like I’m finally saying something that’s been true all along.
The Uber pulls to a stop, and I sit frozen in the back seat. There’s no way. I lean forward, squinting through the tinted glass as my driver raises an unimpressed brow. “We’re here.”
We definitely are. Here. The dive bar. The one with the sticky floors, bad lighting, and even worse karaoke. The place where I saw him again for the first time in years. Where everything fell apart and, somehow, started to come together.
I step out into the cool night air and spot him immediately. He’s leaning against the brick wall like he owns the entire block. His hands are in his coat pockets, eyes locked on me like I’m the only woman on the planet.
I walk toward him slowly, heart pounding. “Seriously?”
He pushes off the wall, his mouth curving into a slow, devastating smile. “You look surprised.”
“I’m suspicious. This better not be a flash mob proposal.”
That earns me a soft chuckle as he opens the door behind him and gestures for me to go inside. “No flash mob. No big gestures. Just… us.”
The bar is empty. No bartender. No patrons. No screeching laughter from the pool table in the back or terrible Bon Jovi covers bleeding out of the jukebox.
It’s dimly lit. But in the corner, there’s a table set with a white linen cloth, a flickering candle, and a small glass vase with three peonies.
My favorite flower. My chest tightens. “You did all this?”
He steps behind me, hands sliding around my waist as his mouth finds my ear. “I wanted to bring you back to where it started. And I wanted to make it right this time.”
I turn in his arms and stare up at him. “You remember everything, don’t you?”
“I could recite that night word for word.”
“I was drunk.”
“I wasn’t.” His voice drops. “I was captivated, enamored.”
He takes my hand and leads me to the booth. I slide into the seat, and he joins me, our bodies pressing against each other. There’s wine already open, glasses waiting to be filled. He pours me one without asking and sets it in front of me.
“By a drunk woman in leggings and a smart mouth.”
He smirks, sliding closer. “The same woman who knocked me on my ass the second I saw her.”
For a moment, we just sit there, the soft hum of Sinatra from the jukebox wrapping around us like something sacred. Then he extends his hand.
“Dance with me.”
I glance around the empty bar. “There’s literally no one here.”
“Exactly.”
I take his hand, and he pulls me into him, his arms settling around my waist. I rest my hands on his chest and let myself lean in. Let myself be held.
“This is ridiculous,” I whisper.
“And yet you’re not running.”
I smile. He holds me tighter. “You were chaos that night. Sitting here, venting about your ex, throwing back drinks with Maya like the world had betrayed you.”
“It had,” I mutter.
“And I was the idiot who thought he could sit through one drink without getting involved.”
“You couldn’t resist me.”