Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sloane
The sun’s still low—light not quite reaching the skyline—but the bed next to me is empty.
For one stupid second, my chest squeezes.
I tell myself not to be surprised. Not to expect anything.
But then I catch the scent.
Coffee.
Fresh and rich. With that dark roast bite that can only come from my coffee beans.
I sit up slowly, the sheets falling to my waist. My muscles ache in the best kind of way—like I’ve been thoroughly, repeatedly ruined.
My hair’s a mess, my lips are still swollen, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got whisker burns on the inside of one thigh.
But I don’t care. I love every single swell and burn.
I also love the smell of coffee.
And the sound of movement coming from the kitchen.
What I don’t love? The flood of relief through my body.
But that’s to think about for another day.
I slip out of bed, tugging on the first robe I find—his tux jacket still draped across a chair but definitely not enough to cover what needs covering.
The floors are cool under my feet as I make my way toward the kitchen, pulse rising for reasons I don’t want to name.
And then I see him.
Barefoot, bare-chested, low-slung black pants riding his hips like a fucking sin. A white dish towel tossed over his shoulder, one hand on the handle of the frying pan, the other reaching for a coffee mug.
My coffee mug.
He moves like he owns the place.
Like the night we had never ended.
Like this isn’t a mistake.
And something in me—the part that always braces for abandonment, for regret—eases.
He’s got bed hair and stubble and a bruise blooming low on his side—one I didn’t put there—but I know the scratch marks across his back are mine.
There’s something about seeing him like this, loose and barefoot in my kitchen, that guts me more than any night of sex.
I can see those marks clearly from here, and heat rushes low and deep at the memory.
He turns when he hears me.
Eyes sweeping over my body in that slow, hungry way that makes me forget every reason I should’ve kept my distance.
“Morning,” he says, voice still rough from sleep and sex.
“You made coffee.”
“Figured I owed you something after last night.” A smirk curves one corner of his mouth. “Or this morning. Or both.”
He crosses to hand me a cup, and when our fingers brush, something in my chest catches.
His warmth lingers. So does the memory of his mouth on my skin.
I lean against the doorframe, heart thudding slow and thick. “You cook too?”
His grin deepens, warm and cocky. “You’re about to find out.”
I step farther into the kitchen, watching him crack eggs like he’s done it a hundred times.
“Where did I get eggs and bacon?”
“There’s this handy thing called Uber Eats.”
“Ah…so, do you always cook after completely ruining someone’s life in bed?”
He chuckles, low and unhurried. “Only the ones who beg real pretty.”
I arch a brow. “I didn’t beg.”
“You did.” He glances over his shoulder. “Twice.”
Heat flares under my skin. “Cocky much?”
He shrugs, scooping eggs into a hot pan. “When I’m right, I’m right.”
“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”
“Baby, I’m lucky you let me in.”
That stops me. The words hang between us, too raw, too real—and for once, he doesn’t backpedal.
He just flips the eggs.
I clear my throat and cross to the counter, stealing a strip of bacon from the plate beside him. “So you make a habit of early morning kitchen takeovers?”
“Only in penthouses I’ve fantasized about for weeks.”
I nearly choke on the bite.
He smirks, sliding the eggs onto two plates with an ease that makes it all feel terrifyingly normal.
“I used to dream about what it’d be like up here. What you were doing. If you ever thought about me the way I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
My voice comes out quiet. “I did. All the time. I couldn’t stop it.”
His jaw flexes, but he nods. “I know.”
He hands me a plate, and we sit at the bar, bare knees brushing under the marble counter.
That tiny contact sends a low pulse through me—heat and history and something dangerous.
A flash from last night echoes in my mind—his voice rough in the dark, his hands locked on my hips, telling me to take what I want.
For a few minutes, the only sound is quiet chewing and the low hum of the city below waking up.
But then it starts to crack.
The silence.
The spell.
Because now we’re in daylight. And daylight doesn’t lie.
The shift would be imperceptible to anyone else, but not to me. I can already feel Maddox’s guard returning.
Maddox pushes his plate away, expression unreadable. “You gonna tell the board you slept with your newest contract?”
I flinch. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m not judging. Just reminding you of the mess we’re in.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Good.” He leans back on the stool, the muscles in his chest flexing with the motion. “Because you’re not the only one who has to answer to people.”
That lands.
Heavy.
I want to be pissed off at him for how he’s acting, but he’s not wrong.
He’s not just a player. He’s the player I signed under scrutiny.
The gamble everyone’s watching.
And I’m the boss who’s supposed to stay above board.
But nothing about last night was above board.
“I didn’t plan for this,” I whisper.
“Neither did I.”
The silence stretches again, but now it’s tighter.
Brittle.
And I hate it.
His eyes find mine, something sharp behind them.
“What do we do now?”
I don’t have an answer. I only know I don’t want him to leave.
“I don’t know. But I’m not pretending last night didn’t happen. I’m not wired like that.”
He watches me, unmoving.
I set down my fork and meet his gaze head-on. “It happened. And I don’t regret it.”
His breath punches out low. “Thank fuck.”
Something eases between us.
Not the tension—it’s still there, humming like a live wire—but the fear of misstep, of saying the wrong thing.
He stands and rounds the counter, stopping right in front of me. His hand brushes mine, warm and firm and grounding.
“We keep it quiet,” he says, voice rough. “We don’t let it touch the team.”
“And when the season ends?”
“We reassess.”
I nod.
“We’re careful, Sloane. I mean it.”
“I know how to be careful.” My voice dips. “I’ve been careful my whole damn life.”
He lifts my chin, eyes burning into mine. “Not with me.”
No. Not with him.
And I don’t want to be.
We don’t say it’s us against the world, but it’s there—in the space between us, in the slow slide of his fingers down my arm, in the kiss he presses to my temple like a vow he doesn’t have to speak.
When I glance down, I see his tie crumpled on the floor beside the island.
I bend to pick it up. “This is mine now.”
He smirks, leaning his forehead against mine. “You already took my breath. You might as well take that too.”
“Stay,” I say softly.
He pulls back slightly. “You sure?”
“I’m positive. Besides, it’s Sunday,” I murmur. “Let the rest of the world wait one more day.”
He runs his knuckles over my cheek. “Yeah,” he says. “I could use one more day.”
I loop the tie around his neck and pull him to me, where his mouth crashes into mine.
It’s more than just a kiss. It’s a possession.
And I’m here for it.
He picks me up and I wrap my legs around his waist, feeling the weight of his hardness in my center.
When we get to bed, we rip at each other’s clothes, frantic to feel skin on skin again.
And when he finds my entrance wet and ready for him, he slides home, stretching and filling me like it’s the first time all over again.
That’s where we stay the rest of the day, exploring each other again and again, using our hands, tongues, and bodies to talk.
Reality will come knocking tomorrow.
But today—today, we stay right here.