18. Supernova
Supernova
HAYES
W e’re standing on the street, kissing like that night on the beach.
After our admissions of feelings and the events of the day, the intensity is high octane explosive.
Electricity hums over my body as my hands roam her soft skin and perfect curves.
And before I realize it, I’ve opened the back door of the SUV, and Brielle slides into it, wincing as her injured arm brushes against the leather.
I follow, my body immediately aware of how small the space feels with both of us inside.
The door clicks shut with a finality that makes me shiver in anticipation.
We’re finally alone, in the back of the SUV with darkened windows, and for a moment, we just look at each other.
The dim light filtering through the windows casts shadows across her face, but I can see the pulse fluttering at her throat, the slight part of her lips as she takes a shallow breath.
Everything I’ve been holding back since that hospital room—hell, since St. Sebastian—rises to the surface like a tide.
My chest heaving, I say, “What now?”
“I want everything, Hayes,” she rasps, the moonlight catches in her dark hair, illuminating her face in a way no photographer could ever properly capture.
The vulnerability in her eyes makes my chest ache.
She put a hand on my chest. “Well, I did before, but I haven’t been so sure after hearing you’ve been intimate with at least one other woman. ”
I pull back, shocked. “Wait. What?” My face twists. “I haven’t been intimate with anyone. Besides kissing, that’s it.” I shake my head. “Who told you that?”
She shakes her head. “Oh, no. I’m not getting into that trap, Hayes. I can’t tell you who told me—that will come back to haunt me. I’ve seen that one play out too many times. She told me in confidence.”
“She lied to you in confidence.”
“I believe you,” I say, and I do. Something didn’t seem right about that from the moment she said it. “And now I know she’s not the honest person I hoped she was.”
I blink. “I wish I knew who. I want to know who’d make up such an egregious lie.”
“I’m sorry, Hayes. I can’t.”
I sigh. “I know. I get it. You can’t. You’re bound by the consequences of this show just as I am.” I meet her gaze again. “But I want you to know that this, what’s happening with you, is only with you.”
Brielle smiles, her eyes sparkling. “That means so much to me.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “And I want it all. With you.”
“Okay.” I slide my hand into her hair, cradling the back of her head with a tenderness that contradicts the desire surging through me.
When our eyes meet, the last thread of restraint snaps.
I pull her toward me, capturing her mouth with mine in a kiss nothing like the gentle one we shared in the hospital.
This is hunger and relief and fear all wrapped together—the culmination of watching her nearly die and realizing what that would’ve meant.
She responds immediately, her uninjured arm wrapping around my neck, her body pressing closer despite the awkward angle of the seat. I taste mint on her tongue, feel the slight tremor in her lips that matches the shaking in my own hand.
“I’ve wanted this,” I murmur against her mouth, “since you quoted Asimov on that beach.”
She laughs, the sound vibrating against my lips. “I’ve wanted this since you knew it was Asimov.”
My hand slides beneath her blouse, finding the warm skin of her waist. The contact makes us both freeze for a heartbeat, the escalation suddenly tangible. I pull back just enough to see her eyes. “Your arm—”
“Is fine as long as you don’t grab it.” She presses a kiss to my jaw, then my neck. “The doctor said nothing about avoiding activities where I’m lying down.”
The rational part of my brain tries one last protest. “The cameras—”
“Are nowhere near us, for once.” Her eyes meet mine, desire mingling with something deeper, more vulnerable. “Hayes, I don’t know when we’ll get another moment like this. No show, no contracts, no cameras. Just us.”
She’s right. Tomorrow, we go back to the performance—me dating multiple women, her competing for keys, both of us pretending we haven’t already fallen harder than either of us expected. This stolen moment is all we have.
I reach for her again, this time with purpose rather than impulse.
My lips find hers as my hands explore with newfound permission—the curve of her waist, the softness of her skin beneath her blouse.
She sighs into my mouth, her body arching toward mine.
Despite the cramped space, despite her injury, there’s an ease to how we move together, as if we’ve mapped each other’s bodies in dreams.
Her fingertips trace down my chest as she unbuttons my shirt, pushing it off my shoulders.
The cool air against my skin contrasts with the heat building between us.
I fumble with the hem of her blouse, careful to avoid jostling her injured arm as I help her out of it.
When she sits back, dressed only in a simple black bra, the sight nearly stops my heart.
“You’re stunning,” I breathe. In the silvery moonlight filtering through the windows, her skin glows.
“You’re not bad yourself.” Her eyes travel over my chest and shoulders with an appreciation that makes me feel seen in the best possible way.
We’re skin against skin again, and electricity sparking through my nervous system. Her good hand explores my back, my chest, finding scars and freckles with curious fingers. I trace the constellation of a birthmark on her collarbone.
The constraints of the SUV force a creative reconfiguration as clothing disappears.
We bump against the door, the center console, laughing at the awkwardness even as the urgency between us builds.
When Brielle’s bra joins the growing pile of discarded clothes, I take a moment just to look at her, committing every curve and shadow to memory.
“This feels surreal,” she whispers, her hand resting on my chest, directly over my racing heart.
“Like we’ve stolen time.”
Her pants and underwear join the pile next, and then mine.
The leather seat sticks to my skin as I position myself half over her, careful of her injured arm.
The sight of her naked in the moonlight steals whatever eloquence I might have had.
She’s all soft curves and interesting angles, unexpected freckles and secret dimples.
More beautiful than any staged photo shoot could ever capture. “I could never get enough of this.”
I let my hand travel down her body, between her breasts, across the curve of her stomach, to the heat between her thighs.
When my fingers find her slick and ready, a groan escapes me.
Her hips lift toward my touch, seeking more contact.
“God, Hayes,” she breathes as I circle her most sensitive spot with deliberate pressure.
She whimpers, her head falling back against the seat. “Don’t stop.”
I continue exploring her with my fingers, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her eyes flutter closed. Then I position myself, rubbing my hardness through her folds until she cries out with need, her good hand gripping my shoulder with surprising strength. “I want you inside me now.”
I reach for my pants, fumbling through the pockets until I find my wallet and the condom I’ve carried—more out of the show’s protocol than expectation—since arriving in Spain.
Brielle watches me roll it on, her eyes dark with desire. The vulnerability of being fully exposed before her makes me pause, suddenly hyper aware of the weight of this moment. This isn’t just physical—it’s a turning point we can never take back.
“Are you sure?” I ask, needing verbal confirmation.
She spreads her legs wider, making space for me between them. “God, yes,” she says, the words somewhere between a plea and a command.
I position myself, then push forward inch by inch, watching her face as I fill her completely.
The sensation is overwhelming—tight, hot, perfect—and I have to close my eyes to maintain control.
When I open them again, she’s watching me with an expression that makes something in my chest cracks open.
I start to move slowly, teasing us both with the unhurried rhythm. Her good arm wraps around my neck, pulling me down for a kiss that’s as deep and thorough. We find a cadence that works despite the confined space, despite her injury, despite everything working against us.
“You feel so damn amazing,” I murmur against her neck, tasting the salt of her skin. “God, better than I imagined.” Her breath hitches as I shift angles slightly. “Which I did more times than I should admit.” I pick up the pace as her body responds to mine.
Her laugh turns into a moan as I slip a hand between us, finding that sensitive spot again.
I’m more frantic than I intend to be, more animal and untethered than I’ve allowed myself to become in years. But something about Brielle brings out this rawness that I can’t control. Her reactions—the way she gasps my name, how her eyes widen when I hit the right spot—only fuel the fire.
She adjusts herself beneath me, careful of her injured arm but making up for it by wrapping her legs tighter around my waist. The change in angle draws a groan from deep in my chest. I can feel her getting close, the tightening of her inner muscles, the flush spreading across her chest.
“Hayes,” she pants, her good hand clutching at my back. “I’m going to—”
I increase the pressure where my fingers circle her. “Come for me, baby.”
Her release washes over her in waves I can feel around me—pulsing, tightening, her entire body trembling with the force of it. The sight of her coming apart beneath me, because of me, pushes me right to the edge.
Her crying out my name, raw, breaks the last of my restraint. I pound into her, skin slapping against skin, our moans tangling in the confined space. When I finally shatter, it’s with her name on my lips, my body curving over hers as the intensity hits.
For several heartbeats, we remain frozen—connected, breathless, unwilling to break the spell. Then reality begins to seep back in—the cramped space, the cooling sweat on our skin, the distant sound of voices somewhere in the park that reminds us we’re not actually alone in the universe.
I carefully withdraw, tie up, and dispose of the condom in a tissue from my pocket before gathering Brielle against my chest. She nestles into me, her head finding the perfect spot beneath my chin as if designed to fit there.
I stroke her hair, marveling at how something so monumental can also feel so natural.
She laughs softly. “I don’t even have words, and I’m a writer.”
“I know,” I say, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “That was incredible.”
But as the seconds pass, the reminder of our situation—the show, the other women—casts a shadow. I sigh, my fingers still tracing patterns on her shoulder. “This is impossibly hard. Between what I feel for you—and what I’ve committed to with the show.”
“I know.” She tilts her face up to look at me. “Two more weeks, right?”
“Two more weeks,” I echo.
The spell isn’t broken, but it’s muted by the practicalities we can no longer ignore.
I steel myself as I say, “But until then, I have to keep an open mind and explore all connections.” Dammit—I hate telling her that, but I have to.
And I mean it. I’d hate for me to go all in on someone, only to find out it’s not what I thought it was.
Everything is accelerated on this show, the conditions not remotely realistic.
Plus, things with Brielle are perfect, too perfect, and honestly, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“I understand.” She nods slowly, hesitating. “It’s hard, so hard, but actually, I want you to see what happens with others, then still choose me. I want to be your first pick, not your rushed-decision consolation prize.”
I let out a breath of air. “That’s very logical, mature, and smart.” I smile. “But of course it is—it’s you.”
She smiles, a sparkle in her eye as she plants a kiss on my forehead.
We dress slowly, helping each other navigate the confined space, stealing kisses and touches that we won’t be able to have again.
At least, not for a while. By the time we’re fully clothed again, a glance at my watch confirms we need to head back.
We have to do it quietly because it’s so late.
With reluctance, I slide into the driver’s seat, Brielle beside me.
The ride back is quiet, her hand in mine, the only acknowledgment of what’s transpired between us.
As we approach the villa, I slow the SUV, looking for a discreet place to park that won’t immediately announce our return. Finding a spot partially concealed by trees, I cut the engine and turn to Brielle.
“We should go in separately,” I say, despising the necessity of it. “I’ll go first.”
She nods, understanding without needing explanation. “I’ll wait five minutes, then follow.”
I lean over to kiss her once more, slow and deep, trying to communicate everything I can’t say aloud. When we part, her eyes are bright with emotion.
“Hayes,” she starts, then stops, seemingly at a loss for words.
“I know,” I tell her. “Me too.”
As I exit the vehicle, movement in the rear-view mirror catches my attention—a slender silhouette near the garden entrance, illuminated by the security lighting.
I freeze, my hand on the door handle, as recognition dawns.
Gabby’s unmistakable figure, pressed against the glass of a nearby window, watching our return.
I squeeze Brielle’s hand in warning. She goes still beside me, mid-breath, as I watch Gabby through the mirror. She lingers for another moment, then disappears back into the shadows of the villa.
“Someone saw us,” I say quietly. “Gabby.”
Brielle’s sharp intake of breath is the only indication of her alarm. “How much do you think she saw?”
“No idea. But just us returning together this late is probably enough.”
We sit in tense silence, the euphoria of everything obliterated by the consequences.