Chapter 40 #3
He laughed, low in his throat. “I’m fucked up. I know that.”
A few beats of silence went by.
“Sometimes, I thought of myself as leftovers. The one who got stuck when everyone else moved on.” For some reason, I felt a confession was appropriate.
He inhaled. “You’re not leftovers, Amelia. Not to me.”
Static from the radio tangled with the wind. Neither of us tried to untangle his words.
We drove in silence long enough for the sun to droop lower, the blue of the sky curdling into a sour milk grey.
I watched the outlines of passing cars, felt the sensation of moving without ever really getting anywhere, and wondered how far you could run before memory caught you by the ankle and dragged you back.
A motel sign flickered into view, the red vacancy bulbs spelling it out in a language only the lost could read.
Caiden pulled in, killed the engine, and let his hands rest on the wheel. I could feel his body humming, a vibration that traveled through the seats and into my bones.
He stared straight ahead. “You hungry?”
The answer was always yes, but I shook my head. “Not really.”
“Okay,” he said. He kept his hand on the wheel a beat longer, then opened his door. “I’ll get the key.”
I sat there, watching him stride toward the front office, his posture that of a man who’d been fighting uphill for so long he no longer noticed the incline.
The sign on the office door buzzed and flickered, and I wondered what it was like to be so obviously broken and keep shining anyway.
When he came back, he tossed the keycard on my lap. “Room 17,” he said. “End of the lot.”
He lifted the bags from the trunk and led me down the second-floor walkway, the thump of his boots on the metal stairs echoing against the cinderblock walls.
The room was exactly what you’d expect from a roadside motel: scratchy bedspread, TV bolted to the dresser, a vague scent of mildew and disappointment.
Caiden dumped the bags and went straight for the shower. I heard the slap of water against tile, the pipe-shudder of the ancient plumbing, and felt the tension uncoil a little in my spine.
I was grateful for the alone time, but also afraid of what might happen when he came out. Whether he’d reach for me or retreat into himself.
I wanted to text Dante, but I knew I couldn’t just yet. Not when the last thing I’d said to him felt so final.
The bathroom door opened, and Caiden walked out.
His hair was dripping wet, his bare chest had droplets of water still dripping, and he only had a towel around his waist.
We both stared at each other, time stalling out in the heavy, humid air. He stood there, towel barely hitting mid-thigh.
I’d seen him shirtless before, but this was different. We were alone, and grown, and no longer pretending to be anything except exactly what we were.
He seemed to realize all at once that he was nearly naked in front of me, his face coloring up, eyes darting everywhere except my face.
“Shit,” he muttered, glancing around the room, “I forgot to grab my clothes before…” He trailed off, shuffling a little towards his duffel, towel threatening mutiny.
I tried not to look but failed spectacularly.
He made it past the foot of the bed, then froze, towel clutched like a lifeline. “You mind?” he asked, chin tilted. Like I was the one who should be embarrassed.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” I said, and my voice came out far too soft, far too open.
He lingered, not moving, and I realized he was daring me to look away. I didn’t. For the first time, I let myself really see him.
He reached into his bag, towel shifting dangerously low.
He didn’t say anything as he found his clothes; black t-shirt, faded shorts, everything still smelling faintly of him. He could have retreated to the bathroom to change, but he didn’t.
He was challenging me, but there was still a taste of nervousness at seeing something for the first time, so I turned around.
He dressed, then ran a hand through his hair, water flicking off the ends. “You want the shower?” he asked, voice even but not quite steady.
I swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be quick.”
The bathroom was still steamy from him. I undressed automatically, not looking at myself, just letting the water pound over my skin.
When I came back out, wrapped in the scratchy motel towel, Caiden was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. The TV played static. He was thinking so hard I almost didn’t want to break through it.
But I did. I stood in the doorway, vulnerable and barely covered, and I waited for him to look up.
He did, and the look on his face was hunger, plain and wild.
“Fuck,” he groaned while rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t think you have any clue what you do to me.”
A fierce surge of courage erupted from the depths of my hesitation, obliterating the nervous uncertainty that had shackled me for so long.
It was as if a dormant force, long suppressed by the chains of fear from old scars, finally broke free with a thunderous roar, demanding to be unleashed.
I let the towel drop, just a little, enough to bear the damp curve of my collarbone. Caiden’s eyes locked on the exposed skin, pulse visible in the strained column of his throat.
Maybe it was petty, but I wanted to see him struggle, wanted proof that all the years of unresolved electricity between us hadn’t been just my imagination. He didn’t disappoint.
I saw him hesitate, and I had a feeling it came from how he was at war with the part of himself that wanted to devour everything and the part that wanted to protect me from even his own appetite.
My feet carried me to the foot of the bed, towel cinched under my arms. My pulse thundered in my wrists, temples, even behind my knees.
He sat unmoving, eyes fixed, cautious as a predator afraid to scare off its prey.
“You can look,” I breathed, voice low.
He did, and the hunger in his gaze burned into me, a fire crawling up my legs, across my throat, sparking behind my eyes. This was the look I’d craved: not pity, not hatred. But pure, raw desire.
“Need me to get dressed?” I whispered, stepping between his parted thighs.
“No.” His voice was rough, trembling. He was wrestling with himself.
He didn’t move, hand clenched on the edge of the bed, afraid to touch.
We hovered, flickering between ice and flame. I tested him, letting the towel slip another inch lower so its edge arched over my breasts. A single droplet traced down my sternum.
His pupils dilated; his breath caught.
“If you don’t want me, you’d better leave,” he rasped. “Stay, and I’ll give in to this fucking desire I have for you.”
I let the towel fall, a puddle of white on the stained motel carpet, naked in a room of cinderblock and buzzing neon. A chill ghosted my skin, but shame never arrived.
Only a crackling current that made every nerve sing: I was real, imperfect, and enough.
He exhaled a breath I imagined he’d been holding since high school. His hands hovered, shaking in the air, before closing around my hips—calloused, shaped by fights and walls I’d never seen.
He drew me down into his lap, just gravity and hunger, his heat pressing into mine.
His mouth started on my jaw, then began descending to the hollow at my throat. The rough stubble scorched my skin, and I arched into it, desperate for more.
His kisses began delicate, but every twist of my fingers in his hair shattered his restraint. His hands slid up my sides, igniting my ribs like wildfire, thumbs brushing the underswell of my breasts until I gasped, “You can,” voice trembling.
He answered with a groan, crashing his mouth against mine. Hungry, bruising, urgent. My thighs locked around him, the world shrinking to nothing but our collision of want and awe.
He worshiped and consumed me in the same breath: soft kisses alternating with bites that bloomed crimson across my collarbones.
When he bent his head to my breast and took the nipple into his mouth, I moaned, loud enough to echo off the cinderblock walls.
He pulled his mouth away from mine, panting heavily. "Fuck, you have gorgeous tits. I used to fantasize about them back in high school."
I laughed softly. “You fantasized about me?”
He nodded sheepishly as his fingers played with my hardened nipple. “Sometimes. You looked too fucking good to resist.”
His mouth devoured my breast once more, and I leaned my head back, moaning, not caring if the whole world heard me.
He took a moment to yank his shirt off, then turned, tumbling us both onto the motel bed, the springs squealing under the force of it.
For a heartbeat, his body pinned me—raw power crashing down—then he froze, panic flitting across his eyes.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, forehead pressed to my collarbone. “If you want me to, I swear I’ll stop.”
I brushed my palm over his cheek. “Caiden…this is what I want.”
That was all he needed. His lips crashed onto mine, fierce and devouring. His arms slid up to pin my wrists above my head.
And there, in the charged quiet after his storm, we collided fully, two halves of an explosion neither of us wanted to contain.
I remembered every cruel moment he’d reduced me to trembling nothing, every flash of fear he’d carved into my bones, and in the furnace of his touch, I felt that tally of terror incinerate, replaced by an ember of want so fierce it lit us both ablaze.
He leaned in, lips scorching along my jawline, trailing fire-kissed kisses down the hollow of my throat until his teeth grazed my skin in a delicious pinch that set every nerve alight.
I arched against him with no shame, bare and open, thighs parting like petals in bloom as he settled his weight over me.
His skin on mine was an elemental collision: his chest hot and grainy beneath my palms, muscles coiling and flexing as he hovered, masterful even in his craving.
He kissed each breast slowly at first, then with a brutal, bruising insistence. His tongue swirling around my nipple until I writhed in reckless abandon.