Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Melissa
By Wednesday, it’s impossible to pretend this isn’t becoming a thing. Not a relationship. Not anything with a label. Just … us. And it’s happening with a frequency that surprises me.
A text here. A late-night call there. Hands on my hips more often than not. And still no sex. Somehow, that makes everything feel sharper.
I’m halfway through reheating leftovers when my phone buzzes on the counter.
Colton: Still awake?
I smile before I can stop myself.
Me: Barely. I’m negotiating with my couch.
The reply comes fast.
Colton: I have wine and terrible self-control. Your presence may improve one of those things.
I laugh quietly, grabbing my coat. Thankfully, Kayla is out, or she’d likely quiz me about what it means that he’s now asking me to come over so casually on a Wednesday.
Twenty minutes later, I’m buzzing myself into his penthouse like I’ve done it a dozen times already. He tells me his door is open, so I turn the knob and let myself in.
Before I realize what’s going on, he appears in front of me and pulls me into a kiss.
No hesitation. No pretense.
His hands slide to my waist, steady and familiar, and he kisses me like it’s already habit. Slow. Deep. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask permission because it already knows the answer.
I exhale into him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
“Hi,” I murmur against his mouth.
“Hi,” he replies, smiling slightly before kissing me again.
We don’t make it far from the entryway before he’s guiding me toward the couch. Not pushing but directing. I sink down beside him, my legs tucked under me, his arm draped easily along the backrest behind my shoulders.
Comfortable. That’s the word that keeps surprising me.
We talk. About work, about a resident he’s convinced is going to be brilliant if she ever learns to stop apologizing to patients, about Trudy declaring war on the hospital vending machine.
“She threatened to unplug it,” I say, laughing. “Called it ‘a menace to morale.’”
Colton chuckles. “She’s not wrong.”
At some point, his fingers start tracing absent-minded patterns along my arm. Nothing intentional. Nothing pointed.
My body reacts anyway.
I shift closer without thinking, my shoulder brushing his chest. His arm tightens a little—a silent acknowledgment.
The TV murmurs in the background, ignored.
When he kisses me again, it’s more exploratory. His mouth lingers at my jaw, my neck, sending heat spiraling low in my stomach.
I tilt my head, inviting, and he takes his time. Always.
His hand slides to my thigh, warm and grounding, thumb brushing lightly over denim. I shiver, and he notices.
He pulls away, and his gaze holds mine for a beat, something unreadable passing through it. Then he kisses me again, deeper this time, his grip on my thigh tightening enough to make my breath hitch.
“I want you in my bed this time,” he whispers against my mouth.
I nod my head eagerly. Finally.
He stands up and grabs my hand, leading me down the hallway to a door on the left. His bedroom is the size of my entire apartment.
And the view. It’s stunning.
He has a large king bed with luxurious white bedding. The soft, plushy rug over the dark hardwood floors offers a nice contrast in the colors. The furniture looks expensive.
But I get easily distracted when he yanks my hand and flings me on the bed. I go down in a fit of laughter.
His smiling face looking down at me is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him. Then he joins me on the bed, caging me in as he puts his thighs on the side of my hips and leans back on his heels.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he says as he slowly unbuttons my silky blouse until he reveals my black bra underneath.
He pulls the material down and exposes both breasts. His lips wrap around one of my nipples, and I immediately arch my back. My hand brushes the back of his neck, then up into his hair as he licks and sucks. Then he moves to the other one.
Before I know it, I’m completely naked, and his fingers are moving inside of me as his tongue flicks with impressive strength to bring me to an explosive orgasm.
I lose myself when he does this to me. I’m a jumble of words and screams that I don’t recognize as coming from my own mouth. He moans and growls as my excitement builds.
He rolls onto his back and begins to pant his own heavy breaths as I notice his hard dick poking through his sweatpants.
I’ve seen many different styles of him in the last week. But this one—black T-shirt and gray sweatpants? This one is my favorite.
I realize he doesn’t plan on having sex. Again. But he doesn’t seem to assume that I need to reciprocate. It’s sweet, but I want to do it. I like to do it.
But I kind of want to mix it up.
I notice some lotion on his bedside table. He catches my eyes glancing in its direction.
“It’s the latex gloves. I swear.” He smiles. “They make my hands dry.”
I chuckle as I sit up and grab it, then move back down to lean on one elbow, facing him.
“I wasn’t judging,” I say as I examine the bottle. “I was actually thinking about something else.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?” He places an arm behind his head and looks at me curiously.
“Have you ever noticed how hot a simple hand job is?”
His eyebrows turn down. “I don’t even remember the last time I got a hand job.”
My jaw falls flat. I shake my head. “How could that be?”
He laughs. “I don’t know. I thought we aged out of hand jobs.”
That’s not true.
I place the bottle between us and grip his dick through his sweatpants. His face instantly changes.
“Do I look like I’m some inexperienced teenager?”
He raises his eyebrows suggestively. I shake my head and smile, realizing I walked right into that one.
I massage him through his pants one last time before grabbing one side of the material and yanking it down, then the other side until his hard dick pops free.
He seriously has the best-looking cock I’ve ever seen. Long. Really fucking thick. Perfect vein running through it, and the best tip that makes me want to suck on it.
But this is about showing him something. He might be dirtier and more experienced in other facets of the bedroom, but I can slow things down.
I squirt a couple of pumps of lotion onto my hand. Then I slowly wrap my hand around him, toward the top, and run it down to the base, moving the lotion all over.
I keep my grip nice and tight as I move my hand up to his tip and roll my hand around it. Then I give it several little strokes, the lotion creating the perfect amount of friction.
I watch him the entire time. His face looks almost tortured as he watches my hand work him.
I start to move my hand up and down as I tighten my grip, each time pausing at the top to rub my thumb tightly over his tip.
“Fuuuuck,” he growls.
He looks over at me, and we lock eyes as I continue up and down, making sure not to go too fast so I can draw it all out.
“It’s sexy when we both get to watch. Isn’t it?” I tell him.
Then we both move our eyes to my hand and watch in awe as I stroke him. The lotion allows my hand to glide freely while I can still squeeze hard enough to really work him.
I sit up so I can use my other hand to grab his balls, both hands touching him.
“Mel,” he croaks out, “dammit. It’s so good.”
I smile softly but am too mesmerized as I watch his cock harden to what seems like an almost-painful amount. I feel it in the base of him before it happens. Then thick ropes of cum shoot out and fall down all over my hand and his dick, just like when we were video calling … but better.
He cusses and grunts throughout his entire release as he moves his hips up and down, completely out of control. I take it all in and memorize it.
I pull my cum-covered hand off him and lick some of it off my thumb.
“Holy shit,” he says loudly. “Who the hell are you?”
I laugh. “Someone who needs to go wash her hand.”
I walk myself to what I assume is the bathroom and flip on the light.
I gasp. Out loud. This bathroom is bigger than my family room.
It has a massive glass shower with a comfortable, large stone bench inside of it. A huge hot tub in a corner. Double vanity. A massive walk-in closet off to the left.
Marble and stone that look like they were brought over from Italy.
I walk over to one of the sinks and run my hands under the water, then pump some soap onto me.
Colton follows in behind me. He sheds his clothes into the hamper and grabs a towel, then wraps it around his waist.
“Looks like I need another shower.”
I look at him through the mirror.
“I should get going anyway. It’s late, and we both have to be up early.”
He nods his head slowly. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t crowd.
Just kisses me once—soft, lingering—like punctuation instead of promise.
“Text me when you get home,” he says.
“I will.”
I mean to go straight home.
Instead, I sit in my car for a minute, breathing, replaying the way his hands felt, the way his restraint somehow made everything more intense.
When I finally pull away, my phone buzzes.
Colton: You should come back.
My lips curve.
Me: That was fast.
Colton: I’m efficient.
I shake my head, smiling as I drive.
When I get home, I lie in bed and text him that I’m home. I realize how this all feels so normal.
Which is probably the most dangerous part.
We don’t talk about the line we keep dancing around. We don’t talk about what comes next.
We exist in this suspended space, where desire is constant, control is intentional, and neither of us seems in a hurry to break the balance.
Before I lose the nerve, I text what’s on my mind.
Me: You realize we’re becoming very good at stopping before we …
There’s a pause.
Colton: I’m aware.
Me: Is that a skill you practice often?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then …
Colton: No.
The honesty in that single word sends a quiet thrill through me.
I set my phone aside, my body warm, my mind calm. This feels good. Not complicated. Not heavy.
Just … wanted. And for now, that’s enough.