Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Melissa
Iwake slowly, warm and heavy in a way I don’t recognize at first.
There’s an arm draped around my waist, solid and possessive, even in sleep, pulling me back against a chest that rises and falls steadily behind me. My cheek is pressed into soft sheets that smell faintly like soap and a manly scent I can’t name.
Colton.
The memory of last night comes rushing back all at once.
His laugh at the bar when I beat him at darts.
The way he leaned in close to hear me over the music, like the rest of the room didn’t exist. How easy it felt.
How, somewhere between cheap beer and greasy fries, I forgot entirely that he was impossibly wealthy, that he lived in a penthouse overlooking Manhattan.
Last night, he was simply a man who fit beside me.
And then … the way everything shifted when we were alone again.
Heat curls low in my stomach at replay the details. I hadn’t expected that version of him. The way his control frayed, the way his breath hitched when I touched him, like he was right on the edge of unraveling. I’d seen intensity in him before, but this was different.
I’d never imagined I’d be the one to pull that out of him.
His arm tightens slightly in his sleep, his body instinctively keeping me close, and my chest aches at how right it feels to be here. Tucked into him.
And that’s when the fear slips in.
I remember his words in the stairwell. “I don’t do relationships.”
The warmth in my chest twists into hope. I shouldn’t feel this settled. This connected. Especially not after one night.
My bladder makes the decision for me to stop overanalyzing after one night together.
Carefully, I slide out from under his arm, easing away inch by inch until he barely stirs. I grab one of his shirts from the floor and pull it over my head before padding into the bathroom.
The master bath is … a lot.
Marble counters. A rainfall shower. Towels folded like someone else does laundry for him. It’s a stark reminder of the world he lives in. The one I don’t quite belong to.
I use the bathroom, wash my hands, and stare at my reflection for a moment.
I look flushed. Satisfied. A little undone. But my body feels used in the best way.
I walk back to the bedroom, and I stop at the end of the bed.
The sheet appears to have shifted.
Colton is sprawled on his back now, one arm flung over his head, the other resting at his side. The sheet barely covers him, stopping low on his hips, leaving his chest and stomach completely exposed.
My eyes remain glued to him.
God …
Morning light traces every hard line of him. From his broad shoulders, defined abs, to where his skin is still marked faintly from where I kissed him last night. He looks unfairly good like this.
Without thinking, I walk to his side of the bed and let my fingertips trail over his chest, down the ridges of muscle, committing the feel of him to memory.
His hand snaps around my wrist.
I gasp softly as his eyes open, already sharp, already awake in that way that tells me he’s been aware of me longer than I realized.
A slow, knowing smirk curves his mouth.
“I was gentle with you last night,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and something darker underneath. His grip tightens enough to make my pulse jump. “But right now?”
His gaze drags over me, deliberate and heated.
“I want you rough.”
The answer is already burning on my tongue.
“Yes.”
And the look he gives me is full of hunger and power, like he’s about to lose both. It tells me exactly how the rest of the morning is going to go.
“Take off my shirt,” he demands.
I lift his white shirt over my head and toss it to the ground.
“Did you get wet while you groped me?” he asks.
“I wasn’t groping …” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Semantics.” He sits up and stands behind me, hands moving from my stomach up to my breasts. “Perfect,” he whispers as he massages them.
I lean my head back against his chest, and he plays with me. Then he pinches both nipples before walking me toward the bed and pushing me forward.
My hands fall to the edge of the bed. I turn my head and see him sink to his knees.
“I’ve never had a woman spend the night before,” he says as he takes my ass cheeks and spreads them. “I didn’t realize the benefit of having pussy for breakfast.”
Then he licks me from my clit all the way up to between my cheeks. A place I’ve never once been touched. I cry out in shock but also because of how good it felt.
He stops for a second, and I look back over my shoulder. His eyebrows are raised.
“Has no one tasted your ass before?”
My jaw goes slack at his dirty words. “No,” I gulp.
“I like that,” he says, then does it again.
“Shit,” I gasp in response and let my head fall to the bed.
He circles his tongue around my back entrance, then licks back down to my clit and flicks. When he presses his fingers a bit in between my cheeks while he sucks my clit, I nearly lose consciousness.
I hear the faint sound of a condom wrapper being ripped before I feel his cock line up at my entrance.
His fingers dig into my hips hard enough that I know it will leave marks.
Then he slams into me all the way. Gone is the gentle nature that he exuded last night. Replaced by a man completely unhinged.
The aggressive, dominant side is equally as satisfying. He fucks me hard and fast with no restraint. Every curse, every growl, even when he pulls my hair and increases the tempo … it all does something to me.
Each thrust opens up a side of me that I did not know existed. A sexual desire that seems to have been dormant for years, waiting for this man to unleash it.
The quiet afterward feels different than it did before. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just … settled.
Colton is stretched out beside me with one arm bent behind his head while the other rests loosely across my waist. His thumb drags slow, absent-minded circles over my skin, like he hasn’t fully come back to himself yet.
The sheets are twisted around our legs, the air still warm, the city muted beyond the glass.
I let myself stay there longer than I probably should.
There’s something calming about the way he breathes. It feels steady and unhurried. Like the fact that neither of us is reaching for a phone or glancing at the clock. It feels intentional, like we’re both choosing to sit in what we did instead of rushing away from it.
I trace my fingers over his chest, following the familiar rise and fall of his breathing. The gesture feels intimate but also natural.
He turns his head toward me, eyes already open.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
I nod. “Yeah. I just … needed a second.”
His mouth curves into a faint smile. “Take all the seconds you want.”
We stay like that for a while. No conversation.
No pressure. Only the hum of the city and the soft intimacy of shared space.
It’s the kind of quiet that usually makes me uneasy.
The kind that invites too many thoughts, which haven’t been my friend for the last two years. But right now, it feels right.
Eventually, reality nudges its way back in.
“I should probably head out,” I say softly. “It’s Sunday. If I don’t do laundry and groceries today, I’ll spend the entire week regretting it.”
He exhales through his nose, amused. “You make that sound ominous.”
“It is,” I say. “Sunday prep is serious business.”
He rolls onto his side to face me, propping himself up on one elbow. His gaze drags over me slowly, openly, like there’s no part of me he feels the need to rush past.
“Thank you,” he says after a beat.
I blink. “For what?”
“For trusting me,” he says simply. “For staying.”
The words settle deeper than I expected. I swallow, nodding once. It’s like we know this is a leap for both of us. Me being this intimate with another man. Him being this intimate at all.
“You’re welcome.”
We get dressed slowly. No scrambling for clothes. No awkward dance around each other. When we reach the door, he pulls me in again, one hand warm at my lower back, grounding and familiar already.
The kiss he gives me is unhurried and deep.
“That was the best date I’ve ever been on,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I laugh softly. “You say that to all the girls?”
He pulls back enough to look at me. “Only the ones who take me to dive bars and absolutely destroy me at darts.”
“And pool …” I add with a smirk.
He chuckles. “I was only focusing on one to save my ego.”
I leave his building, smiling like I’ve forgotten how not to.
I replay the night while a private driver that he called for me takes me back to my apartment. It’s not how I’m used to traveling through the city, but I’m not going to overthink it. Especially since it’s a colder April day.
Instead, my brain drifts to the way he laughed without restraint, the way he fit into my world when money and status weren’t part of the equation.
At no point during the night did I think about how wealthy he was.
That feels important.
When I unlock my apartment door, I barely make it two steps inside before I know I’m not alone.
Kayla is stretched out across the couch, laptop open, coffee mug balanced dangerously on the armrest. She looks up once.
Just once.
Her eyes widen. “Oh,” she says slowly. “You had sex.”
I drop my bag and collapse onto the couch beside her. “Hello to you too.”
She snaps the laptop shut and turns fully toward me, grin sharp and satisfied. “I don’t even need details yet. Your face is doing all the talking.”
“I don’t know where to start,” I groan, dragging my hands over my face.
Her grin widens. “That’s how I know it was good.”
I stare up at the ceiling for a long moment, letting out a breathy laugh. “I genuinely thought romance-novel sex was exaggerated.”
Kayla freezes. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I thought it was fiction,” I say helplessly. “Heightened. Dramatic. A thing that only works on paper.”
She blinks at me. Slowly leans back against the couch.
“Are you telling me,” she says carefully, “that I’ve been writing lies?”
“I’m telling you,” I say, sitting up, “that I didn’t know it could be like that. I thought it was all glorified to add drama in between the pages.”
Her jaw drops. “Well, fuck. I thought it was all fiction too.”
I lift my head off the couch and look at her, and then we both burst out laughing, loud and unrestrained, the sound bouncing off the walls.
“It wasn’t the sex,” I admit when we calm down. “It was him. The way he lost control. I didn’t expect that from someone so … contained.”
Kayla’s expression softens, teasing fading into something more sincere. “Did you feel safe?”
“Yes.”
“Did you feel wanted?”
“Completely.”
She nods once. “Then I’m really happy for you.”
At the end of the day, after a long shower and leftovers I barely taste, I curl into the couch with my phone in hand. My body feels pleasantly sore, my mind quiet in a way it hasn’t been in years.
My phone buzzes.
Colton: I attempted to make coffee after you left. This was a mistake.
I smile immediately.
Me: How bad?
Colton: There was coffee everywhere. I’m not ruling out structural damage.
Me: Dramatic.
Colton: I also couldn’t find my keys for ten minutes.
Me: Let me guess. They were in your hand.
There’s a pause.
Colton: I refuse to confirm or deny this.
I laugh out loud, curling deeper into the couch.
Me: Thank you for this morning.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Colton: Anytime.
Another message follows a few seconds later.
Colton: I keep thinking about you beating me at darts and pool. It feels like a personal failure.
Me: You’ll recover.
Colton: Unlikely.
I set my phone down, warmth spreading through my chest.
When I finally crawl into bed, the apartment feels different. Lived in. Full in a way it hasn’t in a long time.
I fall asleep smiling. Not careful. Not guarded.
Just … happy.