2. Moon
2
MOON
T he air was thick with Charleston’s saltwater tang as I pushed open the creaky iron gate to our home. I lived on the second floor of a restored historic row house, one of three apartments in the building, which I shared with my roommates, Callie and Olivia. The soft peach exterior, with its crisp white trim, glowed faintly in the late afternoon light. I dug out my keys from my Moon bag as I walked up to the door, where a lantern flickered gently, adding a cozy charm. The balcony above was dotted with ferns, vibrant flowers, and a few potted herbs, while an open window let soft music drift down onto the quiet street.
My head was still spinning from the bookstore. I wasn’t sure if it was the lingering buzz of caffeine or something else entirely, but my chest felt tight, charged—like a live current humming under my skin.
Holden.
He was a walking contradiction—sarcastic, aloof, and yet somehow so earnest it made my pulse trip. And sexy too. That line about Byron kissing you slow and leaving your lip swollen for days. Fuck . The way he’d said it, low and deliberate, had left me warmer than I’d like to admit.
Inside, the place was its usual brand of cozy chaos. The living room stretched out before me, a mix of furniture and lived-in charm. The inky-blue velvet couch sat scattered with jewel-tone pillows that didn’t match but somehow worked. Across from it was Callie’s floral settee, the one she’d rescued from the curb, and Olivia’s “rustic” coffee table, scratched but still functional, piled with our stuff in artsy disarray. Our fairy lights zigzagged across the ceiling, and I could whiff the scent of incense and coffee mingling with the faintest trace of lavender from Olivia’s endless collection of oils. It wasn’t perfect or polished, but it was home—vibrant, a little messy, and alive in a way that always made me feel at ease.
I kicked off my boots by the door and tossed my bag onto the chair near the window.
“Book club ran late?” Olivia questioned from the couch, where she was curled up in her usual editing corner. Her oversized hoodie made her look like a sentient pile of laundry, her glasses reflecting the glow of her laptop.
“Not that late,” I said, heading to the kitchen. “I ended up getting coffee. With a guy,” I trailed off.
Callie was perched on the counter with a plate of toast balanced in one hand and her phone in the other. She wore a pair of bright leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that fell off one shoulder, her blonde hair pulled into a messy bun. She looked up as I grabbed a glass of water.
Callie raised an eyebrow, taking a bite of toast as she perched on the arm of the couch. “Do we get details, or are you going to leave us hanging?”
“He’s an odd one.” I slid into the worn armchair across from them, my legs curling underneath me. “Sarcastic, broody, the whole Heathcliff package—minus the moors. But he’s witty, you know? Like, he actually says things that make you want to listen.”
Callie gave me a knowing smirk. “And? Did he make you swoon?”
“Not exactly swoon,” I said, rolling my eyes. “But he definitely left an impression.”
“Okay, spill. What’s he look like?” Olivia demanded.
I leaned back against the counter, letting my glass dangle loosely in my hand. “He’s hot. Tall. Muscles but not in a gym bro way. He’s got this quiet intensity about him.”
Callie raised her eyebrows. “Okay, and?”
“Chestnut brown hair, kind of wavy. Not too neat, but not a total mess either. He’s got broad shoulders and sexy forearms. High cheekbones with a smattering of freckles right across his nose, strong jaw, and these lips that look like they should say kind things but rarely do.”
Callie grinned. “Damn, Moon. Save some adjectives for the rest of us.”
I waved her off, my fingers tapping the counter. “No, but it’s his eyes. They’re light—green or maybe hazel. I don’t know, there are flecks in them. But there’s this…contrast. His mouth smirks, but his eyes give him away. Like he’s guarded, but not really. Like there’s something softer under all that judgment.”
Olivia tilted her head. “So, he’s cute but complicated.”
“Exactly,” I said, setting the glass down. “And his hands?—”
“Big hands?” Callie cut in, laughing.
“Yes,” I said, unfazed. “Strong, long fingers, clean nails. The kind of hands that look good holding something small, like a book. He’s got this faint stain on his finger—ink, I guess—and these light callouses.”
Callie leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “You’re into him.”
I sighed, crossing my arms. “He’s caught my attention, okay? He’s probably dangerous to fall for, but there’s something about him that feels…real.”
“Yeah, okay, you’re toast,” Olivia said, her tone dripping with amusement.
I rolled my eyes and made for my room, ignoring their laughter. The door clicked shut behind me, the quiet rushing in all at once.
The moment I sat on my bed, the tightness in my chest turned into something warmer, something that flushed my cheeks. I pushed to my feet and headed for the bathroom, hoping a shower might ease the restless heat curling beneath my skin.
I thought about the way he’d looked at me, like he was trying to figure out if I was a puzzle he wanted to solve. His green eyes, flickering with that sharp mix of challenge and amusement, had lingered on me—on my body, but also searching my own, like he was trying to read me.
His voice echoed in my head, low and deliberate. Most poetry barely knows how to touch you, let alone leave a mark.
The way his lips had moved when he said it—controlled, but just soft enough to make you wonder what they’d feel like—sent a ripple through me.
The bathroom filled with steam as I peeled my clothes off, piece by piece, until I was bare, my skin already damp from the humid air. The mirror was fogged, but I could still see the faint outline of my body—flushed cheeks, taut nipples, the curve of my hips—and I couldn’t stop myself from imagining how he would see me. Would his gaze linger the way mine did? Would his lips twitch in that almost-smile, like he’d found some secret in me that he wanted to tease to the surface?
Holden.
The thought of him made my core ache, longing for attention. His light eyes that unraveled me, tracing over me like they could strip me bare with a single look. And his hands—God, those hands—big, masculine hands, like they’d take their time exploring every inch of me until I was trembling beneath them.
I stepped into the shower, gasping softly as the first spray of water hit me. It was scalding, and I turned the knob of the faucet back a bit. But the heat spreading under my skin and pooling low in my belly wasn’t from the water. My head fell back, my wet hair sticking to my shoulders, and I closed my eyes, letting the water drown out everything but him.
I could feel him here, just behind me, his tall, lean frame pressing into mine. His hands would slide over my wet skin, starting at my hips and moving upward, calloused fingers tracing every curve, every dip, every line. I could imagine him grabbing my breasts, massaging them with his long fingers, his thumb flicking my nipple and pinching it until I moaned. My breath hitched as I imagined his lips brushing against the back of my neck, soft at first, then rougher as he bit down gently, teasing me until I couldn’t take it anymore.
I let my hands mimic his, trailing down my stomach, my slick fingers slipping between my thighs. A shudder ran through me, my lips parting as I moaned, the sound swallowed by the steady pounding of the water. My fingers lingered over my folds, sliding back and forth between the tight little nub of my clit and my slick opening, filled with heat. I slipped a finger inside my warmth, imagining it was his.
“Holden,” I whispered, his name slipping out before I could stop it.
In my mind, his hands were everywhere—gripping my hips, sliding down the backs of my thighs, pulling me against him until I could feel the hard line of his body pressed into mine. I imagined his erection pressing into my back, long and solid, fully hard as he fisted himself, rubbing the tip slowly from the plush curve of my ass up to the small of my back. He’d take his hand, splayed on my belly, and pull me back into him, his dick rigid and pointing straight up between us.
His mouth would travel down the L of my neck, licking from my ear down to my shoulder, leaving a wet, burning path on my skin. He’d whisper something low, something filthy, something that would have me begging him to keep going. I want to bite and kiss every inch of you, and then I want to fuck you and fill you.
My fingers worked faster, circling that aching spot as my other hand pressed against the cool tile for balance. I bit my lip, imagining him kneeling behind me, his mouth replacing my fingers, his tongue flicking, caressing, driving me insane as he plunged his tongue into my pussy, licking me from the inside out. I could almost feel his breath, hot against my skin, his hands gripping me tighter, keeping me exactly where he wanted.
“Fuck,” I moaned, louder this time, my hips grinding into my hand as the tension in my core built higher and higher, coiling tighter with every thought of him. In my mind, he’d stand, spinning me around to face him. Those light eyes would burn into mine, and he wouldn’t wait—he’d kiss me hard, his hands tangling in my hair as he pinned me to the wall, the water pouring over us. Holden wouldn’t be a gentle kisser. I’m sure he’d ravage my mouth, sucking my bottom lip into his mouth, nipping with his teeth, owning me.
With his mouth at my ear, groaning my name like he couldn’t hold back any longer, he’d pick me up and line up his cock with my entrance, swiping the tip of his dick that was coated in pre-cum dripping from his slit. He’d rub into my folds and, staring into my soul, push into me then, one deep, deliberate thrust of his cock. With the heat and the wetness of the shower, my pussy dripping from thoughts of Holden taking me, and my fingers working furiously to push into me like his cock would, my body clenched as the orgasm ripped through me, leaving me trembling, as my fingers slowed, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure.
I leaned against the tile, the water streaming down my back, my legs weak, my chest heaving. But even as my breathing steadied, the tension wasn’t fully gone. Holden Goodloe was still there, living rent free in my mind.
And the worst part? A part of me never wanted him to leave.
I bit my lip, trying to steady my breathing as the thought of him swirled deeper, hotter, impossible to shake. For a moment, it was just me, the water, and the ghost of his touch—perfectly imagined, perfectly impossible.
And when I finally stepped out of the shower, skin flushed and chest heaving, I knew I was already in trouble.