17. Sloane
SEVENTEEN
Sloane
I stare at the ocean, half-listening to the waves crash against the sand in the distance.
The twilight air is heavy with everything we're not saying. Pope sits across from me, his presence both comforting and terrifying. My wine glass is still half-full, but I'm already feeling lightheaded without the alcohol.
I'd meant it about the job and Lennon, but there's more to that truth than I'm ready to admit.
I sneak a glance at Pope. His profile is sharp against the darkening sky, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his water glass.
The memory of those same fingers against my skin flashes through my mind.
This is ridiculous. I'm his employee. Lennon's caregiver. I can't be sitting here imagining him in that way.
Pope turns toward me, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "This is the part where we're supposed to pretend that kiss the other day didn't happen, isn't it? Just like we've pretended we were strangers when you came here to interview."
My heart stops, then races double-time. He's acknowledging it all in one fell swoop, bringing it into the open air between us.
"Is that what you want?" The question slips out before I can stop it, vulnerable and hopeful. Please say no. Please say this isn't just me.
His expression shifts, playfulness giving way to something deeper, more serious. "No, it isn't."
The certainty in his voice sends a current through me. He reaches across the space between our chairs, his fingers brushing against mine where they rest on the armrest.
The contact is electric, simple, and devastating. I could pull away. I should pull away. This crosses every professional boundary I've ever set.
"Don't sleep with that man again." Maris' words blare through my brain.
Instead, I turn my hand palm-up and lace my fingers through his. A choice. A clear, conscious decision.
His fingers tighten in a gentle squeeze that feels like a question. Are you sure?
I squeeze back. Yes.
Pope leans forward, his free hand reaching up to cup my cheek. His palm is warm against my skin, his thumb stroking my cheekbone with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
"Sloane," he whispers, my name sounding different in his mouth than it ever has before.
I lean into his touch, closing my eyes briefly. This is crazy and complicated and probably a terrible idea. But it also feels like stepping into a room I didn't know I was looking for and finding everything exactly where it should be.
Pope moves closer, the space between us shrinking until his breath sends shivers along my skin, and his lips are against mine. His hand still holds mine, an anchor in the storm of sensation.
And just like that, the world spins away. This kiss is nothing like our first night. There's no desperate race against time, no fumbling urgency, no rough meeting between strangers.
This is slow, deliberate, and more intimate in every way.
He pulls me to him, guiding me to his lap. My free hand slides up his chest to rest against his heartbeat. It pounds under my palm, a steady rhythm that matches my own.
His mouth is warm, tasting faintly of mint and something uniquely him. I could drown in this kiss and never want for air.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless. Pope's eyes have darkened, the intensity in them making my entire body tremble.
"I've been thinking about doing that again since the moment I saw you standing in my doorway talking to Lennon," he murmurs against my cheek.
"Even when you were pretending not to know me?"
His erection is pressed into me, sending pulses through my body. I'm already wet for him, and it's only a kiss.
"Especially then."
He kisses me again, deeper this time. The restraint from before dissolves, and the hunger for him is insatiable now. His hand slides from my cheek to my neck, thumb tracing my collarbone in a way that makes me shiver.
This is a terrible idea. The best terrible idea I've ever had.
When Pope pulls back, a low growl rumbles in his throat. "Come to bed with me." His voice is a command wrapped in velvet.
He shifts his weight, his thighs bunching beneath me, and plants his feet firmly on the ground. His arms are already around my waist, and with a controlled, graceful motion, he lifts me with him as he rises from the lounge chair.
He grabs the monitor sitting on the table, and I instinctively wrap my legs around his hips, my arms tightening around his neck. The feeling of being held so securely, of being lifted and carried by him, is intoxicating.
His eyes never leave mine.
He carries me from the patio, through the darkened living room where just hours ago we sat with Lennon, talking about horseshoe crabs and enchiladas.
My heart thuds as we move deeper into the house, down the hallway I've only passed through as an employee.
This isn't a stranger's hotel room with anonymous sheets and borrowed time. This is his home, his space. His thumb traces circles on my lower back as we move, a small intimacy that feels almost more intimate than the kiss.
Halfway down the hall, Pope stops, turning to press me gently against the wall. His kiss is patient but devastating, like he has all the time in the world to unravel me.
"I can't stop thinking about you," he confesses against my neck. "It's driving me crazy."
I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him to me. "I know the feeling."
He makes a sound, a low, sexy hum of desire that vibrates against my skin, as my legs fall to the floor. He takes my hand again and leads me up the stairs. When we reach his door, he pushes it open and cups my face, kissing me.
Pope's lips never leave mine as he guides me through the door, kicking it shut behind us.
Moonlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting his bedroom in silver-blue shadows. The space is minimal but luxurious with a massive bed, clean lines, and dark furniture.
His hands find my waist, fingers splaying across my hips as he breaks our kiss to look at me. His gaze travels slowly from my eyes to my mouth, down my neck, lingering on my chest where my heart hammers against my ribs.
"I want to see you," he whispers, his voice rough with desire. "All of you. No rushing this time."
The memory of our first night, frantic, anonymous, clothes barely shed, flashes between us. I set the monitor down on the dresser and reach for the hem of his shirt, my fingers grazing the warm skin beneath. "Your turn first."
He raises his arms, letting me pull the fabric up and over his head. I drop it to the floor, then pause, taking in the sight of him. His chest is broad with muscles, but not showy. A thin trail of dark hair leads down into his pants. A scar curves along his left side, just above his hip.
My fingers trace it lightly. "What's this from?"
"Motorcycle accident in college." His breath catches as my hand moves lower, brushing the waistband of his pants. “Your turn."
He steps closer, gathering the bottom of my blouse in his hands.
The thin shirt lifts slowly, his knuckles dragging against my bare skin, goosebumps racing in their wake.
When the shirt clears my head, he tosses it aside and stares at the plain white bra that does nothing to hide how hard my nipples strain beneath.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, tracing the edge of the cup with one finger. The lightest touch still scorches. I arch into it, chasing more.
My hands fumble at his belt. He helps, sliding it free with a metallic scrape that sends a pulse low in my belly.
I shove the button, drag the zipper down, pushing his pants past his hips. He steps out of them, stripped to black briefs that barely contain the length pressing against the silky fabric.
“Christ, Sloane.” He reaches behind me, unhooking my bra in one swift motion. It falls, and his pupils blow wide. “Perfect.”
His mouth covers my breast, tongue circling a nipple before closing hard around it. A moan tears from me, fingers digging into his shoulders. The scrape of his stubble against sensitive skin lights me up in jagged sparks.
“I need these off,” I gasp, tugging at his briefs. “Now.”
He grins against my skin, then straightens. We strip together, tearing at what’s left until nothing is between us but heat and the rush of breath. Moonlight washes over us, pale on skin, sharp on need.
“I want you inside me,” I whisper against his mouth.
He reaches for the nightstand, pulls out a condom. I tear it open with my teeth and roll it down him, my hand closing over every thick inch. His cock jerks under my touch, heavy and impatient.
He lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist, and carries me to the bed. When he lowers me onto the sheets, his body hovers close enough to radiate heat without relief.
“I want to take my time,” Pope whispers against my collarbone. “Every inch of you.”
His mouth traces a path down my body, lips claiming each new place. My back arches when his tongue circles my nipple, wet heat flooding through me.
“You taste better than I remembered,” he murmurs.
My fingers bury in his hair as he moves lower, the burn of stubble across my stomach making me twitch. “Pope…”
His eyes lift, dark and ravenous. “Say it again.”
“Pope.” My voice is broken, begging.
A ghost of a smile curves his lips before he settles between my thighs.
“Since you asked nicely.”
The first drag of his tongue rips a gasp out of me. He licks me slowly, deliberately, like he wants to memorize how my body shudders.
“Fuck, taste so good,” he growls against me. “I’ve thought about tasting you like this since that night.”
My hips rise into him, chasing. When his finger slides inside, curling hard against a spot that makes me jerk, my head thuds against the pillow.
“That’s it,” he urges. “Give it to me, Sloane. Break for me. Yell for me.”
When it crashes, it’s brutal and consuming, every nerve sparking until I’m screaming his name.
He climbs my body, mouth hot against mine as he pushes inside. Thick, stretching, going deep until my cry breaks the kiss. He holds still, staring down at me, chest heaving.
“You grip me like you were made for this.” His voice cracks. “God.”
I tighten around him, my legs hooking his hips to drag him closer. He keeps a slow rhythm at first, then faster when I whisper for more.
His pace builds, every thrust hammering through me, my body straining for release. Sweat slicks our skin, sliding together, nothing between us but raw heat.
“Like this?” His voice rasps against my neck.
“Yes. Harder.”
He shifts, changing the angle, driving into a place that detonates inside me. I claw his back, panting, stars flashing behind my eyelids.
“Yeah, just like that,” he groans, voice rough. “So fucking good.”
The rhythm falters. “I’m not going to last.”
I slip my hand between us, circling myself where we’re joined. “Come with me.”
His eyes lock with mine, and the intimacy of it wrecks me as much as his thrusts.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Let go.”
Release hits, ripping through me, pulling him over the edge. He pulses inside, body rigid, my name a guttural sound on his lips.
We collapse together, tangled and damp, the weight of him pressing me into the bed. His chest rises against my face as I listen to his heart race.
My mind is blank, but my body still hums. I’m both wrecked and alive.
Pope's heartbeat finally slows beneath my ear, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. We're tangled in his sheets, limbs intertwined, my head resting on his shoulder.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare back, sending little raised bumps across my skin.
I nestle closer, breathing in the scent of his skin. I remember this scent, the clean sweat, faint cologne, and something uniquely him.
"What are you thinking about?" His voice vibrates through his chest against my cheek.
"That this wasn't in my job description."
He chuckles. The sound of his laugh is warm and genuine. The hand on my back stills for a moment.
"Do you regret it?"
I lift my head to look at him. In the moonlight streaming through the windows, his face seems softer, the hard edges of control smoothed away.
"No. But it definitely complicates things."
"Everything about this situation is complicated." His eyes close briefly, a furrow appearing between his brows.
His voice drops low, rougher than usual, and a crease pulls between his brows. The man who never falters comes off as unsure, maybe even lost, for the first time.
"With Lennon, you mean?"
"With all of it." His arm tightens around me. "I never planned to be anyone's guardian. I don't know how to be what he needs."
I prop myself up on one elbow, looking down at him. "You're doing better than you think."
"Am I?" The question is quiet, earnest.
"Yeah, you are. You impress me. I realize this is all foreign to you, yet you’re showing up and you care. I thought you were his dad at first. But after you told me what you’re doing, every gesture you make with him is a gift to that little boy."
"I don't know. It's bigger than—" He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.
I place my palm against his cheek. "Than love?"
Pope turns his face into my touch. "I didn't expect to care this much. Not this fast."
"I know the feeling." The words slip out before I can stop them.
His eyes find mine, questioning.
Pope pulls me down for a kiss that’s gentle and achingly sweet.
"When you came to interview, I thought I was hallucinating," he murmurs against my lips. "And then I had to sit there pretending we'd never met while watching you connect with Lennon in five minutes in ways I couldn't manage."
"I've spent the last week telling myself this was a terrible idea. The fact that I can’t stop thinking about that night, that every time you walk into a room, my stomach drops and I get all nervous, is a red flag I can’t get enough of.”
"It probably is." His fingers thread through my hair. "But here we are anyway."
We fall silent, the confession hanging between us. I settle back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Pope pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
I nuzzle my cheek to his chest. His heart kicks fast against my ear, the rhythm unsteady, like every word costs him more than he wants me to see.
I slide my hand up to his shoulder, wrapping my hand around his neck. I don’t do it to silence him, but to tell him without words that I’m not going anywhere.
His breathing eventually evens out, and mine follows, our bodies syncing as we drift toward sleep. The peaceful weight of his arm around me feels like safety, like something I could get dangerously used to.
Just as consciousness begins to slip away, a faint, high-pitched beeping pierces the silence.