41. Sloane #2
A waiter passes with a tray of champagne flutes. Laughter drifts from a nearby table. The city moves around us, but it's all background noise to the heat simmering between us.
"We tried this before," I whisper. "Look what happened."
"I'm looking at you now." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "Only you."
The touch sends electricity up my spine. I should pull away. I should make some excuse about an early meeting tomorrow. I should remember how it felt to pack my life into boxes and drive away from everything I'd built.
Instead, I stand frozen, caught in his gravity.
"Come to my room with me."
The bluntness steals my breath. His room. Just us. No interruptions, no child monitors, no custody battles or tabloid photographers. Just skin on skin and all the words we never said.
My feet don't carry me away. I hesitate, my heart in my throat.
"This doesn't fix anything," I manage.
"I'm not asking for fixed. I'm asking for tonight."
Every sensible part of me says no. Every cell that remembers the pain screams no.
But my pulse, my treacherous, wanting pulse, screams yes.
I finally nod once, almost imperceptibly, and he takes my hand, leading me inside toward the elevators.
The elevator doors slide shut, and just like that, we're alone. Pope's eyes don't leave mine as we travel to his floor. We don't speak. The air between us crackles with electricity, thick with months of silence, hurt, and the ache of wanting.
His knuckles brush mine. It's not a grab, not a demand, just a question. I answer by sliding my fingers between his, holding on like I should have months ago.
The door to his suite clicks shut behind us, and déjà vu slams into me. A hotel room. A door at my back. The first time, he was a stranger, and I let him take me like I’d never see him again.
This time, he isn’t a stranger. He’s everything I swore I couldn’t have, and still the only man I want.
Before I can think, Pope has me pinned against the door, his mouth crashing into mine. All the careful distance we fought to maintain vanishes, burned away in the heat of his kiss. Hungry. Desperate. Consuming.
And I match him, breath for breath, like I’ve been starving too.
“I’ve missed you,” he growls against my lips, his hands sliding beneath my blouse, palms hot on my skin.
I can't speak, can barely breathe as his fingers trace fire up my ribs. When buttons prove too slow, he tugs and they scatter across the carpet. His mouth moves to my throat, sucking bruises into my skin like he's marking me, claiming me after all this time apart.
My hands aren't gentle either. I claw at his shirt, shoving it up to feel the hard planes of his chest, the heat of his skin. The familiar scent of him, his expensive cologne, fills my senses, drowning me in memories.
He lifts me effortlessly against the door, and I wrap my legs around his waist. Even through layers of clothing, I feel him hard against me, pressing exactly where I need him.
"Bed," I gasp, the single word all I can manage.
Pope carries me there, half stumbling in his urgency, never breaking our kiss. The back of my knees hit the mattress, and suddenly I'm falling, Pope following me down onto crisp white sheets.
Clothes vanish in frantic movements. My bra flies across the room, his belt clatters to the floor, my panties slide down my thighs, and he tosses them aside like they’re nothing but an obstacle.
The city lights cut through the sheer curtains, striping shadows across his face. For a heartbeat, I just look at him, this man I thought I’d lost, and then I yank him closer, crushing my mouth to his.
His lips trail down, hot and rough, until he catches my nipple between his teeth. A sharp cry rips out of me, and I fist his hair, holding him there, arching into the scrape of his tongue.
“Lower.” My voice is ragged. I tug him down, guiding him over ribs, stomach, until he’s exactly where I want him.
The first sweep of his tongue over my clit makes my thighs shake. I lock them around his shoulders, grinding against his mouth, chasing every flick. “Harder,” I pant, dragging at his hair, refusing to let him set the pace.
Two fingers push inside, curling perfectly, and I thrash against the sheets. “Yes—there. Don’t stop.” My voice breaks, but I hold him tighter, forcing every stroke, every flick, until my whole body feels wired to detonate.
“Fuck, Pope. Now.” I haul him up by his shoulders, mouths colliding, breath hot. “I need you inside me.”
He shoves his pants down, cock thick in my hand as I stroke once, then guide him where I’m already wet and ready. I spread myself wide, pulling him in.
The stretch makes me cry out, and I dig my nails into his back, holding him to me as he buries deep. “Move,” I order, hips grinding against his, pushing for more.
His rhythm pounds into me, raw, filthy, the slap of skin loud in the quiet room. Sweat slicks between us, my body straining for every thrust.
“Touch me,” I gasp, grabbing his hand, forcing it lower. “Not just there.” I press his finger behind me, voice broken but sure. “There. Only for you.”
His growl is rough in my ear as he circles, just the way I want. The stretch, his cock driving deep, his fingers stroking me everywhere at once—I break apart, screaming his name, convulsing around him until he follows, jerking hard, groaning into my throat as he spills inside me.
We collapse tangled, his weight pinning me, his arms holding me like if he lets go, I’ll vanish again.
I press my lips to his ear, the words I swore I’d never give him rising to the edge of my tongue.
For one reckless moment, I almost let them slip. But the fear of saying them too soon, of him leaving again, holds me back.
I stay silent, holding him tighter instead, letting the moment speak for itself.