Chapter Thirty-Three
Bella
New York
The next morning, I woke up with a dangerous, unfamiliar sensation.
Lightness.
I lay still, staring at the ceiling, letting memories circle. The senior dance class. The silver-haired couples calling us “cute.” Drew’s hand at my waist—steady and warm. The jazz basement. The bourbon. The way we’d talked as if we weren’t balancing a generational feud on our shoulders.
And then, the hug outside my door.
The hug that had made me want to scream with frustration because I’d wanted his mouth on mine. I’d wanted the world to disappear. Instead, he’d held me as if he had all the time in the world. He wasn’t taking; he was giving me space to breathe while still managing to make me feel entirely claimed.
It was infuriating. It was also . . . new.
I rolled onto my side and pressed my face into the pillow, telling myself—firmly—this didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. The minute I let it matter, I was standing on a cliff with no guarantee of solid ground.
My phone buzzed. I reached for it, expecting a text from Sloane.
Brady.
I answered on the first ring. “Hi.”
“Hey.” Brady’s voice was warm but cautious. “Sorry to call you early.”
“I’m always up early and you can call me anytime. What do you need?”
He let out a soft laugh. “Nothing. Just missing you.”
“How are you?” I asked. I missed him, too, but he didn’t normally call me first thing in the morning.
“I’m better than okay, Bells.” He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “So . . . I heard you’re dating Drew Burke.”
Ah, there it was . . . the real reason for his call. I shut my eyes. The world really didn’t keep secrets. “It’s complicated.”
“I’m proud of you,” he said softly.
I went still. “What?”
“You heard me. Telling Dad . . . doing it in front of everyone. That couldn’t have been easy.”
I leaned back against the headboard, watching the morning light crawl across the floor. “It wasn’t.”
“I know. And Dad didn’t handle it well. But I’m glad you did it anyway. I’m glad you followed your heart.”
Was that what I was doing? “You’re sweet, Brady.”
“You deserve to be happy, Bells. Truly.”
My chest ached with a sudden, sharp pressure. To distract him—and myself—I sat up. “Okay, enough about me. Let’s talk about you and Nora.”
Silence. A long, guilty silence.
“What about Nora?” he asked, his voice climbing an octave.
I smiled. My brother was the worst liar in New England. “What about Nora, indeed. Brady, there is nothing standing between you two. Nothing. Drew and I handled it. The charges are dropped, the insanity is on pause. You don’t have to hide.”
He let out a slow, shaky breath. “You did all that for me?”
“For Nora too. And for you. Because neither of you should have to carry their baggage.”
“I don’t want her dragged into this,” he said, his voice going quiet and protective. “She doesn’t deserve it.”
“She won’t be. Not if Drew and I have anything to say about it.”
“Bella, are you sure you’re okay with this? With me hanging out with her?”
I softened my tone. “I want you to have whatever makes you happy. So, if there is an ‘interest’ in Nora Burke . . .”
“We’re just friends,” he blurted.
I grinned. Sure “Well, that ever changes, you don’t have to be afraid of Dad.”
“Okay. And Bella? Tell Drew that if he breaks your heart, I’ll . . . I’ll do something. Something involving a very strongly worded email and possibly a heavy object.”
I laughed, real and bright. “You’re adorable.”
“I’m serious. I’m glad you’re choosing you.”
When the call ended, I sat in the quiet, feeling a strange sense of peace. I was being seen. By my mother. By my brother. By a man who had hugged me instead of taking from me.
The day flew by. I was home, tucking myself onto the couch with a thick blanket and a desire to lose myself in a movie when my phone buzzed.
Drew: Are you home?
My pulse jumped.
Bella: Yes.
Drew: I’m coming up.
I froze.
Bella: Now?
Drew: Yes.
I tensed and looked down at myself—oversized sweater, bare legs, messy knot, zero makeup. I should have panicked. Instead, a sharp, surprising heat bloomed in my belly.
Bella: Okay.
The doorbell rang as I was tidying up. I walked to the door and opened it.
Drew stood in the hallway looking like a man who hadn’t slept in days. His coat was open, his hair was windswept, and his eyes were dark. He didn’t smile. He devoured me with his eyes as if he’d been holding himself back for a week and had finally reached his limit.
“Hi,” I managed.
His gaze swept over me, slow and thorough. His jaw tightened. He stepped into the apartment without asking and closed the door. The click of the lock sent excitement straight to my undies.
“Are you okay?” he asked. His voice was low, and it carried a weight that made the question feel like more than a greeting.
I blinked. “Yes. Why are you asking like that?”
“Because I care about you,” he murmured, stepping into my space.
I fought to keep my composure. “You didn’t mention you were coming to New York today.”
“I needed to see you,” he said simply. He moved closer, until I could smell the cold winter air and the clean, dark scent of him. “I’ve been trying to concentrate all week. I can’t.”
“Why?” I whispered.
“Because you’re in my head.”
He lifted a hand, his knuckles brushing my cheek. The touch was gentle, but it sent a spark through me that nearly took my knees out.
“Bella, I don’t want to rush you,” he murmured. He didn’t sound amused or teasing today. He sounded hungry. Protective. And I didn’t understand why those two things were so tangled together in his eyes.
“Is this about the no-sex rule?”
He leaned in, giving me the choice, and growled. “It’s definitely about the no-sex rule.”
“Are you thinking we should amend it?”
His chest rose and fell while his eyes dilated with desire. “If you’re ready to.”
I answered by lifting onto my toes and meeting him halfway.
The kiss wasn’t a question. It was a collision.
Drew groaned into my mouth, his arms hauling me against him with a strength that felt like relief—as if he’d finally let himself touch me the way he’d been craving since Vermont.
I slid my hands under his coat, feeling the hard muscle beneath his sweater.
He moved to my jaw, then my neck. My head tipped back. “Drew,” I breathed.
He gripped my hips, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye. “You sure?”
“We don’t need that rule,” I whispered.
He lifted me as if I weighed nothing and carried me down the hall.
He kicked my bedroom door open and set me on the mattress.
I watched him pull his sweater over his head, a vision of heat and quiet power.
He came down slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every inch.
His mouth found mine again—deeper this time, slower, as if he were trying to memorize the shape of my lips.
His hands slid under my sweater, palms rough and warm against my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts until I arched.
“Drew—” His name came out half plea, half demand. “Rules are overrated.”
He pulled the sweater over my head in one smooth motion, then froze, eyes dark and reverent as they traced me. “God, Bella.”
He kissed a path down my throat, across my collarbone, lower. When his mouth closed over my nipple, I gasped, fingers threading into his hair. He sucked gently, then harder, and the pull went straight between my legs.
I tugged at his belt. “Off. Now.”
A low, rough laugh against my skin. “Bossy.”
“You have no idea.”
He shed the rest of his clothes in seconds, then came back to me, skin hot against my hot skin. His hand slid between my thighs, fingers finding me slick and ready. He groaned—low, broken—when he felt how wet I was.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’ve been thinking about this.”
“It’s all those damn hugs,” I admitted, voice shaking. “You’re a tease.”
“I was practicing patience.” He pushed two fingers inside me, curling them just right, thumb circling my clit with devastating precision. I cried out, hips bucking. He pinned me with his body, mouth at my ear. “But I’d rather practice this. Let go,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
I shattered around his fingers, vision whiting out, his name torn from my throat. He didn’t stop, kept stroking me through it until I was trembling, oversensitive, begging.
“Please,” I gasped. “Now.”
He reached for his pants on the floor, of course he’d brought condoms, rolled one on with shaking hands, then settled between my legs. The blunt head of him pressed against me, teasing, not entering.
“Look at me,” he said, gravel voiced.
I did. His eyes were black with want, but there was something else, something tender and fierce.
He pushed in slow, one long, deep thrust that made us both groan. I felt every inch, every ridge, the stretch and the heat and the perfect, overwhelming fullness. He stilled when he was buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to mine.
“Bella,” he rasped. “Fuck. You feel—”
He didn’t finish. He just started moving, slow at first, so deep, controlled rolls of his hips that dragged against every sensitive spot inside me. I wrapped my legs around him, nails digging into his back, urging him faster.
He gave it to me. Harder. Deeper. The bed creaked, headboard tapping the wall in rhythm. Sweat slicked our skin. His mouth found mine again, messy, desperate kisses that tasted better than my favorite candy.
I came again with a sudden, blinding rush, clenching around him so hard he swore against my lips. He followed seconds later, hips jerking, a broken groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside me.
We stayed like that, locked together, breathing hard. He didn’t pull out right away. He just held me, his face buried in my neck, his heart hammering against mine.
After a long minute, he eased out, disposed of the condom, then came back and tucked me against his chest. His hand absently moved protectively up and down my spine.
I lay there, warm and light. His eyes were closed, but his hand was still moving slowly up and down my arm and I cuddled closer. We napped briefly and when I woke he was still wrapped around me, holding on as if I might slip away again.
“Drew?”
His eyes opened immediately. Alert. Focused. “What?” he asked.
“I’m sorry I left the way I did that first night. I was . . .”
He kissed my shoulder. “I know.”
There was a tension in him, despite the post sex vibe. “Are you okay?”
He held my gaze, his eyes too steady for a man who had just spent an hour in my bed. Then his mouth curved into a soft, private smile.
“I’m better now,” he murmured.
I settled back against him, letting his arm tighten around me. My body was heavy with satisfaction, my mind light with warmth. I had no intention of running that night.
Also, we were at my place.
But as I drifted toward sleep, one last thought flickered through my mind.
This doesn’t feel fake.