Chapter 21
Daphne
Kieren deepened the kiss like he’d been waiting his whole damn life for this—like he didn’t care that this could ruin everything.
His mouth was demanding, urgent, tasting me like I was the only thing keeping him grounded.
I melted into it, matching his intensity, because I’d waited too.
Waited for someone to want me like this, to hold nothing back.
I slid my hands into his hair, threading my fingers through the thick strands and tugging just enough to make him growl against my lips.
It only made him kiss me harder. He pressed me back, one hand splayed at my waist, the other gripping the back of my neck like he couldn’t stand the thought of me slipping away.
He wasn’t gentle—but I didn’t want gentle. I wanted real.
And this?
This was fire. Chaos. His hands on my body felt like desperation and devotion all at once, and mine returned it in kind, like we both knew this moment was borrowed time. Every press of his mouth told me something words hadn’t. That he was drowning. That I was the air.
He shifted, breaking the kiss only long enough to meet my eyes—his pupils blown wide, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he couldn’t catch his breath.
“Daphne,” he whispered, voice low and wrecked, and something about the way he said my name made my knees weak.
Like I was the only thing tethering him to the earth.
I didn’t say anything back. I just kissed him again. Because if this was going to ruin us—if this was going to make everything worse—then I at least wanted to remember what it felt like to be wanted like this.
Just once.
By someone who made me feel like I wasn’t a consolation prize, but the goddamn win.
We didn’t stop kissing as we fell onto the bed, like the distance between the door and the mattress was some kind of battlefield we had to cross without letting go.
Kieren’s hands stayed on me—fierce and focused—like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between us.
My fingers dragged across the hem of his shirt, pulling it upward as his mouth devoured mine.
He broke the kiss just long enough to yank his shirt over his head, eyes burning into mine as he did.
I barely had time to breathe before his lips were back on me, hungrier now, like he needed this to survive.
My hoodie was next—his hands slipping beneath it, hot and insistent, before he helped peel it away inch by inch, never rushing, never breaking the tension.
My tank top followed, and then his hands were at my waist, thumbs tracing bare skin like he was memorizing me.
I reached for the waistband of his joggers, tugging them down without hesitation, my pulse thundering in my ears.
There was something sacred about it—not just lust, but the unspoken honesty of two people letting themselves be seen.
The more clothes we shed, the more vulnerable it felt. He watched me like I was something fragile, even as his touch said otherwise—firm, reverent, claiming. I let him look. Let him see every inch. Because somehow, in all this chaos, I trusted him with the pieces I usually kept hidden.
By the time my sweats hit the floor and we collapsed onto the bed, we weren’t just undressed—we were exposed.
Raw.
And I didn’t feel self-conscious.
Not once.
Not under his gaze.
Not when his mouth found mine again like a promise he couldn’t break.
This wasn’t a good idea.
It wasn’t smart. Wasn’t professional. Definitely wasn’t the kind of thing you did with someone whose career was on the line—whose reputation was barely hanging on after a locker room fight and a viral video.
But as Kieren reached out, fingers ghosting across my cheek, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Because this—he—felt like the only thing I’d wanted since the day we met.
His touch was featherlight, like he wasn’t sure I’d let him. Like he was giving me a moment to stop this. To pull away.
But I didn’t.
I tilted my face into his palm, let my eyes flutter shut for just a second, just long enough to memorize the feel of his skin against mine.
His fingers trailed lower, grazing the hollow of my collarbone. I swore I felt it in my knees.
I shivered.
So did he.
And I don’t think it was from the cold.
I opened my eyes and found his locked on mine, pupils blown, chest rising like he was barely holding it together. The world outside the hotel room—the headlines, the group chat chaos, the mistakes and regrets—they all felt far away. Distant. Irrelevant.
There was only this moment. Only him.
Only the way his thumb brushed the curve of my hip like he couldn’t believe I was letting him. Like maybe he was afraid I’d vanish.
“Daphne,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
“I know,” I breathed, even though he hadn’t said anything else.
I knew what he meant.
I felt it too.
And I wasn’t ready to let go.
The moment built slowly.
No rush. No clumsy urgency. Just heat and reverence—like we were memorizing each other with our hands, our mouths, our breath.
His fingers skimmed the back of my neck, down my spine, over the swell of my hips like he was asking a silent question.
We kissed again, and it was different now—deeper, fuller. Not wild. Not chaotic. Just… full of everything we hadn’t said and everything we couldn’t stop feeling. It tasted like things we shouldn’t want but craved, anyway.
His hands were on my skin, warm and possessive, but gentle. Like I was something he wanted to hold, not just have. And mine were just as eager, tracing every scar, every muscle, every place he tensed beneath my palms.
“You sure?” he murmured against my shoulder, voice low and rasped and barely holding it together.
I tilted my head, letting him press his mouth there, right where my pulse was hammering.
“Last chance,” he said again, his breath hot against my skin.
I smiled, even as my heart thudded against my ribs. “You’re not scaring me.”
His lips stilled.
“That’s what scares me,” he whispered.
That cracked something open in me.
Because I understood.
The way this wasn’t just a hookup or a moment of weakness.
The way it mattered.
The way touching him meant stepping into something real, something neither of us could take back. And maybe we weren’t ready for what that meant. But we were already too far in to pretend it didn’t exist.
I cupped his jaw and guided his gaze back to mine.
“I want this,” I told him softly. “I want you.”
The look in his eyes wrecked me—like no one had ever said that to him and meant it.
He kissed me again—slowly, reverently—before laying me back against the sheets like I was something to be cherished, not conquered.
Every touch after that was deliberate. His hands roamed like he had all the time in the world, like he wanted to learn me by heart. No words. Just sighs and soft gasps, the kind that told the truth better than any sentence could.
He hovered above me, eyes stormy and vulnerable. Waiting.
I reached for him.
And he came undone like he’d been waiting his whole life to be wanted without condition.
We moved together, slow and devastating, wrapped in heat and ache and something dangerously close to hope.
And when I looked up and saw my reflection in his eyes—I didn’t see someone pretending anymore.
I saw the real thing.
His touch felt like a prayer.
That was the only way I could describe it. The way his hands moved over me—slow, deliberate, worshipful. Not like he was claiming me. Like he was discovering something he didn’t know he needed until now.
He took his time, brushing the backs of his fingers down the line of my throat, along the curve of my shoulder, across the dip of my waist. He mapped every inch like it mattered—like I mattered. Every brush of skin against skin made it harder to breathe, but I didn’t want air. I just wanted him.
Kieren leaned in, his mouth grazing my collarbone, and I felt it all the way down to my toes. His breath warmed the path he kissed, and I arched beneath him, helpless to the shiver that rolled through me.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured.
“So are you.”
And he was—barely, but I felt it. In the way his hands paused, the way his chest rose and fell a little too fast. He wasn’t pretending. He wasn’t just trying to impress me or win me. He was here, fully and completely, and somehow, that made everything feel ten times hotter.
His hands slid down, fingers tracing my ribs like he was listening for a heartbeat in every one. When he found the place just above my hip, he stilled.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he said, voice thick and low.
“I think I do,” I whispered, guiding his hand a little lower.
His eyes darkened. Not with lust, but with something far more dangerous—need.
He kissed me again—deeper this time, slower, but no less intense. And as our mouths moved together, his hands explored me like he was trying to remember this. Like he didn’t want to forget a single inch.
I was drowning in him—in the heat of his skin, in the soft scrape of stubble against my cheek, in the sound he made when I tangled my fingers in his hair and pulled just enough to drive him a little wild.
He murmured my name like it meant something more now. Like I meant something more.
And the way he looked at me—God, I’d never been looked at like that. Not like a trophy. Not like a fantasy.
Like I was real.
My breath hitched when he kissed the inside of my wrist. When he pressed his palm flat against my stomach and looked at me like he was asking permission every step of the way—even when I was already arching into him, already whispering yes in a voice I barely recognized as my own.
He took his time. Not just because he could, but because he wanted to. Because touching me like this wasn’t just physical—it was something sacred to him.
And maybe it was sacred to me too.
Because in that moment, I didn’t feel broken or forgotten or like someone trying too hard to prove her worth.
I just felt wanted. Cherished. Like I was the only thing that mattered.