Chapter 24 #2
We smiled, shook hands, nodded through polite conversation. Players. Executives. Donors. Politicians in tailored suits. Everyone here with a cause and a camera.
Cam had positioned us perfectly—just enough tension to sell the illusion, just enough allure to keep the press hungry. We were the headline, the storm within the Storm.
And God, I hated every second of it.
Daphne laughed at something a board member said, a soft, practiced sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes. I knew the difference now. I hated that I knew.
She was brilliant at this. Smoothing things over. Playing the game. Making people feel like they were the most important person in the room while she cataloged everything they said for later use. I watched her, studied her, and hated that I’d given her reasons to become so damn good at pretending.
I caught her gaze once across a champagne flute and a cluster of donors. Her smile flickered. Just for a second. Just for me.
I squeezed her waist. She didn’t lean in.
We made our way to the silent auction table, where a few players were laughing over a signed jersey from our rookie year.
My fingers stayed pressed to her lower back, always touching. Always tethered.
And it wasn’t enough.
Because this version of us wasn’t real. It was spotless. Painless. Scripted.
We weren’t kissing in parking lots or arguing about feelings or healing in half-shattered silences. We weren’t falling apart in stairwells or trying to piece it back together. We were just… poised. Glossy. Branded.
I played the part. Said the right things. Even smiled for the cameras when Cam passed by and gave a thumbs up.
But under it all?
I was seething.
Because this was the version of her I didn’t get to keep. And the version I did get—raw, messy, real?
I’d ruined that.
The second the fundraiser dinner hit its halfway point, I was done pretending.
Done smiling for cameras, done sipping champagne, done watching her work the room like I wasn’t even there.
Because I was.
I was right here, touching her, breathing her in, standing beside her like we were still us.
Only we weren’t.
Not really.
Not anymore.
Not since she started flinching when I looked at her too long. Not since she stopped texting back. Not since she buried what happened between us like it was just another tabloid headline to outlast.
But it hadn’t faded for me.
Not even close.
So when she slipped away to speak with a reporter near the dessert table, I followed. She turned and caught me watching, expression unreadable, body poised like she was ready to bolt.
No.
Not tonight.
Not again.
I stepped in, wrapped my fingers around her wrist, and without thinking—without asking—I pulled her with me.
Down the side hallway.
Past the wait staff.
Into the first door that wasn’t locked.
The closet was barely big enough for two people, but I didn’t care.
The second the door clicked shut, I pressed her back against it.
Her chest rose and fell fast. She didn’t say anything.
So I did.
“You’ve been avoiding me, Daph.” My voice came out low, rougher than I meant. “You gonna keep doing that all night?”
She narrowed her eyes, but I saw the flash of something beneath it—uncertainty, maybe even guilt. “You’re the one who caught feelings in a contract,” she shot back.
Her tone was all defense. All armor.
But I’d played too many games tonight to let her get away with hiding again.
I laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just the ache of everything I hadn’t said.
“What I feel for you,” I said, stepping closer, “has nothing to do with paperwork.”
She blinked, and for a second, she looked like she might believe me.
Then she scoffed. “This isn’t real, Kieren. You think just because we had a few good moments, you get to rewrite the rules?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m not the one pretending they didn’t mean anything.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing?” I demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you’re scared. So you’re running.”
Her jaw tightened. “I’m not scared of you.”
“No,” I murmured, crowding in, “you’re scared of us.”
She pushed at my chest—but didn’t tell me to leave.
Didn’t open the door.
Didn’t look away.
I reached for her hand again, threading our fingers together. “Tell me you felt nothing,” I said. “Tell me it was just PR. Just a contract. And I’ll let go.”
She didn’t say a word.
So I kissed her.
Because I couldn’t take it anymore.
Not the distance. Not the lies.
And definitely not the way she kissed me back like she was just as lost as I was.
I couldn’t stop myself. My hand braced beside her head, the other grabbing her hip, dragging her back against the wall like I needed to feel every inch of her just to breathe right.
“You drive me insane,” I rasped, my voice rough and low.
I didn’t wait. I gripped her thighs and hauled her up, the silky fabric of her dress sliding against my hands as she gasped and instinctively wrapped her legs around my waist. Her hands fisted in my jacket, clutching hard like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to pull me closer or shove me away.
Too late for that.
Her back hit the wall with a soft thud, her body flush against mine, and I dipped my head, burying my face in the curve of her neck. The second my mouth touched her skin—warm, soft, still smelling faintly like vanilla and spice—I knew I was gone.
I kissed her throat hungrily, lips trailing fire down to her pulse. She arched, made a sound that killed me, and I gave in to the craving I’d been holding back since the first time she smiled at me like she didn’t know she was setting me on fire.
“I need them to see it,” I growled against her skin. “Need them to know…"
She shivered, but she didn’t stop me. Didn’t pull away.
I sucked a mark into her skin—right above the collarbone, where no amount of makeup would cover it completely—and felt her tremble against me. Her fingers dug into my shoulders, her head tipping back, exposing her neck like she was offering herself up.
Mine.
The closet was dark, cramped, and stifling—but none of that mattered.
She was already wrapped around me, her breath hot against my neck, nails digging into my shoulders like she didn’t care if she left marks. I didn’t care either. I wanted them. Proof that this was real. That she was here, now, with me.
I hitched her leg higher around my waist. The dress was soft under my hands, but her body—God, her body was molten. Every inch of her was fire and fury, desperation and ache.
My mouth found her throat, her shoulder, the curve where neck met collarbone, and I didn’t stop. She arched into me, hips rolling like a dare, and I answered with raw intensity, grounding her against the wall like we could burn the memory of this into plaster and paint.
There was nothing gentle about it. No slow build. Just teeth and tongue and hands pulling, clutching, taking. She wasn’t soft with me, not tonight. She was wild and angry and broken open—and I met her in that space. Matched every movement, every breath, with my own.
Her scent was all over me, in my lungs, under my skin. My jacket was on the floor. Her dress was bunched between us. And still, it wasn’t close enough. I wanted more. I wanted all of her.
Her back hit the wall with each movement. The sound of her breath, the scrape of my belt, the heat between us—this was a storm, not a kiss. A war, not a romance.
And I didn’t care.
She clung to me like I was the only thing anchoring her. But the truth was, she was the one unmaking me—piece by piece, gasp by gasp.
When it ended, we were still tangled. Her legs around me. My hands buried in her hair. Chests heaving. Heart pounding so hard it hurt.
This wasn’t careful. It wasn’t clean.
It was rough and messy and real.
And I knew—if this was the last time I ever got to touch her like this…
I’d never forget the way it felt to fall apart with her.