Epilogue #4
"I want this," she said, because the words mattered. "I want you. The ridiculous carefulness, the dry jokes, the way you make coffee like it’s an audit. I want the part where I can say no and you don’t punish me. I want the part where I can say yes… and you still ask."
His breath deepened. She felt the careful discipline in him — desire held tightly in both hands so it would never become pressure.
"I want that too," he said. "Including the coffee audits."
"Especially those," she murmured.
She pulled back to look at him. His eyes were dark, pupils wide. When she kissed him again, the smile faded into heat. His mouth moved against hers, slow and deep, tongue stroking in a way that made her cunt clench with anticipation.
Callum’s hand slid up her side, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through her dress. Her nipple hardened instantly under his touch. She arched into him, and he answered by cupping her breast fully, rolling the tight peak between his fingers until she gasped into his mouth.
Maren’s hand drifted lower, palming the thick, hard ridge of his cock through his trousers. He was fully erect, hot and heavy, twitching under her touch. She stroked him slowly, feeling him throb as a small damp spot formed against the fabric.
"Fuck, Maren," he breathed against her lips.
She paused twice — once to steady her breathing, once to look him in the eyes. Both times he waited, perfectly still, cock straining in her hand, giving her space. Each pause only made the want return stronger, cleaner.
When his mouth found the curve of her jaw and then her throat, she closed her eyes and gripped his sleeve.
His other hand slipped under the hem of her dress, sliding up her thigh until his fingers brushed the soaked fabric between her legs.
He groaned softly at how wet she was, stroking her through her panties with gentle, devastating pressure right over her swollen clit.
Pleasure coiled tight and bright. She rocked against his hand, chasing the friction, her breath coming in soft moans against his neck.
But they both knew the clock was ticking.
Callum drew back first, though his cock was still hard and his fingers glistened with her arousal. The way he stopped had become part of the desire itself.
"Breakfast," he said, voice rough and wrecked in the way that satisfied some wicked part of her.
"You remembered."
"I’m heroic."
"You’re scheduled."
"In my field, that’s similar."
Maren laughed into his shirt, then smoothed her dress down over her still-flushed skin. Her nipples were visibly tight, her panties soaked, her body humming with unfinished need. Callum watched her fix one earring, eyes dark with promise.
"After the breakfast," he said, "do you want to have dinner somewhere that does not involve a room service tray, an emergency board packet, or your mother calling about photographs?"
"That depends."
"On?"
"Whether dinner is an invitation or a recovery plan."
"Invitation."
"Then yes."
She touched his tie, straightened it, and let her fingers linger deliberately against his chest.
"Still yes?" he asked quietly.
She smiled, pulse still racing between her legs. "Still yes."
The room felt larger after that.
Nothing had been resolved forever. Maren distrusted forever when it arrived wearing perfume and a family crest. But the air had changed. Her body had learned another fact and filed it somewhere deeper than language: desire could leave her authority intact.
She checked her phone.
Three messages from Willa.
The first:
Sponsor table thinks the croissants are too small.
The second:
I told them grief has made them unreasonable.
The third:
Come downstairs before I become literature.
Maren showed Callum the screen.
"We should go," he said.
"Because of the croissants?"
"Because Willa becoming literature would damage the quarterly report."
They left the suite together, but not hand in hand until they reached the corridor. There, he offered his hand without assuming she wanted the public version of what had just happened in private.
Maren took it.
Two housekeepers came around the corner with fresh linen. One of them was new, a college student named Devon who still treated every senior staff member like a possible exam. He saw Maren, saw Callum, saw their hands, and immediately looked at the ceiling as if the plaster had become fascinating.
"Good morning, Devon," Maren said.
"Good morning, Ms. Daws. Mr. Hale."
The second housekeeper, Beatriz, had been at The Arden for twenty-two years and feared nothing except cheap vacuum bags. She glanced at their hands and gave a satisfied little nod.
"Suite is signed off," she said. "But the balcony latch is stiff."
"Put it into maintenance," Maren said.
"Already did."
"Then you are the reason this hotel survives."
"I know."
Callum waited until the linen cart had rolled away before he said, "She terrifies me."
"Beatriz?"
"Deeply."
"Good. She should."
At the elevator, Maren pressed the button herself.
An old reflex made her look down the hall toward the service stairs, toward the route she had taken when she fled the anniversary suite with her whole life falling out from under her.
She expected grief to rise. It did, but smaller than before, carrying less instruction.
The past was not gone.
It was no longer in charge of transportation.
The elevator arrived.
Inside, Callum did not crowd her. He stood beside her, close enough that their sleeves brushed, far enough that the mirrored walls did not turn him into a cage.
"I got another email from my brother," he said.
Maren looked at him through the reflection. "And?"
"And I have not opened it."
"Is that good or bad?"
"It is new."
"New can be good."
"New can be a hallway with no floor."
"That was almost poetic."
"Please do not tell Willa."
The elevator descended.
"Do you want to open it alone?" Maren asked.
"No."
"Do you want me there?"
"Yes."
"Today?"
He thought about it. "Tomorrow."
"Then tomorrow."
He breathed out, quiet but real.
She reached over and pressed her thumb once against the back of his hand.