Chapter 23
twenty-three
MAYA
I should be mortified.
I completely lost it.
It wasn’t the controlled, pretty kind of crying you see in movies.
No, I had a full-blown, snot-nosed, ugly-cry meltdown on my kitchen floor.
The kind where your face gets blotchy and your nose runs and you make those horrible hiccupping sounds that no human should ever make in front of another human.
And Maine saw all of it.
The Maine Show. The player. The loudmouth jock. The convenient roommate and an even more convenient fuck. Except I’ve discovered that he’s none of those things, because that’s not who sat on that cold tile floor with me for God knows how long.
He didn’t try to fix me. Didn’t tell me to calm down or that everything would be OK.
Didn’t offer platitudes or solutions or any of the useless shit people usually say when confronted with someone else’s messy emotions.
He just… stayed with me, available for whatever I needed, however much or little that was.
And when I crawled to him— literally crawled across the floor —he just opened his arms and held me like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was the same as when he’d looked after Chloe, like sitting on the floor with broken girls was just another Tuesday night for him.
And it was another example of how he’s everyone else’s rock.
Always the caretaker, never the one being cared for. Keeping everyone afloat even when he’s drowning. And the recognition of that, plus the memory of his solid warmth—it all crashes over me in a wave of longing so intense it steals my breath.
I need him.
Not want.
Need.
The realization should terrify me. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We had rules and boundaries. But somewhere between passive-aggressive sticky notes and mind-blowing sex, between covering each other with blankets and sitting on kitchen floors, those boundaries dissolved.
And now I’m lying here in my bed, every cell in my body pulling toward his room like he’s magnetic north and I’m a broken compass that finally found its direction.
Fuck it.
I throw off my covers and leave my room before I can talk myself out of it. The hallway feels endless even though it’s only a few steps. My bare feet are silent on the hardwood, but my heart is so loud I’m convinced it’ll wake him before I even reach his door.
It’s slightly ajar, a strip of moonlight cutting across the floor like an invitation.
I push it open slowly, wincing at the tiny creak of the hinges, then step inside.
It’s funny how intimate this feels. He’s seen every inch of my body, been inside me, seen me at my worst… but we’ve always slept apart.
But this?
It feels big, and I don’t even know why.
He’s asleep, sprawled on his back with one arm thrown over his head, the sheet tangled around his waist. The moonlight paints silver highlights across his chest, turning him into something out of a Renaissance painting. He looks beautiful and untouchable and so achingly human all at once.
This is insane. I should leave. Go back to my room and pretend this moment of weakness never happened.
But instead, I move to the empty side of his bed and carefully, so carefully, lift the edge of the sheet.
The mattress dips slightly as I slide in, and I hold my breath, waiting to see if he’ll wake.
He does.
His head turns toward me, eyes blinking open with that slow, confused quality of someone swimming up from the depths of deep sleep. For a moment, we just look at each other in the darkness. I can’t read his expression, can’t tell if he’s about to ask what the hell I’m doing or tell me to leave.
Then understanding dawns in his eyes, soft and warm as summer rain.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask why I’m here or what I need. He just shifts, creating space for me, his arm lifting in silent invitation. And I move into him like coming home, fitting myself against his side with my head on his chest. His arm comes around me, solid and sure.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I whisper into the darkness, though it’s so much more than that.
“Took me a while too,” he admits, probably because he’s wrestling with the same shift in our dynamic that neither of us has dared name.
His hand finds my hair, fingers combing through the tangled strands with a gentleness that makes my throat tight.
I turn my face into his chest, breathing him in, that scent that I’ve come to associate with warmth and safety.
And then I lift my head to look at him looking at me like I’m something precious.
Then I’m kissing him.
This kiss is soft and searching and achingly sweet. His lips move against mine with a reverence that makes me want to cry again, but for entirely different reasons. And when we break apart, we’re both breathing hard, but instead of diving back in, we just look at each other.
Really look.
And what I see in his eyes—the want, yes, but also the tenderness, the care, the something deeper that we’re both too chickenshit to name—undoes me completely. Because it confirms to me exactly what I want, and more than that, exactly what I need .
“I need you,” I whisper, the admission scraped raw from somewhere deep in my chest.
His breath catches, and for a moment I think I’ve said too much, shown too much, been too much. The confession hangs between us, heavy with meaning. I know I’m crossing a line here, one I can’t uncross, one that might be real and messy and dangerous.
But there it is.
On the table.
But instead of responding with words, he rolls us so we’re facing each other on our sides, our bodies aligned from chest to hip to tangled legs. He smiles as his hand skims down my side, fingertips tracing the curve of my waist through my thin sleep shirt.
It’s barely a touch, but it sends warmth shooting through my entire body.
Not the urgent, desperate heat of our previous encounters, but something slower, deeper.
Something that makes me ache in places that have nothing to do with desire and everything to do with the terrifying intimacy of being truly seen.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, and the question surprises me.
We’ve been fucking for weeks—the dance floor, the Uber, multiple occasions in both our beds. But somehow I understand that he’s asking for something different now. Permission to touch not just my body, but all the vulnerable, broken parts I showed him on the kitchen floor.
“Please,” I whisper.
His hand slides under my shirt, palm warm against my skin.
But instead of going straight for the obvious spots, he just…
explores. Traces the curve of my ribs, the dip of my waist, the soft skin of my stomach.
It’s worship without words, a response to what I finally said, although maybe he’s not ready to.
And that’s OK.
I mirror his movements, my hand sliding under his sheet to find bare skin.
The muscles of his abdomen contract under my fingers, and I feel more than hear his sharp intake of breath.
We’re barely touching, just hands and fingertips and the occasional brush of lips, but somehow it’s the most intimate thing we’ve done.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I believe him, because of the way he’s looking at me—like I’m something precious and breakable and worth protecting. And soon, his hand moves higher, fingertips ghosting along the underside of my breast. My nipple tightens in anticipation, but he doesn’t touch it yet.
“Maine,” I breathe, not sure if it’s a plea or a prayer.
“I’ve got you,” he promises, and then his thumb brushes over my nipple.
The sensation arrows straight between my legs, and I can’t help the small sound that escapes me. He does it again, rolling the sensitive peak between his fingers while his mouth finds my throat, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against my pulse point.
This is nothing like our usual frantic encounters. This is slow and deliberate. Every touch feels like a conversation, every kiss a confession. This is two lovers navigating each other, mapping not just bodies but the vulnerable territories of trust and tenderness.
My hand travels lower, finding him hard and ready beneath the sheet. But when I wrap my fingers around him, it’s not with the usual goal of driving him crazy. I just want to feel him, to know this part of him as intimately as he’s learning me. I caress him slowly, gently… almost with reverence.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my neck as I stroke him slowly, enjoying the weight and heat of him in my palm.
His hand mirrors mine, sliding down to cup me through my sleep shorts. Even through the fabric, I know he can feel how wet I am, how ready. But he doesn’t rush. He just presses the heel of his hand against me, providing pressure that makes me gasp and rock against him.
“So perfect,” he murmurs, fingers tracing the seam of my shorts, following the line of my slit through the damp fabric. “So fucking perfect.”
“Please,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking for. More? Less? Everything? Nothing?
He seems to understand anyway. His fingers slip beneath the elastic of my shorts, finding me bare and soaking. The first touch of his fingers makes us both groan, the sound swallowed as he leans in close to me to claim another deep, searching kiss.
He traces my pussy with devastating gentleness, learning the shape of me like he’s memorizing it for later.
When his finger circles my clit, it’s so light I almost wonder if I imagined it.
But then he does it again, and again, these teasing little circles that make me want to sob with frustration and pleasure.
“Look at me,” he says softly, and I open eyes I didn’t realize I’d closed.
The intensity in his gaze as he watches my face while his finger finally, finally slides inside me is almost too much. This is intimacy on a level I’ve never experienced, this watching and being watched, this complete presence in the moment.
It’s not foreplay before the main event.
It is the main event.
He adds a second finger, but his movements stay slow and deep rather than the usual quick ‘thrust-and-hook’ he’s figured out is my express lane to orgasm. This isn’t about getting off. This is about connection, about saying with our bodies what we—or he, at least—can’t yet say with words.
My hand on his cock maintains the same unhurried pace, squeezing gently on each upstroke, thumb circling the sensitive head. I can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back, of keeping this slow and tender when every instinct probably screams at him to flip me over and drive into me.
But he doesn’t. He just keeps those devastating fingers moving inside me while his thumb finds my clit, circling with perfect pressure. The pleasure builds differently than usual—not the sharp spike toward release but a slow, deep wave that seems to originate from somewhere behind my sternum.
The orgasm rolls through me like thunder rather than lightning, deep and resonating and seemingly endless.
I’m dimly aware that I’m saying his name over and over, that tears are leaking from the corners of my eyes, that my hand on his cock has stilled because I can’t focus on anything but the pleasure and emotion.
He holds me through it, fingers gentling but not withdrawing, drawing out every last tremor until I’m limp and gasping against him. Only then does he carefully remove his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth to taste me with a reverence that makes my spent body clench with renewed desire.
“Your turn,” I manage.
I resume stroking him, matching the tender pace he set.
I watch his face as I touch him, cataloguing every expression, every caught breath, every flutter of his eyelids.
When his hips start to move with more urgency, when his breathing goes ragged, I maintain the same steady pace, drawing it out, making it last.
Then his eyes fly open, locking onto mine as his orgasm takes him.
He comes, spilling hot over my hand and his stomach, his whole body shuddering with the force of it. I work him through it, gentle but thorough, until he’s completely spent and trembling in my arms. It’s real and it’s messy and it’s hot.
We lie there afterward, neither of us moving to clean up, neither of us pulling away.
The moonlight has shifted, no longer cutting across the bed but painting the entire room in silver.
In this light, in this moment, with our bodies still humming from release and our hearts laid bare, everything feels possible.
“Stay,” he says quietly, though it’s not really a question.
“I’d like that,” I tell him.
I know we should probably talk about what this means, especially after what I said and he couldn’t. But right now, held in his arms with our bodies cooling and our breathing syncing up, I just want to exist in this moment where everything is simple and warm and safe.
I think back to the night at the bar, when he defended me, and showed me how much effort he’d put into learning about me . And that speaks volumes, even if he won’t mouth the same words I had just before. But it also makes me realize, with a small jolt, that I want to learn more about him .
“I want to watch you play,” I hear myself say, the words surprising me as they leave my mouth. “I mean… really watch .”
His arm tightens around me, and I feel him press a kiss to the top of my head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I confirm, tracing idle patterns on his chest. “I want to see that part of you. The performer, ahtlete, the Maine Show in its natural habitat.”
“It’s not a show when I’m on the ice,” he says quietly. “That’s when I’m myself. Everything else is the performance.”
The admission feels huge, this revelation that the loud, chaotic, attention-seeking Maine might be the mask, while the focused athlete is the real him. It makes me want to know everything, to catalog every version of him until I understand the whole picture.
“Then I definitely want to see it,” I tell him.
We lie there in comfortable silence, his fingers playing with my hair while mine trace the lines of his abs. This feeling settling in my chest—warm and scary and undeniable—I know what it is. I’ve known for a while now, if I’m honest. And I’m pretty sure he does too.
And, for now, that’s enough.