Chapter 14 #2
He sees me, of course. He sees everything. But his expression doesn’t change, not even a flicker of surprise. He just lets his gaze slip over me—up, down, and back up again—before shifting it to Stella, who’s waiting by the elevator with her own box and a look of exaggerated impatience.
“Dad!” she calls, her voice echoing off the cinderblock walls.
She sounds six years old, and then suddenly much older, all in the space of a syllable.
Oh my god, does she remember that I hooked up with her dad?
Maybe it was only anal, and six months ago, but still.
Yet Stella seems to remember nothing, bobbling on her toes with excitement.
Meanwhile, Thomas raises one hand in a lazy salute. “I hear you need a muscleman,” he says, loud enough for the girls clustered at the water fountain to turn and stare. A couple of them gasp with appreciation; one of them whispers “zaddy,” not bothering to keep it quiet.
Thomas grins at Stella, not at the audience. He sets a hand on her shoulder, squeezes it just once. “Where do you want me?”
She beams, a pure, unfiltered sunlight. “We’re taking everything to the loading dock. The blue bins are for books, the white ones are for dishes and glass, and everything else goes in boxes. Andie, you want to show him where we’re putting stuff?”
I blink. “Sure,” I say, my voice thinner than I want it to be. Stella definitely doesn’t remember. She’s too caught up in the excitement of the day.
He falls into step beside me, leaving his daughter at the elevator with her phone already out, thumb skimming the screen.
For a moment, it’s just the two of us in the short stretch of hallway leading to the stairwell, the carpet worn thin and blotched with something sticky from last week’s pizza party.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just matches my pace, hands empty, waiting for me to make the next move.
I point at the stairwell door with my chin. “Down one, then to the left.”
“Got it,” he says, and his voice is soft, private. For me.
I shift the box higher on my hip, trying to act normal. Trying not to look at the way his arm flexes when he holds the door for me, or the way his smell—clean, and a little like rain—rushes past as I step ahead.
In the stairwell, the air is ten degrees cooler, and it smells like dust and floor wax. There’s a hum from the lights above, and every sound is amplified: the thump of our shoes, the creak of the door, the hollow echo of my own breath.
I start down the steps, box first, feeling him close behind. On the landing, I pause, pretending to rest, and let my eyes flick up to his face.
He’s watching me. His mouth tilts up at one corner, barely there.
“You look tired,” he says, but it’s not a question.
“I haven’t been sleeping much,” I say, and the line lands between us with a weight only we understand.
He lets it sit, then reaches for the box. “Here, let me.”
Our fingers brush, just a graze, but it lights up every nerve in my arm. I hand over the box, and he lifts it like it’s made of feathers. His hand almost touches my waist, but stops just short.
He grins, quiet, then says, “Which bin is this?”
“White,” I say, but my voice is barely a whisper.
He nods and starts down the stairs. I follow, watching the way his shoulders roll with every step, the way he doesn’t even have to try to fill the space.
At the bottom, the lobby is a mess of girls and luggage. Stella’s already there, bossing a pair of freshmen into stacking bins by the window. She’s in her element, clipboard in hand, calling out names and room numbers with the authority of a small-town mayor.
Thomas sets my box on top of the stack, then turns to me. “Anything fragile?”
I shake my head. “Just mugs.”
He glances at the label, reads it, then taps the top of the box twice. “Handled with care.”
I smile, can’t help it.
Stella waves us over. “Dad, can you help me with the fridge? It’s stuck and the wheels are weird.”
He heads to her side without hesitation, both hands out, ready to move mountains.
I stand there, watching him—watching them—and for a second, it’s like I’m seeing a life that could have been, if I was someone else. If everyone knew that I was in love with this man.
He hefts the fridge, tilts it with one hand, and rolls it across the tile like it weighs nothing. Stella laughs at something he says, tosses her hair, then leans in to show him how to angle it through the door.
I look away, suddenly shy, and start stacking empty bins by the wall.
A few minutes later, he’s back at my side, a bead of sweat on his brow, his T-shirt damp at the collar.
He doesn’t say anything, but the way he stands—shoulder to shoulder with me, closer than he needs to be—says everything.
We work in silence for a while, carrying boxes, loading bins, taping flaps. Each time our hands get close, there’s a current, a charge. At one point, we’re both reaching for the same roll of tape, and our fingers meet. He lets his linger, just for a heartbeat.
Stella is always nearby, always talking, always moving. She narrates the whole process: which boxes go first, which ones are light enough for her to carry, which ones she’s afraid to drop. She never once suspects anything, never once looks at us and sees what’s really there.
We fill the back of our moving trucks in record time. By the last trip, my arms are trembling, not from the weight, but from the anticipation of being alone with him, even for a minute.
We pass on the landing. His hand brushes my arm—deliberate, this time—and he leans in, voice pitched for only me. “You’re doing great,” he murmurs.
I look up at him, all the ache and want from last night flaring to the surface.
“Thanks,” I say, but the word is loaded, sticky with meaning.
We finish packing in silence, but the silence is anything but empty.
It’s full, heavy, charged.
We’re about to get behind the wheel of the moving vans when suddenly, Stella says she forgot one thing, and dashes up the stairs, hair streaming behind her like a flag of truce.
The stairwell is empty but for the faint, chemical tang of cleaning fluid and the electric buzz of the fluorescent light overhead.
I pause on the landing, catching my breath.
My arms are sore, and my shirt clings with a thin film of sweat.
Thomas is a step behind, his shadow huge and doubled on the bare walls.
The second the echo of Stella’s sneakers fades, he’s on me.
He doesn’t lunge, doesn’t grab—he just closes the distance in a single, smooth step, setting his hands on either side of my face.
The box in my hand slips from my grip, thumping to the concrete.
He kisses me, not the quick, covert kind, but a long, molten press that fuses my back to the cinder block, his mouth claiming every last shred of air from my lungs.
His fingers spread into my hair, tilting my head until I have no choice but to open to him.
For a second, it’s so intense I forget where we are. It’s just his hands, his mouth, the brutal pulse of want pounding between my legs. But then I remember the echo, the way sound bounces in this stairwell, and I gasp, pushing him gently away.
“Thomas—”
He rests his forehead on mine, breath coming hard. “I need you, baby,” he says, low and rough.
I laugh, lips brushing his. “You had me last night. You wrecked me too, with your huge tool. I’m still sore, thanks.”
His eyes flash, a pale blue that looks almost unhinged in the stairwell’s ugly light. “Not sore enough,” he growls. His hands slide under the hem of my shirt, skating up my ribs. I squirm, biting my lip, feeling his palms burn over my skin.
“We can’t—” I start, but the words die when his thumbs find the edge of my bra, sliding under. He’s already hard, the shape of it impossible to miss, pressing urgent against my thigh.
He kisses me again, slower this time, tongue tracing the seam of my mouth before sinking in.
I moan before I can stop myself, and the sound bounces off the walls, twice as loud as it should be.
I twist my hands in his shirt, then lower, finding the hem and tugging it up.
The muscle underneath is hot, bronzed and alive, flexing under my fingers.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, a naughty gleam in his eyes. “You want this as much as I do.”
I want to deny it, to say something clever, but all I can do is nod.
He lifts me, palms flat under my ass, and sets me on the stair.
My legs open automatically, and he steps between them, the press of his cock against me making my head swim.
I reach for his belt, fingers clumsy, and he grabs my wrist, pinning it above my head.
With his other hand, he unbuttons my jeans, sliding them and my panties down in one practiced motion.
The air is cold on my skin, and for a moment I panic, thinking about who might come through the door. But then he’s there, pushing into my vag, and nothing else matters.
“Ohhh,” I cry out. “Unh!”
It’s fast and filthy, the kind of sex that leaves marks and bruises in the shape of hands.
He lifts my shirt, exposes my bra, then unclasps it in a single flick.
My tits bounce free, nipples instantly hard, and he sucks one into his mouth, biting just hard enough to make me gasp.
I rake my nails down his back, leaving crescent moons in his flesh.
“Oooh Thomas,” I moan, my head tilting back. “Yessss.”
He’s all the way inside me now, his cock stretching my pussy almost painfully.
Each thrust grinds me harder against the step, the bone of my spine rubbing against the cinder block, but I love it.
I dig my heels into his ass, locking him deeper.
The slap of skin is obscenely loud, and I bury my face in his shoulder to muffle the cries that want to rip out of me.
“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he grits out. “Like you were made for me.”
I can barely breathe, but I manage, “You say that to all the girls in stairwells?”