Chapter 8 - Lewis
I retreat to my bedroom, still mentally kicking myself for the towel incident. Real smooth. Parade around half-naked in front of the woman you just rescued from a fire. That's definitely appropriate host behavior.
The look on her face, though—that mixture of surprise and something else, something that made her cheeks flush and her eyes widen—keeps replaying in my mind as I pull on jeans and a clean t-shirt.
I'm probably reading too much into it. She was just embarrassed, caught off guard by my lack of clothing. It doesn't mean anything.
Still, I can't help but remember the way her gaze had traveled over me, lingering in ways that made my skin feel electric and my cock throb. No, stop it. She's recovering from smoke inhalation. She's staying here because she needs a safe place to recover, not because she's interested in me.
Even if she is, it's too soon. We've known each other for what, a day?
Granted, it was an intense day, one that compressed what might have been months of getting to know each other into hours of life-or-death conversation.
But still, I need to be careful here. The last thing I want is for her to feel uncomfortable or pressured.
When I return to the main part of the house, I find Chloe perched on one of the kitchen bar stools, scrolling through her phone. She looks up when I enter, and there's that blush again, staining her cheeks a delicate pink.
"Hey," I say, aiming for casual. "Feeling okay?"
She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture that strikes me as nervous. "Yeah, but I was thinking... would it be alright if I showered too? I still feel like I'm covered in hospital and smoke."
"Of course," I say quickly. "You don't need to ask. There are clean towels in the bathroom cabinet, and feel free to use whatever products you need. I don't have anything fancy, but there's shampoo and soap at least."
"Thanks," she says, sliding off the stool. "I won't be long."
As she passes me on her way to the bathroom, I catch a whiff of smoke still clinging to her hair, mixed with the antiseptic smell of the hospital. A shower will definitely help her feel more human again.
Once I hear the water running, I lean against the kitchen counter, trying to figure out what to do. Dinner is settled, but we should eat something before. I could start on those burgers I promised her, but maybe something lighter would be better for now.
I'm still contemplating the contents of my refrigerator when my phone buzzes with a text from Max:
*Heard you're playing nurse to the lawyer. Need me to bring over some supplies? ? ? *
I roll my eyes and type back: *It's not like that. She needed a place to stay.*
His response is immediate: *Sure it's not, buddy. Just be careful, yeah? You've known her for like 5 minutes.*
I frown at the screen. Max isn't wrong, exactly. But there's something about Chloe that makes those 5 minutes feel like so much more. Still, I appreciate his concern.
*I'm being a gentleman, I promise*, I text back. *But thanks for looking out.*
I set the phone down and head to the guest room to make sure everything is ready for her. The bed is made with fresh sheets, there's a lamp on the nightstand, and I've left a glass of water and her medication on the dresser. It's not much, but it's the best I can do on short notice.
I sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly struck by the strangeness of the situation. This time yesterday, I didn't even know Chloe Bennett existed. Now she's in my shower, her presence already changing the feel of my house in subtle ways I can't quite articulate.
What am I doing? This isn't like me—I don't usually bring people into my life this quickly, this intensely. But there was something about those moments in the fire, when we thought we might not make it out, that created a connection I can't explain and can't seem to shake.
I'm still sitting there, lost in thought, when I hear the bathroom door open. Without thinking, I stand and step into the hallway—and freeze.
Chloe stands just outside the bathroom, a towel wrapped tightly around her body, secured just above her breasts.
Her dark hair is wet and slicked back, droplets of water tracing paths down her neck and along her collarbones.
Her skin is flushed from the heat of the shower, giving her a glow that makes my mouth go dry.
I should look away. I know I should look away. But I can't seem to tear my eyes from her—from the curve of her shoulders, the elegant line of her neck, the way the towel clings to her body, revealing the shape of her while still concealing what lies beneath.
"Sorry," she says softly, but she doesn't move to cover herself further or retreat back into the bathroom. "I forgot to ask where you put my bag."
"It's..." my voice comes out rough, and I have to clear my throat and try again. "It's in the guest room."
She nods but still doesn't move. Her eyes hold mine, and there's something in them—a question, maybe, or a decision being made.
I'm aware of my body's response to her, and I shift slightly, hoping my jeans hide what would otherwise be embarrassingly obvious.
But the movement only makes things worse, fabric brushing against sensitive skin in a way that sends a jolt through my system.
Time seems to stretch, seconds extending into what feels like minutes as we stand there, looking at each other across the hallway. I should say something, do something to break this tension. But before I can formulate words, Chloe does something that fries my brain.
She lets the towel fall.
The fabric pools at her feet, leaving her completely exposed. Water still glistens on her skin, catching the light from the hallway window. She's beautiful—curves in all the right places, skin pale and perfect except for a small birthmark just below her left breast.
This can't be happening. This isn't real.
"What are you doing?" I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Her eyes never leave mine, though I can see uncertainty flickering beneath her boldness.
"I can't get the image of you out of my head," she says, her voice low and slightly raspy, "First saving me from the fire, then standing in your kitchen in nothing but a towel. It's driving me crazy."
I swallow hard, trying to think through the blood rushing in my ears. "Chloe, you don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to," she interrupts. "I want to. Unless..." she hesitates for the first time, vulnerability crossing her face. "Unless I've completely misread the situation."
"You haven't," I say immediately, taking a step toward her. "God, you haven't. I haven't been able to stop thinking about touching you."
The words come out before I can censor them, raw and honest. Her eyelashes flutter at my admission, pupils dilating.
"Then do it," she says simply. "Touch me, Lewis."
It's like being given permission to breathe after holding my breath underwater. I close the distance between us in two strides, my hands coming up to cup her face as I search her eyes one more time for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, I lower my mouth to hers.
The first touch of her lips against mine is electric. She tastes faintly of mint—my toothpaste, I realize—and her mouth is soft and yielding under mine. I keep the kiss gentle, controlled, even as every instinct in my body is screaming for more.
When we break apart, her breath comes in small gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly. My hands slide from her face to her shoulders, then down her arms, feeling the softness of her skin, the slight tremble in her muscles.
"Is this okay?" I murmur, needing to be sure.
In answer, she takes my hand and places it on her breast. The weight of it fills my palm perfectly, her nipple hardening against my skin.
"More than okay," she whispers.
I groan, unable to hold back my reaction. My thumb brushes across her nipple, drawing a small gasp from her. I lean in to kiss her again, deeper this time, as my hands explore the curves of her body—the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the softness of stomach rolls.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," she breathes against my mouth. "This isn't like me at all."
I chuckle, the sound low and rough. "I don't believe it either," I confess. "But I want it. I want you."
Her answer is to press herself against me more fully, her naked body warm through the fabric of my t-shirt. The feeling of her breasts against my chest, even through the fabric, nearly undoes me. I want to feel all of her, to taste every inch of her skin.
I trail kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, and lower still until I capture one nipple in my mouth. Her sharp intake of breath tells me she approves, as does the way her hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, holding me to her.
I worship her breasts with my mouth and hands, learning what makes her gasp and what makes her moan. Her skin tastes clean and slightly sweet from the soap, and I can't get enough of it.
Slowly, I begin to move lower, kissing a path down her stomach, kneeling as I reach the curve of her hips. I look up at her, seeking permission once more. Her eyes are half-lidded, her lips parted, but she nods, fingers tangling in my hair.
I press soft kisses along the inside of her thighs, feeling her tremble under my touch. When I finally slide one finger gently inside her, she's already wet and ready, a fact that sends a surge of desire so strong through me that I have to pause for a moment to regain control.
"Lewis," she gasps, her head falling back against the wall.
My name on her lips like that nearly breaks my resolve to take this slow. But I want this to be good for her—perfect for her. I focus on the movement of my hand, adding a second finger when she pushes against me, seeking more.
As I work my fingers inside her, I lean forward to taste her, and her reaction is immediate and intense. Her hips buck against my mouth, a moan escaping her that makes me painfully aware of how constraining my jeans have become.
But this isn't about me right now. This is about Chloe—beautiful, brave Chloe, who walked through fire and somehow ended up here, in my hallway, trusting me with her body in a way I never could have anticipated.
I focus entirely on her pleasure, on learning what makes her breath quicken and what makes her say my name in that breathy way that sends shivers down my spine.
And when she finally comes apart under my touch, her body tensing and then releasing in waves, my name a prayer on her lips, I feel a sense of satisfaction deeper than anything I've experienced before.
I rise to my feet, gathering her trembling body against mine, supporting her as her legs seem to give out. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright, and there's a vulnerability in her expression that makes me want to protect her from the world.
"That was..." she begins, then seems to run out of words.
"Yeah," I agree, understanding completely. "It was."
We stand there for a moment, her naked in my arms, me still fully clothed but feeling more exposed than I ever have. The reality of what just happened—what we just did—starts to sink in, and I search her face for any sign of regret.
But all I see is wonder, and maybe a touch of the same disbelief I'm feeling. This thing between us, whatever it is, defies explanation or timeline. It just is, as undeniable as gravity.
"We should probably..." I gesture vaguely toward the guest room, not entirely sure what I'm suggesting.
Chloe nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Probably. Though I think you're a bit overdressed for the occasion."
The teasing note in her voice makes me laugh, easing some of the tension.
"That can be remedied," I assure her, before scooping her up into my arms.
Her surprised laugh as I carry her toward the bedroom is the sweetest sound I've ever heard. And as I lay her gently on the bed, I can't help but think that whatever led us here—fate, chance, or just an old building with faulty wiring—I'm grateful for it.
Because somehow, in the midst of smoke and flame and fear, I found something I didn't even know I was looking for.