Chapter 26
twenty-six
ROOK
The paper is due in seven hours.
That's my overriding thought, even though my brain feels like cotton candy in a rainstorm, dissolving into nothing the second I try to think about anything else.
The words on my computer screen might as well be in Mandarin, something about social stratification that reads like I had a stroke mid-sentence.
"I can't do it," I say, looking up to Morgan as the admission cracks out before I can stop it. "It's word soup, and my brain isn't working."
"Your brain works fine." Her voice could cut glass. "You're catastrophizing because you're exhausted."
She leans across the narrow gap between us—eighteen inches of real estate buried under color-coded chaos and empty coffee cups. And, suddenly, the study room that has been our second home for the last few weeks shrinks, and I can smell her shampoo.
"Look at me." Her voice is a command. "Tell me about social stratification, using hockey as an example."
Our faces are inches apart. This close, I catalog details I've been pretending not to notice for six weeks—the purple shadows under her eyes, the way she's destroyed her bottom lip from chewing it, and that tiny concentration line between her eyebrows that I want to smooth with my thumb.
She's been here for hours, refusing to let me quit even when I threatened to set my laptop on fire just to watch something make sense.
Her gray eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that has nothing to do with sociology.
But what really drives me is the knowledge that she's choosing to help, not obligated.
Our deal was help with study in return for hockey supplies.
And she's delivered ten times what I have.
"It's…" Words stumble while my brain short-circuits from her proximity. "When your defensive structure collapses because one guy abandons his assignment. When he thinks he's above the system and tries to make the hero play, ultimately costing the team."
Something shifts in her expression—recognition—so I keep babbling.
"But here's the thing, he doesn't actually change anything. The hierarchy stays intact. He just creates chaos while the power structure remains exactly—" Click. "Holy shit. That's Bourdieu's whole point about cultural capital. Individual rebellion without systemic change just reinforces—"
"Yes!" She nods, and gives a long exhale of pure victory and exhaustion. A real smile breaks across her face—not her captain smile, not her tutor smile, but something raw and unguarded that nobody, let alone me, usually gets to see. "Write that down."
We stay frozen.
She hasn't pulled back. Neither have I.
The academic breakthrough mingles with something that's been building in this cramped space for weeks. Every late night. Every accidental touch. Every time she leans over to fix my citations, I memorize the rhythm of her breathing like there's going to be a test.
The air between us thickens. Her pupils dilate, and a stray strand of hair clings to her cheek now. Her exhaustion makes her look younger, softer. Not the ice queen who treats emotion like it's contagious, but the woman who believes in me when I don't believe in myself.
The realization hits with perfect clarity: I'm done pretending this is business.
Done pretending that every moment with her isn't the highlight of my entire week. Done acting like I don't replay that stairwell kiss every night before I fall asleep. Done punishing myself for where I went wrong last time and swearing I won't make the same mistake twice.
We've been lying to ourselves for weeks, pretending the air doesn't combust when we're alone, that the stairwell kiss didn't rewire my entire nervous system, and that she doesn't feel it too. But she does. It's there in her shallow breathing, and in how she's frozen but hasn't retreated.
This is it.
The moment when I usually crack a joke or do something monumentally stupid. And for once in my goddamn life, I'm not going to choose the joke. Because that night at the Down Low showed me there's something there, but now I just need to convince her to admit it.
"Morgan." My voice comes out rougher than intended, like I've been gargling gravel.
"Don't." The word is barely a whisper, but I hear the tremor in it. "Please don't make this into something we'll regret."
"Who says we'll regret it?"
"History and common sense," she says. "The fact that you're you and I'm—"
"The most incredible girl I've ever met?" The words tumble out. "The only person who makes me want to be better instead of just louder?"
I reach out slowly, deliberately, telegraphing every intention and giving her every chance to pull back. But she doesn't, and when my thumb finds the loose strand of red hair that's hanging down her cheek, her breath catches, sharp and surprised.
When the hair is back in place behind her ear, I let my thumb trace her cheekbone.
Her skin warms, and I feel the tension in her jaw, the way she's holding herself still.
And when I reach the corner of her mouth, she makes a sound—barely there, but in the quiet study room it might as well be an alarm.
I lean in at glacier speed, giving her every opportunity to stop this. My gaze drops to her lips—parted, trembling—and the air between us goes electric. Her spine is iron, and then she makes this sound. The softest exhale, not permission or acceptance.
Surrender.
I close the distance and capture her mouth.
The kiss isn't gentle, because six damn weeks—or, hell, three long years—of suppressed want detonates on contact. Her response is fierce, and when my tongue traces the seam of her lips, she opens with a low sound that bypasses my brain entirely, her tongue finding mine, not tentative, not careful.
It's a claim.
I want this. I've wanted this. I've been drowning in wanting this.
Her hands come up to my shoulders. For a heartbeat, I think she's going to shove me away, but then her fingers curl into my sweatshirt hard enough to stretch the worn fabric.
She's anchoring herself, pulling closer, and the knowledge that she's clinging to me like I'm her only lifeline makes my head spin.
Without breaking the kiss, I grip her waist, hands spanning the narrow width through her sweater. She comes willingly—no, eagerly—practically launching from her chair. In one motion, I guide her onto my lap, then shift her so she's straddling me properly.
The ancient chair creaks ominously—definitely not rated for whatever we're about to do—but I don't mind if it collapses and campus security finds us tangled on the floor at 2:00 a.m. Her back hits the wall, putting her slightly above me.
She uses the advantage immediately, angling to deepen the kiss.
My hands span her waist properly now, and Christ, I can feel how warm her body is through the thin sweater. My thumbs find skin where fabric has ridden up—just an inch of softness above her jeans—and when I press into the dips above her hipbones, she gasps into my mouth.
I'm fully hard, have been since that first soft sigh, and in this position, there's no hiding it. Just obvious, desperate want pressed against her, so I break from her mouth to trail kisses along her jaw, making it clear that I want her and this and everything.
She shivers, and her hips roll forward instinctively. "Fuck," she says, the word so sexy and visceral that I nearly lose it right there.
I move lower, mapping her throat—where her pulse hammers, where neck meets shoulder—and when I graze teeth against skin, her fingers tighten in my hair hard enough to sting perfectly. And when I suck, she arches with complete abandon.
She's already found a rhythm that's going to end me. Each roll sends electricity up my spine, the friction through clothes just the wrong side of not enough but still so good I'm seeing colors that don't exist. I thrust up to meet her, pure instinct, and her head falls back against the wall.
The broken whimper she tries to swallow is the hottest thing I've ever heard.
It's a demand, and in that instant, Morgan giving orders while straddling me becomes my new religion. I comply, thrusting as she rolls down, finding a rhythm that has us both panting. My hands slide to cup her ass—firm and perfect—pulling her tighter with each movement.
The chair protests loudly, but neither of us stops. Her mouth finds mine again, messier now. Our teeth click, and I taste copper where one of us bit too hard, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except how she's moving, the broken sounds between kisses, and the heat building between us.
"We should—" she starts, pulling back.
"No." I cover her mouth. "Please. Don't think. Just feel this."
She looks at me, and I see everything—want, fear, and the war between her rules and what her body needs.
Then something shifts, settles, decides.
It's not just agreement to keep kissing.
It's bigger. It's choosing this, choosing to let go, choosing to let go with me, and trusting I won't panic and fuck it up later.
"OK," she whispers.
She kisses me harder, grinding down with new determination. She's chasing something now, movements focused, desperate. The thought that Morgan might actually come just from this—that she might fall apart in my lap fully clothed in the study room—sends me dangerously close to the edge.
"That's it," I say, my voice a murmur against her mouth, hands guiding her rhythm. "Take what you need."
She whimpers—actually whimpers—and moves faster. Her thighs tremble against mine.
"Look at me," I hear myself say, voice wrecked. "Morgan, look at me."
Her eyes flutter open, dark and destroyed, mirroring exactly what I feel.
“James, I'm—"
"I know. Let go."
She comes apart with a soft cry muffled against my shoulder, her whole body shaking through waves of pleasure. I hold her through it, hands gentle on her back, my need secondary to the miracle of Morgan trusting me enough to fall apart.
When she stills, face hidden against my neck, I feel her rapid breathing, her racing pulse where my lips brush her temple. The laptop screen has gone dark. The paper is forgotten. Nothing exists outside this moment—Morgan soft and pliant in my arms.
This is what I've wanted since she walked back into my life. Not the cold professionalism. Not the careful distance. This. Her. Us. The way we're supposed to be. This is what we could have been, for all this time, had I not fucked it up so badly in our senior year.
"James," she murmurs against my neck. "I want more. I want you…"
And, for once, I'm going to be brave enough to want something real as well.