Chapter 4-New Rules #3
Something shifted in his expression — relief cutting into something deeper, more exposed than he probably meant to show. "You don't get to shut me out now," he said, quiet but unyielding.
And then his mouth was everywhere, and I stopped thinking entirely.
Patient. Deliberate. Paying attention to every sound I made. When his tongue found where I was already wet and desperate, when his fingers slid inside me, I forgot about control entirely.
Forgot about the performance.
Forgot about everything except the pressure building inside me, the way my hips moved against his mouth, the sound of my own voice breaking as I said his name.
And then I was coming apart on his hands, shaking, while he murmured low against my thigh, steady and sure, like he had all the time in the world.
I was still catching my breath when he kissed his way back up my body.
"Richard—"
"I told you." His mouth curved against my collarbone. "Not done with you yet."
There was a moment — just a moment — where the old instinct surfaced.
The part of me that had spent years keeping a careful distance, that knew how to be present in body while staying absent everywhere else.
The part that would have slipped sideways into performance, checked out behind my own eyes, given him what he wanted while keeping myself separate and safe.
I felt it rise.
And then I felt his hand find mine, fingers interlacing, and I let it go.
He positioned himself between my legs, and when he finally pushed inside me — slow, deliberate, giving me time to adjust — something loosened in my chest. Deep and unexpected, like a knot I'd stopped noticing because I'd carried it so long.
This wasn't supposed to feel like this.
Sex was supposed to be another act. Another box to check. Another way to give someone what they wanted while keeping myself carefully apart.
But there was nothing separate about this.
Nothing calculated.
Richard moved inside me, slow at first, then deeper. His hand still held mine, pinning my arm above my head. The other gripped my hip, angling my body to take him deeper.
"Christ, Blaire," he breathed. "You feel?—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Didn't need to.
I knew what he meant.
Because I felt it too — that pull, low and insistent, like something in me was being uncovered piece by piece. No mask. No distance. Just skin, breath, and the way he said my name like he already knew what it did to me.
When I came again, I clung to him, my nails dug into his back, and I heard myself make sounds I'd never made before — raw and uncontrolled and entirely real.
Richard followed seconds later, his rhythm faltering, his forehead pressed to mine as he said my name one more time.
And then he collapsed beside me, pulling me against his chest while we both tried to remember how to breathe.
The silence afterward was different from the silence before.
Heavier. More honest.
I lay with my head on Richard's chest, his arm a solid weight around me, his heartbeat steady under my ear, waiting for the panic to set in.
Waiting for the voice in my head that said this was a mistake, you let him get too close, now he'll see what's underneath and leave like everyone else.
But it didn't come.
Instead, there was just Richard's hand tracing idle patterns on my shoulder, and the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and the unfamiliar sensation of wanting to stay exactly where I was.
"Don't," Richard said quietly.
"Don't what?"
"Whatever you're doing right now. The thing where you take what just happened and turn it into something you can control." His fingers traced idle patterns on my shoulder. "Just... be here. For five minutes. That's all I'm asking."
Five minutes.
I could do five minutes.
Except five minutes turned into ten, turned into twenty, and I was still lying there in the dark with Richard's arms around me, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and thinking that maybe — maybe — this was what people meant when they talked about peace.
"Richard?" I said finally.
"Mm?"
"What happens tomorrow?"
His hand stilled on my shoulder, then resumed its gentle movement. "Tomorrow you'll probably try to pretend this was a one-time thing brought on by stress and convenience." He pressed a kiss to my hair. "And I'll let you, because pushing you never works."
"And after that?"
"After that, you'll realize it wasn't a one-time thing. Because we still have nine days left."
I should have argued.
Should have told him that this didn't change anything, that we could go back to the distance we'd maintained for years.
But the words died in my throat.
Because he was right.
He was always right about me.
And maybe —maybe — that didn't have to be terrifying.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay?"
"Nine days." I turned in his arms to face him. "But after that?—"
"After that, we'll figure it out." He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "Together."
That word again.
Together.
Like it was simple.
Like it was possible.
Like I was capable of it.
"You're thinking too loud," Richard murmured.
"Sorry."
"Don't be." He pulled me closer. "Just sleep. I'll still be here in the morning."
And somehow — impossibly — I believed him.