Chapter 15-No Pretense
Ididn't sleep.
I lay awake, Richard's breathing steady against my back. His arm draped across my waist. The apartment was dark except for the streetlight slicing through the blinds.
I should have been thinking about Crowe. About the fabricated photos. About Monday's deadline, Charlotte’s counter-complaint, and the silver sedan that circled the block three times before Richard stepped outside, and it disappeared.
Instead, I thought about the way Richard looked at me when I admitted I was scared.
Like he'd been waiting to hear it.
I turned in his arms. Slow. Careful not to wake him.
But his eyes were already open.
"Can't sleep?" His voice was rough with almost-sleep.
"No."
"The emails?"
"No."
He waited. Unhurried.
I kissed him.
Not the desperate kiss from our first time together. Something deliberate. Something that felt like choosing instead of running.
Richard's hand came up to cup my jaw. Gentle. His thumb traced my cheekbone.
Then he pulled back.
"Blaire."
I froze. "What?"
"Why are you doing this?"
The question landed like a slap. "What do you mean, why?—"
"I mean, why now. Why tonight. After the emails and the photos and everything with Crowe." His eyes searched mine in the dark. "Are you trying to forget? Or are you trying to feel something?"
My throat tightened.
I could have lied. I could have told him I wanted him. Which was true but incomplete. Told him it didn't matter. Which we both knew was false.
Or I could tell him the truth.
"I'm trying to choose something," I said quietly. "Instead of having it chosen for me."
Richard went completely still.
"I've spent years controlling everything." The words came faster now. Harder. "Every conversation. Every schedule. Every fucking detail of my life. And the one thing I couldn't control was how I felt about you."
His hand slid to the back of my neck.
"So I ran. And I told myself it was fine. That I was fine. That control was enough." I met his eyes. "But it's not. It never was. And I'm tired of pretending."
"Blaire—"
"I want this. I want you. Not because I'm scared or because I'm trying to forget.
" My voice cracked. "Not because I'm desperate.
Not because I need to feel something other than fear.
Because even with everything falling apart with Crowe, even with the fabricated photos and the hearing on Monday, I still choose you. That's how I know it's real."
Then he kissed me.
Something thorough, devastating, and completely focused.
I pulled at his shirt. Urgent now. Needing skin and heat and proof that this was real.
But Richard caught my wrists. Gentle but firm.
"Hey." His forehead pressed against mine. "We have time."
"I don't want time. I want?—"
"I know what you want." His thumb brushed my pulse point. "But I need to know you're ready. Not running. Not trying to outpace the fear."
"I'm not?—"
"Blaire." His eyes held mine. "I've waited. I can wait another hour to make sure you're choosing this because you want it. Not because you're scared of wanting it."
My breath caught.
"Look at me."
I did. Against every instinct that told me to run.
"You've spent days choosing me," he said quietly. "Now let me show you what that means."
Richard released my wrists. He kissed me. Soft at first. Then deeper.
His hands slid to my waist. Then lower. Taking his time.
"Say the word if you want me to stop."
I shook my head. Couldn't speak.
He kissed my jaw. My throat. The scratch of his stubble sent a shiver down my spine. The hollow behind my ear that made me gasp.
"Tell me if it's too much."
"It's not—" My breath hitched as his hand found bare skin.
"Do you need me to slow down?"
"Don't slow down." My fingers tangled in his hair.
"Okay." His mouth moved to my collarbone. "Then tell me what you need."
The question undid me.
"I don't know."
Richard lifted his head. His eyes were dark but clear.
"Yes, you do." His thumb traced my hip bone. "Tell me."
"I want—" My voice broke. "I want you. Here. Now. All of it."
"All of what?"
"You know what I mean."
"Say it anyway."
The command in his voice undid me completely.
"I want you to touch me. I want to stop thinking. I want to feel something real."
He kissed me again. Unhurried and thorough and devastating.
I stopped thinking.
I let him strip away my clothes. My defenses. The careful walls I'd built brick by brick.
His mouth moved to my throat. My collarbone. Lower.
I chased the sensation. Impatient.
But Richard's hand settled firm against my hip. Not painful. Not controlling.
"Slow," he murmured against my skin.
"I don't want slow."
His touch pulled a helpless sound from me.
"I know." His teeth grazed my ribs. "But you need it."
Every touch was measured. His fingers traced patterns so close to where I needed him.
"What are you feeling right now?"
"Richard—"
"Tell me."
I wanted to lie.
But his eyes held mine in the dark. Waiting.
"I feel—" My voice shook. "Exposed. Terrified. Like if I let myself want this, it'll break me."
"And?"
"And I want it anyway."
His hand moved. Finally.
I cried out.
"That's it," Richard murmured. "Stay right here."
He worked me carefully with his fingers. Reading every reaction. Every tremor.
When I tensed, he slowed. When I needed more, he knew before I could ask.
"Look at me," he said.
Nothing between us but skin and breath and want. When he moved over me, his weight settled against mine—solid and real and warm—and I didn't feel trapped.
He entered me slowly. So slowly, I could feel every inch.
I gripped his shoulders. Trembling.
"Breathe," he said.
I did. Shaky. Uneven.
"That's it." He kissed my jaw. My throat. His breathing changed, deepened. "Just breathe."
He moved. Unhurried. Watching my face.
Reading me the way he always had.
"More," I said quietly.
"Not yet."
"Richard—"
"What are you feeling?"
"I can't?—"
"Yes, you can." His hand slid between us. His fingers found me wet and so ready for him. "Tell me."
"I feel—" A gasp. "God. I feel everything."
"Good." He moved deeper. "What else?"
"I feel—" My nails dug into his back. "Safe. Terrified. Alive."
"Look at me."
I opened eyes I didn't remember closing.
Richard's gaze was dark. Intent. Completely focused on me.
"I love you," he said.
Then he moved faster. Harder. Giving me what I needed before I could ask.
Nothing existed except the sound of our names in the dark.
The way he knew exactly how to touch me. How to slow down when I tensed. How to push when I needed more.
The realization that he'd been learning me — every sign, every wall, every crack in my armor — for longer than I'd let myself admit.
And he'd been waiting for me to let him in.
"Richard—"
"Come for me."
I came apart. Completely. No control left to hold onto. No performance to hide behind. The raw, terrifying truth of wanting him and trusting him and letting him see me break.
He came moments later. My name on his lips. His forehead pressed against mine.
After, we lay tangled together in the dark. My head on his chest. His hand in my hair. Minutes passed. Maybe longer.
Neither of us spoke.
"You okay?" Richard finally asked.
"Yeah."
"That wasn't too much?"
"No." I pressed my face against his shoulder. "It was perfect."
His arms tightened around me.
I waited for the panic. The voice that told me I'd given up too much control.
It didn't come.
Instead, there was this. The quiet realization that I'd been drowning in control for so long, I'd forgotten what it felt like to breathe.
"I love you," Richard said into my hair.
I closed my eyes and let the words settle.
Three weeks ago, those words would have sent me running. One week ago, I would have changed the subject.
Now, I held onto him tighter.
It wasn't the same as saying it back. We both knew that.
But Richard kissed the top of my head. Waiting.
Giving me time to get there.
It terrified me.
But the fear didn't overwhelm me. It made me hold on tighter.
Monday was coming. The ethics investigation. The fabricated photos. Crowe's next move is still taking shape.
Right then, none of that mattered.
I curled closer. Let myself stay exactly where I wanted to be.