Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Cole
I only changed three times before I picked up Morgan, which I called a win, but I spent all afternoon remaking the bed, tidying the kitchen, and making dinner.
Well, half of dinner at least. Still, as we made small talk in the car, I was worried about what he’d think of my place.
The drive back took us past the sweep of Chicago, the familiar view opening up as the streets widened and the buildings shifted.
My place wasn’t glass and flash and steel; it was solid and old, brick and weight and history, and I’d decorated most of it myself.
When I opened the door, I was still holding his hand, fingers laced tight, in case he took one look and ran.
Yes, it was big. Yes, it was expensive. But it was also my home, and I loved it.
Morgan murmured something as he stepped inside—about the light, the space, the way it felt warm instead of echoing—and the knot in my chest loosened just a fraction.
I led him through to the living room and the sofa, where I’d set the table low and neat.
There were canapés laid out on slate boards: little bites of smoked salmon and dill, filo cups with goat’s cheese and honey, olives still slick with oil, and bread warm enough that the butter softened on contact.
I tugged him in to kiss him, but he was tense, and I ended up kissing his temple.
“Something smells good,” he said.
“I made a lasagna,” I said. “But I ordered these in. If that’s okay. I’m… not the best cook.”
He smiled at me. “It looks great,” he said, and sat down. But his hand slipped from mine, and he curled into the corner of the sofa, shoulders drawing in.
“I have an awesome spare room that I could decorate for Gabbi if you wanted to visit with her? Like, get some toys, and a crib, or maybe a small bed with a side, I don’t know. What do you think?”
He glanced at the hall. “Sure.”
Not the biggest or most detailed answer, but I’d take it.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. Of course,” he said, immediately—and then he sighed, long and quiet.
“Just… whatever nerves I have where I can’t quite believe this is happening are kicking me hard.
” His dark hair fell forward, shadowing his cheekbones, and when he finally glanced up, his pale eyes met mine for the briefest moment before flickering away.
I stayed where I was, didn’t crowd him, didn’t reach for him again. Instead, I picked up my drink and nodded toward the city beyond the windows. “So,” I said lightly, as if my heart wasn’t trying to punch its way out of my ribs. “What were you and Gabbi up to today?”
The change was almost immediate. His shoulders eased a fraction, his grip on the plate loosening. “Oh God,” he said, a breathy laugh slipping out. “We went with Jazz to take Rascal to the veterinarian, and it went from worse to worse.”
“That sounds… ominous.”
“It was supposed to be routine,” he said, already warming to it. “Nails, check-up, in and out. Except Rascal apparently decided today was the day he would reveal his true personality.”
I smiled. “Which is?”
“A demon,” Morgan said. “A very fluffy, very loud demon. He escaped the carrier in the waiting room, climbed the magazine rack, and knocked over a bowl of complimentary dog treats like he was staging a prison break. Gabbi thought it was hilarious, babbling, and Rascal latched onto her blanket and just—hung there.” He demonstrated with his fingers, eyes bright now.
I laughed, full and helpless, and the sound seemed to pull something loose in him.
He smiled back, really smiled, and shifted out of the corner, turning toward me without realizing he’d done it.
“Jazz said he’s never taking him anywhere ever again,” he added.
“Rascal screamed the entire way home as if we’d betrayed him. ”
“That poor cat,” I said. “Traumatized for life.”
The room felt different then—lighter, warmer. He leaned back against the sofa instead of curling away, his knee brushing mine, his breath finally steady.
I traced the lines of him—the way his Guardian Hall hoodie hung loose on his lean frame, the way his dark jeans clung just enough to hint at the shape of his thighs.
He was always so careful, so contained, as if he were trying to disappear even when he was right in front of me.
But tonight, he wasn’t disappearing. Tonight, he was here, and I wasn’t going to let him slip away again.
“You’re beautiful,” I said, my voice low, rough with something I’d been holding back for too long.
His body went still. Not just still—frozen, every muscle locking up. I didn’t wait for him to respond. I reached out, slow, deliberate, and tucked a stray strand of his dark hair behind his ear. His skin was warm, and the contact sent a jolt through me, sharp and electric.
His lips were pressed into a thin, controlled line, but I saw the way his breath hitched slightly. “Cole—”
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” I cut in, because if I didn’t say it now, I never would. My fingers lingered at his jaw, my thumb brushing his cheek. He didn’t pull away, but his entire body radiated tension. “You have no idea how long.”
His gaze dropped to the space between us on the sofa. A flush crept up his neck, and I watched, fascinated, as it spread toward his ears.
I didn’t give him time to overthink it.
I tugged him closer, my hand resting on the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape.
He made a small, choked sound, but before he could protest, I kissed him.
It was nothing like the kiss he’d initiated in the family room; his lips were closed at first, restrained, just like the rest of him, but I didn’t rush.
I pressed mine against his, slow and deep, coaxing rather than demanding.
His breath was warm against my lips, trembling.
When I ran my tongue along the seam of his lips, he exhaled—then, at last, his mouth relaxed beneath mine.
His fingers curled into my shirt, and I groaned into the kiss, my free hand moving to his waist, his thigh pressed to mine. He was all angles and lean muscle, his body tense but not resisting, his breath coming faster now, his lips parting just enough to let my tongue slip inside.
I slid my hand under the fabric of his hoodie, and his skin was hot beneath my palm, his spine arching slightly as I deepened the kiss. He made a sound—low, needy, something he tried to swallow—but it only made me hungrier. I wanted to hear him like that again. I wanted to make him like that.
When we broke apart, his lips were swollen, his expression dazed, his hands still fisted in my shirt, his gaze locked on my mouth.
I didn’t give him the chance to second-guess anything.
My fingers found the hem of his hoodie, and I tugged it up, breaking the kiss just long enough to tug it over his head.
“Is this okay, Morgan?”
“Yes.” He lifted his arms, his dark hair falling back into his face as the fabric cleared his head.
I tossed it aside, and he was left in just a black T-shirt, the fabric clinging to his lean torso, and I could see the outline of his ribs, the sharp cut of his hipbones, the muscle he was starting to lay back on.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I repeated, my voice rough, my hands already moving to his waist again, gripping the fabric of his T-shirt. “Can I look?” His breath hitched.
“Yes.”
I stopped. “Do you want to see me?”
Fire burned in his eyes, and he helped me out of my shirt, then ran his hands down my chest to my belt.
“I want to see it all.”
Not on the sofa. I wanted him laid out in front of me, and I helped him to his feet, my hands sliding down to his ass, squeezing just enough to make him gasp.
His cock was already hardening, the outline visible through his jeans, and when I pressed against him, he let out a shaky breath, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“You feel that?” I murmured, my voice a low growl. “You feel how hard you make me?”
His breath stuttered, his fingers digging into my shoulders.
I walked him backward, down the hall to my room, and back to the bed, my mouth never leaving his skin—kissing his jaw down to the line of his collarbone.
He stumbled slightly when his legs hit the mattress, but I caught him, my hands steady on his waist.
“Can we lie down?” I asked.
He didn’t hesitate, just sank onto the bed, his long body sprawling back on the sheets, his pale eyes never leaving mine.
I followed him down, crawling over him, my knees bracketing his hips.
He breathed hard, his fingers curling into the comforter.
I reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up, and he lifted his arms again, letting me strip it off.
His skin was pale in the dim light, a map of sharp edges and lean muscle, his nipples already tight, his cock straining in his jeans.
I brushed my thumbs over his nipples, and he arched into the touch with a quiet, needy sound.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” I murmured, leaning down to press my mouth to his collarbone, then lower, my tongue tracing the dip between his pecs. His fingers found my hair, gripping, as if he was afraid I’d stop.
I wasn’t going to stop. Not tonight.
I sat back on my heels, and his gaze dropped to my chest, his breath hitching.
His fingers twitched. “I want…”
“Go ahead,” I said, my voice rough. “Touch me.”
He hesitated for only a second before his hands lifted, his long fingers tracing the lines of my abs, the ridges of my muscles.
His touch was light at first, almost hesitant, but when I groaned, my head tipping back, he grew bolder, his palms pressing harder, his thumbs brushing over my nipples.
I hissed, my cock throbbing in my pants, and when I looked back at him, his eyes were dark, his lips parted.
“You like that?” I asked, my voice a low rumble.
He nodded. “Yeah.”