Chapter 21
Maddie
I should be in my room. I should be alone, curled under my blanket, pretending I don’t hear the shower running down the hall. Pretending my body isn’t tuned to every sound he makes, every footstep, every scrape of a drawer.
But I’m not in my room.
I’m in the doorway of his, barefoot, pulse skittering like it’s on thin ice. And when Atlas looks up from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed—hair damp, T-shirt clinging to his shoulders, his gaze steady and unreadable—I don’t turn away.
I step inside and let the door click shut behind me.
“Rules still apply,” I tell him, though my voice comes out husky. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
His mouth curves, wolfish. “Sure.”
And then he moves.
There’s no hesitation, no waiting. His hands are on me before I can think, gripping the hem of my tank top and dragging it upward.
The cotton whispers over my ribs, and then it’s gone, tossed somewhere I don’t care about.
My bra follows and I gasp at the cool air on my skin, but it lasts only a heartbeat before the heat of his gaze takes over.
The way he looks at me—hungry, reverent, like I’m the only thing he’s been starving for—makes me ache. My nipples tighten under the weight of his gaze.
Then his hands are under me, big and certain, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing. I think he’s going to kiss me, but he doesn’t, at least not my mouth. Instead, his lips close around one nipple, tongue flicking hot and wet, and the sound that rips out of me is not ladylike. Not careful.
“Atlas,” I groan, clinging to his shoulders, my head tipping back.
He leans away long enough to grin up at me. “I like my name on your lips.”
He turns and drops me to his bed, giving me no time to think.
His hands are already at my shorts, undoing the button, tugging the zipper down, peeling the denim away.
I arch off the mattress, trying to help, and then I’m down to panties—yellow lace, a reckless choice I regret the instant his eyes darken.
I make a sound, half warning, half need, as his palm cups me there.
Heat flares against heat as Atlas growls low in this throat.
The thin lace does nothing, not against the way he pushes his fingers underneath, sliding against me, inside me, before I can catch my breath. My hips buck, a raw shock of pleasure taking over.
“Oh, fuck—” It rips out, shameless.
He swallows the sound with a kiss, his mouth hard on mine, tongue lashing while his fingers move inside me. I can barely process it, the way everything crashes at once… his weight braced over my body, his breath hot, the rhythm of his fingers that has me on the verge of falling apart.
Too much. Not enough. Both.
I tug at his shirt, desperate, clumsy, and he helps get it off. My hands roam over the flex of his muscles, then insistently tug at his shorts. He strips down fast and then he’s gloriously naked in front of me.
“Get those panties off,” he orders.
I scramble to obey, choking on a laugh as I shove the lace down my legs. He doesn’t even wait for me to kick them free before he’s urging me back, his voice rough. “Spread your legs, Mads.”
Mads.
Where did that come from? No one has ever called me that, but I like it.
God help me, I do.
I expect him to take me right then, to climb over me and drive inside hard enough to match the storm whipping between us. But he lowers himself, sliding down the bed until his shoulders wedge between my thighs.
“Atlas—” I start, not sure if I’m protesting or begging, but the second his mouth is on me, every thought shatters.
He licks. Devours. Destroys.
I arch off the bed, a strangled cry escaping, hands flying to his head. The first swipe of his tongue against my clit has me shaking, the slow circle followed by a sharp suck that nearly breaks me.
“God—oh God—”
He groans against me, like my taste is undoing him too. My thighs tremble but don’t resist when he spreads me wider, eating like a man who’s been deprived. My hands clutch at his hair, urging him on, helpless.
I can’t last. The pleasure builds too fast, coils too tight. I beg him, words spilling out incoherently. “Please, please, don’t stop—”
And he doesn’t. He never even slows.
The climax rips through me with violent force, my back bowing, my voice moaning out his name. Stars burst behind my eyes as I completely unravel.
Atlas doesn’t give me time to recover. He surges up my body, capturing my mouth in a kiss that tastes of me and him and sweat. Then he thrusts inside in one hard, claiming stroke.
I cry out, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging in. The fullness, the stretch, the heat, it’s overwhelming.
Atlas groans into my throat, hips grinding deep. “So fucking tight, Maddie.”
I can’t answer. I can only moan and cling and rock with him as he drives into me. The storm is fierce, unrelenting, and I face it head-on. His hand slides between us, finding my clit, circling ruthlessly.
“Yes, yes,” I chant, almost sobbing, because the second orgasm hits before the first has completely faded. My body clenches around him, pulling him deeper, and I scream his name as I come again, harder, wetter, more desperate than before.
He loses it then. His thrusts turn erratic, powerful, his mouth pressed to my neck whispering filthy promises I’ll never repeat. My body is fire around him, and when I scream again, his release tears through him with a ragged curse.
He holds me through it, hips still working as he wrings every ounce of pleasure from me, every last drop from himself. Then he collapses to the side, dragging me with him.
For a moment, silence. Just the sound of our breathing as his hand drifts to the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair. He presses a kiss to my brow, and it undoes me more than any sex ever could.
“That was…,” I start, but my voice is wrecked.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “That was.”
I should get up. I should run back to my room, remind myself of rules and lines and why I can’t want this. But for one dangerous minute, I let myself stay, curled against the man I swore I wouldn’t fall for.
Atlas’s arm is heavy over my waist, pinning me in the kind of hold I could get used to. His chest rises and falls steadily and for one reckless second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to always fall asleep like this.
But that’s the problem. Sleep. Staying. It’s not “just sex” if you blur the edges.
I ease my hand under his arm, sliding out from beneath the weight. The sheets whisper against my skin as I sit up and reach for my clothes.
“Mads?” His voice is thick with exhaustion, low and rumbling, and somehow still manages to make me shiver.
“I’m going back to my room.” I find my tank top, tug it over my head, and force my tone light.
“Why?” he asks, and I look back to find his head turned, resting on the pillow, eyes pinned on me.
“Because we said sex only, so this is the part where I go back to my room.”
His hand lands on my hip, warm, anchoring me before I can stand. “Or the part where you stay.”
I freeze, pulse kicking. “Atlas…”
“I’m not saying move in,” he says quickly, almost smiling, but there’s a gravity in his voice. “Just stay. One night. No rules, no labels. Just… stay.”
I turn to look at him. His hair is a mess from my fingers, his eyes dark and earnest. The picture is almost enough to break me.
Almost.
“I can’t.” My voice is firmer now, the steel I’ve practiced for years sliding into place.
“You really think lying next to me changes everything?”
“Yes,” I whisper, because I know it does. For me. For the walls I’ve built.
I pry his hand off my hip and set it gently on the mattress, not letting myself linger. “Good night, Atlas.”
He doesn’t argue again, just watches me gather my shorts and slip out the door and into the hallway, which immediately feels safer.
I walk quickly up the stairs to my room, heart pounding like I’ve sprinted a mile. The second the door shuts, I press my back against it and exhale.
My body is sated, my skin still humming, but inside? I’m raw.
Restless and still wanting.
I’ll always still be wanting with him.