Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Sara
Meatball is trying to eat my sports bra.
Again.
I yank it from his mouth and throw it across the room.
It hits a messy pile of throw pillows with a thud.
He huffs, flops onto his back in full protest, every ounce of drama spilling out as if I’ve just ripped away his last lifeline.
His tongue droops from the corner of his mouth, slack and ridiculous.
He might as well be starring in some absurd canine soap opera.
“Get a grip,” I mutter, stepping over him to grab my laptop off the kitchen counter. “You had breakfast. You had a walk. You don’t need to destroy my underthings for attention.”
He kicks one leg in the air in half-hearted defiance before deciding belly rubs are the greater good. I oblige, because I’m weak and he’s cute and I need something to ground me right now.
Because otherwise I’m just going to sit here in my new, suspiciously adult apartment, surrounded by untouched furniture and half-unpacked boxes, and spiral.
Again.
It’s been over a week.
Days have passed since that kiss in Nick’s office, the kiss that hit me with unstoppable force and still reverberates through every part of me. Just one kiss. One moment. But it shattered everything.
I felt it. In my knees. In my lungs. In the way my brain completely short-circuited and hasn’t returned to factory settings since.
It doesn’t help that it’s been almost two months since our first accidental, wine-fueled, very-bad-idea hookup and we’ve been tap dancing around it like a couple of idiots ever since.
But this?
This kiss?
It was different.
This time, it wasn’t an accident.
This time, I knew exactly what I was doing.
And so did he.
I flop onto the couch and pull my knees up, laptop balanced precariously as I try, and fail, to write a campaign pitch for athletic socks that don’t ride down into your shoes. The product manager wants something “catchy, but grounded in emotional resonance.”
I stare at the blinking cursor.
Fall in love with your feet again?
Stay up. Like your standards.
Because saggy socks are a cry for help.
“Honestly, I’m a cry for help,” I mutter, stabbing the delete key and sighing so hard Meatball looks mildly alarmed.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Laura: I know you’re ignoring me, and I’m letting you have your sad spiral moment, but I will appear outside your window with a boom box if you don’t answer in the next 30 seconds.
I stare at it.
Then sigh and answer.
Her voice comes through instantly. “There she is. My emotionally repressed corporate sexpot.”
“I hate you,” I mutter, but the corner of my mouth twitches anyway.
“Mmhmm. Are you still pretending that kiss didn’t turn your brain into confetti?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re using your dog as a security blanket and your emotional support coping mechanism is sock-related wordplay.”
I glance at Meatball. He barks.
“That’s uncalled for,” I say.
“So is pretending like you didn’t make out with your boss like it was the last scene in a Nicholas Sparks movie and now you’re both avoiding each other like you caught feelings in a gas station.”
I groan and flop backward, phone pressed to my ear. “I can’t stop thinking about it, Lo. About him.”
“I know.”
“Like… my body is still buzzing. It’s been over a week. What the hell is wrong with me?”
“Nothing,” she says gently. “You want him. And you care. That’s not wrong.”
I cover my eyes with one arm. “It is when he’s my boss. When I have to see him every day and pretend like I’m not mentally replaying the way he sounded when I kissed him like I was on fire.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Laura says, “He sounded like something?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Oh, I will absolutely make you say it.”
I groan louder. “Like he was falling. Like he couldn’t stop.”
There it is. The truth of it. Out loud. And it’s like stepping into traffic.
“Damn,” she whispers.
“Yeah.”
“And since then…?”
“He’s been distant. Professional. Like it never happened.”
“And you?”
“Same. Obviously.” I pick at a loose thread on the couch cushion. “Except for the part where I’m not sleeping, can’t concentrate, and keep getting hot every time someone says the word ‘spreadsheet.’”
Laura laughs so hard I hear her nearly drop her phone. “You’re such a disaster.”
“I’m trying not to be.” I pause. “And it doesn’t help that I’ve been feeling weird all week. Jittery. Off. Like… butterflies. But on steroids. I really need to get it together.”
Laura hums thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s not just emotional, babe. Maybe it’s physical. Stress does weird things to your body. So does sexual frustration.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “Thanks, Dr. Phil.”
“Seriously,” she says. “Do something that calms you down. Take a hot bath. Light a candle…”
Buzz.
I blink. Then sit up so fast I nearly catapult Meatball off the couch. My phone lights up.
Nick Ashford: You up?
I stare at it.
Then whisper, “Oh no.”
Laura gasps. “What was that? Who just texted you? Is it him?”
“I gotta go,” I say, already hanging up.
My heart pounds. For a full seven seconds, I stare at his name on the screen, frozen, waiting for the letters to twist into “Just kidding.” They don’t.
Nick: You up?
Nick: Still thinking about you.
I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until I exhale all at once.
My fingers hover over the screen.
Sara: You shouldn’t text me.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then come back again.
Nick: I know.
Nick: But I can’t stop.
My stomach flips. My skin prickles. Every nerve in my body is suddenly awake.
I scan my apartment, searching for eyes on me, hoping it makes this feel less dangerous. Less real.
Sara: Really?
What am I doing?
There’s a pause. Longer this time. I watch the dots dance. Typing, not typing, typing again.
Nick: I haven’t stopped thinking about that kiss. About how you tasted. The sound you made. How soft you were.
My breath catches.
Nick: I should be thinking about Q3 projections. But all I can picture is you in my office again. Against the wall. Saying my name like that.
I make a sound in the back of my throat that would deeply embarrass me in public. Meatball cocks his head, eyes asking, “You okay, ma’am?”
Sara: You can’t say things like that.
Nick: I already did.
Nick: And I meant every word.
My hands tremble. Heat coils deep in my belly, heavy and restless. I’ve been holding back a rising tide for weeks, and now it’s crashing free.
Sara: What do you want, Nick?
Another pause. Then:
Nick: You.
Two seconds later:
Nick: In my hands. On my desk. On my mouth.
Nick: Anywhere I can have you.
Nick: Everywhere.
I press my hand against my chest, desperate to slow my racing heart. But it doesn’t budge. There’s no calm left in me. No professionalism. No safety.
And God help me… I don’t want to be safe anymore.
Sara: Tell me what you’d do if I was there right now.
His reply is instant.
Nick: I’d ruin you. Softly. Slowly. Until you forget why we’re pretending we shouldn’t.
I drop the phone.
Actually drop it.
It lands on the carpet and Meatball sniffs it like, girl, what are you doing?
I scoop it up again, fingers trembling.
Sara: I’m not wearing pants.
Nick: Fuck.
Nick: Now I’m not breathing.
Nick: I want you in my bed. Under me. Above me. Doesn’t matter. As long as it’s you.
Nick: I haven’t touched anyone since that night. Not once. And I don’t want to.
My throat tightens.
Not just from the words, but the truth of them. I believe him.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
Because I haven’t either.
I must be losing my mind. I don’t know what comes over me as I type.
Sara: Come over.
He shows up at my apartment fifteen minutes later.
I barely have time to throw on a clean shirt and light a candle before there’s a knock at the door.
I open it, and there he is.
Nick Ashford stands in a dark coat, hair tousled by the wind, eyes fixed on me with a knowing intensity. His jaw tightens, fists clenched at his sides, and he looks…
Wrecked. Ravaged. Controlled only by the thinnest thread.
“Hi,” I breathe.
He doesn’t answer.
He steps inside, shuts the door with a solid thud, and pulls me into him with desperate hunger.
We barely make it past the entryway.
Clothes scatter. My shirt hits a lamp. His coat ends up God knows where. I think one of my shoes ends up in the kitchen sink, but I don’t care, I can’t care, because his mouth is on mine and nothing else exists.
It’s not soft. It’s not careful.
It’s need.
Hands clutching fabric. Teeth grinding. I’m slammed against the wall before I register it, legs curling around his waist, my body moving before my mind can catch up. He groans into my neck, raw and urgent, as if this restrained fire finally erupted.
“You don’t know,” he growls into my skin, lifting me effortlessly and carrying me toward the bedroom, “what you do to me.”
“Show me,” I gasp, fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt, nails dragging across his stomach.
He does.
Nick sets me down in the middle of my bed, his possession. His eyes roam over me slowly, not just looking but claiming. Hunger burns in them, tempered by restraint. He savors the anticipation, stretching the moment before unleashing everything we’ve been holding back.
His voice is dangerously low.
“Strip for me.”
The command punches the air out of my lungs. I blink up at him, throat dry, pulse thudding in places I didn’t know could throb. He doesn’t move. Just stands there, arms crossed, eyes dark and hooded, watching.
I should be nervous.
But I’m not.
I’m on fire.
I rise slowly to my knees on the bed and pull my T-shirt over my head.
His expression tightens when he sees me bare beneath it.
I roll my shorts and panties down in one smooth motion, sliding them past my hips and tossing them aside.
Heat blooms in my chest as his eyes devour every inch, hungry enough to consume me whole.
“Lie back,” he says. “Arms above your head.”
My breath catches. But I do it.