Chapter 35 #2
I’m trembling now, thighs shaking around his hips.
He lifts his head, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and slides a hand between us. Fingers glide through my folds—slow, exploratory—and he finds me drenched, slicker than the water around us. A low, reverent curse leaves him.
“God, Stella… you’re so wet for me.” His voice is wrecked, almost awed. “All this time… and you’re this ready now.”
I flush hot, nodding against his shoulder. “I’ve been ready forever.”
He notches himself at my entrance—thick, hot, pulsing—and pauses, forehead pressed to mine.
“Tell me if it’s too much.”
I kiss him instead, slow and deep, and sink down inch by careful inch.
The stretch is exquisite, overwhelming, a beautiful burn that makes my eyes flutter closed.
Years of waiting make every sensation sharper, louder: the way he fills me completely, the way my body flutters around him, welcoming him home.
When he’s fully seated, we both go still, breathing each other’s air, hearts hammering in sync.
Then we move.
Not frantic. Rolling, languid glides that let every ridge drag just right. The water laps at our skin with every subtle shift, amplifying everything. His hands cradle my hips, guiding without forcing, letting me find the rhythm that makes us both tremble.
“I love being inside you,” he murmurs against my throat, kissing the pulse there. “Love feeling you around me like this… like you were made for me.”
A broken sound escapes me. I thread my fingers through those damp curls again and kiss him deeper, tongues tangling while our bodies keep that same loving, unhurried cadence.
It builds gradually—wave after wave of molten pleasure that stays soft at the edges even as it climbs. When I start to tighten, he slips a hand between us and circles my clit with the lightest, most patient pressure.
“Come with me,” he whispers. “Let me feel you.”
I do.
Quietly. Shatteringly. My orgasm rolls through me like a long, slow tide—silent gasps, trembling thighs, nails digging into his shoulders while he holds me through every pulse.
He follows seconds later, burying his face in my neck, hips pressing deep as he spills inside me with a low, broken groan that sounds like my name.
We stay locked together afterward, breathing hard, hearts hammering in tandem. His arms wrap around me tighter, like he never wants to let go. I rest my cheek against his shoulder and close my eyes, letting the steam and the aftershocks and the steady crash of the ocean below hold us.
Eventually he kisses my temple.
“Let’s get you inside before you freeze.”
He lifts me with him as he stands—still inside me for one dizzy second before he slips free—and carries me back through the terrace doors, both of us dripping, laughing softly at how ridiculous and perfect we are.
In the bathroom he sets me on my feet and turns on the shower. Warm water cascades instantly. He steps in first, then reaches for me.
I follow.
The intimacy of it hits me all at once—standing naked under the spray together, no urgency, no performance, just the quiet reality of being with someone like this.
He reaches for the shampoo, pours some into his palm, and works it gently into my hair.
His fingers massage my scalp in slow, careful circles.
I close my eyes and lean into his touch.
No one has ever washed my hair for me before.
Not like this.
Not with this kind of patient devotion.
When he rinses it, his hands are so careful not to let soap sting my eyes. Then he turns me so my back is to his chest and soaps my shoulders, my arms, my waist—every touch tender, almost worshipful. I feel small and safe and seen in a way that makes my throat tight.
I turn in his arms and take the bar from him.
My hands shake a little as I run it over his chest, tracing those same muscles I just explored in the tub, down his arms, feeling the way his skin pebbles under my fingertips.
He watches me with quiet intensity, like he understands exactly how new this feels—how every touch is a first, how the years of distance make even soap and water feel sacred.
When we’re both clean, he just holds me under the water. Chin on my head. Arms secure around my back. The steam is thick, the sound of the shower steady, and for once I don’t feel the need to say anything.
Everything is so new.
The way he takes care of me without making it feel like a performance.
The way being held can feel more intimate than sex.
The way love can be this quiet, this gentle, this safe—after waiting so long it almost broke us.
I press my lips to the center of his chest.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He kisses the top of my head.
“For what?”
“For all of it.”
He doesn’t answer with words.
He just holds me tighter.
And by the time brunch rolls around, I already know I’m going to need the rest of my life to recover from him.
By the time we’re dressed for brunch, I feel ruined in the most expensive possible way.
Not tired.
Glowing.
There should be a word for the exact state a girl enters after waking up loved, making out in a private hot tub over the Atlantic, and then standing in a hotel bathroom trying to do skincare while the same man who wrecked her gently steals her hair tie and acts like that is somehow flirting.
If there is, I don’t know it.
All I know is that I’m wearing cream wide-leg trousers, a fitted black sweater, gold hoops, and the kind of barely-there makeup women apply when they know they are already being looked at like a favorite prayer.
Tristan is in dark slacks and a charcoal sweater with the sleeves pushed up, hair still a little damp from the shower, looking like money and trouble and every adult version of the boy I first fell for.
He catches me staring as we wait for the elevator.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His mouth curves.
“That’s never true.”
I step closer and smooth imaginary lint from his sweater just because I can.
“You clean up well.”
His hand settles lightly at my waist, thumb brushing once against the small of my back.
“So do you.”
The elevator doors open before either of us can get dangerous again, which is probably for the best.
The brunch room downstairs overlooks the water from a glass-wrapped terrace, all white linen and silver coffee pots and discreet service. Newport does not do casual, not even before noon.
Jade and Leo are already there. Leo stands first when he sees us, grinning in that easy, expensive way of his, but it’s Jade I clock hardest.
Small compared to me, but somehow not small at all.
Dark hair.
Sharp eyes.
A face built for beautiful expressions and ruthless honesty.
She looks like the kind of girl who has survived being underestimated and learned to enjoy the correction.
She takes me in once.
I do the same.
And something immediate passes between us.
Recognition.
“Oh,” she says.
I laugh softly.
“Oh” is right.”
Tristan’s hand shifts at my back.
“This feels threatening.”
Leo claps him once on the shoulder as he rounds the table.
“It should.”
Then he hugs him—quick, hard, real enough that my chest squeezes a little just watching it.
“I missed you, bro.”
Something in Tristan’s face softens instantly.
“Yeah,” he says. “Missed you, too.”
Leo pulls back, looks him over, and shakes his head.
“You really do look like you belong out here.”
Tristan huffs a laugh.
“That your way of saying I’ve gone soft?”
“It’s my way of saying you look less miserable.”
That earns a snort from Jade.
“Which is frankly unsettling.”
Then she turns fully to me, and there is absolutely no hesitation in her when she steps in and hugs me too. Like she already decided something.
“You’re Stella.”
“And you’re Jade.”
She pulls back, eyes bright with amusement.
“I like you already.”
“Good,” I say. “I was hoping you’d be terrifying.”
Her grin flashes.
“I am.”
Leo gestures toward the table. “Sit, before she starts collecting confessions.”
Coffee appears.
Then more coffee. Followed by a tower of pastries nobody intends to ignore.
Tristan takes the chair beside me, close enough that our knees brush under the table. His hand settles over my thigh for one second before he remembers other people are present and removes it.
Jade looks between us once and says, “Wow.”
I reach for my coffee.
“What?”
She leans back in her chair, satisfied.
“Nothing. You two are just… glowing in a way that makes me feel like I accidentally walked into the aftermath of a natural disaster.”
I nearly choke.
Tristan mutters, “Jade.”
Leo, completely unhelpful, takes a sip of his espresso and says, “You’re welcome, by the way. I very generously chose not to interrupt whatever post-dance religious experience you two were having.”
My face goes hot so fast it should qualify as a medical event.
Jade turns to him, scandalized and delighted.
“That is exactly what it looked like.”
I look at Tristan.
He is staring into his coffee like he regrets ever leaving Harvard.
“You told them?” I ask.
Leo lifts a hand.
“He told me nothing. I have eyes.”
“And timing,” Jade adds. “Excellent timing. We purposely did not appear before noon because we are gracious.”
“That is not the word I’d use,” Tristan mutters.
Leo grins at him.
“You’re welcome anyway.”
I bite back a smile into my cup and fail completely.
That only encourages Jade, who shifts her full attention to me.
“So,” she says, “how bad is it?”
I blink.
“I’m sorry?”
She gestures loosely between Tristan and me.
“The chemistry. The emotional damage. The years of unresolved longing. Rate it.”
“Jade.”
“What?” She looks at Tristan innocently. “I’m trying to welcome her.”
I set my coffee down very carefully.
Then, because some instinct tells me honesty plays well at this table, I say, “It’s catastrophically bad.”
Jade lights up.
“Perfect.”
Leo points at me.
“See? I told you.”
“Told her what?” Tristan asks.
“That only girls with real stamina survive you.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
Tristan turns to me, betrayed.