Chapter 24
twenty-four
. . .
Stella
By the time we get back to Brandon's apartment, it's past midnight, and my feet are killing me. Mama disappeared into my place across the hall with a satisfied smile and a comment about what a “lovely evening” it was, leaving Brandon and me alone in his living room.
I kick off my heels and immediately feel human again, while Brandon shrugs out of his suit jacket and loosens his tie. That's when I notice him rolling his left shoulder, trying to work out what looks like a painful knot.
“Your shoulder bothering you?” I ask.
“Just a little stiff,” he says, but I can see the way he's favoring it. “The couch is comfy, but space is limited.”
Guilt washes over me. He's been sleeping on that couch for a week because I took over his bedroom, and I never even thought about how uncomfortable it must be for him.
“Brandon, this is ridiculous,” I say, heading toward the bedroom. “We're adults. We can share a bed without it being weird.”
“Stella, you don't have to—”
“Yes, I do. I should have already offered.” I turn back to face him with a pleading look. “I'm sorry I didn't think of it sooner.”
He follows me into the bedroom. “It's fine, Stella, and I don't have to sleep in here if it makes you uncomfortable.”
I turn to face him, trying to read the look on his face. Does he want to sleep in here?
“It doesn't.”
“I promise to keep to my side of the bed,” he says and starts to unbutton his shirt, which is my cue to leave.
“I'm going to rinse off this makeup and change,” I say, grabbing my sleep clothes from the dresser. “Make yourself at home…in your own room…that I took over.”
God, why am I so awkward?
When I emerge from the bathroom five minutes later in one of his old t-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, Brandon is already in bed, propped up against the headboard with the covers pulled to his waist. And he's shirtless.
I try not to stare at the expanse of his chest, at the way his muscles shift as he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, but it's impossible. He's beautiful thanks to years of working out and building a body made for stunts. He’s all golden skin and defined lines that almost look photoshopped.
“Much better,” I say, hoping my voice sounds normal as I slide under the covers on my side of the bed.
The mattress dips slightly as I settle in, and I become hyperaware of how close we are. When I turn onto my side to face him, I catch him looking at me with an intensity that makes my skin feel warm.
His eyes travel from my face down to my chest, where it's obvious he's noticed I'm wearing one of his T-shirts. “You look good in my clothes,” he says quietly.
“It's soft,” I manage, though my heart is beating faster now.
“Thanks again for tonight,” he says, his voice softer in the dim light. “Your mom seemed to have a good time.”
“She loved every second of it. You're officially her favorite person.” I smile. “Thank you for being so good to her. I know she can be a lot.”
“She's not a lot. She just loves you.”
We're facing each other, less than two feet apart, and the space between us feels charged with possibility. Every time he shifts, I catch another glimpse of his bare chest. Every time I move, his eyes seem to track the movement like he can't help himself.
“We should probably get some sleep,” I whisper, though I make no move to turn away.
“Probably,” he agrees, but his gaze drops to my lips for just a moment before meeting my eyes again.
Neither of us makes a move, and I think we both realize this is a dangerous temptation.
Finally, we each reach for our respective bedside lamps, and the room plunges into darkness as we click them off.
I roll onto my other side, facing away from him, and pull the covers up to my chin, and I hear him do the same on his side of the bed.
Now we're lying back to back in the dark, both of us perfectly still as we pretend this is perfectly normal.
But as I listen to his breathing gradually slow and deepen, I'm acutely aware of every inch of space between us, of how right it feels to have him beside me, of how much I want to close that distance.
It's the most peaceful I've felt in weeks, and I drift off to the sound of his steady breathing.
When I wake, the light from outside is spilling through the blinds.
And Brandon is holding me.
I'm on my side, facing him, and his arms are around my waist, pulling me close. Every inch of him is pressed against me. His chest, his hips, his thighs—all heat and muscle and sleep-warmed skin.
I should move. I should extract myself and go get ready for the day.
But I don't.
His body is solid beside me, grounding. And after everything that's happened this week between us, I can't bring myself to leave.
Then I feel it.
A slow, deliberate stroke of his thumb across my lower back. Barely there. But unmistakably real.
My heart lurches.
I stay still, eyes closed, breath held, like if I don't move, I won't shatter whatever spell this is. His breathing is shallow now, more conscious, and I know he's awake.
His thumb keeps moving in lazy circles, warmer now, bolder. I feel myself softening, melting into it, with the edges of my body blurring where his meets mine.
Then I feel his breath against my cheek.
And then his lips.
It's gentle at first. Careful. His mouth brushes mine like a question, and when I don't pull away—when I tilt forward instead—the kiss deepens, turning greedy, as our willpower unravels in one slide of lips and tongue.
He kisses me like I belong to him.
And I kiss him back like he's mine, too. This feels instinctive. Natural. Like I was always supposed to end up right here.
I shift carefully, sliding more on top of him. My thigh slips between his legs, and the sound he makes—a low, ragged groan—rattles through me like thunder.
His hands move to my hip, then lower, and his fingers dig into the curve of my ass, centering me on top of him like he's anchoring himself. I arch into him, chasing friction, and there it is—he's hard and hot and undeniable, pressing into me through his thin cotton briefs.
And God…this.
This doesn't feel like making out with someone I shouldn't. This feels like finding the thing I didn't know I needed.
His mouth trails from my lips to my jaw to the base of my throat, dragging open-mouthed kisses that leave me trembling. His teeth scrape my shoulder, peeking out from his shirt, and his palm covers my breast, his thumb circling over my nipple through the fabric.
The sensation makes my entire body jolt, and I gasp, clutching his side.
I've never felt this way before. No guy has ever made me feel this way.
It's not just physical. It's a full-body yes. My heart. My skin. My mind, even as it flickers with a single warning: He's your friend.
But I don't stop. I don't think.
Not when Brandon's breathing my name like a secret. Not when his hand slides beneath my shirt and slides it off. Not when he caresses my bare skin, setting every nerve ending on fire.
I bite my lip, barely holding in the cry that rises when his thumb brushes my nipple again—this time with nothing between us.
He groans beneath me as his hips lift to meet mine, and my brain short-circuits. There's no space left for logic. No air for guilt.
Just heat. Need. Him.
“So fucking perfect,” he whispers, his voice wrecked and reverent, and my whole body responds to the sound of it.
His palm continues to skim my breasts, his fingers touching skin that's never been touched by him before. And it's too much and not enough. My hips start moving instinctively, chasing every bit of pressure and drag I can get.
He feels big beneath me. I assumed he probably would be.
He's tall, built, and his body is pure perfection.
Why wouldn't every other part of him be the same?
I rub my clit against his erection, rolling against it, seeking more.
The fabric is soaked between my thighs. My body is alive in a way that feels dangerous—like, once this line is crossed, there's no turning back.
His fingers find the edge of my underwear, and his hand slips just beneath the waistband to palm my ass. I gasp, clinging to him.
I'm so close it's dizzying.
“I'm going to come,” I whisper, my breath hot against his ear.
He groans, low and urgent, thrusting up to meet my movements, and it sends me over the edge.
It's not gentle. It's not quiet. It crashes through me like a storm as his name leaves my lips.
I bury my face in his neck as my body clenches around nothing and everything all at once.
His final thrusts bring me down and cause him to erupt, a sharp gasp against my skin. His hips rock with pleasure as he loses control, his release hot between us.
We collapse into stillness, bodies tangled, breath shallow, sweat cooling on flushed skin.
I can feel his heartbeat. Fast. Wild. Matching mine.
I don't open my eyes. I don't speak.
Because I know, the second I do, it'll be real.
I stay wrapped around him, my cheek against his chest, the scent of sex and his skin mixed with mine. Safe. Wanted. Completely undone.
And then—a bang on his front door.
“Stella? Brandon? Are you two in there?”
My mother's voice carries through the front door.
I push myself off him, my adrenaline surging, my heart pounding for a completely different reason now. My chest is bare, my shorts clinging and damp between my thighs, and my lips feel swollen and raw.
Holy shit. What just happened?
I can't think about it right now. Can't examine the way my body is still humming with satisfaction or the way Brandon looked at me in those final moments. Can't acknowledge that everything between us has just changed completely.
I scramble off the bed before smoothing my hair, slipping his T-shirt back over my head with shaky fingers, and grabbing a pair of sweats I see on the chair in the corner of the room. Brandon's still catching his breath behind me, his eyes wide, stunned.
I don't look at him.
I can't.
Because if I do, I'll see everything we just did.
And everything we just risked.