Deleted scene #6
I cup his face, forcing him to look at me. His expression is stripped raw—all hunger and a patience that’s hanging by a thread. “Rule one,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. “You don’t get to ask me about my past.”
He nods once, sharp. “Okay.”
“Rule two. This doesn’t mean anything tomorrow.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Define ‘anything.’”
“It means we walk away. No awkward texts. No expectations. We had a good time at a party. The end.”
He searches my face for a long moment. “And if I want to see you again?”
“Then you didn’t understand the rules.”
He’s silent, his thumb moving in a slow, absent circle on my bare skin. The tension between us isn’t just sexual anymore; it’s thick with something heavier, a negotiation of terms for a war we both know I’ve already lost in some fundamental way.
“Rule three,” he says quietly.
I blink. “No names, and to clarify the rest is no lights on—no I will not strip naked and sleep beside you. I am here for a fast fuck—not a long one.”
“Fine, but you need to give me one.” His gaze is unwavering. “One rule of mine. That’s fair.”
Suspicion coils in my gut. “What’s your rule?”
“Right now, you stop thinking about tomorrow.” His hand slides fully under the lace of my underwear, his palm pressing flat against me, and my thoughts shatter.
“Right now, you’re here. With me and I can feel how wet you are, and all I can think about is how you’re going to sound when I make you come. ”
A violent shudder wracks my body. His words are filthy, direct, and they bypass every defense I have left. His fingers press, not inside yet, just a firm, relentless pressure against my clit. My hips jerk involuntarily, seeking more.
“Easton—” It’s a plea and a protest all at once.
“That’s the rule,” he says, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as his mouth finds mine again. This kiss is all tongue and heat and surrender. “Be here. Just be here in the moment and stop stressing about the rules.”
And then his finger slips inside me.
It’s not a tentative exploration but a claiming.
One long, slow, deliberate stroke that steals the air from my lungs.
I cry out against his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss.
He’s thorough, curling his finger, finding a rhythm that has my nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.
A second finger joins the first, stretching me, filling me, and the burn is so good it borders on pain.
“You’re so tight,” he groans into my neck, his own breathing labored. “Fuck, Aura, you feel—”
“No names.”
“I will call you whatever I want when I…”
He doesn’t finish because he doesn’t need to.
His thumb finds my clit, rubbing tight, focused circles, and the world goes white at the edges and I forget my rules.
The party, the cold air, the stupid, careful life I’ve built—all of it evaporates under the relentless, expert attention of his hand.
He’s watching me, his face a mask of intense concentration, reading every hitch of my breath, every flutter of my eyelids, adjusting his touch until I’m a writhing, desperate mess against him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. “I’ve got you—fuck my fingers Aura.”
The words are a trigger and I pull it giving him permission I didn’t know I would ever give.
The coil of pleasure in my belly snaps, and I come with a broken, gasping cry, my body clamping down around his fingers, my forehead falling against his chest as waves of sensation crash through me, hot and shocking and utterly consuming.
He holds me through it, his fingers working me gently until the last tremor subsides, his other arm a solid band around my back, keeping me from sliding off the railing.
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of our ragged breathing mixing with the crickets. The aftermath is a hollow, buzzing quiet. I feel boneless, exposed, my carefully constructed armor lying in pieces at our feet. I don’t look at him. I can’t.
Easton slowly withdraws his hand, and the loss is acutely physical. He doesn’t move away. He stays pressed against me, his dick still hard between my thighs, his heart hammering against my cheek where it rests on his chest. He smells like sweat and night air and me.
Finally, he tips my chin up. His eyes are still dark, but the hunger has softened into something more complex, more dangerous. He looks… satisfied, but not smug. Aware.
He swipes his thumb over my bottom lip, smearing what’s left of my lipstick.
“Rule one,” he says, his voice rough. “No past.” He leans in, his breath warm on my mouth.
“Rule two. No tomorrow.” He kisses me, slow and deep, tasting of me and bourbon and something uniquely Easton.
When he pulls back, his gaze holds mine, unflinching. “But tonight isn’t over.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A promise.
And as his mouth descends to mine again, as his hands grip my hips to pull me more firmly against the hard evidence of his own need, I realize with a sinking, thrilling certainty that the rules were mine, but the game just changed.