Chapter 6
Lilah
By Friday, we've completed six of the twelve pieces I need.
It's not enough. It's also more than I thought possible.
"You're a miracle worker," I tell Marcus around midnight as we clean up the studio.
"I'm a planner. There's a difference."
"No, you're more than that. You've been here every night this week. Helping me rebuild. Keeping me sane. That's beyond planning."
"I told you I was committed."
"You did. I just didn't believe you'd actually follow through." I wipe paint off my hands. "Most people say they'll help and then disappear when it gets too hard."
"I'm not most people."
"No. You're definitely not." I study him in the fluorescent light. He's rumpled, unusual for Marcus. His shirt has paint stains. His normally perfect hair is messy from running his hands through it. He looks human instead of polished.
I like it. Like him.
Which is dangerous because we're partners. Working together and adding feelings to the mix would complicate everything.
Except I already have feelings. Have had them since freshman year when he looked at my painting and said it made him feel things he didn't have words for.
"Stop," Marcus says.
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're thinking about kissing me."
My heart stops. "How did you—"
"Because I'm thinking about kissing you. Have been all week. And if we don't talk about it, I'm going to do something impulsive and ruin our partnership."
"What if I want you to do something impulsive?"
"Lilah—"
"I'm serious. We've been dancing around this for three years, Marcus. Avoiding each other, then avoiding talking about why we were avoiding each other. When does it end?"
"When your show is done. When the crisis is over. When we're not working together under deadline pressure—"
"When it's convenient? When it's logical?" I move closer. "That's very you. Very safe. Very planned."
"Safe is smart."
"Safe is boring. Sometimes you have to take risks."
"I don't take risks. I calculate them. And this—" He gestures between us. "—is too many unknown variables."
"Then stop calculating. Just feel."
"I don't know how to just feel. That's the problem."
The thought hits me with unexpectedly. For someone who prides himself on staying in control, on analyzing rather than feeling, moments like this throw me completely off balance. It’s uncomfortable. Disorienting. And somewhere deep down, maybe a little bit thrilling.
"Then learn. Because I'm tired of pretending I don't want this. Don't want you." I'm standing right in front of him now. "Tell me to leave. Tell me you don't want this and I'll walk away. We'll go back to being partners and nothing more."
"I can't tell you that."
"Why not?"
"Because I do want this. Have wanted it since freshman year when you told me to feel more and think less. You've been in my head for three years." His hands come up to cup my face. "But wanting something and acting on it are different things."
"Not that different."
"Lilah, if we do this…if we cross this line, everything changes."
"Maybe everything needs to change."
"Maybe." His thumb brushes my cheek. "Or maybe we crash and burn and ruin the one good thing I've managed to not fuck up this semester."
"Or maybe it's perfect. Maybe we're perfect. You won't know unless you take the risk."
"I hate risks."
"I know. But you're going to take this one anyway. Because you want to. Because I want you to. Because we've waited long enough."
"You're very sure of yourself."
"Someone has to be. You're too busy calculating probabilities."
"The probability of this working long-term is—"
I kiss him before he can finish the calculation.
For a moment, he freezes, then he's kissing me back, pulling me closer, making a sound that's half groan, half surrender.
It's perfect. It's messy. It's everything I didn't know I needed, but God does it feel good. I lean in closing every gap between us, not wanting him to pull away from me.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"That was impulsive," Marcus says.
"That was perfect."
"We shouldn't have done that."
"We absolutely should have." I grin. "How do you feel?"
"Terrified. Exhilarated. Like I just jumped off a cliff."
"And?"
"And I want to do it again."
So I kiss him again and this time, Marcus Chen stops calculating and starts feeling.
His hands slide from my face down to my waist, pulling me flush against him. I can feel his heart racing, matching the frantic rhythm of my own. Three years of tension, of wanting, of pretending we don't want it , it all comes rushing to the surface.
"Lilah," he breathes against my lips. "We should—"
"Stop thinking," I whisper, walking him backward toward the old couch in the corner of my studio. "For once in your life, Marcus Chen, just feel."
"I'm trying." His voice is rough, unfamiliar. "But my brain won't—"
I push him down onto the couch and straddle his lap, which effectively shuts down whatever analytical thought was forming. His eyes go wide, then dark with want.
"Better?" I ask.
"You're—" He swallows hard. "This is—"
"Still thinking in incomplete sentences. That's progress." I thread my fingers through his messy hair and kiss him again, slower this time, deeper. His hands find my hips, gripping tight like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.
When I rock against him, he makes that sound again, half groans, half surrender and something inside me ignites. I've imagined this so many times, but reality is so much better. The way his breath hitches. The way his carefully controlled composure is unraveling with every touch.
"Tell me what you're thinking," I murmur against his neck.
"That's—that's cruel. You just told me to stop thinking."
"I want to hear it anyway." I nip at his earlobe and feel him shudder beneath me. "Come on, Marcus. Use your words."
"I'm thinking—" His hands slide under my shirt, fingers splaying across my bare skin. "—that I've wasted three years. That I'm an idiot for waiting this long."
"You are an idiot." I pull back to look at him. His glasses are slightly askew, his lips swollen from kissing. He looks undone in the best possible way. "But you're my idiot now."
"Possessive. I like it."
"Yeah? What else do you like?"
His hands tighten on my waist. "I like that you're not afraid to take what you want. I like that you're fearless where I'm cautious. I like—" He pauses, something vulnerable flickering across his face. "I like that you make me feel things I can't plan for."
"Marcus—"
"I'm terrified," he admits. "Of messing this up. Of losing you."
"You're not going to lose me." I cup his face, forcing him to meet my eyes. "But you might miss out if you don't stop worrying about what could go wrong and focus on what's happening right now."
"And what's happening right now?"
"Right now," I say, pulling my paint-stained shirt over my head and tossing it aside, "you're going to stop calculating and start touching me like you mean it."
His breath catches. For a moment, he just stares, and I can practically see his brain short-circuiting. Then his hands are on me, reverent and hungry all at once.
"I've thought about this," he confesses, his voice low. "So many times."
"Tell me." I arch into his touch. "What did you think about?"
"Everything. Your hands. Your mouth. The sounds you'd make. Whether you'd be patient or demanding—" His fingers trace up my spine, and I shiver. "I'm guessing demanding."
"Good guess." I reach for his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. "Off. Now."
"See? Demanding." But he's smiling as he helps me, shrugging out of the paint-stained fabric.
I run my hands over his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. He's leaner than I expected, all nervous energy and coiled tension. When I drag my nails lightly down his stomach, he hisses.
"Sensitive?" I ask.
"Apparently." His hands find the clasp of my bra with surprising deftness. "May I?"
Even now, he's asking permission. It's so perfectly Marcus that I can't help but smile. "Yes. God, yes."
The cool studio air hits my skin as he removes the last barrier between us. His eyes go dark, hungry, and for once he doesn't overthink. He just acts, mouth finding my breast, tongue circling until I'm gasping his name.
"Okay?" he asks against my skin.
"More than okay." My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close. "Don't stop."
He doesn't. His mouth explores while his hands map my body like he's memorizing every curve, every response. When he finds a particularly sensitive spot just below my ribs, I gasp, and he files that information away with a satisfied hum.
"Still cataloging data?" I manage to ask.
"Can't help it. You're fascinating." His lips trail down my stomach. "The way you respond, the sounds you make, I want to know everything."
"Then stop talking and find out."
I lift up enough for him to work on my jeans, and his hands, those careful, precise hands are shaking slightly as he unbuttons them. It makes me feel powerful and tender all at once.
"You're nervous," I observe.
"Terrified," he corrects. "And completely out of my depth. You're—" He looks up at me, vulnerable and honest. "You're everything, Lilah."
The confession steals my breath. I lean down and kiss him, soft and deep, trying to pour everything I can't say into it. When we break apart, I whisper against his lips, "Then stop being scared and have me."
He stands, lifting me with him, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me to the cleared table against the wall.
"Here?" I ask, surprised.
"Here." He sets me down, and I can see the change in him, the planner giving way to something more primal. "Unless you object?"
"No objections." I pull him between my legs, enjoying the way he towers over me like this, the way his control is fraying at the edges. "But you're wearing too many clothes."
"Easily remedied." He makes quick work of his jeans, and then we're skin to skin, and coherent thought becomes difficult.
His hands grip my thighs, spreading them wider as he steps closer. I can feel him, hard and ready, and the anticipation makes me dizzy.
"Protection?" I ask, ever practical even now.
"Wallet. Back pocket."
He retrieves it with shaking hands, and I watch as he tears open the packet. Even this, even this mundane, necessary moment feels charged with electricity.
"Come here," I tell him, and he does, pressing close, one hand braced on the table beside me while the other guides himself to my entrance.
"Tell me if—" he starts, but I cut him off with a kiss.
"I will. Now please, Marcus. I need—"
He pushes inside, slow and careful, and we both freeze at the sensation. His forehead drops to my shoulder, his breathing ragged.
"Oh God," he groans. "Lilah—"
"I know." I wrap my arms around him, holding him close as my body adjusts to the fullness. "I know."
For a moment, we just breathe together, suspended in this perfect, overwhelming instant. Then I shift my hips experimentally, and he makes a sound that's pure desperation.
"Move," I whisper. "Please move."
And he does. Slowly at first, testing, learning what makes me gasp and what makes me moan. His analytical mind might drive me crazy most of the time, but right now I'm grateful for it because he's paying attention to every detail, every reaction.
"Harder," I urge, and he complies, his careful control giving way to something rougher, more desperate. The table creaks beneath us, and I don't care. I dig my nails into his shoulders, using the leverage to meet his thrusts.
"You feel—" He can't seem to finish the sentence, lost in sensation. "I can't—I'm not going to last—"
"Then don't." I clench around him deliberately, and he curses, the sound raw and perfect. "Let go, Marcus. Just feel."
His rhythm becomes erratic, and I can feel my own release building, coiling tight in my belly. When his hand slips between us, finding my clit, he rubs it hard and it makes me cry out. I know he's still thinking of me even as he's losing himself.
"Come with me," he says, and it's half plea, half command. "Please, Lilah—"
The combination of his fingers and the perfect angle of his thrusts pushes me over the edge. I shatter around him, his name a broken prayer on my lips, and I feel him follow moments later, groaning into my neck as he pulses inside me.
We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, tangled together and trembling. His weight against me is perfect, grounding. Real.
"That was—" he starts.
"Don't analyze it," I interrupt, running my fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. "Just enjoy it."
"I am enjoying it. I'm enjoying you." He lifts his head to look at me, and his expression is soft in a way I've never seen before. "All of you. Even the parts that terrify me."
"Good." I kiss him gently. "Because I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me now."
"That's the first impulsive decision I've ever been happy about."
"The first of many," I promise.
He laughs, and it's free and unguarded and beautiful. "One thing at a time, Lilah. Let me recover from this one first."
"Okay. But for the record?" I grin up at him. "I vote we make terrible decisions together more often."
"Noted." He kisses my forehead, then my nose, then my lips. "For what it's worth, I think this might be the best terrible decision I've ever made."
"Might be?"
"Is. Definitely is." He helps me down from the table, both of us wincing slightly as we separate. "Though we should probably clean up before someone comes in tomorrow and—"
"And there's the Marcus I know." But I'm smiling as I gather my scattered clothes. "Always thinking ahead."
"Someone has to." He pulls on his jeans, then pauses, looking at me with something vulnerable in his eyes. "This changes things. Between us."
"I know."
"Are you okay with that?"
I walk over to him, still half-dressed, and take his face in my hands. "Marcus, I've been waiting for things to change for three years. I'm more than okay with it."
"Good." He pulls me close, and I can feel him relax against me. "Because I'm all in. Terrified, but all in."
"That's all I need." I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow to something almost normal. "Now come on. Help me clean up so we can go home and do this again. Properly. In a bed this time."
"You have a plan?"
"I do and for once, you're going to follow my lead instead of making one of your own."
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Yes, ma'am."
As we clean up the studio together, stealing kisses and touches, I know that whatever happens with the show, whatever challenges we face, we'll face them together. No more avoiding. No more pretending. Just us, messy and imperfect and real.
It's more than I hoped for.
It's perfect.