Chapter 17
Juno
My apartment has never felt smaller.
Not cramped, but almost as if it senses what is about to happen and is holding its breath along with me.
I pace once, then stop myself and lean against the counter, forcing my feet to stay put. I’m nervous, yes—but not in a way that’s unpleasant.
This isn’t fear. It’s anticipation laced with uncertainty. I didn’t plan on sleeping with Crosby. Granted, I’ve thought about it a time or two over the last few weeks, usually late at night in bed before I went to sleep. But I didn’t walk into Axel’s party tonight with the idea that I’d score.
And now I’m waiting for him to arrive, which should be any minute. We didn’t leave the party at the same time, Crosby waiting another ten minutes. It was a plan we didn’t talk through or attempt to reason. We kissed, we looked at each other like gravity had finally won, and I told him to come over.
“Is this a stupid idea?” I ask myself out loud, so I have to pay attention to it.
I try to catalogue the reasons I should hesitate, because that’s how my brain works—order, logic, risk assessment.
He’s a subject. I’m embedded. There are lines people like me don’t cross because crossing them muddies perception, complicates narrative, threatens credibility.
I’ve built my career on restraint and integrity, on knowing where the camera ends and I begin.
And yet.
What draws me to Crosby isn’t recklessness.
It’s the opposite.
It’s how down-to-earth he is. He’s controlled in a way that isn’t stringent. Collected without being rigid. He doesn’t posture, doesn’t need to be loud to take up space, and is so secure in his own skin, it invites you to be the same.
There’s no second-guessing, no looking around for validation. He carries responsibility like it’s part of his skeletal structure, not a burden he resents.
I’ve spent most of my adult life being the one who decides. Where to go, what comes next, how to navigate uncertainty. I didn’t realize how tired I was of that until I met a man who doesn’t ask me to lead, doesn’t need me to reassure him, doesn’t offload his uncertainty onto my shoulders.
With Crosby, I feel like we’re on common ground.
And that right there is why I’m going for this. I can reason that what we’re doing might not be the best idea, but Crosby’s the type of man who makes it a safe bet.
In essence, I trust him.
That’s the part that tips me over the edge. Not lust. Not curiosity. Not need.
Trust.
The quiet conviction that whatever happens next won’t be careless, won’t be a regret I have to explain when I look at myself in the mirror tomorrow.
The knock comes sooner than I expect. Taking a deep breath, I open the door, and there he is—jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes steady and intent in a way that makes my stomach dip.
We stare at each other, silently waiting for one of us to chicken out and call this whole crazy thing off.
It won’t be me.
I know that much.
But still, we need boundaries at the very least.
“I need to say something,” I begin, noting his eyebrows lift ever so slightly.
“Before this goes anywhere.” He watches me patiently, arms loose at his sides.
“This has to be compartmentalized,” I continue, logic clicking into place the way it always does when I’m nervous.
“What happens here can’t bleed into the work.
I won’t compromise that, and I won’t put you in a position—”
Crosby crosses the space between us, the movement unhurried but absolute, drying up my words. He steps over my threshold and into my space, and before I can finish drawing breath, his hand is at my jaw, firm and sure, tilting my face up to his.
Then he kisses me.
Not tentatively. Not as a question. This isn’t a testing brush of lips or a careful feel-out. It’s bold and powerful, his mouth claiming mine with a confidence that tells me he knows exactly what he wants and has no intention of apologizing for it.
The pressure is steady and thrilling, causing my head to spin. His other hand slides to my waist like it’s always known where it belongs.
The kiss blooms immediately hot and my body responds, lust blooming low and fast. My hands fist into his shirt as the last of my carefully ordered thoughts scatter uselessly. There’s no room left for analysis, no space for caution.
There’s only this man, his body and my decision to focus on only sensation and certainty that I want this.
Crosby’s hands squeeze, warm and sure at my waist, and I feel the tension I’ve been holding unravel. I kiss him back and when we break apart, my forehead presses to his chest for a calming moment.
“You talk too much when you’re nervous,” he murmurs.
I laugh softly and tip my head back to look at him. “You noticed.”
“I noticed,” he says, and kisses me again.
This time, there’s no interruption, and the moment for rationalization is lost forever. There’s feeling and intent as he guides me backward, the apartment dim and familiar around us. Clothing becomes secondary—shed in quiet, unhurried movements that feel reverent rather than frantic.
His mouth doesn’t leave mine as he walks me, steps confident, steering us like he already knows where this ends.
I bump lightly into the wall, the contact enough to draw a quiet sound from my throat, and he takes advantage of it—deepening the kiss, angling his body closer until there’s no space left to pretend we’re still thinking clearly.
Hands are everywhere now. Hungry, his grip tightens at my hips, then he slides one hand up my spine in a slow sweep that pulls me flush against him.
I feel his erection, thick and hot at my belly, and my knees weaken.
The contact sends a quick pulse through me, my body reacting before my mind can catch up.
My hand drops, palms him through his jeans.
“Jesus,” he murmurs against my mouth, the word rough, almost surprised, like he didn’t expect it to feel this good.
I sense the shift in him then—the exact moment control gives way to need—and it sparks a feral burning low in my chest. “Kiss me again,” I say softly, not a request so much as an instinct.
His hands respond immediately, firmer now, one spanning my lower back as the other slides up to cradle my neck, tilting my head enough to deepen the kiss. He makes a quiet sound at that, barely restrained, and heat races through me.
“You feel…” He trails off, forehead brushing mine for a split second before his mouth finds my jaw. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
I smile against his skin, emboldened by how his body presses into mine. “I think I do.”
A low chuckle vibrates through his chest, followed by an inhale when my hands slip beneath the fabric separating us. “Yeah,” he says, voice thick now. “You definitely do.”
Crosby sweeps me up in his arms, the movement sudden and effortless. My legs instinctively wrap around him as a quiet laugh escapes me—more breathless than amused. He carries me down the hall without a word, mouth returning to mine mid-step, the world blurring at the edges as urgency takes over.
By the time we reach the bedroom, whatever restraint we thought we had is gone. Heat rolls over my skin the moment his hands settle on me, steady and sure. I don’t hesitate to return the touch, fueled by the simple, undeniable need to feel him.
We end up in the middle of my bed, on our sides with legs tangled, facing each other. The decision feels reckless and exhilarating all at once—like stepping off a ledge knowing the fall will be worth it. My pulse skids, my nerves alive and buzzing, but beneath it all is certainty.
I want this.
His fingers slip between my thighs, slow and measured, the contrast between his touch and the soft press of his mouth at my neck sending a tremor through me. I draw in a breath that shudders on the way out, my head tipping back to give him better access.
He probes the slick heat, sliding a long finger inside me at the same time, tracing the knuckles of his other hand up my spine. The contrast has me groaning in the need of more.
I’m trembling now, the anticipation almost painful.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” he admits, withdrawing his finger and pressing it back in. “About you. About how this would feel.”
I moan, my hips thrusting against his hand in a shameless rhythm. He leans in, his mouth brushing over my shoulder, his tongue tracing a line that makes me tremble.
“I like seeing you like this,” he continues, voice rougher now. “I like knowing you’re giving this to me.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Crosby starts a steady circling of my clit, his mouth fused to mine. I thrash under him, needing the relief that’s just beyond reach. Higher and higher he drives me until that one perfect touch sends me to the stars. I cry out as pleasure explodes, my hands gripping his shoulders to steady myself.
The man chuckles, absolutely delighted in the response he pulled from me.
I’m near delirious, needing far more than what he has given me. “I need you inside me now.”
His laugh dies, his eyes going dark as he stares down at me.
“Now,” I repeat.
Mouth turning up at the corners, he grins. “As you wish.”
Crosby covers me with this body, hikes a leg up over his hip.
His fingers go back between my legs, probing, spreading the slick, making sure I’m ready.
He lines himself up, the first press slow and deliciously intentional.
I tense at the initial stretch, breath catching as he pauses, giving me time to adjust, to breathe through it.
He’s a big boy in all ways, and his hand tightens at my hip, reassuring.
“You good?” he asks softly.
“Yes,” I manage. “Don’t stop.”
He moves again, another inch, the sensation overwhelming and perfect all at once. I gasp, fingers digging into the comforter as he continues his slide until he fills me completely. The angle is perfect—intense, deep—and it sends a pulse of pleasure through me that I wasn’t prepared for.
Crosby withdraws slowly, then slides back in with intention, setting a cadence that builds instead of rushes. Each movement knocks the air from my lungs, the pressure inside me blooming until it’s almost too much.
I moan, unable to hold it back, and he answers with a low sound of his own. His hands planted on either side of me as his pace picks up, the room filling with the sounds of skin and breath and quiet, desperate encouragement.
His hands slide forward, one cupping my breast, the other following, his thumbs brushing over sensitive skin until I cry out. The sensation pushes me right to the edge, my body tightening, my hips pressing back against him without thought.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, breath hot at my ear. “Let go.”
My second release hits hard and fast, pleasure cresting and breaking through me in waves. I shudder, barely able to breathe as it washes over me, my body responding to his every movement.
Crosby follows soon after, his grip tightening as his body tenses, a guttural groan leaving his mouth as he finishes, pressed fully against me.
When he stills, he stays there for a moment, breathing heavy, leaning over me like he’s not ready to end contact yet.
Then he pulls back carefully, lifting to watch me with an intensity that makes me suddenly aware of myself again.
His lips brush the top of my head, warm and lingering. “You’re something else,” he murmurs.
I smile, still breathless. “You’re not exactly forgettable yourself.” He pulls me into his body, our breathing slowly evening out. His hand traces lazy lines along my back, anchoring me in the quiet that follows.
I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heart, feeling the aftershocks ripple through me.
This sure changes things.
Reckless? Maybe.
Chosen? Absolutely.
No regrets? That remains to be seen.