eighteen #2
I climbed carefully onto the mattress, settling beside him in nothing but a towel. The sheets were cool against my damp skin.
He shifted, curling his hand around my hip, tugging me closer until my head fit into the space beneath his chin.
"How was work?" he murmured, lips brushing my hair.
"Fine," I whispered.
"Yeah?" His mouth trailed lower, pressing warm kisses to the hinge of my jaw.
I swallowed, trying to keep my voice steady. "Yeah."
His thumb traced the line of my waist, slow and possessive. "Hit your goal for the night?"
"Mhm."
"Good," he murmured, the word rough against my ear.
His mouth moved lower, brushing the sensitive spot under my jaw. I shivered.
"Brooks—"
He lifted his head just enough to look at me. His pupils were blown, his mouth soft and a little hungry.
"Missed you," he said simply.
Something broke loose in my chest.
I cupped his face, pulling him down into a kiss.
It started soft. Careful.
It didn't stay that way.
His hand slipped under the edge of my towel, dragging it away in one smooth motion. The air hit my bare skin, and I made a small, helpless sound into his mouth.
He groaned low in his throat, one hand sliding up to cup my breast, thumb brushing over the peak until my back arched into him.
"Been thinking about you all day," he murmured. His voice was hoarse, like he'd run out of patience hours ago.
My breath stuttered as his mouth traced a line down my throat, over my collarbone. "Brooks..."
"I know," he rasped. His hand slipped between my thighs, the heat of his palm making me shudder. "I know, baby."
And then there were no more words.
Just the slow, devastating slide of his body over mine, the quiet rustle of sheets, the soft, breathless sounds neither of us tried to hide.
He took his time. Like he needed to relearn every inch of me.
When he finally pushed into me, it felt like something I hadn't even known I was waiting for.
A low sound tore out of him, his forehead dropping to mine.
My hands curled around his shoulders, nails digging into warm skin.
He moved slow, steady, every thrust sinking deeper until I felt like I couldn't draw breath without tasting him.
"Look at me," he murmured.
I did.
His gaze held mine, dark and unguarded, as he drove into me again.
His mouth crashed to mine, the kiss messy and desperate as he started to move. Fast. Hard. Like he needed to burn through every second we'd been apart.
The bed rocked quietly under us, each thrust pushing a broken sound from my throat.
"That's it," he rasped, forehead pressed to mine. "Take it."
I clung to him, every muscle pulling tight as heat coiled low in my belly.
"Come for me," he demanded, voice little more than a growl.
I did.
The orgasm snapped through me so sharp I nearly sobbed. My body clamped tight around him, pleasure blooming so fierce it left me shaking.
He wasn't far behind. His rhythm stuttered, hips jerking as he came with a low, ragged groan against my mouth.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he pressed a slow kiss to my forehead. "You okay?"
I nodded, still breathless. "Yeah."
His hand stroked up my side, settling over my heart like he needed to feel it still beating.
He didn't pull away right away. Just rested there, forehead to mine, breathing me in like he still couldn't quite believe I was here.
And maybe—just maybe—I couldn't either.
The next morning I lay there, breathing in the quiet. His arm was heavy across my ribs, his palm splayed warm over my stomach. His breath stirred my hair, slow and even, like he didn't have a single thought to spare for the world outside this room.
I turned my head on the pillow. Watched him sleep.
I wondered if anyone else ever saw him this way.
Careless. Bare.
Just Brooks.
Carefully, I eased out from under his arm. He made a low sound in the back of his throat but didn't wake.
I pulled on one of his shirts and padded into the kitchen. The quiet in here felt different now—less like an empty stage and more like a secret.
The TV remote sat on the marble island. Without thinking, I flicked it on.
The news filled the room in a hush of polished voices.
"...Brooks Whitmore IV was seen leaving a private fundraiser late last night. Whitmore, who has quickly become the frontrunner in the Pennsylvania senate race, is expected to formally accept several high-profile endorsements later this week..."
Footage rolled of him stepping out of a sleek black car, all perfect lines and quiet power. The same man who had kissed me until I forgot my own name just hours before.
Except he didn't look like that Brooks.
This was the version everyone else saw. The polished, unflinching heir apparent to the White House. The man who never cracked, never stumbled, never let anyone see what was underneath.
But I had.
And no matter how many times I tried to remind myself that I shouldn't feel special for it, part of me still did.
The kettle clicked off behind me, startling me. I poured the water over a waiting mug, trying to quiet the ache that always rose in my chest when I thought too hard about who he was to everyone else—and who he was to me.
A quiet creak of the floor made me turn.
Brooks stood in the kitchen doorway, still rumpled from sleep. Barefoot, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair a mess.
"Couldn't sleep?" His voice was rough, warm.
"Just woke up."
He followed my gaze to the TV. The footage looped again, the anchor droning on about his "meteoric rise" and "calculated charm."
He huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh. "That's flattering."
I arched an eyebrow. "Is it?"
"Only if you don't know me."
I set the mug down. "You love watching yourself, don't you?"
His mouth curved in a tired smile. "I love watching their reactions to a version of me they think they know."
"Come here."
I hesitated, but he held out his hand—steady, certain—and I went.
When he pulled me in, it wasn't rushed or demanding. Just a simple, quiet embrace.
His chin rested on top of my head. "I meant to talk to you about something."
I drew back enough to look up at him. "What?"
"The gala I mentioned." His thumb traced my jaw. "I want you there."
My breath caught. "You...do?"
"Yeah." His gaze didn't waver. "But it wouldn't be...public. Not in the way you're thinking."
My throat tightened. "Meaning?"
"Meaning I can't walk you in on my arm," he admitted, his voice low. "Not yet. Not when everything is this—" He gestured vaguely, like he couldn't find the word. "New."
I swallowed, the heat in my chest cooling a little.
"But I'd be there?" I asked.
His jaw flexed. "I'd know you were in the room. That's all I'm allowed."
"And that's enough for you?"
"No." His voice was rough around the edges. "But it's what I have to work with."
A beat of silence passed between us.
"So you want me there," I said slowly, "but you can't be seen with me."
"Not in the way you deserve," he said, the words sounding like they cost him something. "But I don't want to pretend you don't matter, either."
I looked away, my pulse roaring in my ears.
He tilted my chin back toward him. "You don't have to decide right now."
"Okay."
His thumb brushed my lip, a quiet question in his eyes. "Will you think about it?"
"I will."
Warmth flooded my chest. But tangled with it was something like dread.
"I don't know if that's a good idea," I admitted quietly.
"Because of them?" His gaze flicked to the TV.
"Because of everything," I said honestly.
A long pause stretched between us. He didn't argue. Didn't try to convince me. Just lifted one hand to cup the back of my neck, his thumb brushing lightly under my hairline.
"I won't ask again," he said finally. "But I want you there."
I swallowed hard. "I'll think about it."
"Okay."
He kissed me once—slow and unhurried, like we hadn't just laid every raw, uncertain thing between us on the counter.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine.
"Just think about it."
"I will."
The news kept playing in the background, a litany of polished sentences that didn't touch this moment at all.
And for one breathless second, it felt like I was the only person in the world who knew the difference.