Chapter 13
Chloe
Idon’t answer him straight away.
Not because I’m unsure. Because my body has already decided and my brain is scrambling to catch up, waving forms and shouting about risk assessments that nobody asked for.
He looks earnest. Careful. Still. Like a man who has made an offer and is now waiting to see if he’s accidentally set fire to something.
My hormones, meanwhile, are on their feet applauding.
So I don’t overthink it any further.
“Stay,” I say.
His eyebrows lift a fraction but otherwise doesn’t move.
“Stay,” I repeat, firmer now, and then I turn and walk towards the bedroom before I can talk myself out of it.
I grab my backpack from under the bed and start stuffing things into it with the focused efficiency of a woman who knows exactly what she needs.
Yoga pants. The good stretchy ones.
Knickers. Several. Optimism is for other people.
Sanitary towels because tampons and I are not friends.
My toothbrush, because I am not feral.
Then, after a second’s thought, another bra. A T-shirt. Deodorant. This is not about seduction. This is about logistics.
I zip the bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head back into the living room.
Tom hasn’t moved.
Not a step. Not a shift. He looks up like he’s been holding his breath.
“Ready,” I say.
Then I stop.
“Actually,” I add, pointing towards the kitchen, “pack up the dessert. It would be a crime to abandon it.”
He nods immediately and does exactly that, no questions asked.
I grab Hadrian’s food and tip it into his bowl. He emerges instantly, pleased with himself and the world.
“Don’t judge me,” I tell him quietly. “This is medical.”
Hadrian chews thoughtfully but if he has an opinion on my impending emergency shag, he doesn’t say.
Before we leave, I turn back to Tom.
“One condition,” I say.
“Name it.”
“This is just a one time thing,” I say, “we don’t turn this into more than it is.”
He meets my eyes, serious and steady. “Agreed.”
I take a breath, open the door, and step into the evening.
My cramps are still there.
My nerves are shot.
But for the first time all day, I feel oddly, dangerously hopeful.
Tom’s house is… nice.
That’s the first problem.
Not flashy. Not curated. Just calm and solid and faintly smelling of clean laundry and whatever men use that isn’t trying too hard. It makes me suddenly, painfully aware that I have walked in here with a backpack like I’m about to stay overnight because.. well… I am.
We stop just inside the door.
Nothing happens.
He stands there, keys still in his hand. I stand there, backpack strap digging into my shoulder. We look at each other like two people who have agreed on something theoretically but not yet worked out how gravity functions.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I reply.
Another beat passes. Possibly two.
“This is the part,” he says carefully, “where we might… sit down.”
I tilt my head. “Why.”
He hesitates. “To ease into things.”
I stare at him.
“You’re suggesting cuddling,” I say flatly.
His mouth opens, then closes. “I was thinking it might help.”
“No,” I shake my head wildly. “Absolutely fuck off.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“I mean that in the nicest possible way,” I add. “But I do not need easing. I need pain relief. Directly. Immediately. With your dick.”
The silence that follows is spectacular.
Then he chuckles. “Right. Okay. Thank you for the clarity.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. “I’m being very brave.”
He nods, recalibrating. “What do you need.”
“Five minutes,” I say. “Alone in your bathroom. Then you. Join me in the shower. Then pow chica wowow.” I wiggle my eyebrows.
That does it.
He barks out a laugh. A proper one. Deep, unguarded. The kind that lights his face up and makes the little lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle.
Oh.
That is… unfortunate.
Because he is smoking hot. I have not allowed myself to think that until this exact moment, but he is. Hot and kind and considered and suddenly very, very dangerous. A walking wet dream in a well-fitted jumper.
No time for swooning, Chloe. Pain relief.
“You are an adorable menace,” he says, still chuckling, and then he links his fingers through mine.
It is such a simple gesture and yet it detonates something inside me. Butterflies in my stomach. Hormones in my bloodstream. Nerves everywhere suddenly awake and taking notes.
He leads me upstairs and into his bedroom, then points me towards the en-suite.
“In there.”
I step inside carefully.
Dark grey tiles with a soothing pattern. Clean. Calm. A massive walk-in rainfall shower that cannot honestly be described as a shower head. It is more like a ceiling panel full of holes designed by someone who understands joy.
Oh yes.
“Towels are there,” he says, pointing to a wooden shelf where dark blue towels are rolled neatly. Of course they are. Of course he is tidy. I am not surprised. I am faintly annoyed that there is another perfect thing about him.
He turns on the water. “It takes a while for the warm water to come through.”
He shrugs, then leans in and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. Not rushed. Not charged. Just gentle.
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” he murmurs, and then he’s gone, closing the door behind him.
I drop my backpack on the floor.
Right.
Let’s do this.
I unzip the backpack and move on autopilot, the way you do when you don’t want to think too hard about what you’re doing or why.
I kick my shoes off, peel down my yoga pants and knickers, and sit on the toilet. Sanitary towel first. Folded, rolled, dealt with. I step out of the clothes pooled at my feet, then reach for the toothbrush, minty and deliberate, because kissing is clearly on the agenda and I am not an animal.
The bathroom is already thick with steam by the time I peel off my top, the fabric clinging to my damp skin before I toss it onto the hook on the back of the door.
The air is warm, heavy with the kind of humidity that makes my curls frizz at the edges, but I don’t care.
My bra is next to go—unhooked with a sharp flick of my wrists, the straps slipping down my arms before it joins the pile.
I make a half-hearted attempt to fold my trousers and top, then shove my knickers into my backpack without a second thought.
Romance is a fucking myth, and right now, practicality is the only thing keeping me upright.
The water patters rhythmic against the tiles, dependable as rain with a plan.
I test the temperature with my fingers—hot, but not scalding. Perfect.
Stepping under the stream is like sinking into a cosy waterfall.
The heat hits my shoulders first, then slithers down my back, unknotting muscles I didn’t even realize I’d been clenching all day.
My breath escapes in a slow, shuddering sigh as I tilt my head back, letting the water soak into my hair, my scalp, the tight coil of tension that’s been living between my shoulder blades since this morning.
I reach for Tom's shower gel—it smells like bergamot and cedar and the kind of man who knows how to use his hands. The scent clings to my skin as I work it into a lather, methodical, efficient. This isn’t about seduction.
This is about washing off the day: the pain, the stress, the crumbs of biscuits.
My fingers slide between my thighs, not to tease, but to clean.
The water runs pink for a second—just a hint, just enough to remind me that my body is still doing what it does, regardless of whether I’m in the mood to acknowledge it.
I rinse thoroughly, no shame, no hesitation.
If Tom walks in now, he’ll see exactly what he’s getting: a woman who doesn’t flinch from the messier parts of herself.
I press my forehead against the cool tile, letting the contrast of temperatures ground me.
The ache in my belly—dull, persistent—eases just enough to feel manageable.
The space helps. The warmth helps. The fact that I’m not crammed into a shower stall the size of a telephone booth, with lukewarm water and a drain that gargles like it’s judging me, helps enormously.
Five minutes, he said.
I count the seconds in my head, but not because I’m impatient.
Because I’m aware. Of the time. Of the way the steam curls around my ankles.
Of the fact that somewhere on the other side of this door is a man who has been nothing but kind, careful, clear—and who is about to step in here because I asked him to.
That thought settles low in my chest, heavy and warm, like the first sip of whiskey on a cold night.
I straighten, rolling my shoulders back, and let the water keep falling.
The door creaks open, Tom steps in, and the air shifts.
The steam parts for him like a curtain, clinging to the broad line of his shoulders, the dark hair dusted with silver at his temples.
He’s still dressed—just his trousers, unbuttoned at the top, the waistband slung low enough to tease the sharp V of his hips.
His chest is bare, the steam beading on his skin, tracing the lines of muscle that say he’s a man who works with his body, not just in a gym.
His eyes find mine immediately. Blue. Too blue. The kind of blue that makes you forget you were ever cold.
“You good?” His voice is rough.
I nod, because words feel like too much right now. The water slides down my body, over the swell of my breasts, the soft curve of my stomach, the dark curls between my thighs. I don’t cover myself. I don’t turn away.
His gaze follows the path of the water, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of me. When his eyes meet mine again, there’s no question in them. Just heat. Just hunger.
“You sure?” he asks, and this time, it’s not about consent. It’s about need. His. Mine. The way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s already imagining where to put his hands first.
I reach for him.
Not with my body—not yet. With my voice.
“Get in here, Tom,” I say, and it’s not a request. It’s a dare. A promise.
He doesn’t hesitate.