Chapter 14
Tom
The water still drums against my skin, hot and relentless, but the heat between us burns even fiercer.
Chloe’s back arches as I drag my fingers through her soaked curls, my thumb pressing firm circles over her clit.
She lets out a quiet moan that goes straight to my spine.
I can feel her pussy clenching around my cock, desperate for another orgasm.
The steam clings to us, thick and suffocating, but all I can focus on is the way her body responds to mine—how her nipples harden under my touch, how her breath turns ragged when I lean in and bite the soft flesh of her shoulder.
“Fuck, Tom—” Her voice cracks, her fingers digging into the slick tiles as her hips jerk backward, chasing the pressure.
I don’t let up, my other hand gripping her hip hard enough to leave marks, holding her steady as I work her.
The water runs pink between her thighs, but neither of us gives a damn.
It’s messy. It’s real. And the way she’s panting, the way her body tightens like a bowstring, tells me she’s close.
“That’s it,” I growl against her ear. She glances back at me and there is a look on her face that I can’t read.
Fuck, she’s stunning like this—open, trusting, mine. I run my palms over the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, my thumbs hooking into the soft flesh of her arse before I spread her open.
A groan tears out of me as I bottom out, my balls pressing against her, the slickness of her—blood, water, her own arousal—making every movement come with a sound effect.
I pull back just enough to slam into her again, and her moan echoes off the tiles, her fingers scratching at the grout as she pushes back against me, meeting me stroke for stroke.
“Harder,” she gasps, her voice raw. “Fuck me like you mean it.”
I do.
Every thrust sends a jolt through me, my cock swelling inside her, her tight cunt gripping me like a fist. She’s so fucking perfect like this—taking everything I give her, demanding more.
“God, you feel—” My voice breaks, my rhythm stuttering as her muscles clamp down around me.
I lean over her, my chest pressing against her back, my mouth finding the side of her neck.
I bite down, just hard enough to make her whimper, and she tilts her head to give me better access, her body arching into mine.
“Don’t stop,” she breathes, her voice trembling. “Please, don’t—”
I won’t.
I reach around, my fingers finding her clit again, rubbing in tight, relentless circles as I fuck her. Her moans turn desperate, her body tightening around me, and I can feel her getting close again. My own orgasm is coiled tight in my gut, my balls drawing up, but I hold back, waiting for her.
“Come on, Chloe,” I growl, my lips brushing her ear. “Come with me.”
Her answer is a broken cry, her body shuddering as her second orgasm hits her.
Her pussy milks my cock, her walls pulsing around me, and that’s all it takes.
With a groan, I bury myself deep and come, my release spilling into her in hot, thick spurts.
I keep thrusting through it, drawing out every last drop, my hips stuttering as pleasure wracks my body.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. I’m still inside her, my cock softening slowly, my breath ragged against her skin. The water runs over us, washing away the sweat, the blood, the evidence of what we’ve just done. But the heat between us lingers, the connection deeper than just physical.
I press a kiss to her shoulder, my hands sliding up to cradle her breasts, my thumbs brushing over her nipples. She sighs, melting back against me, her head resting against my chest.
“Still good?” I murmur, my voice rough.
She laughs, the sound warm and satisfied. “Better than good. You?”
“I don’t want to move,” I admit. “I want to stay exactly like this for a bit longer.”
Just. A. Little. Longer.
The dark is soft in the early hours, the sort that feels earned rather than oppressive.
Chloe is tucked into me, warm and solid, her back curved perfectly against my chest like she belongs there. My arm is heavy over her waist, hand resting where it has no right to feel this natural. She breathes out slowly, deep and even, utterly unaware of the quiet crisis happening in my head.
I peek at the alarm on the bedside table.
05:55.
Five minutes.
The alarm is already primed to ruin everything.
We’d made the sensible decision, last night, between spoonfuls of tiramisù alle fragole eaten straight from the dish because plates felt like overkill.
It had been late. Too late for her to go home, too early for anything resembling a sensible goodbye.
So, we’d agreed she’d stay, set an alarm for six, then she’d race back to her flat, shower, change, and resume being a professional adult with a job and a notebook.
Five minutes isn’t long. It’s nothing. Barely enough time to stretch or regret anything properly. But right now it feels enormous.
I tighten my arm slightly, not enough to wake her, just enough to remind myself she’s real. Her hair is everywhere. Her leg is slung over mine without apology. Her hand is holding onto my forearm like she decided, sometime in the night, that letting go would be a mistake.
I breathe her in.
This is dangerous.
Not in a dramatic way. In the quiet, insidious way that sneaks up on you while you’re busy being sensible. We’d said we’d go back to… nothing, after this. Last night was about pain relief and kindness and a shower that could fit two people without filing a risk assessment.
This morning feels like something else.
I kiss the top of her head, just once, because anything more would be selfish. She shifts slightly, murmurs something unintelligible, and settles again, closer this time. Like her body hasn’t received the memo about restraint.
I close my eyes.
Four minutes.
I tell myself this is the last four minutes I’ll get to hold her like this. That after that we’ll be polite. Careful. Civil. I’ll see her name in print and keep my hands to myself. I’ll remember this warmth like something from another life.
Maybe for a long time.
Maybe forever.
The thought lands heavier than it should.
I don’t move. I don’t plan. I just stay exactly where I am, soaking up the weight of her, the quiet, the dark.
Eventually I am out of time.
The alarm cuts clean through the dark and whatever fragile fiction I was allowing myself to sit in. Chloe stirs immediately, like she’s been half expecting it, then groans softly and burrows her face into my chest for half a second longer than necessary.
“Unfair,” she murmurs.
“Cruel device,” I agree, reaching over to silence it.
She slips out of bed before I can talk myself into asking for more time and pads towards the bathroom, efficient even now. The tap turns on. I stay where I am, staring at the ceiling, my hand resting in the dip she has just left, the mattress still warm like it has not caught up yet.
By the time she comes back, fully awake and focused, the spell has shifted. Still warm. Still gentle. Just… edged with reality.
We dress without fuss. No awkwardness. No jokes. Clothes pulled on, shoes found, keys located. We move around each other easily, like this has been rehearsed even though it hasn’t.
“I can drive you,” I say, already reaching for my jacket.
She nods. “That would be good.”
We move through the house without much ceremony, shoes on, keys found, the door clicking shut behind us.
The drive is quiet.
Not uncomfortable. Just full. The sort of silence that doesn’t need filling because it’s already doing something important. The streets are mostly empty, Carlisle still half asleep, streetlights blinking like they haven’t quite decided it’s morning yet.
I ease the car in outside her building and turn the engine off, the sudden quiet settling between us.
We look at each other for a second too long.
Then she leans in and kisses me. Soft. Unhurried. A promise and a restraint all at once.
“See you,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “See you soon.”
It’s deliberately vague. We both know it.
She opens the door, steps out, then stops with her hand still on the handle. Turns back, cheeks faintly pink in the streetlight.
“Thanks,” she whispers. Then she is gone before I can tell her.
Before I can tell her that I really, really, would like more.