Chapter Twenty-Two
Uncharted
Banks
The drive to her apartment is quiet.
Not an uncomfortable quiet. Just a silence that settles in when there’s too much to say and no safe way to say it.
I can still taste her on my lips. Still feel the phantom press of her body against mine in that storage room. I have to force myself to focus on the road.
What the hell happened back there?
One minute we were dancing—swaying, really, because I don’t dance—and the next she was asking about other women. About exclusivity. Like she actually thought I might be out there hooking up with someone else while she’s been slowly dismantling every wall I’ve ever built.
And then I kissed her.
Not a fake kiss. Not a performance for anyone’s benefit. A real kiss. The kind of kiss that changes everything.
I don’t know what happens now. I’m so far out of my element, it’s not even funny.
Winnie is quiet beside me, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the passing streetlights. Her lipstick is almost gone—my fault—and her hair is slightly mussed—also my fault. She looks like a woman who’s been thoroughly kissed.
She looks beautiful.
I pull up to her building and put the car in park, but I don’t turn off the engine. The universal signal for I’m not coming up.
Except I want to come up. I want to follow her inside and finish what we started, to learn every inch of her body until I’ve memorized it all.
But that’s not what we agreed to. That’s not the arrangement.
“Thanks for tonight,” she says, breaking the silence.
“Thanks for being my date.”
We sit there. Neither of us moves.
The engine idles. The moment stretches.
“I should go in,” she says.
“Okay.”
She doesn’t move.
The space between us feels electric. Charged. Like one wrong move—or one right move—could set everything on fire.
“Banks…”
I turn to face her. “I know this is supposed to be fake. I know the rules.”
“But?”
“But I want to kiss you again right now. And it wouldn’t be for show.”
She inhales sharply. Her eyes are wide in the dim light of the car, searching my face for something I don’t know how to give her.
“It’ll complicate everything,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“We have boundaries.”
“I know,” I say again.
She reaches up and touches my jaw. The same gesture she made after the game, when my lip was split and my knuckles were raw. Soft. Careful. Like I’m something worth being careful with.
“One more kiss,” she says. “Just to see if that storage room was a fluke.”
I close the distance.
The kiss starts soft and tentative, more a question than a statement. Her lips brush against mine, gentle and searching, giving me time to pull back if I want to.
I don’t want to.
I angle my head and deepen the kiss. She makes a sound—a small, breathy thing that goes straight to my groin. Her fingers curl into my jacket, pulling me closer, while my hand slides into her hair, cradling the back of her head.
She tastes like champagne and desire, like everything I’ve been denying myself for years.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Not a fluke,” she whispers.
“No. Definitely not.”
We stare at each other. The cab of my truck suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. I need to leave. I need to get out of here, go home, take a cold shower, and forget any of this happened.
“Do you want to come up?”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
“Win…”
“Just—I don’t know. I don’t want tonight to end yet.” She bites her lip, and I track the movement like a man hypnotized. “We could just talk. Or not talk. I have wine. Or water. Or—”
“Yes.”
She blinks. “Yes?”
“Yes. I want to come up.”
Her apartment is small but warm and lived-in. There’s a couch with too many throw pillows, a bookshelf overflowing with paperbacks, and plants on every available surface. It smells like her—citrus and something floral—and I breathe it in like a man starved for oxygen.
“Sorry about the mess,” she says, kicking off her heels with a sigh of relief. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“It’s not messy.”
“You’re being polite.”
“I’m being honest.” I look around, taking it all in. This is where she lives, sleeps, and exists when she’s not at work or with me. “I like it.”
She smiles—soft and pleased—and something in my chest loosens.
“Wine?” she offers.
“Sure.”
She disappears into the kitchen, and I take the opportunity to undo my tie. The damn thing has been strangling me all night. I shrug off my jacket too, draping it over the arm of her couch, and roll up my sleeves.
When she returns with two glasses of red wine, she stops in the doorway.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just…” She shakes her head. “You look good like that. Rumpled. Less… intimidating.”
“I’m not intimidating.”
“Banks, you’re the most intimidating person I’ve ever met.” She says this with a laugh like I’m being ridiculous.
“And yet you invited me into your apartment.”
“And yet I did.” She hands me a glass and settles onto the couch, tucking her feet beneath her. The movement makes her dress ride up slightly, revealing a stretch of bare calf.
I sit beside her—not too close, not too far. Close enough to feel the warmth of her body, far enough to maintain some semblance of control.
We sip our wine in silence.
“So,” she says.
“So.”
“That happened.” Her mouth twitches with a smile.
“It did.”
“We kissed. At a charity gala. In a storage room.”
“Also in my truck.”
“Also in your truck.” She takes another sip of wine and sets down her glass. Reaching out, she takes my hand. Her fingers are small and warm, interlacing with mine.
I look at our joined hands, then at her face—open, hopeful, and so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
And then I stop thinking.
I set down my wine, pull her toward me and kiss her again.
She responds immediately, melting into me, her hands finding my shoulders, my neck, pushing into my hair. The kiss deepens, our tongues sliding together, and before I fully register what’s happening, she’s climbing into my lap.
She straddles me on the couch, her knees bracketing my hips, her dress bunched around her thighs. The heat of her settles against me, and I groan into her mouth.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmurs against my lips.
“Mm-hmm.” I kiss along her jaw, her neck, the sensitive spot behind her ear.
“This wasn’t in our agreed-upon boundaries.”
“Nope.” I trace her collarbone with my tongue, and she shivers.
“But you feel so good.” She rolls her hips, grinding down against me, and my hands grip her waist. “So big and hard and—”
“Win.” Her name is a warning. A plea. “Fuck.”
She keeps moving—slow, deliberate rolls of her hips that drive me insane. I can feel her heat through the thin fabric of her underwear and my dress pants. I’m so hard it hurts.
“Is this okay?” she asks, breathless.
“Yeah.” The word comes out strangled. “Yeah, this is—fuck, Win—”
I can’t take it anymore.
I stand suddenly, lifting her with me. She squeaks in surprise, her legs wrapping around my waist instinctively.
“Banks—”
I find the zipper at the back of her dress and draw it down slowly, deliberately. The fabric loosens, gaping open, and I set her down just long enough for it to fall.
It pools at her feet, and suddenly she stands in front of me in nothing but a tiny nude-colored thong.
My brain short-circuits. Complete blue screen of death.
She’s perfect. Curves and softness, miles of golden skin. Her breasts are full and high, her nipples peaked from the cold or arousal—or both. Her waist dips in, her hips flare out, and that tiny triangle of fabric between her thighs is the only thing standing between me and total destruction.
I make a sound—something between a grunt and a groan. Words have completely abandoned me.
“Say something,” she whispers.
“I can’t. You broke my brain.”
She laughs—nervous, pleased—and I pull her back onto my lap.
The contact is electric. So much soft skin, separated only by my dress shirt and that damp little triangle of cotton. She gasps when she settles against me, and I watch her face—the way her eyes flutter closed, the way her lips part.
“Better?” I ask.
“So much better.”
She starts moving again, slow, grinding circles that blur my vision. My hands slide from her hips to the curve of her ass, palming the soft flesh and pulling her tighter against me. She gasps at the contact, and I squeeze—unable to help myself—guiding her rhythm, watching her chase her pleasure.
“Banks,” she breathes.
“Sorry.” I squeeze again, steering her rhythm. “I’ve wanted to touch you like this for weeks.”
“Then don’t stop.”
I don’t.
“You feel amazing,” she breathes. “I knew you’d feel amazing.”
“Win—”
She cups her breasts, her thumbs brushing over her own nipples, and I nearly lose it right there.
“Touch me,” she says. “Please, Banks. Touch me.”
I don’t need to be asked twice.
I kiss her breasts—first one, then the other—sucking and biting gently. She cries out, her hips jerking against me, and I slide my fingers under her thong.
She’s wet. For me. Because of me. The realization almost undoes me.
I circle her with my thumb, and she makes a sound I want to record and play on repeat for the rest of my life.
“Banks—oh—right there—”
I keep touching her, learning what she likes, cataloging every gasp and moan. She’s grinding against my hand now, chasing her release, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
“I’m close,” she gasps. “I’m so close—”
I kiss her neck, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. “I’ve got you, Win. Let go.”
She shatters.
I watch it happen—the way her whole body tenses, the way her mouth falls open, the way she cries out my name like it’s the only word she knows. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.
When she finally comes down, she’s trembling in my arms, breathing hard. She looks at me—dazed, satisfied, and then suddenly determined.
Before I can process what’s happening, she’s sliding off my lap and onto her knees on the floor.
“Win, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” She’s already working on my belt and zipper, her fingers quick and sure.
I lift my hips to help her pull my pants and boxers down, and then I’m exposed—hard and aching—and she’s looking at me—
“Oh. Wow.” She just stares for a long moment. “Well. That explains the confidence.”
I feel my face heat. “It’s… uh, it’s been a while since anyone—I don’t usually—”
“Shh.” She trails her index finger down my length, and I lose the ability to form sentences. “Just let me appreciate this for a second.”
My heart pounds fast and loud. “I know it’s… some women don’t like—”
“Banks.” Her voice is firm. “Stop talking.” She wraps her hand around me—her fingers don’t touch, and I watch her eyes darken. “I like. Trust me. I very much like. Though you could have warned me.”
The feel of her hand around me—warm and soft—sends pleasure ricocheting through me. “Warned you about what?” I groan.
She draws her hand up and lets out a low, pleased sound. “You’ve been holding out on me, tough guy.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “Thanks?”
“It’s a compliment. Trust me.” She licks her lips, and I nearly come right then. “Just… let me…”
She takes me into her mouth, and I stop thinking entirely.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this—her enthusiasm, her skill, the way she looks up at me with those blue eyes while her lips stretch around me. She takes as much as she can, her hand working what she can’t fit, and the dual sensation is overwhelming.
“Win—fuck—I’m not going to last—”
She doesn’t stop. If anything, she speeds up, and I’m gripping the couch cushions like my life depends on it, trying to hold on, trying to make this last—
I can’t.
I come with a groan that probably wakes her neighbors, my whole body shuddering, and she takes it all, swallowing around me until I’m boneless and wrecked.
She sits back on her heels, looking way too pleased with herself.
“Sorry,” I manage. “I’m not usually that fast.”
“That was hot.” She climbs back onto the couch, curling into my side. “Nothing to apologize for.”
“Still.”
“Banks.” She tilts her head up to look at me. “That was incredible. All of it. Stop apologizing.”
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close. She’s warm, soft, and perfect, and I don’t know what I did to deserve this moment.
We sit there in silence for a while, her head on my chest, my hand tracing lazy patterns on her bare back.
“So,” she says eventually, “boundaries.”
“Yeah.”
“Ours seem to have… shifted.”
I smile; I can’t help it. “They have.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking. I know this isn’t at all what she agreed to. I remember Zayden telling me very clearly that she’d recently ended a bad relationship and wasn’t looking for anything complicated.
I press a kiss to the top of her head. “Boundaries can go back to whatever you want, Win. You’re in charge. Just… tell me, uh what you need.”
She tilts her head up again, studying my face, and I see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. Did I just reject her? Does she think this was just physical?
I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me.
“This wasn’t just—” I stop, struggling to find the words. “I don’t know what this is yet. But it’s not nothing. Okay?”
“Okay.” She smiles, small but real. “Okay.”
I kiss her one more time—soft, lingering—and then make myself stand up. I put myself back together while she watches from the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket, looking thoroughly kissed and utterly beautiful.
“Goodnight, Win.”
“Goodnight, Banks.”
I let myself out before I can change my mind.
The drive home is quiet—just me, the empty streets, and the memory of her taste on my lips, her sounds in my ears, the feel of her body against mine.
I don’t know what we’re doing or where this is going. I have no idea how to navigate any of it.
But as I pull into my parking garage and cut the engine, one thing is crystal clear:
I’m falling in love with her.
And I have no idea what to do about it.