Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
RACHEL
Iwas in the middle of psyching myself up to enthusiasm when the doorbell rang.
Not the polite, distant buzz of the downstairs door asking for admission to the building. No—this was the ringer on my actual apartment door.
Which meant someone was already here.
My first thought was Alix. Maybe she was bringing up coffee. Or bread. Or some kind of emotional support carbohydrate. The drinks the night before had helped more than I wanted to admit. I felt almost… human again.
I really couldn’t ask for more.
I stared at the door for a second too long, my brain doing that slow, panicked inventory of what I was wearing (old sweater, leggings, socks that did not match), what the apartment looked like (better than yesterday, worse than my fantasies), and whether I had, in fact, hallucinated the last forty-eight hours.
The doorbell rang again.
Insistent this time.
I glanced at the clock. Too early for deliveries. Too early for anything I’d planned.
I opened the door anyway.
Dominic stood there like a beautiful error in my schedule.
Coat still on, rain-speckled and darkened at the shoulders, hair slightly wind-tousled, eyes bright in that way that meant he was genuinely happy to see me and not even pretending otherwise.
There was a faint chill clinging to him, the kind that came from standing outside too long in wet air.
He held a small bouquet in one hand—nothing extravagant, just wildflowers and greenery wrapped in brown paper—and the second our eyes met, his face lit up.
“Surprise,” he said.
I didn’t get a chance to answer.
He stepped forward, dropped the flowers somewhere behind me without even looking, and kissed me like he’d been counting the seconds.
Not gentle. Not rushed. Just inevitable.
His hands framed my face, cool at first from the cold, then quickly warming, solid and devastatingly familiar, and I made a sound that was embarrassingly close to a whimper before I even realized I was making it.
It felt like being anchored.
“Hi,” I managed when he finally pulled back, breathless in a way that had nothing to do with the stairs.
“Hi,” he said, smiling like he’d just won something.
I stared at him. Really stared. The plane hadn’t changed him. The train hadn’t erased him. The distance hadn’t blurred him. He was still Dominic—real and ridiculous and standing in my doorway like he’d always been part of the architecture.
“You were supposed to be here in a couple of hours,” I said, my voice weak with disbelief and something dangerously close to relief.
He shrugged one shoulder, unapologetic. “I got impatient.” Another smile flash-fired over his face. “I found an earlier train. I wanted to surprise you.”
My brain stalled somewhere between that’s adorable and I am not emotionally dressed for this.
“You’re wet,” I said, because focusing on literally anything was better than thinking about how good it felt to have him here.
“Worth it,” he replied immediately.
I stepped aside to let him in and he took in the apartment with an appreciative hum—new pillows, half-stacked books, camera gear still pretending it didn’t live in the corner.
He took one step inside and glanced around, eyebrows lifting just slightly.
“Well,” he said, slipping out of his rain-damp coat and hanging it on the hook like he’d been here a hundred times before, “you cleaned.”
He was wearing dark jeans, a soft grey shirt rolled at the sleeves, the kind of effortless casual that still looked expensive.
Travel-wrinkled in a way that somehow made him more attractive, not less.
There was still a hint of chill clinging to him, rain caught in his hair, his cheeks pink from the cold.
“I panic-cleaned,” I corrected. “It’s different.”
He smiled, amused, already toeing off his shoes without being asked. “You really didn’t have to go to any trouble for me.”
I snorted. “This wasn’t for you. This was for my own emotional stability.”
He laughed softly at that, eyes warm. “Ah. So I just get to benefit from your existential spiral.”
“Exactly,” I said. “You arrived during the brief window where I pretend I have my life together.”
He leaned in, voice low and teasing, as he murmured, “Lucky me,” before brushing a kiss to my temple.
God, I’d missed him. I stared after him, just drinking in his presence. His scent. His nearness. It took me a minute to even register that I needed to close the door and relock it, but I had before trailing after him as he moved through my space.
Then he wandered down the short hallway, peeking into the first guest room.
And the second.
Both empty.
He blinked once, then turned back to me with a grin that was entirely too fond to be dangerous.
“So… are these the guest rooms, or is this some kind of avant-garde storage concept I’m not cultured enough to understand?”
I laughed. Too fast.
“They’re… in progress.”
“In progress how?” he asked lightly. “Conceptually or emotionally?”
“Rude,” I said, but my chest had already tightened.
He wasn’t judging. He wasn’t even curious in a meaningful way. He’d already accepted the answer before I’d finished giving it.
Which somehow made it worse.
He just smiled, walked back toward me, and kissed me again like it didn’t matter.
Like none of it mattered.
Like I was enough exactly as I was standing there—unfinished rooms, unfinished plans, unfinished version of myself and all.
And I loved him for that.
I just wasn’t sure I believed it.
His second kiss was different from the first. Slower.
More deliberate. Like he was rediscovering the shape of my mouth, memorizing it all over again.
His thumbs stroked my jaw, gentle but firm, and when I tilted my head to deepen it, he made a low sound in his throat that vibrated straight through me.
"Hi," he murmured against my lips, his voice already rough with want. "Really hi this time."
I smiled, breathless. "Really hi back."
His hands slid from my face down my neck, over my shoulders, tracing the curve of my spine through my old sweater. Every touch was both familiar and electrifying, like coming home to a house that had been redecorated in my absence—still mine, but more exciting somehow.
"I missed you," he said, his lips moving to my jaw, my earlobe, the sensitive spot just behind it that made me shiver. "I thought about this. About you."
My hands found their way under his shirt, tracing the warm skin of his back, the muscles tensing and relaxing under my touch. "Show me," I whispered. "Show me how much."
That was all the encouragement he needed. The kiss caught fire, his mouth claiming mine with an intensity that stole the air from my lungs. His hands tightened on my hips, pulling me flush against him, and I could feel him already hard and wanting through the layers of our clothes.
Somehow, we were moving—stumbling toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss, my mismatched socks sliding on the hardwood floor.
His hands were everywhere, mapping my body like he was trying to commit it to memory.
My sweater was pushed up, his palms flat against the skin of my waist, thumbs stroking circles that made my knees weak.
We reached the bedroom, and he kicked the door shut behind us. The room was dimly lit, the morning light filtering through the blinds in soft stripes across the bed. He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with desire, his pupils blown wide.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Every time I see you, it's like the first time all over again."
He reached for the hem of my sweater, and I lifted my arms to let him pull it over my head.
His eyes roamed over me, worshipful and adoring, before he leaned in to press kisses to my shoulders, my collarbones, the hollow of my throat.
His hands moved to the clasp of my bra, deftly undoing it with practiced ease.
"God, Rachel," he breathed against my skin. "I could look at you forever."
I reached for his shirt, fumbling with the buttons in my haste. "Less looking, more touching," I demanded, and he laughed, low and husky, as he helped me undo the last few buttons.
His shirt joined mine on the floor, and I took a moment to just look at him—the broad chest, the scattered tattoos, the way his muscles shifted as he moved. My fingers traced the lines of his abs, down to the waistband of his jeans.
He shivered under my touch. "Fair's fair," he murmured, his hands moving to the waistband of my leggings. "These have to go."
I stepped out of them, kicking them aside, suddenly feeling shy under his intense gaze. But then he was kissing me again, slow and thoughtful, his hands cupping my face like I was something precious.
"I've been thinking about this since I got on that train," he admitted between kisses. "About you, about this."
"Me too," I confessed. "Every minute."
His kisses grew more demanding, his tongue delving into my mouth, the cool metal of his piercing a familiar thrill against mine. I loved the way he kissed—thorough and passionate, like he was trying to consume me, to memorize every part of my mouth.
He backed me toward the bed, and when my legs hit the edge, I fell back, pulling him with me. He settled over me, his weight a comforting pressure, his hips cradled between my thighs. The denim of his jeans was rough against my bare skin, a delicious friction that made me arch against him.
"Too many clothes," I gasped, my hands moving to the button of his jeans.
He chuckled, low and sexy. "Patience, Flash. I've waited forever to see you again. What's a few more minutes?"
But he didn't make me wait. He stood up just long enough to shed his jeans and boxers, and my breath caught at the sight of him—all lean muscle and golden skin, his cock hard and ready, the silver ring through the head glinting in the dim light.
I reached for him, but he shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Not yet. First, I want to taste you."