14. Brittney
— ? —
Brittney
The dress fitting is supposed to be simple.
Helena needs me presentable for the Architects’ Guild charity gala - the one night a year every firm and every old-money donor family in the city crowds into the same ballroom. I’m supposed to try on options, pick one, move on with my life.
Instead, I’m standing in front of the mirror in the red one - the one that fits like a second skin, plunges lower than anything I’ve worn in years, makes me feel powerful and terrified in equal measure - when the door opens.
Shawn stops dead in the doorway.
I watch his reflection in the mirror. Watch his whole body go still. Watch his hands curl into fists at his sides, like he’s physically restraining himself from crossing the room.
“You can’t wear that.”
“Excuse me?”
“That dress.” His voice comes out strangled. “You can’t wear that to a public event.”
“Why not?”
He crosses the room. I track him in the mirror - the controlled stride, the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes are moving down my body like he’s cataloging every inch and hating himself for it.
“Because I won’t be able to think about anything else all night.” He stops behind me. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the silk. Close enough that I can see his hands trembling at his sides.
“Because everyone else in that room will be looking at you too. Because I’m going to spend the whole night wanting to-”
“Wanting to what?”
His eyes meet mine in the mirror.
“Peel it off you. Layer by layer. With my teeth.”
My breath catches.
“That’s presumptuous.”
“It’s honest.” His hand comes up, hovers near my hip without touching. I can feel the warmth of his palm through the silk, even though there’s an inch of air between us. My body sways toward him without permission.
“I’m trying to be honest with you. Even when it’s inconvenient.”
“And what’s inconvenient about telling me you want to undress me?”
“The part where we’re in Helena’s office.” His jaw tightens. “And you’re still not sure you want me back. And I’m supposed to be respecting your boundaries. And all I can think about is-”
“Is what?”
“Britt.” His voice breaks. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Say it anyway.”
His hand lands on my hip. Through the silk.
“I think about you constantly.” The words come out low, rough. “Every night. Every morning. In the shower. In that car at the end of your block. Everywhere.”
His other hand comes up to my waist. Both hands now, spanning my hips, his thumbs brushing the curve of my stomach through the fabric.
“I think about your mouth.” His lips brush my ear. I shiver. “Your hands. The sounds you make. The way you taste.”
I’m not breathing. I’m not sure I remember how.
“I think about the last time I was inside you.” His hands tighten. “How tight you were. How wet. The face you made when you came-”
“Shawn-”
“I haven’t touched another woman since you left.” His forehead drops to my shoulder. His whole body is trembling. “Haven’t wanted to. The only relief I get is my own hand and your name in my head and the memory of the last time I made you scream.”
I turn in his arms.
We’re face to face now. Inches apart. His eyes are dark, pupils blown.
His breath is uneven against my lips.
“Tell me to stop.” His hands slide to the small of my back. “Tell me this is too much. Tell me to leave.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I don’t know what I’ll do.” His voice cracks. “But it probably won’t be appropriate for a workplace.”
I should push him away. We’re in Helena’s office. Anyone could walk in.
This is exactly the kind of reckless decision I swore I wouldn’t make.
My hands fist in his shirt.
“The gala.” I hear myself say. “After the gala. If you can stand in front of everyone I know and prove you’re different-”
“I’ll do it.” No hesitation. “I’ll do anything.”
“Then do it. And then-”
“And then?”
I pull him down until his mouth is a breath from mine.
“Then we’ll see what happens.”
I push him away before I can change my mind. Step back. Smooth down the red silk with hands that won’t stop trembling.
His expression is wrecked. Destroyed. Beautiful.
“That’s not a promise.”
“It’s the best I can give you right now.”
He’s silent a long moment. I watch him struggle with it - the wanting, the waiting, the terrible patience I’m asking him to maintain.
Then he nods.
“Okay.” He backs toward the door. “Okay. The gala. I’ll be there. I’ll be perfect.”
“You don’t have to be perfect.”
“For you, I do.” He pauses at the threshold. “Britt?”
“Yeah?”
“Wear the red one. Please.” His eyes rake down my body one more time.
“Even if it kills me.”
He leaves.
I stand in front of the mirror, flushed and shaking, and press my thighs together against the ache that won’t go away.
What the hell are you doing? I ask myself.
No answer. Just the ghost of his hands on my hips, the echo of his voice in my ear, and the terrible, wonderful knowledge that in twenty-four hours, I might finally let myself have what I want.
***
Shawn
The night before the gala, I don’t sleep.
I lie in bed and stare at a ceiling that isn’t the penthouse’s and think about her in that red dress. Think about what she said. Think about what it might mean.
Then we’ll see what happens.
That could mean anything. That could mean nothing. That could mean everything.
I think about the way she looked at me in that fitting room.
The way her breath caught when I pressed against her.
The way she swayed back against me, the heat of her even through all those layers of silk.
I think about how easy it would have been to push the silk aside, to slide my hand between her legs, to feel how wet she was for me.
I didn’t. I’m trying to be better. But God, I wanted to.
My hand drifts down my stomach. I shouldn’t. I’ve been trying not to - trying to save it, to wait, to let the wanting build until I can finally, finally have her again. But I’m so hard it hurts, and the memory of her pressed against that mirror is playing on a loop in my head, and-
I wrap my hand around myself. Groan at the relief.
This is pathetic, I think. Jerking off to the memory of almost touching your own wife.
But I don’t stop. I stroke myself slowly, thinking about her mouth, her hands, the sounds she makes when she’s close. Thinking about what I’ll do to her tomorrow night, if she lets me. If I earn it.
I come with her name on my lips and shame in my chest, and it doesn’t help at all.
My phone buzzes at 2 a.m.
B: You awake?
S: Always.
B: I can’t sleep.
S: Me neither.
B: I keep thinking about tomorrow.
S: Good thoughts or bad thoughts?
B: Both.
I wait. Three dots appear, disappear, appear again.
B: I’m scared.
S: Of what?
B: Of wanting this. Of wanting you. Of letting myself believe it could work.
I type and delete three responses before landing on the truth:
S: I’m scared too.
B: Of what?
S: Of disappointing you again. Of being the man you needed me to be and then failing. Of having you in my arms and somehow still losing you.
Long pause. I watch the dots appear and disappear, appear and disappear. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it.
B: My window is unlocked.
I stare at the screen.
S: What are you saying?
B: I’m saying my window is unlocked. I’m saying I can’t sleep. I’m saying I don’t know what I want but I know I don’t want to be alone tonight.
S: If I come over-
B: I know.
S: Britt, if I come over and you’re in that bed, I don’t think I can be noble. I don’t think I can hold back.
B: Maybe I don’t want you to hold back.
I’m already reaching for my keys.
S: I’m coming.
B: I know.
I drive to Caldwell Street in twelve minutes. My hands are shaking on the wheel. My whole body is thrumming with anticipation and terror - because this could be it, this could be the moment everything changes, or this could be another test I’m about to fail.
I park at the curb. Climb out into the cool night air. Her window is on the second floor. There’s a trellis. It looks old and probably can’t hold my weight.
I climb it anyway.
The wood creaks under my hands. My foot slips once, twice. I don’t care. I’d climb a hundred trellises, break a hundred bones, for the chance to be in that room with her.
The window slides open easily. The room is dark, but I can make out her shape on the bed - knees drawn up to her chest, wearing an old t-shirt that might be mine. The sight of her in my clothes does something to me. Something possessive and desperate.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
I cross the room. Sit on the edge of the bed. Don’t touch her - not yet, not until she tells me I can.
“I wasn’t sure you’d actually come,” she says.
“You said your window was unlocked.”
“That’s not the same as an invitation.”
“Wasn’t it?”
She’s quiet. The moonlight catches the curve of her cheek, the line of her throat, the place where the t-shirt has slipped off one shoulder. I want to put my mouth there. Want to trace every inch of exposed skin with my tongue.
Wait, I tell myself. Let her lead.
“I don’t know what I want,” she says finally.
“That’s okay.”
“I want you. I want to be smart. I want to protect myself. I want to stop thinking so much.” She looks at me, and her eyes are bright with something - fear, hope, desire, all tangled together. “I want you to kiss me.”
“Britt-”
“Not the noble version. Not the ‘waiting until I’ve earned it’ version. Just - kiss me. Please. Before I lose my nerve.”
I kiss her.
Soft at first. Testing. Her lips are warm and slightly chapped and taste like the tea she drinks before bed.
Then harder when she makes that sound - the one that lives in my dreams, the one I’ve been dying to hear again, that little whimper in the back of her throat that means more, please, don’t stop.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer. Mine find her waist, her hips, the bare skin where the t-shirt rides up. She’s not wearing anything underneath. Just soft skin and warmth and the curve of her ass fitting perfectly into my palms.
I groan into her mouth. She gasps into mine.
“Wait.” She pulls back. “Wait.”
I freeze instantly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just-” She’s breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her eyes dark, and I can see her nipples through the thin cotton of the shirt. “If we do this now, before the gala-”
“We don’t have to do anything.”
“That’s not what I-” She presses her hands over her face. “I want to. God, I want to. But I need to know it’s not just - that you’re not just-”
“I’m not just anything.” I take her hands, lower them from her face, hold them in mine.
Her fingers are trembling. So are mine. “I’m not here because I’m lonely or desperate or looking for a quick fix.
I’m here because you asked me to come. And if all you want is for me to hold you while you sleep, that’s enough. That’s more than enough.”
Her eyes are wet.
“Really?”
“Really.” I lift her hand to my mouth, press a kiss to her palm. Feel her pulse flutter against my lips. “We have time, Britt. We have the rest of our lives. One more night of waiting won’t kill me.”
“It might kill me.”
I laugh. Surprised and genuine. She smiles back, and something in my chest cracks open.
“Then let’s call it even.”
She lies down. I lie down beside her. She fits against me like she was made for it - her back to my chest, my arm around her waist, her fingers laced through mine.
I can feel every inch of her through that thin t-shirt.
Can feel the warmth of her ass pressed against my hips, and I’m still half-hard, but it doesn’t matter. This is enough. She’s enough.
“Same time tomorrow?” she murmurs, already drifting.
“Same time forever.”
She falls asleep in my arms.
I stay awake all night, watching her breathe, feeling her heartbeat against my palm, thinking about how close I came to losing this.
Never again.
***
Brittney
I wake up alone.
The bed is still warm where he was. The pillow still smells like him - that disaster cologne, the one that’s somehow become the smell of home. I press my face into it and breathe deep before I notice the note.
Didn’t want to make it weird with your mom. See you tonight. I’ll be the one in the suit, trying not to stare at you in red.
-S
P.S. You talk in your sleep. You said my name three times. I’m counting that as a win.
I press the note to my chest and smile. My body is still humming from sleeping in his arms - from the weight of him behind me, the warmth of his breath on my neck, the way his hand splayed across my stomach like he was afraid I’d disappear.
I should be embarrassed about the sleep-talking. I’m not.
Tonight, I think. Everything changes tonight.
I get out of bed and start getting ready.