Chapter Twelve #2
Plus-sized girls like me do not get chosen first. We get chosen eventually, maybe, by the right person, after the Siennas of the world are scooped up.
We do not get chosen by him.
“So, Stopwatch,” he says. “I’m gonna assume what we did all night in this room means you’re not dating anybody, right?”
“Excuse me?”
“Simple question. No boyfriend, right? And you’re not secretly married to your iPad?”
“Do you have a filter?”
“Do you have an answer? Or should we discuss how long you’ve been staring at my forearms?”
“I am not—” My eyes dart down. Damn it.
“Uh-huh.” His mouth curves.
“Your muscles are obscene,” I blurt out, as heat creeps up my neck.
He huffs a laugh, flexing for effect. “Compliment accepted.”
“I meant unfair,” I add quickly. “They’re like cheat codes for attraction.”
“You can admit how much you enjoy them gripping you. I won’t tell.”
Ugh. That smirk. That stupid, perfect smirk.
“It’s genetics plus gym, Ivy. Repetition. Boring as hell. No magic involved. People obsess over packaging as if it’s the whole story? It’s laughable.”
My brow furrows. “Packaging?”
“Yeah.” He gestures vaguely to himself. “The outside. The shiny bullshit. Like that’s what matters.”
“So you don’t care about appearances?”
“I mean… clearly I care.”
His gaze slides down my body, touching everything without touching anything. My skin prickles.
“But that’s not the point,” he continues. “We’re all gonna turn into our grandparents eventually. My muscles? Limited-time only. And if my grandpa Milbert’s any indication, my eyebrows are gonna merge into one superbrow.”
I snort. “Hot.”
“Extremely. Real panty-dropper material.”
He waggles his eyebrows, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I care about the person,” he continues, “More than the wrapping. Fall in love with the gift wrap? That’s how you get blindsided. It’s what’s inside the box that matters.”
And then he looks at me with an intensity that steals my breath.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Stopwatch. Your packaging? Fucking perfection.”
My thoughts scatter. I focus on the fries like they’re lifelines, because he just said, “fall in love”.
And I am absolutely not unpacking that.
He studies me for another second.
“You wanna hear what wrecked me first?” he finally says.
“The way you filled out that damn blue dress. The second I saw you, I lost thirty percent of my brain cells. I’m still tallying up the damage.”
I swallow.
“Every time you moved,” he goes on, quieter. “That slit flashing your leg. The lace on your arms. That dress had me. I spent the whole night filming, but my eyes were glued to you. I was struggling.”
“Struggling?” I repeat.
“I was rock hard the entire night. You were strutting around, treating me like public enemy number one, and I was just—” He pauses, smirks. “Suffering like a champ.”
My face is smiling uncontrollably.
“Oh, really.”
He nods once. “And that red lace bra I fished out of your suitcase when we checked in? I wanna see you in it. No. Need to see you in it.”
“Just the bra, Hartwell?”
His eyes darken. “And the thong.”
“Why do you think there’s a matching thong?”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Because you’re you, Stopwatch. Somewhere in that beautiful, hyper-efficient brain of yours, there’s a rulebook on wardrobe coordination. I’d bet my dick on it.”
He reaches for my hand and kisses it.
“And if there isn’t a thong,” he says, “then I guess my dick is yours.”
His wink sends a jolt through me, and my legs press together, my body craving his fullness.
“Stay,” I say, standing before my confidence evaporates.
I snatch the red lace and bolt for the bathroom.
Historically, the thought of rocking all these curves in front of a man chiseled out of granite would have me plotting the fastest exit.
I’m sure I’m softer than the girls who typically occupy his bed.
But his voice (calling me fucking perfection) echoes in my head like a war cry.
I snap the lace into place, step into the thong, and admire myself in the mirror. I don’t look for the “problem areas.” I see the woman he sees. The one Cole Hartwell is currently losing his mind over.
I pull the door open and walk out.
“Damnnn, baby.” One look and he takes a step back, hand over his heart. “I’m really going to die this time. For sure. Call the paramedics back. Level ten hotness crisis.”
“Still not funny,” I say, even as a giddy laugh bubbles up in my throat.
The humor dies a quick death.
Cole goes quiet. He’s stalking across the room with predatory grace.
My knees turn to jelly. His hands find me.
Not grabbing, not demanding, but sliding.
His palms scorch as they play with the lace at my waist. They glide up my ribs, cupping the swell of my belly with a reverence that makes me feel like a queen.
“I’m obsessed,” he murmurs against my ear. “With every single inch of your gorgeousness.”
His hands keep moving, dragging over my skin, memorizing every dip, every curve, every shiver. His touch is tender, as if he’s proving the point with only his hands. I stand there, exposed and trembling, basking in a new feeling.
Is this what it’s like to be chosen?
Wanted?
Craved?
I should step back.
I should make a joke about HR violations.
I should remind him that he’s my competition, and this entire night is a terrible, reckless detour.
But the sheer force of my will just… cracks.
The red numbers on the digital clock seep into five a.m., and that mental “conflict of interest” file I’ve kept so neatly organized is gone, incinerated by the heat of his palms tracing my skin.
But it’s more than his hands—though, damn, they are making a very convincing case.
It’s the eyebrows.
The Grandpa Milbert eyebrow story, delivered with playful seriousness. It’s the extension cord ball that saved an entire town. It’s the way he said “fall in love” as punctuation, touched my stomach like a destination, and adored me in red lace as if I was worth worshipping.
I am in serious, serious trouble.
His lips brush my throat again, slower this time. He’s giving me room to pull away.
I don’t.
My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down, and then my mouth is on his. No warning. No hesitation. Just heat and hunger, my body pressing into his because I’ve finally stopped lying to myself about what I want.
He groans into the kiss, hands sliding down my back, gripping my hips through the lace. My body arches instinctively, heat flaring low and fast.
“You’re killing me,” he mutters against my tongue.
“So dramatic,” I breathe, though my pulse is sprinting.
“You sure you can take another round?” His voice drops, rough and careful at the same time. “Trying real hard to be a gentleman, Stopwatch. But fuck I need you again.”
The sound that leaves me is embarrassingly needy. “Yes. I want you. Stop asking.”
That’s all he needs.
He walks me backward, step by step, his touch staying on my skin until the bed catches behind my knees. He slides his fingers inside my panties, his knuckles grazing my heat, and groans into my ear, “You’re trouble.”
“You started it.”
“I’m not taking it slow this time,” he growls, “I’m going to hear my name on your lips while I’m fucking you senseless.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “There’s that cocky mouth again.”
“Doubt all you want. You won’t be sassing my cock after I prove how bad you crave it rough.”
He pushes me back onto the mattress and drops to his knees in one fluid motion. He spreads my thighs wide, and before I can even process the view, he licks right up the middle of my red lace panties. The friction of the fabric against my clit makes my hips arch off the bed in a blind reflex.
“Cole!”
His hands press me back down, thumbs hooked in the lace at my core, dragging the fabric aside just enough to give him access.
“Do you… do you want to take them off?”
He looks up at me.
“Hell no. Leave them on. My dick is begging to feel this lace.”
He spreads me open with his fingers, his tongue finds me, and I stop forming coherent sentences. My body has never felt this much pleasure in a single night. My hands grip the comforter, fistfuls of fabric anchoring me as the climb to bliss starts in my toes.
RRIPPP!
The sharp rip of a condom wrapper.
“Pump the brakes, Ivy,” he murmurs, his voice rough and commanding. “You’re only coming one way, and that’s with me fucking you into oblivion.”
He moves over me. There’s no slow, teasing push. This time, he gives me a forceful, deep thrust that knocks the air out of my lungs. My fingers blindly fly to his ass, nails digging into taut muscle, anchoring him to me.
“You have no idea,” he grits out, his pace already building, “how long I’ve wanted this.”
He keeps driving harder, faster, each pounding thrust making his case. That the rivalry is nothing next to the force of us.
“Don’t stop.” I can’t tell if I’m saying or thinking it. “Don’t stop don’t stop don’t—”
“Hell, Ivy.” His forehead presses to mine, hips snapping relentlessly. You feel so right—so fucking perfect—now say my name. Tell me you want this as bad as I do.”
“Cole—”
My breaths turn into short, frantic staccatos, panting his name. My breasts bounce with the force of his movement, and I go lightheaded, the world narrowing down to the loud, wet slaps of our bodies meeting and heat radiating off of us. I’m climbing, reaching, and then—
I shatter.
He follows, driving deep with one final, brutal thrust. A rough, broken groan spills against my neck as his whole body locks, shudders, and collapses into me.
I’m pinned under the delicious weight of him, his chest heaving, skin damp against mine.
It’s perfect. He peppers light kisses to my forehead, the curve of my cheek, and on my lips.
His calloused thumb brushes a wayward strand of hair behind my ear.
Then he nuzzles into the space where my shoulder meets my neck.
The room fills with the soft sounds of early morning, the distant hush of the ocean, the hum of the air conditioner, and the steady rhythm of our breathing.
Oh, shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
I stare at the ceiling and do what I always do when I start spiraling, I run logistics.
Current problem: I slept with the competition. Not once. Not twice, but five freaking times. There’s no protocol for banging your rival.
No checklist. No risk assessment. No “minimize emotional exposure” bullet points.
I gave him extreme access.
To my body.
To my reactions.
To the most vulnerable part of me.
I’ve spent six months building defenses around him. Turning everything into strategy. Tonight I didn’t just let him in; I handed him a VIP pass.
I squirm slightly and his arm tightens around me, his hand resting warm against my stomach. Like this is normal. Like we actually belong here together.
Maybe this is different.
Maybe I was more than convenient.
I swallow, afraid to move and break whatever this fragile thing is. Because I have no clue what happens when morning comes, and we go back to being rivals.
But for once, I let myself hope for something dangerous.
That maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t chosen second.