Chapter 18 #6
His hand slid up along my back, his palm heavy and certain, while my fingers curled tightly into the front of his suit jacket, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single shred of distance left between us.
For a moment, the only thing that existed in the entire universe was the quiet kitchen, the rich scent of chocolate, and the slow, rhythmic beat of the music still drifting in from the empty patio outside.
I finally broke the kiss, my forehead resting lightly against his as I tried to ground my racing heart.
His breathing was slightly heavier now, his light brown eyes dark with an intensity that made my knees weak.
“So,” I said softly, my voice a breathy murmur.
He looked down at me, his thumb sweeping a slow line across my cheekbone.
“Yeah?”
“How about a nightcap?”
A slow, devastating smile spread across his face, a low laugh escaping him that vibrated right against my chest.
“Are you sure, Amara?”
“Yes,” I said, staring directly at him, letting him see every ounce of the certainty I felt.
Jalen helped me down from the counter and disappeared toward the front of the restaurant while I slipped my heels back on and gathered my purse.
A few minutes later, Jalen returned.
The chef walked beside him and packaged up an assortment of pastries, truffles, chocolate-covered strawberries, chocolate-covered cherries, and several slices of the desserts we'd sampled throughout the evening.
“For later,” he said with a warm smile, handing it to Jalen.
I beamed. I love a good midnight snack.
Jalen and I thanked him, and after a few more polite goodnights, we stepped back out into the warm Houston night.
The heat between us still in the air.
The ride across town was calm and the city lights moved past the window while the soft RnB filled the car.
His hand rested loosely over mine as he drove.
Before long we pulled into a quiet neighborhood and into the driveway of the house that had once been plastered across headlines and gossip blogs.
The house that started the entire scandal.
He pulled the car into the garage, came around to my side and escorted me out.
When I stepped inside his huge house, the first thing I noticed was how empty it felt.
Pristine floors stretched across the open living space, polished and perfect, but the house lacked something I couldn’t quite name.
My heels clicked softly against the floor as I walked further inside.
“You know what?” I said, glancing around.
“What.”
“It doesn’t feel very homey.”
He looked at me for a second before shrugging out of his jacket.
“That’s because it’s missing you.”
I turned toward him immediately and gave his shoulder a playful push.
“Oh please.He laughed under his breath and walked toward the kitchen.
I wandered a little farther into the living room while he opened a bottle of champagne, the quiet, muffled pop of the cork echoing lightly through the open space.
The heavy silk of my dress brushed against my legs as I moved, the fabric still carrying the faint scent of the chocolate from Maison Noir.
When he returned, he handed me a glass, his fingers sliding deliberately against mine as the stems touched.
“To an amazing night," he said, his eyes darkening as they tracked the path of the golden bubbles rising in the crystal.
I lifted my glass and clinked it gently against his.
The champagne tasted light and crisp, the cold liquid dancing across my tongue.
The fierce heat between us from the kitchen counter hadn’t disappeared.
If anything, it had settled deeper into our bones, transforming from a sudden spike of adrenaline into a slow, magnetic pull that left me breathless.
He set his glass down on the coffee table, never breaking eye contact, before reaching out and taking mine to set it right beside his.
When he finally pulled me closer again, his big hands sliding beneath the oversized cardigan to map the bare skin of my waist, the kiss felt less like anticipation and more like something we had already decided on a long time ago.
It was slow.
Deliberate.
The heavy, unyielding weight of his body pressed flush against mine, guiding me backward until the soft cushions of the sofa caught my weight.
His mouth left mine, tracing a searing path down the column of my neck, his stubble scraping lightly against my skin and making me arch into his touch with a quiet gasp.
My fingers rubbing his soft fade, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to him as the heavy knit of my cardigan slipped off my shoulders and pooled onto the floor.
The strategy guides, the press conferences, and the looming television interviews were completely gone.
In the quiet darkness of the living room, illuminated only by the distant, golden glow of the Houston skyline through the windows, there was no performance left to give.
Every touch was an admission, every low groan that escaped him a confirmation that the boundaries we had built were permanently shattered.
Not only was Jalen attentive outside the bedroom, but his focus inside it was completely overwhelming.
He knew exactly how and where I needed to be touched, moving with a heavy, agonizing patience that made it clear he wasn't interested in rushing.
He traced every contour of my skin, his lips chasing away every lingering ache until my entire body was humming for him, making sure I was completely undone and fully taken care of before he even attempted to close the final distance between us.
And when he finally slid inside of me, the sheer stretch of his size filled me so completely it took my breath away.
He was massive, thick, and perfectly unyielding, fitting into me with a seamless, devastating precision that made my back arch off the mattress.
Every deep, meaningful stroke was deliberate, a slow and heavy rhythm that resonated straight through my chest.
We weren't just hooking up, and we weren't just having sex.
This felt like a slow, possessive fall into something deeper.
Like love.
Like a scene straight out of a movie where every touch was an unscripted promise we were making in the dark.
The night stretched quietly around us after that.
Time slipped past in a haze of tangled sheets, warm skin, and low, whispered promises that neither of us had the strength or the desire to take back.”
Later—much later—we found ourselves laughing in the kitchen around two in the morning, half-awake, wrapped in matching dark sheets, and suddenly starving.
“Why on earth are we hungry again?” I asked, leaning my chin on his bare shoulder as he raided the pantry.
Jalen chuckled, the low rumble vibrating directly against my chest as he pulled a loaf of bread from the cabinet.
“Because apparently making out over expensive chocolate and drinking half a bottle of champagne counts as a meal to professional athletes.”
We ended up making the most random, chaotic sandwiches imaginable, leaning against the marble counter in the dark and laughing at how utterly ridiculous the whole situation was.
I watched the way the shadow from the refrigerator light caught the strong lines of his back, my chest filling with a warmth that had absolutely nothing to do with the food.
The house didn’t feel empty or clinical anymore.
Not tonight.