Chapter 7 #2
I swallow, suddenly too nervous to ask.
“What? Was I really that bad?” He says it jokingly, but I can see the nervous energy blooming under his skin.
“What? No. You were…” Fantastic? Addicting? Probably the hottest sex I’ve ever had? “Great.”
He smiles softly, probably at how stupid I sound. He pulls his legs out of the bed, caging me between them. “So why are you looming over me right now?”
His cock is barely covered by the tangled black sheets over his lap, which isn’t helping this situation.
“I want to know if we can keep doing this,” I blurt out.
He doesn’t respond.
“Having sex.” I clarify. “Since we can’t see anyone else during this contract. We obviously have a lot of…pent-up energy.”
Atlas lowers his mug slightly. “Okay.”
I force myself to stay calm, controlled. “No expectations,” I say. “No complications.”
“What are you saying, exactly?”
“I’m saying…” I exhale slowly. “Maybe we keep this casual. Friends with benefits, until the contract ends.”
There’s a pause.
Not a dramatic one.
Just long enough for disappointment to flicker across his face before he smooths it over, and somehow that hurts worse than if he argued.
“Oh.”
I look away briefly, suddenly unable to hold eye contact. “It makes sense,” I add. “We’re already stuck together for three months, and we’re attracted to each other. It keeps things simple.”
Atlas studies me for a second longer before nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.” He sets his coffee on the side table. “Friends with benefits.” His large hands slide up the backs of my thighs.
My breath hitches. “Yeah.”
He kisses my abs like they’ve been distracting him all morning, his hands still roaming my thighs. “Until the contract ends?”
“Mhm.”
He glances down at the hardening bulge rising in my pants. “Very professional.”
I huff out a quiet laugh despite myself. “Shut up.”
His smile widens slightly as he pulls me back into bed.
Atlas leaves an hour later.
Neither of us says much after the friends with benefits conversation. If anything, Atlas showed me what I just agreed to.
I walk him to the door, mostly because it feels strange not to.
Atlas pulls his shoes on slowly, still waking up fully, his hair a complete mess from sleep and my hands. The sight of it does something irritatingly warm to my chest.
“Practice tomorrow?” he asks.
“Unfortunately.”
He huffs out a laugh and reaches for the doorknob before stopping.
Then he turns back toward me.
The look in his eyes shifts slightly, something playful settling there.
“What?” I ask cautiously.
“You look nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You worried I might kiss you goodbye?”
I roll my eyes. “Leave.”
Instead of listening, Atlas steps closer. I should expect that by now.
But I still don’t. His hand slides lightly against my jaw before he kisses me.
And Jesus Christ.
The kiss is slow in a way that immediately ruins me for the rest of the morning. There’s no rush behind it, no drunken urgency like last night, no teasing audience or adrenaline pushing it forward.
It’s just him—warm hands, soft mouth, the faint taste of coffee lingering between us.
My fingers tighten slightly in the front of his shirt before I can stop myself. He pulls back just enough to look at me, clearly pleased with himself.
“You get breathless really fast for someone who acts this mean,” he says quietly.
I stare at him for a second, trying to reorganize my thoughts. “Get out.”
He grins. “Anything you say, handsome.”
Then he kisses me once more, quickly this time, and slips out the door before I can think of a response. I stand there for a moment after he leaves, staring at the closed door like an idiot.
My chest still feels tight. My mouth still tastes like him.
“This is a bad idea,” I mutter.
The worst part is that I no longer know if I mean the sex…or what I’m starting to feel for him.
My phone starts ringing, and ringing, until I think about crushing it with a hammer.
Your Father.
I stare at the screen from across the kitchen.
It rings.
Stops.
Then immediately starts again.
I close my eyes briefly. “Unbelievable.”
I should ignore it. That would be smarter.
Instead, I grab the phone and answer before I can change my mind. “What.”
“Damien.” My father’s voice comes through overly warm and too familiar. “There he is.”
I lean against the counter, immediately regretting this. “What do you want?”
“Can’t I call my son?”
“No.”
A pause.
Then a laugh that sounds forced even through the speaker.
“I saw you online,” he says. “Big hockey star now, huh?”
I stay quiet.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” he continues.
“Boyfriend.”
Another pause.
“Right,” he says quickly. “Boyfriend. Good for you.” The fake supportiveness almost makes me laugh.
He’s never cared about anything in my life unless he could get something out of it.
“You done?” I ask.
“Listen,” he says, and his tone changes immediately. “I’m in a little trouble.”
Of course he is. Something cold settles in my stomach.
“I need help,” he says.
I close my eyes briefly as flashes of memory hit me before I can stop them.
Debt collectors. Broken furniture. The smell of whiskey and cigarettes soaked into every room of our old house.
The first time someone shoved me against a wall and told me my father owed them money.
The first time I realized nobody was coming to save me.
“You always need help,” I say quietly.
“Damien—”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“I don’t care.”
His voice sharpens slightly. “I’m your father.”
“And that stopped meaning anything a long fucking time ago.”
“I just need a little money to smooth things over.”
My hand clenches into a fist at my side.
Always money.
Always consequences.
Always me cleaning up after him.
“Fuck off,” I say.
“Damien—”
“No. Lose my number. Seriously.” My grip tightens around the phone. “I’m done fixing your mistakes.”
Then I hang up, my hands shaking violently as I slam the phone down.
I hate that even now, after all these years, he can still get under my skin this easily.
I drag both hands through my hair before forcing myself to breathe.
Coffee.
Shower.
Anything to distract me.
I need my brain somewhere else. Instead, I make the mistake of opening social media.
The first thing I see is a picture of Atlas and me outside the bar last night.
My stomach drops immediately. The angle is obscene, intimate in a way that feels too real.
Atlas has me pinned against his car, one hand gripping my waist while I fist his jacket hard enough to wrinkle the fabric. The kiss looks heated even frozen in a still image, all open mouths and desperation and tension.
And worse, the photographer captured enough detail to make it obvious exactly how affected we both were in our track pants. I stare at the picture too long. The comments underneath are already insane.
People talking about chemistry.
About tension.
About how real we look.
And that’s the problem.
We do look real.
Too real.
Because I remember exactly what that moment felt like.
I remember Atlas kissing me like he forgot cameras existed.
I remember how badly I wanted him.
How badly I still want him.
My chest tightens.
“This isn’t good.”