Chapter Forty-Five
Ruby
“Something casual.” I roll them over once, then again, like they might change shape if I give them enough time. They don't. Across from me, Xavier doesn't move. He watches, steady, waiting me out without pushing.
No pressure. No promises.
My fingers tighten together in my lap, then loosen.
I think about the way he stood in my kitchen after someone started stalking me.
The way he checks the locks without making a show of it.
The way he feeds my pigs as it matters. The way he leaves before I wake. Like he doesn’t trust himself to stay.
But that’s not what he wants. That’s not who he is. I can’t forget that. He’s offering something casual. And nothing more. That has to be what I agree with. Can I handle that?
A breath catches low in my chest. This isn’t something happening to me. This is a choice. A choice that feels right after the notes, the flowers, the poem, the break-in, everything. This feels like taking control of my life back.
It’s not like his presence hasn’t already messed with my head. It has. I want more, but I’m not going to get it. Is this enough?
I glance up at the ceiling, watching the dust dance in the ceiling light. I never do anything for myself. Take pleasure. Enjoy the moment. And kissing Xavier was the most enjoyable thing I’ve ever done. I can’t begin to imagine how everything else would feel.
That’s it. There's no other choice to make. I’m choosing me. “Okay.”
His shoulders tighten. “Okay?”
“No expectations.” My voice steadies as I say it. “No pressure.”
His jaw flexes. “You’re sure?”
“I’m not asking you to stay.” The words come out before I can soften them. Something flickers across his face, gone too fast to read.
“Okay,” he says again.
The space between us doesn’t feel the same after that. Not lighter. Just… different. Neither of us moves at first. Then his hand lifts, slow, like he’s giving me time to stop him, and settles against my cheek. Calloused. Warm. Strong.
I lean into it without thinking. I’m not stopping him. This is what I want. His thumb brushes once along my skin. That’s all it takes. I close the distance.
The kiss isn’t careful this time. Not hesitant.
My fingers catch in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he lets me.
His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, holding me there as the kiss deepens.
His thumb keeps moving, small circles against my pulse point, and I feel the touch everywhere-behind my knees, between my ribs, low and gathering between my legs.
Heat spreads fast, but not the vague warmth I’d expected. It’s specific. A tightening that makes me press my thighs together, then open them again, restless. I want friction. I want his weight. I want things I don’t have words for because I’ve never let myself want them this clearly.
His other arm comes around my back, pulling me fully against him until my knees rest on either side of his thighs. Solid. Steady. Real. I press closer without thinking, one hand sliding up his chest, feeling the shift of muscle under my palm. The fast and erratic beating of his heart.
He exhales against my mouth, the sound low, rough, and it pulls something tight in my chest. My name slips out of him, low, almost lost. I don’t answer.
I kiss him again. Harder this time, pressing my lower body into him, and I feel him-thick, hard, straining against his jeans.
The knowledge of it makes me dizzy. I rock against him once, experimentally, and his whole body goes still.
“Fu-u-ck, Ruby.” The words are ground out as his lips trail along my jawline. His voice sounds wrecked already, and we’ve barely started. The need in it makes me ache, a deep pulse between my legs that won’t stop.
The sensation of his mouth gliding along my skin makes my toes curl on either side of his thighs.
His hands grip my hips, stilling me as I’ve been moving, small, hungry rolls against him.
He jerks at the contact, hips twitching upward before he catches himself.
I feel the restraint in his fingers, pressing into my hipbones hard enough to mark.
I’m not a virgin, but damn, nothing has ever been like this. The guys I’ve been with were quick to the trigger. And we weren’t exposed to each other under the blaring light of a ceiling fan. This feels more intense. More intimate.
Don’t. I swallow hard. This is not intimate. This is a physical release. An enjoyment of each other’s bodies. That’s it.
But then his mouth finds the spot below my ear, the one that makes my spine curve, and he stays there. Not rushing. Learning me. His breath hot and unsteady against my skin. His hands trembling where they hold my waist.
The couch creaks when he shifts forward, closing the space I left between us earlier. There’s nothing careful about it now, nothing measured, just movement.
His hand slides down my back, then back up again, not tentative but not claiming either-like he’s mapping me, like he needs to know exactly where he is. I push up from the couch, not breaking the kiss, and he follows, hands finding my waist again as I step back.
Once. Twice. My shoulders hit the wall. “Fuck.” The contact pulls a sharp breath from me, and his head dips, mouth finding mine again before I can think about it.
His hands settle at my hips, holding me there long enough for the moment to land. For both of us to feel it. The line. Crossed. This is it. There’s no turning back. I reach for him, pulling him closer instead of stepping away.
That’s all it takes. His grip shifts, firmer now, more certain, as he turns us toward the hallway without breaking contact.
The house is quiet around us. The kitchen. The table. The space where we said this would stay simple. Gone.
The hallway light catches across his shoulder as we move past it. The bedroom door comes into view, and he pauses long enough to look at me.
Not asking. Checking. I don’t hesitate. I pull him the rest of the way in.