Chapter 15 Sloane
Sloane
"It feels like the rest of the world has disappeared," I say, curled on his couch with an empty plate balanced on my knees.
Outside, snow falls in thick, muffling sheets, wrapping the world in silence. We're cocooned. Safe in our own private snow globe.
"Let it," he murmurs, voice low, close to my ear.
I turn—and the raw intensity in his gaze unravels the last of my restraint.
Before I can overthink it, before my brain can run the risk analysis, he reaches out and brushes a stray strand of auburn hair from my cheek.
It's a simple gesture. Tender. And it completely undoes me.
I don't pull back. Instead, I lean into his touch, my eyes fluttering shut. When I open them, his hazel gaze has gone dark.
He cups my face in both hands, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. "Sloane."
The way he says my name—like a prayer, like a question—shatters the last of my restraint.
Flashes of our past moments play across my mind: the arena wall. The closet. Frantic, hidden, adrenaline-fueled.
But this is different. This is soft lamplight spilling into a hallway. The quiet warmth of his hands. The deliberate, unhurried way he's looking at me, with no fear of a door swinging open or a voice shouting his name.
This isn't a secret being stolen. It's a choice being made.
I meet his gaze and nod.
This kiss is nothing like I've ever experienced.
It's slow. Certain. The kind of kiss that says finally.
His lips are warm and sure, and when I part mine, he's right there—claiming, exploring, deepening with a thoroughness that makes my toes curl.
I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging him closer.
He groans against my mouth—a low, broken sound that vibrates through my whole body.
He kisses my jaw, then trails a line down the column of my throat.
I tilt my head back, gasping when he finds the spot below my ear that makes my vision swim.
His hands, once cradling my face, begin to move.
One slides down my back, pressing me tight to the solid planes of his chest. The other drifts lower, resting on my thigh, his thumb drawing slow, deliberate circles that make my skin burn.
Need claws up through me—sharp, undeniable. Every rational thought I've ever had about professional boundaries and career risks dissolves under the heat of his touch.
My hands find the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling in my desperation to feel his skin. The first button gives way, then another. He helps me, shrugging out of it and letting it fall to the floor. My palms press flat against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat racing beneath my touch.
His fingers trace the hem of my blouse, a question in his eyes. When I nod, he lifts it over my head with careful reverence, as though I might disappear if he moves too quickly. The cool air hits my skin, but his gaze—warm and wondering—makes me feel anything but exposed.
"You're beautiful," he whispers, and the words aren't just about how I look. They're about this moment. About us, finally here, finally honest.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his breath ragged. "Sloane," he says, his voice a raw, broken thing against my lips. "I want..." He stops, searching my face. "Are you sure?"
The question holds everything. Not just about tonight, but about what this means. About what we're risking. About whether I'm ready to stop running from this thing between us.
"Yes," I whisper, and the word carries the weight of every wall I've ever built now crumbling down. "I'm sure."
He stands, lifting me with him, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me toward his bedroom. The hallway feels endless and too short all at once. My back hits his bedroom door as he fumbles for the handle, and we're kissing again—desperate now, all pretense of taking our time abandoned.
The door swings shut behind us.
His bedroom is all clean lines and muted colors, but I barely register any of it. There's only him, only us, only the way he sets me down gently and frames my face in his hands like I'm something precious.
"Last chance," he says softly. "We can stop. We can go back to the couch and finish that movie and pretend—"
I silence him with a kiss that answers every question he could ask. There's no going back. Not from this.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. His hands shake slightly as he traces the line of my shoulder, and I realize he's nervous too. This careful, controlled man who never lets his guard down in public is trembling because of me.
"I've wanted this," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "I've wanted you. Even when I was telling myself all the reasons it was impossible."
Something shifts in his expression—relief and desire and something deeper. "Good," he says simply. "Because I don't think I could have let you walk away again."
What follows is a slow unraveling of everything we've held back.
His hands learn the curve of my waist, the sensitive spot at the base of my throat that makes me gasp his name.
I discover the scar on his shoulder from last season's injury, my tongue tracing the raised, roped skin, and I feel his breath hitch in response.
We take our time mapping each other, but the weeks of tension finally snap.
The gentle touches become urgent, desperate.
His mouth leaves my throat, trailing heat down my collarbone, dipping lower.
When his lips close over the peak of my breast through the lace, a sharp, pulling sensation makes me arch off the bed, my fingers tightening in his hair.
"Garrett," I gasp, the word a plea.
He moves to my other breast, giving it the same, devastating attention before his hands slide down from my waist to my hips. My own hands are shaking as I find the button of his pants. He helps me, his movements quick, kicking them away.
His fingers hook the lace edge of my underwear. He pauses, his eyes finding mine in the dim light, asking a final question. I answer by lifting my hips, letting him slide the last barrier down and off.
He moves between my legs, and my body opens for him, ready. But he pauses again. "I've wanted to taste you since that first meeting," he rasps, his voice thick.
Before I can answer, his mouth is on me.
It’s not a hurried act. He's slow. Deliberate. His tongue is clever, insistent, learning every part of me, and my world dissolves into a single, blinding point of sensation. I cry out his name, my body still pulsing as he moves back up, his skin hot against mine.
He pulls back just for a second, his breathing ragged as he reaches for the nightstand. I hear the rip of a foil packet, and then he's back, settling between my legs.
"Sloane," he groans, his own control frayed. He positions himself at my entrance, and for a beat, we're just still—his hazel eyes locked on mine, our bodies flush, the world outside gone.
And when he finally presses inside me, it’s not a fall. It’s a click. A lock sliding into place.
It's... home.
A completeness so total it steals the air from my lungs.
I meet his first slow, deep thrust, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him impossibly closer.
He moves with a steady, powerful rhythm that's all Garrett—controlled, strong, deliberate.
This isn't a frantic, stolen moment; it's a claiming.
"You feel perfect," he breathes, his forehead resting against mine. "You feel... mine."
"Yours," I whisper, meeting every push, every slide.
The tension coils again, lower and deeper this time, a burning, building need.
He feels it, his rhythm breaking, his thrusts becoming harder, faster.
He calls out my name, the sound of it raw and broken, and I'm clinging to his shoulders, my own body rising to meet his.
The pressure builds, unbearable and perfect, until it shatters in a blinding, brilliant release.
I feel his own release, a deep, shuddering groan that vibrates through my entire body.
Afterwards, I lie curled against his chest, boneless and complete, listening to his heartbeat slow. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, my mind is perfectly quiet.
"The snow's still falling," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
I lift myself up to look out the window. The world is still buried in white, peaceful and hushed. "We're snowed in."
"Tragic," he says, but he's smiling.
I rest my chin on his chest, studying his face in the dim light. "What happens when it stops?"
The question hangs between us, carrying all the weight of reality. Our jobs. The team. The careful professional distance we've maintained for months.
He's quiet for a long moment, his hand moving through my hair. "I don't know," he admits. "But I know I don't want to go back to pretending there's nothing between us."
Relief floods through me. "Good. Because I don't think I could."
He pulls me up for another kiss, soft and sweet and full of promises we're both afraid to voice yet. Outside, the storm continues, holding the world at bay for just a little longer.
I wake to soft, grey light filtering through his curtains. For a long, precious moment, I don't remember where I am.
There's no dread. No alarm. No to-do list playing on repeat in my head. Just the solid weight of Garrett's arm around my waist, the scent of his skin, and snow falling gently outside the windows.
My blouse is draped over his dresser. My phone waits in silence on the nightstand, full of emails and expectations I'm not ready to face. The world is still there, waiting. But for now—just for this moment—it hasn't found me yet.
I study Garrett's sleeping face, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead.
The snow is still falling, painting the city in stillness. Our snow globe. We're still inside it.
My greatest fear used to be getting fired. Now, it's leaving this bed. Now, it's going back to a world where we pretend last night didn't change everything.