Chapter 11
T he kitchen was quiet except for the slow hum of the fridge and the occasional creak from the wind outside.
It was still early when I slipped downstairs barefoot in a faded tank top and sleep shorts, hair twisted up in a claw clip.
Through the window, I could see Sloane out on the deck with a book and a mug, which looked like a pretty ideal way to start the morning.
I grabbed a jar of yogurt from the fridge and then turned to the cabinets, reaching uselessly for the top cupboard where Jazz had tucked the honey. “Come on,” I muttered, standing on my tiptoes. “I just want my yogurt and granola to taste like it came from a cottagecore dream and not a hospital.”
Behind me, I heard the soft pad of steps. Then the unmistakable rasp of a yawn and the low clink of a glass he set in the sink.
“Need help?” Fitz’s voice was low and annoyingly awake.
“I got it,” I said. Then immediately added, “Actually...yeah.”
I glanced back. Of course he was shirtless.
Hair messy. Jaw shadowed. One hand casually resting on the place where his abs met the waistband of his gray sweatpants, which hung low enough to expose the sharp cut of his hips and a faint trail of dark hair leading downward.
He looked like he’d rolled straight out of a Calvin Klein ad and into my kitchen.
I lifted my arms wordlessly, and he didn’t hesitate.
His big hands closed around my waist and I swear I almost moaned.
He lifted me with one smooth movement, and I let myself be light in his grip.
Floaty. Maybe a little breathless. I could smell him—coffee and whatever godforsaken delicious scent his soap or cologne was—something clean and infuriatingly masculine.
I rummaged in the cupboard and grabbed the honey jar from the shelf as fast as I could, but he didn’t rush the slide back down.
And when I slid back into place, my back pressed full against his chest. And yeah—there it was.
He was hard. And not maybe a little firm or maybe I’m imagining things.
No. Hard-hard. Thick. Heavy. Undeniable through the soft cling of those sweats.
It pressed right against the swell of my ass for a heartbeat that felt longer than it was.
I sucked in my breath until he released the grip on my waist.
I felt his breath stutter out across my shoulder. And then he moved—fast, like the contact had shocked him, like he couldn’t get away fast enough.
I took the honey to the counter and drizzled it onto my granola like a well-behaved adult woman. But my face was flaming, my nipples were tight, and I could still feel the outline of him against the small of my back like it had tattooed itself into my skin.
“Thanks,” I said, all fake-casual, not looking up.
He didn’t reply. Just muttered something that might’ve been “yeah” and practically fled, his retreating steps loud against the wood floor.
I stared down into my tea and smiled to myself. Then bit my lip. Then shook my head. It was barely seven-thirty in the morning, and I was already soaked.
I made two iced coffees out of sheer muscle memory, my mind elsewhere in a fantasy of grey sweatpants and hard-ons.
I layered ice, cold brew, cream and a dash of cinnamon until it swirled like storm clouds.
One for me. One for the man who’d lifted me half-naked in his stupid strong arms a few minutes ago—and whose very real, very hard dick had pressed against my ass on the way back down.
I hadn’t said anything, obviously . But he’d blushed. Fitz Mr. Untouchable Whitmore had turned the exact shade of my beach peach lipstick and booked it upstairs like a teenager caught with a sock.
Still though, I wanted to avoid a tremendously awkward run-in later, so I figured I’d show my gratitude for the help and take him a coffee on my way back to my room.
I knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again, lighter. “I made you coffee,” I called, trying to sound breezy and not like I was dying inside. “The good kind. It’s cold and strong, so it should suit your disposition.”
I figured he was maybe out on the balcony attached to his room, so I tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. “Fitz?”
I pushed the door open with my elbow, balancing the two iced coffees in hand like a peace offering and an excuse all in one. “Hey, I thought I’d?—”
I stopped breathing.
Stopped moving.
Holy. Shit.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, head bent, one hand wrapped tight around the thick length of himself, jaw clenched like he was trying to stay quiet but not quite succeeding.
He was mid-stroke . Not easing into it, not idly touching himself, but deep in it—hips tensed forward, head thrown back just enough to reveal the tight line of his jaw.
His eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in a sound I would’ve called a moan if my blood wasn’t currently evacuating my brain.
And then— God help me —he said it. “Charlie—fuck—” That low, broken growl — my name on his tongue like a prayer and a curse at once.
I should’ve turned around. I should’ve slammed the door and run like hell. But instead, I froze like a goddamn deer in headlights. A deer with a front-row seat to the most obscene, hottest moment of my life.
His body was all clean, elegant muscle—those lean, carved lines that came from tennis and sailing, not hours at the gym.
His stomach tightened with every motion of his hand, the V of his hips sloping into low-slung sweats that had been pushed just far enough down to get the job done.
And what a job it was. Long, thick, the head flushed deep pink.
One prominent vein running the length of it, practically pulsing under his grip.
I stared like a lunatic. I didn’t mean to, but my brain had gone entirely offline.
I knew I was intruding—witnessing a private moment not intended for me.
But I couldn’t look away; he was magnetic.
His skin was flushed down to his chest, lips parted, that perfectly aristocratic face now taut with something wild.
His hand moved in tight, desperate strokes, thick fingers gliding up and down the full length of his cock. His other hand gripped the edge of the mattress like he needed it to keep from coming undone.
Which he did—about two seconds later.
His whole body snapped tight, chest shuddering as he groaned, low and filthy, and came in hot, hard streaks over the edge of his hand, hips jerking once, twice before he finally went still.
It was silent except for the sound of my own mortified breathing and the low drip of melting ice in the coffees I still hadn’t set down.
His eyes opened, and we locked gazes.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, grabbing for the closest thing—a wrinkled T-shirt—and yanking it over his lap like that would erase what had just happened.
“I—I brought coffee,” I said, like a total lunatic.
Fitz stared at me, speechless. Our eyes locked. His jaw clenched. The air in the room turned molten.
I blinked once. Twice.
He didn’t say a word.
Neither did I.
Just stood there with my iced coffee and my racing pulse and the irreversible knowledge that Fitz Whitmore—pristine, pressed, pulled-together Fitz—was so undone by our kitchen encounter that he had to come upstairs and handle it .
And then I laughed. Not a mean laugh. Not a judgmental one. Just...a nervous, startled, Charlie laugh that cracked like a spiderweb of broken glass. “Uh,” I said, trying and failing not to look. “I thought you may want to cool off,” lifting up the iced coffee I’d brought him in a laughable cheers.
“You could’ve knocked,” he muttered, not facing me.
“I did knock,” I said, still holding the coffee like an offering. “Twice. I thought you were probably out on the balcony or something.”
He finally looked up at me, eyes stormy and wild in a way I had never seen. “You need to go,” he said, voice low and rough. “Now.”
But I didn’t. Because in that moment—humiliated, flustered, cornered Fitz was the hottest thing I’d ever seen. And for once, I wasn’t scared to watch him squirm.
“You know,” I said slowly, walking to set the coffee on his nightstand, “I’d tell you what a sight that was, but I think your—ahem—ego has been stroked enough already today.”
Then I turned and walked out, hips swinging a little extra, even if my legs were shaking. And I swear—just before I closed the door—I heard him groan. Not a word. Just a sound. Low. Guttural. Wrecked.
And I bit my lip all the way down the hall.