Chapter 22
Everett
Margot's hands frame my face, her thumbs tracing the line of my jaw. Her eyes search mine, pupils wide. Her breath comes fast, shallow. The pulse in her throat hammers visible beneath skin.
"Everett." My name in her mouth sounds different than when anyone else says it. Softer. More dangerous.
"Yes?"
She drops her hands. My face goes cold where her warmth was.
Then she turns. Walks toward me. Deliberate. Certain.
Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders, into my hair.
Her mouth opens beneath mine, tongue sliding against my bottom lip.
Heat explodes through my system. My hands move on instinct, one cupping the back of her head, fingers threading through silk, the other splaying across her lower back, pulling her flush against me.
She makes a sound. Small. Needy. It destroys every defense I have left.
I angle her head, deepen the kiss. She tastes like wine and something sweeter, something entirely her. Her body molds to mine - soft where I'm hard, yielding where I'm rigid. Every point of contact burns.
Her fingers tighten in my hair. Pull hard enough to sting. The edge of pain sharpens everything. The slide of her tongue, the scrape of her teeth against my bottom lip, the way her hips roll forward, seeking friction.
I break away. Breathing hard. Trying to find some scrap of control.
"Margot…"
"Remember?" Her voice comes out breathless. "You said we have tomorrow."
The words from last night. Was it only last night, when we almost crossed this line before. When I stopped us.
"Could this please be tomorrow?" Her gaze holds mine, vulnerable and fierce. "Please."
The words strip away my last resolve.
Tomorrow. A word we've been dancing around, avoiding, pretending doesn't exist beyond contract terms and merger timelines.
I answer by kissing her again. Harder. Deeper. Pouring my years of isolation and want and hunger into the press of my mouth against hers.
She breaks away. Reaches past me. Turns off the oven where dinner sits forgotten.
Her hand slides into mine. Fingers lacing, palm warm against my palm.
"Come with me," she whispers.
I let her lead.
Through the kitchen. Down the hall. Past windows where ocean stretches toward horizon, waves rolling silver under the moonlight. My heart hammers against my ribs. Blood roars in my ears, louder than the surf.
She pushes open the door to the master suite where light pours through floor-to-ceiling glass, where the bed dominates the space - king-sized, covered in white linen, waiting.
Margot turns to face me. Her chest rises and falls fast. Color stains her cheeks, her throat. Her lips are swollen from my kisses.
"Are you sure?" My voice comes out rough. Raw. "We can stop. Right now. No questions."
"I don't want to stop." She reaches for the hem of her sweater. Pulls it over her head in one smooth motion.
The breath leaves my lungs.
She stands before me in jeans and a simple bra - black, practical, devastatingly her. The curves I've been trying not to notice on full display. The slope of her shoulders. The swell of her breasts. The pale skin of her stomach.
"Your turn," she says. Chin lifted. Defiant.
I pull my sweater over my head. Drop it to the floor.
Her gaze travels down. Over my chest, my abdomen, the line of my belt. When her eyes meet mine again, they've gone dark.
"Come here," I say.
She closes the distance. Her hands land on my chest, fingers spreading over skin. She traces muscle, bone, the ridge of my collarbone. Maps me with touch while I stand rigid, fighting for control.
"Breathe," she murmurs.
I inhale. Sharp. Her scent fills my lungs, entirely intoxicating.
My hands find her waist. Bare skin beneath my palms, soft and warm. I pull her close. Kiss her again. Slower this time. Savoring.
Her fingers trail down. Over my stomach. To my belt.
She undoes the buckle. The button. The zipper. The sound tears through the quiet room.
My jeans slide down. I kick them, boxers, shoes off. Stand before her, every line of my body on display, every scar, every imperfection.
She traces a mark along my ribs. Old injury. Childhood fall.
I reach behind her, undo the clasp of her bra. It falls away.
Perfect. She's perfect.
I cup her breasts, thumbs circling nipples. She gasps, arches into my touch. Her head falls back, exposing the long line of her throat.
I kiss her there. Tongue against pulse point. Teeth scraping skin. She moans, fingers digging into my shoulders.
I walk her backward toward the bed. Her knees hit the mattress. She sits. Looks up at me through dark lashes.
"Jeans," I say. "Off."
She stands. Works the button, the zipper. Shimmies denim down hips, thighs, calves. Steps out of them.
Black underwear to match the bra. Simple cotton. Nothing designed to seduce.
It works anyway.
I hook my fingers in the waistband. Pull down slowly. Reveal every inch of skin as fabric slides away.
She stands naked before me in the light. No performance. Just Margot. Real. Vulnerable. Mine.
Dare I hope it? Think it?
We stand facing each other, nothing between us now – no contracts, no roles, no walls.
"Lie down," I say.
She stretches out across white linen, hair spreading dark against pale fabric. Her eyes track my movements as I join her, settling beside her, propped on one elbow.
I trace the line of her collarbone with my mouth. Down between her breasts. Over the curve of her stomach. She trembles beneath my touch.
"Tell me what you want," I murmur.
"You." Simple. Direct. "I want you."
I kiss her. Deep. Thorough. My hand slides lower, between her thighs. She opens for me, breath hitching.
Wet. So wet already. The knowledge sends heat straight to my groin.
I circle where she's sensitive. She bucks against my hand, chasing friction. Her fingers find my shoulder, nails digging in.
"Everett." My name breaks on her lips. "Please."
"Not yet." I increase pressure, rhythm. Watch her face as pleasure builds. The way her mouth opens, her eyes flutter closed, her body goes taut.
She's close. I can read it in every line of her, the way her breathing changes, the flush spreading across her chest.
I slide two fingers inside her. She cries out, hips lifting.
"Yes," I breathe against her ear. "Take what you need."
She rocks against my hand, chasing release. I work her higher, thumb on her center, fingers curving inside. Her inner walls clench around me.
"Come for me," I say. "Let go."
She shatters. Her cry tears through the room. Her body arches, beautiful in release. I watch every second, memorizing the way she looks when she falls apart.
She collapses back against the bed, chest heaving. Her hand finds mine, stilling my movements.
"Give me a second," she gasps.
I kiss her temple. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth.
"Take all the time you need."
She turns her head, meets my eyes. "I need you. I want you. Now."
Heat flares through me. I reach for my wallet on the nightstand and pull out a condom. Tear it open. Roll it on.
She watches every movement, bottom lip caught between her teeth.
I settle between her thighs. The head of my erection presses against her entrance. I pause, giving her time to change her mind, to push me away.
She wraps her legs around my hips instead. Pulls me closer.
"Please," she whispers.
I push inside. Slow. Careful. Giving her time to adjust.
She's tight. Hot. Perfect around me. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to drive deep, to take everything she's offering.
"More," she says. Her hands slide down my back, urging me forward.
I sink deeper. Inch by inch. Until I'm fully seated, our bodies joined completely.
We both go still. Breathing hard. Adjusting.
"Okay?" I manage.
"Perfect." Her inner walls clench around me. "Move."
I withdraw. Thrust back in. She gasps, arching beneath me.
I set a rhythm. Steady. Deep. Watching her face for every flicker of pleasure, every sign of what she needs.
She meets me thrust for thrust, hips rising to take me deeper. Her nails rake down my back. The sting sharpens everything - the slide of skin on skin, the sound of our breathing, the ocean roaring beyond the windows.
"Harder," she demands.
I comply. Drive into her with more force. The bed frame hits the wall. She doesn't seem to care.
Her hand slides between us, finds her center. She works herself while I drive into her, chasing our combined pleasure.
"Close," she gasps. "I'm so close."
"Come with me." I increase pace, angle my hips to hit the spot that makes her cry out. "Now, Margot. Now."
She convulses around me, inner walls clenching. Her cry of release triggers my own. I bury myself deep, pouring everything into her - all the loneliness, all the wanting, weeks of falling without admitting it.
The orgasm tears through me. I collapse against her, breathing hard, heart hammering.
We lie tangled together as aftershocks ripple through us both. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my back. I press my face into the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent.
"Wow," she whispers.
A laugh escapes me. Rough. Genuine. "Yeah. Wow."
I ease out of her, deal with the condom, return to pull her close. She curls against my side, head on my chest. I can hear her heartbeat. Fast. Matching mine.
The ocean outside whispers beyond the glass.
"Tell me something you've never told anyone else," she says after a while.
I go still. Consider.
"I almost didn't take the company." The words surface slowly. "The summer before I did, I had a place at a small theater in Edinburgh. Stage management. No one knew."
Her head lifts from my chest. "You're serious."
"My grandfather got sick before the season started. I stayed. And then I just - stayed." I trace the line of her spine. "I never told anyone that version."
She's quiet for a long moment. Her finger traces a slow circle against my ribs.
"I've never finished anything I actually loved," she says. "The plays I care about most are in a drawer. I only finish the ones I feel less about. Because if they fail, it matters less."
"That's why you took the job."
"That's why I took the job." She exhales. "Safe distance from the thing you want most. You understand that."
I do.
I pull her up, kiss her deep. She melts against me, sighs into my mouth.
"Why are you even available?" I ask when we break apart. "You're smart. Beautiful. Any man would…"
"Would what? Compete with my ambitions?" She shakes her head. "Most men I've met want me available. Accommodating. Theater takes time. Writing takes focus. So my work over mediocre relationships."
"Fair."
"What about you?" She traces my collarbone. "All this time of starlets and models. Why?"
"Because they didn't expect anything." The truth tastes bitter. "A few dates. Some photographs. Everyone walked away clean."
I kiss her again. Slower this time. Savoring. Her hand slides into my hair, holding me close.
We explore each other. Hands, mouths, whispered words. The intimacy of touch without urgency. Learning. Discovering.
She traces the scar on my ribs. "Tell me."
"Fell off my bike when I was nine. Landed on a fence post." I kiss her shoulder. "What about this?" I trace a mark on her hip.
"Appendectomy. Seventeen." She shivers under my touch. "Terrible timing. Week before Juilliard auditions."
"You went anyway?"
"Of course." She grins. "High on painkillers. Probably the best audition I ever gave."
I laugh. Real. The sound foreign in my own chest.
An hour passes. Maybe two. Time loses meaning.
Her stomach growls. Loud. Undeniable.
She freezes. Then dissolves into giggles.
"I'm starving," she admits. "Can we have a midnight supper?"
I glance at the clock. "It's barely nine."
"Early midnight supper." She sits up, sheet sliding down. "Please? I'm going to die of hunger."
"Dramatic."
"Playwright." She grins. "It's required."
I laugh. Sit up. Pull her into a kiss.
Her laugh fills the beach house. Real and unguarded.
The space between what we agreed to and what we're becoming has collapsed.
And standing on the edge of this new precipice, I don't know if I'm ready to jump.
Or if I've already fallen.