Chapter 18 #2
Her body clenches around me with a tightness that pulls me over the edge with her.
My orgasm hits like thunder, an explosion of sensation so intense it steals my breath.
I shudder violently, my hips jerking as I pump my cum deep inside her, every nerve alight with white-hot pleasure.
It’s the hardest I’ve ever come, the force of it leaving me dizzy.
She stays on top of me, just kissing, making out for what feels like forever. My lips find hers, not in the savage, claiming kiss from before, but in a slow, searching press.
We take our time, tasting each other, the kind of kiss you pull from deep in your gut.
My hands slide up her back, tracing the delicate ridge of her spine, the muscles of her shoulders, her silky smooth skin.
I skim my palms over the glorious swell of her hips, then back up to cup the heavy weight of her breasts.
They are impossibly soft, her nipples pebbled and sensitive against my palms.
I miss her the second she breaks the kiss.
“Is everything okay, baby?” My eyes search hers, and I sense her pull back. It’s just a fraction, but it’s there.
She smiles, that slow, lazy one that utterly wrecks me. The same radiant smile that got us here in the first place.
God, she has no idea how much power it holds over me.
“I didn’t dream it then,” she grins. “I did get kidnapped into your sex dungeon.”
“Oh, yes,” I say, smacking her ass playfully. “There’s no escape for the foreseeable future.” She squeals as I roll her onto her back, caging her arms.
For a beat, neither of us speaks—just our breathing, steady but not quite calm.
She looks up at me and swallows, her eyes flickering, that telltale sign of doubt slipping in.
Selfishly, I don’t want her to retreat. I want all of her, even if part of me is still chained to old nightmares and the rest can’t quite name whatever the hell I even want.
“Are you hungry?” I manage, voice gentle.
“Always,” she smiles, and the tension eases just slightly. “I’ll just grab a quick shower.”
Sensing she needs a bit of space, I press a light kiss on the tip of her nose and move off her. “Okay, I’ll go see what I’ve got. You want coffee?”
“Of course,” she says, sliding out from under me.
I lay back, arms resting behind my head, a ridiculous grin painted on my lips, admiring her beautiful body as she walks away.
I wince as I see some angry red hickeys scattered around her.
My fingers curl into my fists as I hear the shower start up, resisting the urge to fly in there and fuck her against the wall.
With a groan, I haul myself off the bed and slide on some dark sweatpants and pad through to the kitchen, pulling from the fridge whatever ingredients I can find.
I’m halfway through folding the eggs in the pan when I hear her quiet footsteps approaching.
She walks into the kitchen barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, skin fresh-faced, swallowed by my T-shirt.
I know I’m an egotistical bastard, but she looks way too good in my shirt.
She climbs onto the stool, tucking one knee up protectively.
“Hey,” she says, voice soft.
Before my mind plays catch-up, I’m on her, sliding between her thighs. My hands come up to her face, thumbs brushing the warm line of her cheekbones as I angle her chin up. I tell myself it’s just a morning kiss—just a soft hello.
It isn’t.
The moment my mouth touches hers, something gives. Her lips part with the smallest inhale, and that’s it—I’m lost. I deepen it, slow but hungry, letting my body press closer until her knees bracket my hips.
The kiss turns hot, lingering, her damp hair cool against my fingers as I cradle her jaw. I taste mint, and something purely her, and every part of me wants to keep going, keep taking, keep—
She pulls back the tiniest bit, breath brushing my mouth, and wrinkles her nose.
“...can you smell burning?”
I blink, still half on her lips. “No,” I say automatically.
Then, the faint hiss reaches my ears.
And the smell hits a second later.
...Shit.
I drag one more slow kiss from her bottom lip—because I’m weak—before turning toward the stove. Pulling away feels ridiculous, almost painful, and she laughs under her breath.
And honestly?
Let the kitchen burn.
The pan is a disaster, but not a total one. I kill the flame, rescue what hasn’t turned to charcoal, and plate the food. It’s... salvageable. Barely.
I set it on the counter with a grunt. “Don’t say a word.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” she says—way too innocently—though the smile she’s fighting is impossible to miss. She picks up the fork, leans in, and inhales. “Smells good.”
“Yeah,” I say, watching her like an idiot. “I thought you needed something.”
And you’re still here.
And I want reasons for you to stay.
But I don’t say any of that.
She eats most of her food, which makes me pathetically happy, then clears her throat and sets her fork down.
“So... after breakfast, I should head home. I have training soon.”
There it is.
The retreat.
And it annoys me far more than I have a right.
“On a Sunday?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She shrugs. “Not usually. We’re prepping for something. Extra run-through.”
“Sure,” I say, feigning nonchalance. “We’ll grab coffee on the way.”
It comes out too casual for how badly I need her not to walk out that door.
She pauses, dragging a finger through a pool of condensation on her glass. “Is this another task?”
“It’s coffee.”
No game. No angle. Just me wanting her to stay.
She narrows her eyes. “Will I be expected to take minutes?”
I huff a quiet laugh. “No. We tried that once. It didn’t work.”
She gasps, hand to her chest in mock offense. “Hey, I wasn’t that bad; you’re just spoiled because Sloane is a one-woman board meeting.”
“True. You know, for twins, you’re very different.”
Ivy’s mouth tips up. “Yeah, but I adore her.”
I lean against the counter, studying her. “I like her too. Mostly for sending me you.”
She goes quiet for a beat, puzzled, before her face crumples into a smile. “Oh, that was smooth.”
Christ, she thinks I’m spinning her a line. If she knew me well, she’d know I don’t do lines—they come with expectations I can’t meet.
I hold her gaze, my tone flat. “If you say so.”
Her smile falters as if I’ve thrown her off balance, before she looks away first.
“Right, o-kay.” She clears her throat gently. “My dance bag with my stuff is in your car, so I should probably get it if we’re leaving soon.”
“I’ll grab your dance bag,” I say. “Finish your drink in peace.”
“Thank you.”
When I come back, she’s nursing her coffee, legs curled under her on the stool.
I hand her the bag. She takes it, fingers brushing mine, and yeah—I feel it.
“I’m going for a quick shower before we go. Don’t wander off.”
She smiles into her mug. “No promises.”
After my shower, I throw on some jeans and a dark sweater and wander back through. This time, the kitchen is empty.
Panic rises for half a second before I find her in the living room, staring through the wall of glass at New York City below. She startles when I caress her waist from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.
“I guess you really do like this view, huh?”
“Mmm hmm.”
I feel the tiny tremors that ripple through her when I press my mouth to her ear and murmur, “You ready?”
She nods as I take her hand and lead her to the elevator.
She looks kind of cute in her dance gear.
Tight leggings that hug her perfect ass too snugly and a loose-fit sweater that does nothing to hide those curves.
When we step into the elevator, I don’t let go of her hand.
I know I’m sending out all kinds of mixed messages.
It’s instinctive, territorial, selfish—everything I am.
But I can’t seem to stop myself.
The coffee shop, Blacks, sits tucked at the base of a glossy chrome tower in the business district.
But inside, the vibe shifts entirely. Warm wood counters.
Matte black machines that look like lab equipment.
Glass jars of beans displayed like precious gems. The place smells like roasted heaven and ambition.
People glance up as we walk in. A few nod at me in that you’re-one-of-us way I’ve grown used to. Ivy clocks it, brow arching.
We step up to the counter.
She’s scanning the menu. I’m scanning her.
Before she finishes deciding, I slip behind the counter.
Her head jerks up. “Um—Dane? What the—what are you doing? You can’t just—”
I reach for the portafilter. “I can.”
“Look, I’m sure no one’s ever told you no before, but—”
I raise a brow. “I own this place.”
Her mouth falls open.
I shrug, pressing the coffee grounds down. “Julian and I built it a few years ago. Wanted a place that actually served decent coffee.”
“Now you’re just showing off.” She rolls her eyes, fighting back a grin.
“Do you want coffee or not?”
“I do.”
“Then, go sit,” I tell her, already pulling the shot and shooing her away with my hand.
Her lips twitch like she wants to argue, but she finds a table close to the door.
I finish her drink—flat white, extra foam — and I even flick a quick rosette on it just like Charlotte taught me. I hum as I make mine.
The door chimes.
I don’t look up until I hear her voice.
“Dane?”
Leandra.
Of fucking course.
She’s dressed like a magazine spread—tailored coat, glossy auburn hair, sunglasses perched on her head. She steps behind the counter without asking, like she used to.
“I didn’t know you were back from Paris,” I say, neutral.
“I missed New York.” A pause. “I missed you.” Her hand grazes my arm like we’re still something. “I thought... maybe we could talk.”
“We’re talking now,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “And I’m busy.”
She follows my eyes toward Ivy, seated with her elbows on the table, chin in her hand, reading the drink menu like it’s a thriller. Her expression tightens for a fraction of a second.
I see,” she says, her gaze lingering on Ivy. “You’ve moved on quickly.”
I meet her look, let it sit unanswered, then turn back to the machine, the hiss of steam filling the space she’s left hanging.
Her smile falters before she drags it back into place.
“Well,” she says, smoothing her hair, her gaze flicking once more to Ivy, “I’m sure I’ll see you soon, anyway. I’ve been invited to your father’s engagement party.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Perfect.” She touches my arm like she still has the right—she doesn’t—then turns and leaves.
I go back to Ivy, who doesn’t ask a single question. Doesn’t even look curious.
Somehow, that bothers me more than if she had.
Time is tight, so we take the coffees to go and head for the car.
Ivy gives directions to the rehearsal building, and once we’re moving, she starts chatting about the show—how the numbers are coming together, how often they rehearse, the chaos of it all.
It’s nothing like my world, yet I find myself wanting to hear more.
I pull up outside her rehearsal building. The moment the engine cuts out, the car falls into awkward silence. She looks at the building; I look at her, and neither of us moves. I finally break first. “I’ll call you.”
She gives me a quiet nod and unclips her seatbelt, already opening the door.
Then she steps out. No hesitation, no second glance over her shoulder. Just goes — quick, graceful, like she can’t risk staying still long enough for something to matter.
And I sit there gripping the wheel, pulse too tight for something I can’t even name.
I’m not used to wanting someone to stay.
I’m not used to someone choosing distance.
I’m not used to any of this.
But I know one thing with absolute, stubborn clarity:
This—her—whatever it is; I want more.