Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Hilary
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
The rest of the night flies by in a blur.
At some point, someone—noticeably not Jake—comes in and clears the table, packs up the leftovers, wipes everything down like we didn’t just sit there pretending to be normal people.
I nod. Smile. Exist.
But I don’t see anything.
Because I’m too busy replaying one very specific moment.
Over. And over. And over again.
That hard kiss.
The way he didn’t ask.
The way he didn’t hesitate.
The way it felt like he already knew what I’d do before I did it.
And the worst part?
I didn’t stop him.
I wanted it.
And to my undying shame? I still do.
Even though I know that wanting him can only lead to heartbreak.
Even though I am positive nothing can come from this.
So I sit there for two hours with my tablet in my hands, pretending to read while the words blur into nothing.
Because one sexy as sin, world-famous DJ just kissed the hell out of me and I think he wants more.
Worse? I think I’m going to let him have it.
Which is either incredibly brave. Or deeply, catastrophically stupid.
Probably both.
By the time we get to the hotel—the Stargazer, because of course we are staying at the most exclusive hotel in all of Manhattan—I am barely holding it together.
It’s all glass and gold and quiet luxury. The kind of place where people like David exist effortlessly. The kind of place where I feel like I should apologize to the furniture.
Bella is fading fast beside me, running on adrenaline fumes.
“Go,” I tell her gently as we step into the hallway. “Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
She nods, already halfway gone.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I say too quickly. “Go.”
She hugs me, quick and tight, then disappears into her room, which is right next to mine.
I wait until I hear the door click shut.
Then I stop, not meeting David’s eyes as I pause by my door.
“Goodnight,” I say in a rush and go inside, not waiting for his reply.
And immediately I don’t know what to do with myself.
So I shower.
Because water and expensive shower gel fix everything.
Right? Except they don’t.
Because now I’m standing in the middle of a luxury hotel room in nothing but a towel, skin still damp, heart racing for absolutely no logical reason—and then my phone rings.
I freeze.
I know who it is.
I don’t even need to look.
I grab it anyway.
Answer before I can talk myself out of it.
“Hello?”
A beat.
Then his voice.
Low. Rough. Like it’s been dragged over something sharp.
“Tell me you feel this too, linda.”
My breath catches.
“Or tell me to stay away, and I will.”
That shouldn’t be hot.
That should be responsible.
That should be the moment I say, yes, stay away, let’s be adults about this.
But I don’t do that. I don’t want reality right now.
Nope.
So, I opt for magic instead.
“I feel it too,” I whisper.
The truth just spills out before I can stop it. Before I can protect myself.
Silence.
Then he growls, and it’s like a bolt of electricity straight to my vagina. I bite back my moan and clench my thighs.
“I’m coming over,” he says.
The line goes dead, but I don’t move.
Not right away.
Because I just made a choice.
And there’s no pretending this is casual anymore.
My heart is pounding.
My skin feels too tight.
Too aware.
And then—a click.
Soft. But it might as well be thunder.
I stare at the door like I’m in a dream.
It opens. And there he is.
David.
Keycard in hand.
Already stepping inside like he belongs here.
Like he belongs with me.
The door shuts behind him with a quiet, expensive click.
“You have a key?” I manage.
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at the door.
His eyes are on me.
Dragging.
Slow.
Intentional.
Taking in everything.
The towel.
My bare shoulders.
My damp hair.
The way I’m standing there like I’ve lost all common sense.
His jaw tightens.
A low sound leaves him.
“Fuck, Sunshine,” he murmurs. “You look good enough to eat.”
Heat floods my entire body. Every inch.
And for one suspended moment I think I could still step back. Still stop this. Still choose safe.
Instead, I let the towel go.
Not fast.
Not dramatic.
It slips from my fingers and pools at my feet, soft and final.
My breath catches as I stand there, exposed in a way that has nothing to do with skin.
Because I know what I look like. I’ve lived in this body my whole life.
I know the curves. The weight. The way I fill space.
I’m thick. Soft in places that magazines don’t celebrate.
My breasts aren’t the exaggerated kind people expect when they hear curvy—they’re just mine.
Average size. Natural. Real. Slightly droopy and tilted, like they’ve lived a life. And yes, my right boob is a tiny bit bigger than my left.
My hips flare wider than my waist. My thighs touch. There are dimples where there shouldn’t be—specifically, on my hips and ass.
And my stomach—well.
It’s mine too.
Not flat. Not perfect. But mine.
For a split second, every insecurity I’ve ever had lines up in my head like it’s ready to take a vote.
Too much.
Not enough.
Not what a man like him wants.
Because standing in front of me is David.
Bare-chested.
Tattooed.
Built like something carved out of intention and sin.
His skin is bronzed, stretched over hard muscle, ink winding across him like it belongs there. His shoulders are broad, his chest solid, his body powerful in a way that feels almost unfair.
He’s tall—well over six feet—and somehow seems even bigger now, filling the room, filling the space between us.
His short, dark hair is tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it—which, when I think about it, he probably has.
And his eyes—Christ.
They’re dark.
Not just brown.
Something deeper.
Like obsidian. Like volcanic glass.
Sharp. Heated. Dangerous.
His mouth is set in a hard line at first, like he’s holding something back.
Like he’s trying not to move.
And for a second—just one—I think I made a mistake.
That I misread everything.
That he’s looking at me and seeing all the reasons I’m not enough.
Then his breath catches.
Sharp.
Audible.
And everything shifts.
His eyes drop.
Slowly.
Greedy.
Intently.
Like he’s taking me in piece by piece.
And not missing a thing.
The tension in his mouth breaks.
That hard line softens.
Not into a smile.
Into something heavier.
Something that makes my pulse spike.
Because that look?
That is not disappointment or disgust or any of the things I’ve been taught by society to expect.
That is not a man settling.
That is a man hit.
Hard.
“You’re…” he starts, then stops.
Like words aren’t cutting it.
Like they’re not enough.
My heart is pounding so loud I can hear it in my ears.
And suddenly—I’m not thinking about flaws.
Or comparisons.
Or whether I measure up to whatever world he comes from.
I’m thinking about the fact that he’s still standing there.
Still looking at me like that.
Like he’s here just for me.
And that? That’s the moment.
The point of no return.
Because whatever happens next—I know I’m walking in and choosing it with both eyes open.
And suddenly, I’m not thinking about consequences.
Or heartbreak.
Or whether this is smart.
I’m thinking about him.
About how he makes me feel.
About the fact that for once, I don’t want to be careful.
Magic?
Maybe.
Or maybe just the kind of night that changes everything.
Either way, I think I’m ready for this.