Page 54 of Oliver
The morning sunfiltered through the gap in the curtains, a sliver of light falling directly across my face, and I let out a soft groan, curling tighter around the pillow I slept on.
A pillow with a heartbeat, slow and strong, syncing with mine. Familiar. Safe.
Wrong.
I squeezed my eyes shut, counting down from ten, hoping that by the time I reached one, it would disappear, and turn out to have all been a wild fantasy.
But it didn’t.
I blinked, greeted by Oliver’s hand covering mine on his chest, heavy and protective, his fingers curled around my palm as if even in sleep, he still anchored me to him.
We were tangled in each other, his arm curled around my waist, my legs half draped over his, my cheek pressed against bare skin. And beneath the sheets, nothing but heat. Nothing but him and the sticky evidence of our passion clinging to our bare skin.
Last night came rushing back in vivid flashes—his mouth on my neck, his hands gripping my hips, the way he'd whispered my name like a prayer and a curse all at once, the harsh rhythm of the headboard slamming against the wall.
This wasnotpart of the plan.
I eased out of his hold, slipping from the bed with the kind of careful precision usually reserved for cutting bomb wires. One wrong move, and everything would detonate.
He stirred slightly, murmuring something in his sleep, and for a fraction of a second, I thought I heard it— “Lumina…”
I bolted.
Every muscle in my body ached in places I'd forgotten could ache, and between my thighs was a delicious soreness that throbbed with each subtle movement.
Heat flooded me, the thought of crawling back into bed with Oliver snuck into my mind, and I hurried to collect everything before I lost the willpower to resist.
I tiptoed to the bathroom, and once the door closed behind me with a soft click, I dropped my forehead against it, forcing air into my lungs. I needed to think. To plan. To regain control of a situation that had spiraled wildly off course.
The shower helped clear my head, the hot water sluicing away the physical evidence of last night's activities while doing nothing to erase the memories. As I wrapped myself in a towel and wiped steam from the mirror, I caught sight of the mark on my neck—a purplish bloom where Oliver's mouth had been.
My fingers traced it lightly, expecting the familiar twist of fear in my gut, the echo of old anxieties. But it wasn't there. Instead, the mark reminded me how different it had felt with him.
Oliver had been wild for me. Feral in a way that should have scared me.
But even at his most unhinged, Oliver delivered pleasure, not pain.
His teeth had scraped and nipped rather than biting until he broke skin. He didn’t have my ripped hair in his fist from how tightly he grabbed it. When he pinched my nipple, he didn't purposefully make it painful.
The comparison made my stomach lurch. So many of Ryan's "passionate" moments had been about pain, about control, about making me feel worthless.
But Oliver… My eyes fluttered shut, and my fingers curled against my chest.
It had been so easy letting go with him. Too easy.
I’d relinquished all control, let him lead me through the fire of our passion, took every bit of bliss he offered, only to come out the other side alone, doubting. Not Oliver, but myself. I had a knack for putting my trust in the wrong people, so I preferred to always keep my guard up. But Oliver dismantled my resistance without even trying, and I was struggling to trust my gut about him.
I applied concealer to the mark on my neck before leaving the room. The bridal party yoga session started in forty minutes, and I needed to get there early to set up with the instructor. The last thing I wanted was Oliver’s little show of possession to distract from Parisa and her big day.
As I crept back into the bedroom, Oliver was still sleeping soundly. I gathered my purse and room key, careful not to make any noise. At the door, something caught my eye—a small pearl button gleaming on the carpet. Oliver's shirt button, torn off in our desperation to undress each other.
Without thinking, I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket, a tangible piece of evidence that last night had been real.
The hotel hallway was mercifully empty as I made my way to the elevator. I checked my watch—6:45 AM. Most of the weddingparty would still be sleeping off the previous night's debauchery. Good. I needed time to compose myself before facing anyone, especially?—
"Morning, Zahra!"
I nearly jumped out of my skin when the elevator doors slid open and Parisa appeared inside, dressed in yoga pants and a tank top, her hair in a messy bun, looking entirely too chipper for this hour.
