Page 122 of For the Plot
The next time I come, it’s slower. Deeper. No frantic hands or bruising thrusts. Just him moving inside me like he knows exactly what I need before I do. His forehead pressed to mine. His body wrapped around mine. His mouth whispering filthy things into my skin until I break apart all over again.
And afterward, when we’re tangled in the sheets, limbs wrapped tight, breath catching in quiet gasps—I feel it.
The shift. The pause in his touch. The silence that suddenly feels heavier than anything he’s ever said. His hand drifts from my ribs to my hip, his palm broad and warm. Anchoring me. Like he doesn’t want me to go. Like he wouldn’t let me even if I tried.
“I need to say something,” he says suddenly, voice rough.
I turn my head, find him watching me with that look—guarded, torn, like he’s two seconds from pulling back just to protect us both.
“Okay,” I whisper, my heart thudding against my ribs so hard I can hear it.
He studies me for another beat. Then, without hesitation, he says it.
“I love you.”
My breath catches.
He says it like a confession. Like it’s been buried under years of restraint and regret. Like it’s the one thing he swore he wouldn’t let himself feel for me and he’s feeling it anyway.
“I didn’t plan to say that,” he adds, eyes burning into mine. “Didn’t want to risk changing this. But it’s the truth. I love you, Skye. I’m completely fucking undone by you.”
I blink once. Twice. And then I laugh.
Which is maybe the least romantic reaction I could have. But I’m naked and sore and emotionally fried and completely in love with him too and hearing him say it first makes the laughter bubble up like champagne in my chest.
His brows draw together. “You laughing at me?”
“No,” I breathe, reaching for his face. “God, no. I’m just… I’ve been in love with you for weeks. I think I knew it that night in Boston. Maybe even before that.”
He lets out a long exhale. Some of the tension in his shoulders melts.
“You’re not scared?” he asks quietly.
“I’m terrified,” I admit, brushing my thumb across the stubble on his jaw. “But I also want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
He kisses me again, deeply. And this time, it’s not about lust or obsession or giving in to something taboo.
This time, it’s about everything that comes after.
An hourand two orgasms later, we’re curled in his sheets, coffee forgotten, breath tangled. My phone buzzes somewhere on the floor, and I groan, dragging myself toward it. Maya.
Of course. I answer. “If this isn’t an emergency, I’m disowning you.”
“Okay, so it’s not an emergency, but I had a dream that you got kidnapped by a hot Russian billionaire and forced into marriage, so I figured I should check.”
“Wrong billionaire.”
“Wait…what?”
I walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. My reflection looks wrecked in the best way.
“Reece,” I say softly. “I stayed over.”
There’s silence on the line for a few seconds. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah.”
“Was it…”
