Page 74 of For the Plot
Maybe I should feel stupid or be embarrassed. Probably ashamed. But all I feel is heat curling low in my belly as I let my head fall back onto the pillow. His voice is still in my ear. His hands on my hips. The way he kissed my neck before he pushed into me again, whispering every filthy thought he’s had about me.
I turn my head slowly, looking at the empty space beside me.
The pillow’s still dented where his head was. There’s a faint lingering of his scent on the sheets. He didn’t leave a note. No shirt draped over a chair. No toothbrush in the bathroom sink. Just the memory of him. The mark of him.
I sit up, dragging the sheet with me. My breasts tighten in the cool air, nipples pebbling, the edge of the sheet grazing the darkening bruise where his mouth was. I brush my fingers over it. He did that. And I liked it. No—lovedit. The way he let go. The way he stopped being so uptight and finally just let loose. Raw and unfiltered. I’m not sure I’ll ever get the image out of my head.
I stand, slow and tentative, testing the ache between my thighs. It answers with a throb that steals my breath. I laugh softly. I’d be mad about it if it didn’t feel so fucking good.
There’s a robe on the bathroom door. I shrug it on, cinch it at my waist, and pad barefoot into the suite’s main room.
He’s not here, but I glance around anyway. And I see it. Not him. But the ghost of him.
The glass on the bar with a finger of water still left. The cuff links missing from the dresser tray. And the memory of him, hours ago, standing shirtless in the dark by the window, his back to me, looking out at the city like it might swallow him whole if he let it.
I didn’t call out to him. Didn’t ask what he was thinking. I just watched him and wondered what was keeping him awake. Now, in the light of morning, I pretend that moment didn’t feel like an answer to a question I’m too afraid to ask. I turn away before the thought completely swallows me.
In the bathroom, I shed the robe, step into the shower, and let the hot water sting over every sore muscle. There’s a different kind of ache rising now. Not physical. Emotional. Because I know what this is.
I’ve done the whole “pretend it was just sex” thing before. I’ve worn the brave face, walked out of a guy’s apartment I’ve been seeing thinking it was turning into something more with mascara still on point and a smile I didn’t mean.
I can do it again. But this time… This time something’s different. Not just because of who he is. Not even because of how it felt. But because of howhefelt. The things he didn’t say. The things hedid.
I tilt my head back under the stream, rinse away the last of the soap, and drag my fingers over my thighs where his hands had gripped. I close my eyes and pretend I’m not imagining his voice again. The way it dropped when he moanedyou feel so fucking good like this.The way he looked at me.
I want to hold on to that look a little longer. But when I step out of the shower and face the mirror, the steam-blurred reflection doesn’t lie. I dry off, twist a towel around my hair, and reach for my moisturizer with a steadier hand than I expect. I don’t let myself overthink. Don’t let myself spiral. That’s not who I am anymore.
I slept with him. It was incredible. Now it’s over. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I pull open my suitcase and start sorting through what I packed for the flight home. I opt for clean underwear and a black fitted dress, then reach for my heels, the same ones I wore on the flight out.
They’re still by the door. I slip one on. And breathe. Time to walk out of this room like nothing happened.
Like I didn’t let a man I shouldn’t evenwanthold me down and fuck me until I screamed his name. Like I’m not already replaying it in my head and wishing I could do it all over again.
There’s a knock at the door just as I’m slipping the second heel on. I freeze, heart punching hard against my ribs. For abeat, I debate not answering. Not because I don’t want to see him. But because I do. Too much. And I’m scared it’ll show.
I walk over and crack open the door.
Reece stands there in his usual attire, slacks and a button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. No tie. Hair still damp from a shower, freshly shaved. Like last night didn’t destroy him the way it’s still quietly wrecking me.
“I had breakfast sent up to my suite,” he says, voice low. “Come over.”
It’s not a question. I open the door wider, ignoring the flip in my belly. “Bossy this morning.”
He steps aside to let me pass, his hand brushing lightly against my back as I walk past. Just a graze. Barely even there. But I feel it all the way down to the backs of my knees.
His suite is identical to mine, but the lights are dimmed and the smell of coffee fills the space. A tray sits on the table by the windows. There are two plates, a silver carafe, berries, croissants. My stomach growls at the sight, reminding me that I worked up quite an appetite last night.
He pulls out a chair and waits for me to sit. I slide into the seat, smoothing the hem of my dress. Reece pours some coffee and hands me a cup like we’ve done this before, like he didn’t kiss me so deeply I forgot where we were. Or make me come so hard I thought for sure my toes would be permanently curled.
I take a sip, letting the bitter heat anchor me.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d still be in your room,” he says.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugs, sitting across from me. “Wasn’t sure how you’d feel this morning.”
