Page 108 of Lighting the Lamp
I reach over into the nightstand drawer, feeling around for the foil packet, when I pull it out and wink. “Safety first.”
She giggles softly as I quickly strip out of my sweats and boxers, sliding the condom on before taking my place back between her legs. I drop my forehead to her shoulder, breathing her in, trying to hold on to the last thread of control.
“Beau,” she whispers, and I break.
I sink into her slowly, causing her to gasp, and I feel it everywhere. The sound slices through me, raw and beautiful, and I know in that moment she’s never given this part of herself to anyone else. The weight of it almost undoes me. Her heels dig into my back, her arms wrap around my shoulders, and I move with her. Her breath stutters, catches, then spills out again when I murmur, “I’m here,” against her lips as we find a rhythm.
It’s not frantic, but deep and intentional. Alise’s hips lift to meet mine, and I slide in and out of her slowly, and it’s everything. Her gasp is sharp, cut off by a kiss, and I feel her fingers in my hair, tugging me closer until our chests touch. Every movement is a confession. With every thrust, an apology. Every kiss, a promise I haven’t yet learned how to keep.
The room spins with heat. The only sounds are low moans, rustling sheets, and the sharp slap of skin against skin. Her scent wraps around me, crisp apples and something unnameable, something that exists only because it belongs to her. It fills my lungs, anchors me, and wrecks me all at once. I watch her unravel in pieces, eyes fluttering shut, then flying open again, as if she’s terrified to miss a single heartbeat of this, and in that breaking-open gaze, I swear I see forever.
Her fingers claw into my shoulders, and her lips find my temple, then my cheek, then the corner of my mouth like she’s trying to memorize me, molecule by molecule. She’s close. I feel it in the way her thighs tremble around me, the way her body tightens, clings, and holds on to me. I’m not far behind. I can’t be. My body’s shaking, control fraying, every nerve lit and buzzing with the truth I still can’t say.
“Let go. I’ve got you,” I whisper, and she does.
She shatters beneath me with a moan that wrecks me—choked, desperate, and mine. Her thighs clamp around my waist, pulling me deeper into her as she rides the edge of release, and I go with her into the dark. I’m completely undone and overwhelmed, lost in her name, her breath, and the way she looks right now, spilling into her with a groan.
We stay like that, panting, wrecked, and tangled together for a few moments, my face buried in her neck. I don’t move. I don’t want to let her go. The fear. The ache. The love I’m too scared to name comes bubbling back to the surface, but the moment I feel her hand press against my face, it all disappears.
I stare into her eyes as they search mine, like she’s trying to memorize the way I feel in her palms. I press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, soft and slow and nothing like the ones before. But even now—spent and shaking—I still want to take care of her.
I press one more kiss to her cheek before gently slipping out of her. She lets out a soft, contented noise, her hand trailing down my arm as I rise from the bed. I head into the bathroom and take care of the condom quickly before grabbing a clean cloth and running it under warm water.
I move quietly back into the bedroom, the soft light from the hall casting a low amber glow across the sheets. Alise watches me as I return, eyes half-lidded but warm and trusting. I kneel beside her and clean her up with reverent hands. Her breath hitches, not from pain, but from something deeper. When I’m done, I toss the cloth aside, slide back into bed, and pull the blanket up around us. She shifts instinctively, curling into me, head tucked beneath my chin like we’ve always belonged like this.
“I’m still here,” I whisper, voice raw.
And this time, she nods because for the first time in weeks, she’s not pulling away. Now, let’s hope that when she finds out the whole truth, she still stays.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Beau
The locker room feels different today, hushed in a way that makes you strain for what isn’t there. Tape rips. Steel kisses stone. A whistle chirps in the hall. Ordinary sounds, yet they skim over a silence heavier than the gear hanging on the racks.
Cooper’s last game as a player is a few hours away. Every time I glance at him, I see all the years he wore this room like a second skin and all the weight he’s shouldering to set it down. He’ll lace up once more, then trade his jersey for a whistle and an office with a door that sticks in humidity. I should probably make some brotherly speech about how proud I am of him and all that, but the words stick like tape in my throat.
Instead, my stomach twists with something else entirely. It’s been days since I’ve seen Alise. Days since I’ve touched her, heard her laugh in my ear, felt her body melt against mine. The last time we were together, she gave me everything. Her body, her trust, and the fragile pieces of herself she’s kept locked away for years. I should feel steady after that, anchored in what it means. Instead, my chest knots tighter every time I imagine her second-guessing it.
What if she wakes up one morning and decides it was too much? That I’m too much?
The thought haunts me. I keep telling myself I’ll call her, just to hear her voice and remind her that nothing’s changed. But between practices, appointments, and the chaos of Cooper’s final game, I keep promising myself tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow, I’ll make time. Tomorrow, I’ll fix the distance before it becomes too much.
But the silence already has a weight to it, sitting in my chest like a puck I can’t clear. I feel split in two. Part of me is here, trying to hold it together for my brother, and the other part of me is still with her, terrified she’ll shut the door before I can prove I’m not going anywhere.
“You’re pacing holes in the floor,” Cooper mutters, glancing up from where he’s re-checking his laces for the third time.
“You’re one to talk,” I shoot back. “You look like you’re about to give a eulogy for your kneecaps.”
“Better than looking like somebody stole your puppy.” He slaps my shoulder and jerks his chin toward the corridor. “Come on. Janine and Alycia are meeting us in the office in five minutes.”
Cooper’s new office still smells like furniture polish and fresh printouts. The leather chairs gleam under fluorescent lights; the desk looks like it was made for someone who doesn’t eat their meals over film. He leans against the desk like it already knows his name. I pluck a roll of tape off a shelf and lob it. He snags it one-handed, smirk quick and familiar.
“Still sharp.”
“Sharp enough to know you’re stalling,” I mutter, dropping into the nearest chair. “You’ve got that look, Coop. Like you know something I don’t.”
Before he can answer, the door creaks open, and two women step inside. Janine, the team’s PR lead, tall and composed, wearsa blazer that could cut glass. Beside her is Alycia Torres, the team’s PR intern. I’ve seen her at press conferences, usually behind a camera or with a legal pad, eyes everywhere. Today, her hair’s in a sleek braid, her suit simple, and her attention razor-clean. They both havedon’t mess with mewritten across their faces, and for a second, even Cooper straightens a little taller behind the desk.
