“Eyes on me” he says.
I obey, staring up into the heat and hunger in his face as he pushes into me slowly, thick and perfect and overwhelming. My breath catches. My nails dig into his arms. The stretch burns in the best way. It feels like being claimed.
He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried deep, letting the moment settle like the weight of a promise. Then I shift my hips, and something breaks inside him. His pace turns fierce, relentless, dragging gasps and cries from my lips with every thrust. I cling to him, lost in the rhythm, in the pressure building and building.
“I can't,” I pant, teetering right on the edge.
“Yes you can,” he growls into my ear. “You’re going to come for me. Right. Now.”
His thumb finds the exact spot, and I shatter, clenching around him as I come with a sob, pleasure crashing through me in waves. He follows with a groan that sounds more like a growl, grinding into me as he spills inside, every muscle tense before he finally collapses onto his elbows above me.
We lie there, tangled, ruined, the fire crackling beside us.
“What happens now?” I ask softly.
He presses a kiss to my forehead. "Tomorrow, we go back to launching a Winter Division and convincing Hope Peak that Blackwood Industries isn't the enemy." His arms tighten around me. "And we continue figuring this out, together."
"No regrets?" I need to be sure.
His fingers tilt my chin up until our eyes meet. "As I said before, the only thing I regret is not doing this sooner."
As he leans down to seal his words with a kiss, I believe him. Whatever comes next, whatever complications await us tomorrow, this moment, right here, is exactly where we're meant to be.
And for now, that's enough.
Chapter 5
Atticus
Iwake to the gentle buzz of my phone on the nightstand, sunlight streaming through windows I forgot to close last night. For a moment, I lie still, cataloging the unfamiliar sensations, muscles pleasantly sore in ways my regular workout never manages, the lingering scent of vanilla and something uniquely Sloane on my skin, and a sense of contentment so profound it's almost disorienting.
Last night wasn't a dream. After our encounter in the fire-pit lounge, I'd walked Sloane home through the snow-covered streets, neither of us willing to end the evening. And when she'd invited me up to her apartment this time, I hadn't hesitated.
The memory of her wrapped around me, hair spilled across her pillow, my name on her lips as she came apart beneath me sends heat coursing through me even now.
My phone buzzes again, more insistently. I reach for it, grimacing at the string of notifications, three missed calls from Marcus, a text from Jenna about the afternoon meetings, and a calendar alert reminding me of today's lunch at Skyline with Levi Voss and his family.
Lunch with Levi. The council representative who's been most skeptical of Blackwood's intentions for Hope Peak. And Sloane is supposed to join us, presenting a united front of corporate responsibility and local connection.
I glance at the time; 7:48 AM. Not late by most standards, but practically mid-day by mine. I never sleep past six, a habit ingrained from years of pre-dawn workouts and early board calls.
Throwing back the covers, I move quietly through Sloane's apartment, gathering my clothes from where they'd been scattered in our urgency last night. I pause by her bedroom door, watching her sleep for a moment, honey-blonde waves cascading across the pillow, face softened in slumber, the sheet barely covering the curves I now know intimately.
The possessive surge that rushes through me is unexpected in its intensity. This isn't just desire, though there's plenty of that. It's something deeper, more consuming, a need to protect, to cherish, to keep.
I should wake her, but she looks so peaceful that I can't bring myself to disturb her rest. Instead, I move to her small kitchen, searching for coffee supplies. The least I can do is ensure she wakes to caffeine after I kept her up half the night.
Her kitchen is predictably chaotic, mugs hanging from mismatched hooks, a collection of flavored syrups lined up by the espresso machine, cookbooks stacked haphazardly on the counter. It's the opposite of my minimalist apartment in New York, and yet it feels more like home than anywhere I've lived in years.
I'm just setting the fresh-brewed coffee on the bedside table when her eyes flutter open, finding mine immediately.
"Morning," she murmurs, voice husky with sleep. "You're still here."
"Did you think I'd leave without saying goodbye?" I sit on the edge of the bed, unable to resist brushing a strand of hair from her face.
She stretches languidly, the sheet slipping to reveal more skin. "Wasn't sure if you'd revert to CEO mode and sneak out for early meetings."
"I considered it," I admit, "but then I remembered I've seen you before coffee. Didn't seem fair to inflict that on Marcus and the team."
