Oliver carries me down the hallway like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist. My mouth finds his neck. His pulse hammers against my lips.
We crash through the bedroom door with zero grace and maximum urgency. The lamp wobbles dangerously. Neither of us cares.
He lowers me onto sheets that smell like expensive detergent and terrible decisions. His body covers mine—warm, solid, exactly where I want it.
"We should probably discuss—" he starts.
"Later." I yank his shirt over his head. "Much later. Preferably never."
The medallion settles against his chest. I trace it with my fingernails before pushing him onto his back. My dress disappears toward the window. His jeans follow toward the closet. Underwear becomes a distant memory.
Geography of discarded clothing. A map of mutual impatience.
His mouth travels down my neck with devastating intent. Lingers at my collarbone like he's memorizing terrain. Continues lower until his lips close around my nipple and my spine attempts evacuation.
A sound escapes me. Something between a gasp and a prayer. Definitely undignified.
"Responsive," he murmurs against my skin. "When you stop overthinking."
"Less commentary." My fingers thread through his hair. "More demonstrating."
He demonstrates. Thoroughly. With dedication that borders on professional. Which, technically, it once was. But this feels different. Personal. Dangerous in ways I'm refusing to examine.
His hands map territory like he's claiming it. Thumbs tracing circles on my hipbones. Fingers splaying across my ribs. Every touch deliberate. Purposeful. Designed to unravel me completely.
His mouth moves lower. Across my stomach. Following the curve of my hip with infuriating slowness. Taking his time like we have forever. Down to where I'm already aching with anticipation.
When his tongue finally finds my center, I make sounds that would horrify me if I possessed remaining dignity. Dignity evacuated approximately when I invited my stepbrother to bed. Good riddance to it.
He works me with devastating patience. Reading every response like I'm a particularly interesting puzzle he's determined to solve. Adjusting pressure and rhythm until I'm trembling, fingers twisted in expensive sheets, thighs shaking.
"You taste incredible," he murmurs against my thigh. "Could do this for hours."
"Please don't." My voice emerges strangled. "I'll die. You'll have to explain the corpse to our parents."
His laugh vibrates exactly where I need pressure. My hips buck involuntarily.
"Oliver—" His name comes out broken. Desperate.
"I know." He adds two fingers. Crooks them just right. "Let go."
I shatter with his name caught in my throat. Waves of pleasure crash through me while he draws it out, relentless.
Before I've recovered, before my breathing stabilizes, he's there. Between my thighs. Pressing forward with controlled urgency that suggests even his patience has limits.
"Okay?" Always asking. Always checking. Infuriatingly considerate.
"More than okay." I pull him closer by his hips. "Stop asking. Start doing."
He pushes inside slowly. Inch by devastating inch. My body stretches to accommodate him, nerve endings igniting everywhere we connect. The fullness borders on overwhelming. The intimacy is worse.
We move together without rushing. Finding a rhythm that builds something enormous. His forehead presses against mine. Our breath mingles in the small space between us. Too close. Too real.
"Look at me," he commands softly.
I look. His green eyes hold mine as he moves inside me. No masks. No practiced charm. Just raw connection I wasn't prepared for.
He adjusts the angle. Hits something that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. Whatever thoughts I had dissolve completely into white noise.
My nails rake down his back. He groans—the sound vibrating through us both. The rhythm intensifies. Patience abandoned entirely.
The orgasm builds differently this time. Deeper. Starting at my toes and climbing steadily upward. When it crashes through me, he follows immediately—his groan against my neck completely unguarded. Honest. Real.
We collapse together. Breathing hard. Hearts pounding in sync. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. The silence says enough.
* * *
Morning light filters through curtains I don't remember closing. I'm alone in the bed. The sheets beside me are cold.
For one blissful moment, I consider the possibility that I hallucinated everything. Stress-induced fantasy. Very elaborate dream.
Then I smell coffee. And hear movement in the kitchen.
Right. Reality. My old nemesis.
I find my dress crumpled near the window. Pull it on with the dignity of someone performing the walk of shame in their own borrowed clothes. The mirror confirms I look exactly like someone who had spectacular sex and then slept in her makeup.
Oliver stands at the kitchen counter when I emerge. Two cups of coffee already poured. His hair is damp from a shower I didn't hear. His expression is carefully neutral. Annoyingly composed.
"This is becoming a routine," he says mildly. "You. Me. Awkward morning after. Coffee. Existential dread."
"There's no routine." I accept the cup because caffeine trumps dignity every time. "This was... circumstantial."
"Circumstantial." He tastes the word like wine he's considering sending back. "Interesting choice."
"I was distressed. My stalker ex grabbed me in a bar. You were convenient." The lie tastes like ash but I commit fully. "That's all this was. Convenience and adrenaline and poor decision-making."
"Convenient." His expression doesn't change but something flickers behind his eyes. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
"That's what it was. What it is. What it will continue to be—which is nothing." I straighten my spine. Channel professional Lottie. "Because this was the last time. Definitively."
"You said that after the hotel too."
"I mean it now. Completely."
"You meant it then too. Seemed very sincere." He sips his coffee with infuriating calm. "And yet here we are."
The silence stretches between us. Uncomfortable. Charged. Full of things neither of us is willing to say out loud.
"I should go." I set down the cup. "Work tomorrow. Need to... prepare."
"It's Sunday."
"I prepare extensively."
He doesn't stop me as I gather my things. Doesn't argue or cajole or deploy that devastating charm. Just watches with an expression I can't read.
"Lottie." His voice catches me at the door.
I turn. Wait.
"The offer stands. Whenever you're ready to stop lying to yourself."
"I'm not lying."
"You're a terrible liar. It's actually one of your more endearing qualities."
I leave before I can respond. Before I can admit he might be right. Before I can crawl back into that bed and prove every word I just said completely, spectacularly false.
The morning air hits my face like a slap. Cold. Clarifying. Judgmental, somehow.
London carries on around me—buses and pedestrians and a city that doesn't care about my psychological crisis. A woman walks past with a tiny dog wearing a sweater. The dog looks more put-together than I feel. The dog probably didn't sleep with its stepbrother last night.
I flag down a cab because the tube requires more dignity than I currently possess.
Last time. I meant it.
I definitely meant it.
My body still hums with the memory of his hands. My skin still feels marked where his mouth traveled. Every nerve ending remains on high alert, waiting for contact that isn't coming.
Probably.
Maybe.
I'm in so much trouble.