Page 18
S tephanie
The lock clicked behind her, and Stephanie leaned back against the door for a second longer than necessary.
Her apartment was dark except for the muted city light spilling through the windows and the glow of one lamp she’d left on near the kitchen. The familiar outlines of furniture and stacked campaign binders greeted her in half-shadow, but none of it felt steady.
She kicked off her heels, one then the other, letting them land wherever gravity decided. Her body ached—not from effort, but from tension she couldn’t seem to let go of. The adrenaline from the bar, the confrontation, the punch, was still humming under her skin.
Behind her, Marcus stepped inside and closed the door. He didn’t speak, didn’t move far from the entryway. He just stood there, jacket still on, eyes on her. Always watching, always calculating.
She didn’t want calculation tonight. She didn’t want spin, or strategy, or consequences.
Stephanie exhaled, pushed off the door, and walked barefoot toward the speaker on the bookshelf. She scrolled through the options on her phone with a shaky thumb and tapped one of her “off-script” playlists. Low, rhythmic jazz filtered through the room—seductive but slow. Something wordless. Something with space.
The first few notes hung in the air like a question.
She turned back to Marcus.
He looked like he’d been carved into stillness. Jacket open, his hands loose at his sides, his shoulders tense like he hadn’t exhaled since they left the bar.
She crossed to him in three unhurried steps and held out her hand.
Not a command. An invitation.
Marcus looked down at it for a long second. Then his gaze met hers.
She didn’t smile.
Neither did he.
But he took her hand.
She pulled him forward, guiding him into the center of the room where the floor opened just wide enough for two people to move. She wrapped one arm around his neck and rested her other hand lightly on his shoulder.
He hesitated—just a breath—before his arm came around her waist.
They started to sway.
It wasn’t dancing, not really. There was no choreography. No pattern. Just weight and breath and proximity. His body was solid against hers, and hers molded into him without resistance.
Stephanie tilted her head and let it rest against his chest. Beneath the fabric of his shirt, she could feel the slow, strong rhythm of his heart. It grounded her more than she expected.
He smelled faintly of sweat, soap, and the lingering smoke of The Rusty Blade’s kitchen fryer. She didn’t care.
Her fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck. His hand at her waist tightened just slightly. They moved together like a single thought—slow, magnetic, unrushed.
She turned her face toward his neck, her lips barely brushing the warm line of his throat.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“For what?” His voice rumbled in his chest against her cheek.
“For the fight with Chenny. For Reed. For pulling you into all this.”
“You didn’t pull me,” he said. “I walked in.”
His hand slipped lower, flattening over the curve of her lower back. The shift pressed them even closer together, and the ache in her chest—the one that had been building since the first time he’d looked at her like she was more than a problem to solve—deepened.
Stephanie tilted her head, her mouth a whisper away from his.
“Dance with me a little longer.”
Marcus’s answer was to kiss her. Slowly. Deeply. Not a question. Not forgiveness. Something heavier than both. Marcus’s mouth moved against hers. His lips were warm and firm, but unhurried. He kissed her like the night was theirs to burn, and he had no intention of rushing the match. She melted into the kiss.
His hand at her lower back slipped under the hem of her blouse, skin meeting skin. She shivered—not from cold, but from the sudden intimacy of it. The touch wasn’t possessive. It was grounding, reverent.
She pulled back just enough to speak, their foreheads nearly touching. “Stay with me tonight.”
“I was hoping you’d ask.”
Stephanie swallowed, her throat tight. “Good.”
She backed toward the couch, tugging him with her. They sat, knees brushing. She lifted her leg across his lap, straddling him in one smooth motion.
Marcus blinked up at her, like he was watching the earth tilt.
She slid her hands up beneath his shirt, palms skimming over the hard planes of his stomach and chest. He exhaled, eyes falling half-lidded as her thumbs grazed the line just beneath his ribs.
His fingers ran along the inside of her thigh, just brushing the edge of her panties. He kissed her until she moaned against his mouth, and then he pulled back to watch her face.
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric.
Stephanie gasped, hips twitching forward involuntarily.
“You’re wet already,” he murmured.
“I’ve been thinking about this since the supply closet.”
His jaw tightened slightly. Not with tension—just hunger. He slid one finger through her folds, slow, patient. Then another. Curling gently.
Her breath stuttered. She leaned back slightly, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other gripping his forearm. She kept her eyes on his—because somehow, that made it hotter. The way he watched her, so focused, so serious. Like her pleasure was a calculation he’d memorized and still wanted to double-check.
His thumb circled her clit. Not fast. Just enough.
Stephanie bit her lip, her body tensing. Marcus kissed her again, swallowing her soft whimper as he added more pressure, more rhythm.
Her head dropped to his shoulder, and her voice was breathless when she said, “Don’t stop.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
He found the right angle, and she broke. Her thighs trembled around his hand. Her breath caught. Everything inside her coiled and unraveled all at once. She pressed her face into his neck and let go. He didn’t stop until she twitched from oversensitivity, gently easing his fingers free and brushing his hand along her hip.
Stephanie was panting softly, cheek against his collarbone, body still shaking with aftershocks. He wrapped his arms around her and just held her there, their breathing syncing slowly, the music still humming behind them like a heartbeat.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
She smiled against his neck. “I’m better than okay.”
“Good.”
She lifted her head and kissed him—slow, grateful, charged.
Then she looked him in the eye and said, “Now it’s your turn.” Stephanie pushed up from Marcus’s lap and slipped to her knees between his legs.
He reached for her, but she shook her head once, a small, sly smile curving her lips.
“Stay right there,” she said softly. “Let me.”
His breath hitched.
She unbuttoned his jeans slowly, not for show, but because it felt good to take her time. To savor him. She slid the zipper down and eased the denim open, revealing the taut line of his lower abdomen, the way his muscles jumped under her fingers. He was hard—thick and flushed. His cock twitched slightly when she brushed her palm along the length of him through his briefs.
Marcus tipped his head back, eyes fluttering shut.
She hooked her fingers into the waistband and tugging them down. Wrapping her hand around him, slow and firm, she heard his breath catch again. Her mouth ghosting over his hipbone as she stroked him—long, deliberate strokes. Her thumb skimmed over the sensitive head with each pass. Marcus’s hands curled around the edges of the couch cushions, and she saw his control fraying, bit by bit.
“You’re going to kill me,” he muttered.
She looked up, grinning. “Not yet.”
She kissed his thigh, working her hand faster, and watched him fall apart with quiet, clenched-jaw groans that made heat pool low in her belly again.
When he started to tremble, she slowed her touch and pulled back. Teasing him right to the edge—then stopping.
Marcus exhaled hard, chest heaving. He looked at her like she’d just rewritten every formula he’d ever trusted.
She stood and leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.
“Come to bed.”
They left clothes behind on the floor—shoes, shirt, her skirt, his jacket—trailing behind them like breadcrumbs.
Her bedroom was dim, only a sliver of streetlight through the blinds. Stephanie reached into the nightstand drawer and pulled out a small foil packet, pressing it into his hand as she climbed onto the bed. Then she turned away from him, got on her hands and knees. Resting on her forearms, hips lifted, she looked back at him over her shoulder.
“Like this,” she said.
Marcus tore open the condom and rolled it on, eyes locked on her.
He moved behind her, one hand tracing the dip of her spine and the curve of her hips, reverently. Leaning forward, he kissed her shoulder before lining himself up and easing inside her in one long, steady thrust.
Stephanie gasped, her fingers gripping the sheets.
The stretch of him, the way he filled her, wasn’t just good—it was earth shattering.
He held still for a moment, deep inside, his hands planted on either side of her ribs. Then he began to move—slow, strong thrusts that rocked her forward, every stroke landing with a rhythm that made her bite her lip and whimper.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured behind her.
“It’s perfect,” she said, voice rough. “Don’t stop.”
His hands slid up to her shoulders, gripping gently, using her to deepen each thrust. His rhythm increased—controlled but needy, hips slapping against hers with growing intensity.
She pushed back against him, meeting every movement, gasping as he moved to cup her swaying breasts. Her second orgasm came harder than the first—sharp and sudden. Her whole body locked up, then pulsed around him, her cries muffled into the pillow as she lost herself completely.
Marcus growled her name against the back of her neck, and then he followed her over the edge, his rhythm stuttering as he buried himself deep one last time, trembling behind her with a groan torn straight from his throat.
They stayed like that for a beat—him still inside her, their bodies slick and shaking.
Then, slowly, he pulled out, stood to remove the condom and toss it, then climbed back into bed beside her, pulling her into his arms.
She curled into his chest, sweat cooling on her skin, heart still thudding hard against his.
“I love you,” she said.
His eyes softened, and he kissed her forehead.
“I love you too.”