Page 44 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

“That’s so refreshing to hear,” he whispers. Quiet, almost like a confession. He’s told me before how people have used him, twisted their proximity into opportunity. Madison included.

He always looks so composed, so glossy and unbothered, but with me, he lets the polish slip. Shows the boy underneath the fame. And I like that version of him. I want that version of him.

“Do you want to stay over tonight?” he asks, his hand squeezing my thigh, gentle and warm.

I blink. “I didn’t bring anything—no toothbrush, no clothes.”

“You could sleep naked.” He winks. “Like I usually do.”

My breath catches.

The condom in my purse suddenly weighs a hundred pounds.

I shouldn’t have packed it. Am I ready for that? For him? For what it would mean?

Fuck.

“Elena,” he says softly, like he sees the storm crossing my face. “Relax. We don’t have to have sex. Stay over. Spend the night. We can talk. I’ve got a spare toothbrush. You can borrow something of mine.”

There’s no pressure in his voice.

“Okay,” I whisper.

We finish the rest of dinner, rosé included.

Conversation flows easily now, a soft blur of shared stories and low laughter.

We talk more about the Hamptons—I leave out the part about a certain best man—and drift into music playing low in the background.

He tells me about his sister, Ingrid, the writer who lives in England.

The way his voice warms when he mentions her makes me smile.

The hours slip by unnoticed. By the time we finally head to his bedroom, it’s well past midnight.

He pulls out a pajama set for me—soft cotton in a deep maroon—and hands it over with a gentle smile.

“Help yourself to any skincare. There’s heaps. I get sent a lot of stuff,” he says, gesturing toward the ensuite. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

He slides the door shut behind me.

He wasn’t kidding. The counter is adorned neatly with rows of expensive skincare, high-end labels, and tiny frosted jars. Lotions, serums, and potions in glass droppers. I undress slowly, folding my clothes into a tidy pile on the bench.

I twist my hair into a messy bun, shower, brush my teeth, remove my makeup. Wash my face with something that smells like cucumber and money.

The routine feels quiet. Mundane.

Is this what it would be like? Sharing a space with him. Doing ordinary things beside someone extraordinary. I can’t help the thought.

And I can’t help how much I like it.

When I step back into the bedroom, the lights are low, casting everything in soft amber. Alex is already in bed, propped against the pillows in nothing but briefs. My breath hitches.

His body is lean, golden, chiseled to perfection. He looks over at me and grins.

“Come here,” he pats the space beside him.

I bite my lip as I walk to the edge of the bed, fingers hooking the waistband of his shorts. They’re far too big, already slipping down my hips. I let them fall and step out, climbing in beside him.

His gaze catches on the bare stretch of my thighs—and lingers. Hunger flashes across his face, raw and unguarded.

He wants me.

The thought hits like a rush. Like a drug. That someone like him would want someone like me.

I settle under the sheets, keeping to my side, heart racing.

“You’re so far away,” he murmurs before pulling me into his arms.

I squeal, giggling as he tickles my sides, then gasp when he steals my laughter with his mouth. His lips are warm, minty.

When did he brush his teeth? I don’t care. I melt into the kiss, my body arching instinctively into his.

His hands roam over my—waist, hips, breasts—fingertips skimming like he’s trying to memorize every curve. I groan softly into his mouth.

“Alex,” I whisper, breathless.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. Smirks as he brushes my hair from my face.

“Temptress,” he murmurs. “You keep this up, and I’ll forget every last ounce of control I have.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “Wait—when did you brush your teeth?”

He sighs. Then laughs, low and warm, his chest shaking. “Elena, I’m trying to seduce you, and you’re asking about my dental routine?”

“Sorry.”

“The other bathroom.” He turns off the bedside lamp, and we’re engulfed in darkness, save for the light from the city below, shining through the windows.

I giggle again, nuzzling into him. The tension breaks, but not completely. Not with the way he’s holding me.

He kisses me again, this time soft. A peck. He pulls me onto his chest, his hand tracing my back, slow and soothing. My cheek rests against him, rising and falling with each breath.

His fingertips keep moving. Gentle, rhythmic strokes against my spine. A quiet spark. My skin tingles beneath his touch, like his fingers are dipped in heat.

“Can I ask you something?” I murmur.

“Of course.” His breath is warm on my forehead.

“What’s sex like? For a guy, I mean.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then his voice drops lower.

“Well, for me…I feel lightheaded. All the blood rushes down there. It’s primal. All you want to do is bury yourself inside a warm pussy.”

The word slides through the air like silk and fire. My nipples harden instantly beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. My breath slows. Deepens.

“The moment you slide in,” he continues, dragging his fingertips in patient, winding motions along my back, “it’s like you’re home. You fit like a puzzle piece. The heat. The wetness. Every stroke pulls you in deeper, like your whole body’s being swallowed.”

I clench and throb with each word. My skin prickles with heat.

“Then everything builds,” he murmurs. “Faster. Hotter. Until you tip over the edge. Honestly, it doesn’t take much. Not for a man. Women—” his voice softens again “—you’re more… nuanced .”

My throat tightens. I’m so aware of every inch of my body. The slick heat between my thighs. The ache curling low in my belly.

I shift against him, heart pounding, unsure what to say.

He keeps rubbing my back. Slow. Steady. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Can I ask you something?” he ventures after a moment, voice soft against the dark.

“Sure,” I murmur, curling a little closer.

“I know you haven’t had sex…” He pauses, searching for the words. “But have you done anything else…before me?”

I hesitate. My fingers twitch slightly against his chest. The question is fair. But the answer? It’s mortifying.

“There was one guy,” I admit.

His hand stills for a moment on my back, then starts moving again, encouraging me to go on.

“I was maybe seventeen. I don’t even know if it counts as anything. He had no idea what he was doing. Said he wanted to finger me, but…”

I bite the inside of my cheek, heat rising to my face.

“He kept rubbing the side of my groin—like, nowhere near where he should’ve been.” I snicker softly. “I don’t even think he knew where to put his hands. I started chafing with how hard he was going.”

I close my eyes at the memory. The second-hand cringe still lingers.

“I wanted to say something,” I add, voice quieter now, “but I didn’t know how to correct him without making it worse. So I kind of let it happen.”

Alex doesn’t speak right away.

Then he chuckles softly. “No, I don’t think that counts.” His voice is warm with amusement. “Then what happened?”

“He asked me to give him head,” I admit, burying my face slightly into his shoulder.

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I couldn’t…because of my braces. Then I bolted.”

Alex’s laughter is instant, full-bodied. His chest shakes under my cheek as he throws his head back. I feel the sound before I hear it. I laugh too, mortified and delighted.

We settle again into the silence. A breath shared.

“It doesn’t exactly inspire lust,” I murmur.

His hand stills on my skin. “So what does inspire you, Elena?”

The word lives in my throat, blooming warm and bold. I throb just thinking it.

“You,” I whisper.

His breath catches.

“When you look at me,” I add, voice thick. “When you touch me.”

He shifts beside me, the heat between us rising as his hand trails up my thigh. Fingers light but deliberate.

“Like this?” he asks, his voice raspy, soaked in hunger.

“Yes,” I breathe, biting my lip. “Like that.”

“What else?” he asks, fingers gliding higher, teasing.

“I like that thing you did. With your…” I trail off, shy again.

“Tell me, ?lskling ,” he murmurs, mouth grazing my ear. “Don’t be shy—not with me. Not about this.”

“Your mouth,” I squeak, laughing softly into his chest. Heat floods my face.

“Oh, dirty girl.” He laughs low, wicked and velvety. It rolls through me like thunder.

“You’re a young, beautiful woman, Elena. You’re allowed to want it,” he says, brushing a kiss against my neck. “To crave it.” His mouth moves lower, every press gentle, every shift precise—each one a tremor down my spine.

“To desire it.”

His fingers slip under the edge of my panties, slow and sure, and he drags them down my thighs. My legs lift instinctively, welcoming him, aching for him.

Wetness gathers between my thighs—thick, heavy, undeniable.

“Are you giving me permission to be horny?” I ask, my voice ragged, shaky with anticipation.

“Absolutely,” he murmurs, his voice dark and delicious. “Consider it sage advice.”

He parts my thighs and nestles himself between them, his breath ghosting over my skin. Then I feel the wicked stroke of his tongue along the inside of my thigh.

My hips jerk. I gasp.

“You should always listen to your elders,” I manage between moans, the world tilting slightly around me.

Then his mouth is on me.

Soft, reverent, maddeningly slow.

His tongue moves with purpose, circling, teasing, tasting. He finds the exact spot and stays there, building pressure, rhythm, heat. My back arches off the bed, a broken sound leaving my lips.

He groans against me, tongue dragging deeper.

Then, without warning, he slips a finger inside me.

I cry out—sharp and breathy—as my body clenches tight around him.

He doesn’t stop. His mouth keeps working me, lips and tongue in sync with the slow thrust of his finger. Then two.

I gasp, my body stretching around the fullness, the ache building fast and desperate.

“You’re so tight,” he growls into me. “Your pussy’s begging to be filled.”

The words punch straight through me. My thighs tremble.

But then he slows. Still buried in me, his voice softer now, curling like smoke.

“But not tonight, Elena,” he murmurs, pressing a final kiss to the inside of my thigh. “I want to savor every moment. Take my time with you before I lose myself inside you.”

My body turns to flame.

His tongue returns to my clit, its rhythm, steady and focused, every stroke coaxing me higher.

His hands grip my thighs gently, holding me open, holding me together as I squirm under him.

I can’t think, can’t breathe. All I know is him —his mouth, his warmth, the delicious tension tightening with every flick of his tongue.

He growls, and it vibrates through me.

My hands clutch the sheets, my mouth slack as moans rip out of me.

And then it crashes through me—wave after relentless wave. I shudder around his mouth, thighs locking tight, a broken cry escaping as I come, sharp and overwhelming. Every nerve alive, electric.

“Alex…Fuck!” I scream and squeal in equal measure.

He holds me through it. His tongue and lips keep moving as if he’s determined to catch every last quiver.

I twitch with every brush of his tongue, too sensitive, too raw, but he doesn’t stop until I’m gasping, breath catching in my throat, chest heaving with the aftershocks.

And in that moment, everything and everyone else disappears.

When he finally rises, his breath ragged, I pull him into me, needing to taste him. I kiss him hard still trembling.

But I don’t taste him, I taste me, slick and salty. He did this. To me.

That’s when I feel it—his hardness pressing against my thigh.

“Can I…” I hesitate, nerves fluttering before boldness takes over. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel good, too?”

His lungs seize for a second, stunned.

“I’m hard for you, Elena.” His lips drag up my neck. “Do you want to feel what you do to me?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” he teases, before taking my hand, slow and careful, and guiding it between us.

I wrap my fingers around him. He’s hot. Hard in my palm.

His breath catches as I start to move my hand, his hand never leaving mine. He groans into my mouth, his hips stuttering forward once, then again. As he fucks my hand. I pump him, squeezing and twisting in a rhythmic motion, my fingers barely touch.

His other hand cups the back of my head as we kiss deeper, slower. He swells in my grasp, his muscles tight, breath growing heavier, each moan making me wet all over again.

The rhythm builds between us, and I feel myself clench. Then he groans, moaning my name into my mouth as he finds his climax.

It’s the first time I’ve ever made someone come—and damn, it feels good. Power mixed with pride, curling low in my belly.

Now I want more. I want to know everything.

Every button to push, every sound he makes when it’s my hands, my mouth, my body driving him wild.

Next time, I’m not lying there gasping his name, I’m taking notes, I’m showing off.

God help him, I’m googling.

He’s not the only one who gets to be good at this.