Page 23 of Ex- Factor

It was pitch black, hiding everything from sight.

The only sounds that filled the room were our ragged breaths and the soft rustle of sheets as I wound my hips counterclockwise.

I sighed. I could feel the heat radiating from our bodies, the hardness of his dick as it slid in and out of me.

He had this way of stretching me that felt like possession.

“Fuck, Silas,” I moaned, my hands gripping his chest as I rode him harder.

“You feel so damn good.” The air between us was thick with heat.

My thighs bracketed Silas’s hips, his hands possessive even in stillness—fingers splayed across my lower back like he was memorizing the shape of me.

Sweat-slick skin caught the dim light as I rocked against him, slow and deliberate, our breaths tangled in the quiet.

He responded with a low growl, hands gripping my hips tighter as he thrust up into me. I could feel the tension building inside me, my orgasm just out of reach. I was so close. So damn close—

SLAM. A door burst open. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

“Silas Alexander Whitacker!”

A woman’s voice. Sharp. Echoing.

My body locked. Silas’s grip turned to iron. My heart stopped, my body freezing above him as his thrusts didn’t stop. His hands clutched my hips tighter.

I jerked back. Silas dragged me down against his chest, his heartbeat wild under my palm.

“Don’t move,” he rasped, voice low and frayed.

“We tried calling you,” came a deeper voice—thunderous. His father. “Of course you didn’t answer. But I see why.”

“Get out!” Silas yelled.

He didn’t speak again until the door slammed shut. He lifted me off him once they were gone.

My brain was foggy as hell from lack of sleep, lust still clouding my thoughts as I tried to figure out what the fuck had just happened. I didn’t even get to ask who they were—but I assumed, by the way the woman screamed his name, that it was his parents. He’d never talked about them.

I clutched the sheets to my chest while he yanked on a pair of sweatpants, his movements sharp and tight with anger. He was mad. He paused at the door, spine rigid. He didn’t look back when he said, “Stay here.”

I waited until his footsteps faded down the stairs before pulling on a shirt and creeping into the hallway. I couldn’t hear much from the top of the stairs. Shit. I wished his house was bigger.

“—starting a family?” his father scoffed. “With her? That’s your answer to us telling you to mature?”

A glass shattered.

“Don’t talk about her!” Silas roared.

“She has nothing,” his mother snapped. Her voice was precise, surgical. “No connections. No legacy. Is this love, Silas? Or are you just punishing us?”

A fist hit wood. The house shook.

“I didn’t ask to be your fucking heir!”

Silence. Then—

“You took the money. You’ll regret this.”

“I already regret every second I spent as your child.”

“Get out of my house,” Silas ordered.

Seconds later, the front door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. The silence that followed hit harder than the yelling.

I crept back into the bedroom and shut the door behind me, heart still thudding like a drum in my chest.

I hadn’t ever thought to Google Silas before. But I did that night. I typed in his full name: Silas Alexander Whitacker.

Pages came up.

His parents owned the largest sports marketing firm in the state of Florida. Offices in Miami, Tampa, Atlanta, and New York. High-profile deals with NBA and WNBA players. Golfers. Agents. Billion-dollar contracts. Legacy.

He was a rich white boy with parent issues. It was cliché as hell. But this wasn’t a TV show. I wasn’t about to let some snooty-ass parents run me off like the sniveling girlfriend in the second act.

They didn’t know me.

And I wasn’t leaving.

I held on to Donte’s ass despite all the outside interference, and he wasn’t worth it. Silas was.

I wanted to go find him, but I gave him space.

I peeled off the shirt I’d thrown on and stepped into the master bathroom. I let the water run hot over my skin until steam covered every mirror in the room. I let it soothe me. Let it quiet the voice in my head that was already rehearsing what I’d say to him when he came back.

I found him hours later at the kitchen island, a bottle of Spirytus half-gone, his knuckles split. He’d probably punched a wall.

I watched him take a shot and use my Black Girl Magic wine as a chaser. He didn’t even look up when I approached—just rolled the glass between his palms, watching the swirl like it held answers.

I stepped behind him. Let my fingers trail the tense line of his shoulders before wrapping my arms around him. My lips brushed the knot at the base of his neck.

He shuddered.

“I love you,” he said. Sound raw inside.

I turned his face toward mine. His lashes were damp.

“I love you too.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me—eyes bloodshot and unsure. This was the first time I’d seen him like this. And it made my throat feel tight. I was gone.

“Tell me in a prettier way. I need it,” he murmured.

I cupped his face, thumb brushing his cheek.

“"I love you in ways I haven’t figured out how to name yet," I said, my voice barely steady. "I love the way you laugh like no one’s watching, like the world is yours. I love how you take care of people without needing credit, how you never make them feel like a burden. I even love your terrible jokes—like, actually love them. And the way you look at me—like I’m rare, like I’m whole, like I didn’t come with all this damage. "

He didn’t say anything. Just closed his eyes and leaned into my touch like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

I kissed his forehead. Then his lips. Then took his glass and walked it to the sink.

“You don’t need this tonight,” I said. “You just need rest.”

He let me lead him back upstairs.

I tucked his drunk ass in and laid down beside him. “No matter what ghosts come knocking next,” I whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”