Chapter 9: The Omelet and the Burn
The omelet was surprisingly good. Fluffy, with just the right amount of sharp cheddar and chives. Dee ate curled on a stool at the concrete island, the oversized T-shirt a soft shield against the morning now bleeding into afternoon. They talked about everything except the thing humming between them. The Dodgers’ dismal season. A documentary she’d seen in Berlin. The peculiar obsession of his co-star’s personal groomer with organic kale for his pet terrier.
It was easy. Alarmingly so. As if the last decade of sidelong glances and carefully moderated conversations had just been a drawn-out rehearsal for this.
Then she shifted, reaching for her water glass, and the coarse cotton of the shirt brushed directly over the burn. A hiss escaped her before she could stop it.
Matt’s fork clattered onto his plate. “That’s it. Off.”
“It’s fine,” she said, but the sting was blooming, a fresh protest.
“Dee.” He was already up, moving to a drawer near the sink. He pulled out a small white tube. “Aloe and lidocaine. My make-up artist swears by it for sunburns between takes. You’re taking the shirt off, I’m putting this on, and we’re not debating it.”
The practical, no-nonsense tone brooked no argument. It was the same voice he used when discussing a stubborn clause in a contract with her father. But the context made her blood thrum.
She set her fork down. The kitchen was suddenly very quiet, save for the relentless shush of the waves. The ghost of Pryce was gone, but the ghost of Simon Waldorf seemed to lean against the Sub-Zero fridge, arms crossed.
“It’s just a little burn,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.
“And I’m just putting on cream.” He stood before her, tube in hand, his expression a blend of concern and immovable will. “Come on. Before it blisters.”
The intimacy of it was a cliff’s edge. Last night had been chaos, coffee, and catharsis. This was daylight. Deliberate.
She nodded, a short, tight movement. Grabbing the hem of the shirt, she pulled it up and over her head in one swift motion, the air cool on her skin. She dropped the shirt on the stool beside her and sat upright, hands resting on her bare thighs, trying to project a casualness she did not feel. The dove-grey bra was simple, functional. The skin above the lace was an angry pink bloom, shaped vaguely like a continent.
Matt’s breath audibly caught. He recovered, squeezing a pearl of clear gel onto his finger. “Okay,” he said, more to himself than to her.
His first touch was clinical. The gel was cool, a shock that made her flinch. He murmured an apology, dabbing with precise, gentle pressure, covering the reddened skin. The relief was immediate, a numbing chill that softened the heat. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation.
But as the initial therapeutic mission was accomplished, his touch changed. The pad of his finger, slick with the aloe, slowed. Instead of dabbing, it began to trace. A slow, sweeping arc along the upper curve of her breast, just following the line of the lace. It was a caress.
Her eyes flew open.
He was watching his own hand, his brow furrowed, as if the movement was autonomous, a truth his body was insisting on separate from his brain. His jaw was tight. The ritual was over, but his hand didn’t leave. It settled, his palm warm against the side of her breast, his thumb resting on the frantic pulse in her throat.
The tube fell from his other hand, rolling across the concrete floor with a plastic clatter. Neither of them moved to get it.
His gaze lifted to hers. The question there was vast, and the answer must have been plain in her face—the parted lips, the dilated pupils, the complete absence of protest. His hand softened, cupping her fully, his thumb sweeping once, twice, over the sensitive skin.
“Tell me this is a mistake,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “Tell me, and I’ll stop. I’ll find you another shirt. I’ll drive you home.”
She couldn’t. The words were ash. All she could do was shake her head, a minute, desperate movement.
That was all the permission he needed.
He leaned in, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, and kissed her. It was neither gentle nor savage. It was deep, a slow, consuming exploration that tasted of coffee and mint and a hunger held too long in check. Her hands came up, sliding into his hair, pulling him closer.
He broke the kiss, his breathing harsh, his forehead pressed to hers. “Not here,” he muttered, the words hot against her skin. He looked toward the living room, the open wall of glass. “Not with the whole Pacific as an audience.”
In one fluid motion, he hooked an arm under her knees and lifted her from the stool. She clung to him, her face buried in the crook of his neck, as he carried her out of the sun-drenched kitchen, down the short hallway, and into the shadows of his bedroom.
It was simpler than she’d imagined a movie star’s bedroom would be. A large platform bed with rumpled grey linen, a low dresser, a chair draped with clothes. The light was muted, slate-colored, filtered through a lone window facing a stand of wind-sculpted cypress.
He laid her on the bed and stood looking down at her, his chest rising and falling. She felt laid bare, more than physically. The bra, the skirt, the vulnerable mark on her skin—it was all a map of the last twenty-four hours.
“I need you to be sure,” he said, his voice low. “This… explodes everything.”
She propped herself up on her elbows. “It was already exploding, Matt. I was just standing in the middle of the room, waiting for the fire. I’d rather burn with you than alone.”
A shudder ran through him. He came down onto the bed, knees on either side of her hips, bracing himself above her. He didn’t kiss her again. Instead, he reached behind her, his fingers finding the clasp of her bra. It released with a quiet click. He drew the garment away slowly, his eyes drinking her in. There was reverence in it, and a heat that left her breathless.
“A decade,” he said, his hand spanning her ribcage, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast. “A goddamn decade of being polite.”
Then his mouth was on her skin, and thought dissolved into sensation. The world narrowed to the scratch of his stubble, the sureness of his hands, the low sounds in his throat. He took his time, as if memorizing her, and she was melting under the meticulous attention, her own hands pulling at his shirt, desperate to feel skin against skin.
He finally shrugged out of his shirt, the cotton joining her clothes in a pile on the floor. The full, shocking heat of his skin against hers was a revelation. She arched into him, a soft, broken sound escaping her as his mouth found her nipple, his tongue tracing a pattern that made her bones feel liquid.
“Wait,” she gasped, her fingers in his hair not pushing away but holding on.
He lifted his head immediately, his eyes searching hers. “What is it?”
“Just… look at me for a second.” She needed a tether, a confirmation in the blur. His gaze, heavy-lidded and dark with want, fixed on hers. “This is really happening.”
“It’s happening,” he confirmed, his voice gravel. “It’s the only real thing in my life right now.”
He kissed her again, swallowing her sigh, and his hands began a slow, deliberate journey downward. He unzipped her skirt, the sound loud in the quiet room. He helped her shimmy out of it, his palms smoothing over her hips as he followed the fabric down. Then he knelt on the floor at the side of the bed, his hands sliding up the outside of her thighs.
He kissed the inside of one knee, his stubble a delicious abrasion on her sensitive skin. His hands urged her legs apart, gently, opening her to the cool air and his unwavering attention. He watched her face as he did it, a silent question in the lift of his brow. Her breath hitched, and she nodded, letting her head fall back against the pillows.
He leaned in, his mouth following a path up her inner thigh. The intimacy was profound, shocking in its directness. His tongue traced a line, then found the center of her. She cried out, her hips lifting off the bed. The sensation was an electric current, erasing every other thought—Pryce, her father, the whole precarious world outside these walls.
His mouth was relentless, skilled in a way that felt unfairly good. Just as the coil of pleasure tightened to an almost painful degree, one finger, then two, entered her slowly. The fullness alongside the rhythm of his tongue broke a dam inside her. She shattered, a wave crashing through her with a force that blurred her vision, her back bowing off the bed, a silent scream on her lips.
The sensations ebbed slowly, leaving her trembling and boneless. He eased his fingers from her, then rested his cheek against her thigh, his own breathing unsteady. The room came back into focus: the sigh of the wind in the cypress trees, the distant ocean, the smell of him and her and the clean linen.
He moved up the bed, gathering her against him. She turned into his chest, her face hot against his skin. He just held her, his hand stroking her hair.
“Okay?” he whispered after a long moment.
A laugh, ragged and real, bubbled out of her. “Okay is a astronomically insufficient word.”
She felt his smile against her forehead. “Good.”
He kissed her shoulder, her neck, then finally her mouth again, letting her taste herself on his lips. The tenderness was almost worse than the desire had been; it cracked something open behind her sternum. He shifted against her, and she felt the hard, insistent press of him through his jeans.
A practical thought, mundane and vital, pierced the haze. Her eyes opened, meeting his in the dim light. Her voice came out scratchy, a raw whisper against his lips.
“I really hope you have a condom.”
He went utterly still for a heartbeat, then a slow, almost relieved exhale warmed her skin. He nodded, his forehead resting against hers. “Yeah. Bedside drawer.”
“Smart,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the line of his spine.
“Hopeful,” he corrected softly. He rolled away just enough to yank the drawer open, the rumble of wood on wood loud in the quiet. He fumbled inside for a second, his movements uncharacteristically clumsy. He pulled out a small, familiar foil square.
The reality of it, the preparation, made her stomach flutter. This wasn't a fever dream. This was a choice, being made on rumpled sheets with the Pacific wind whipping the trees outside.
He sat back on his heels, looking down at her. The intent in his gaze was stripped bare now, all protective layers gone. He was just a man, wanting a woman. It was the most direct look anyone had ever given her. She reached for the button of his jeans.
He let her work, watching her hands. The button gave. The zipper's rasp was deliberate. She pushed the denim and his boxer briefs down over his hips, and he kicked them free. Then he was there, fully revealed to her, and the sheer physical fact of him made her breath catch. Not in fear, but in a kind of awed acknowledgment.
He sheathed himself quickly, his eyes never leaving her body. The routine act felt ritualistic. When he moved back over her, he didn't enter her immediately. He braced himself on his forearms, caging her face. "Last chance," he whispered, the words strained. "To call this a mistake. To be smart."
She answered by wrapping her legs around his hips, locking her ankles at the small of his back. She pulled him down into a kiss that was all tongue and teeth and shared breath. It was permission, demand, and absolution all at once.
He entered her in one slow, devastating stroke.
They both froze, a shared, sharp inhalation hanging between them. The fit was perfect, an exquisite, shocking fullness that made her see stars at the edges of her vision. He was buried inside her, and the decade of distance collapsed into a single point of connection. "God, Dee," he choked out, the muscles in his neck corded with the effort of holding still.
"Move," she breathed into his mouth. "Please, Matt."
He began to move, and it wasn't like anything she'd imagined. It was unhurried. Deep. Each withdrawal was a tease, each return a claiming that resonated in her marrow. He set a slow, grinding rhythm that had her clutching at the sheets, then at his back, her nails digging into the taut muscles. The sounds he made were low, guttural, swallowed by her skin.
Her earlier climax had been a detonation, sharp and overwhelming. This built differently, a deep, rolling wave gathering force from the pit of her stomach, fed by the slap of skin and the ragged harmony of their breathing. He changed his angle, just slightly, and it brushed a spot that made her cry out, a broken sound that seemed to come from somewhere else. "Right there," she begged, "don't stop, right there."
He obeyed, his control fraying. The pace increased, the bedframe giving a soft, rhythmic protest against the wall. He was driving her toward the edge again, his own release clearly coiling tight within him. His face was a masterpiece of unrestrained feeling, all elegant composure shattered.
She came first, a silent, seizing release that clamped around him, pulling a ragged shout from his throat. He followed, his body arching, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as he shuddered through it. His whole weight settled onto her, warm and spent and real.
For a long time, the only sound was the wind and their slowing heartbeats syncing against each other. He finally stirred, bracing his weight on his elbows to look at her. He was sweaty, his hair stuck to his forehead, and he had never looked more beautiful to her. He brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek.
"Okay," he said again, a world of meaning in the repetition.
She managed a weak smile. "Professional omelet."
He laughed, a low, happy sound that vibrated through her. He carefully rolled off her, disposing of the condom before collapsing back beside her and pulling her into the curve of his body. Her back fit against his chest, his arm heavy and possessive over her waist. The sweat cooled on their skin.
The outside world, held at bay by sheer will and physical need, began its insistent creep back into the room. It was in the slant of the afternoon light, in the silent phone on his dresser, in the vague, nagging shape of the coffee-stained blouse on the living room floor. Her father's face, Pryce's sneer—they flickered at the periphery of her contentment like faulty neon.
Matt held her tighter, as if he sensed the shift. Her fingertips absently traced the line of his forearm where it wrapped around her. The red pen promise felt less like a secret pact now and more like a shared, loaded weapon they’d finally picked up. They were both holding it. There was no putting it down.
He nuzzled the back of her head, his voice a drowsy murmur. "Don't start thinking yet. Just... be here a minute longer."
She closed her eyes, listening to the wind. The next minute, and the one after that, felt like the only things that mattered. Everything else was just noise waiting for them on the other side of the door.