Chapter 3: The Breaking Point
The hotel door clicked shut, sealing them in a bubble of worn carpet, stale champagne breath, and the frantic echo of their own heartbeats. Matty hadn’t moved. His hands, broad and warm, still framed Casey’s hips where he’d pinned her against the wood. The force of his kiss moments before still tingled on her lips, a phantom pressure that made her breath hitch.
His forehead rested against hers, damp strands of her bleached hair sticking to his skin. They were both breathing hard, the silence stretching tight between them, thick with everything that had just happened and everything they’d shouted into that charged darkness moments earlier. The frantic energy of confession – his gruff "Couldn't stand seeing you with anyone else," her choked "Thought you hated me!" – still hung heavy in the quiet air, underscored by the frantic scramble of clothes and the muffled thud of her discarded heels hitting the floor.
Casey’s fingers, which had been clutching the fabric of his rumpled shirt like a lifeline, slowly uncurled. She flattened her palms against his chest, feeling the rapid, solid thump beneath. Reality seeped in, cold and jarring, replacing the haze of tequila and desperate need. "Matty…" Her voice was a rasp, barely audible.
He didn’t pull back. His eyes, dark and intense in the dim spill of light from the bedside lamp, searched hers. The usual sharpness, the manager’s edge, was gone. Raw vulnerability flickered there, a look she’d never seen on him before. It was terrifying. "Yeah?" His own voice was rough, gravel scraping on gravel.
"This is…" She swallowed. "This is so messed up." A nervous laugh bubbled out, pure reflex. "I mean, seriously? After all the times you've told me my garnish game was 'profoundly disappointing'?"
A slow, reluctant smile touched the corner of his mouth, easing some of the tension in his jaw. "Your lime wheels were inconsistent, Kenny." He traced a thumb along her cheekbone, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it stole her breath all over again. "But your espresso martinis… perfect." He paused, the smile fading. "And I was a dick. Always. Because… fuck, Case. Because you walked in on your first day, all that sunshine hair and smart mouth, and I knew." He let out a shaky breath. "I knew I was sunk. Couldn't handle it."
The simplicity of it, the sheer stupidity, hit her. Months of stolen glances, barbed comments, awful shifts where he’d been unnecessarily harsh, all because he liked her? "You could've just… said something," she whispered, the words thick. "Instead of critiquing my ice scooping technique?"
"Easier to be angry," he admitted, his thumb still tracing patterns on her skin. "Safer." His gaze dropped to her lips again, then flicked back to her eyes, a silent question hanging between them.
The air crackled. The memory of his body against hers, the desperate press of his mouth, surged back. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Safe was the last thing she wanted now. She tilted her chin up, meeting his look. The silent question hung heavy. His answer was a low groan muffled against her throat as he kissed the pulse point there, sending shivers down her spine. His hands moved from her hips, sliding around her back, pulling her flush against him. The soft cotton of her pink dress bunched under his palms.
"Matty," she breathed, fingers finding his hair again, tangling in the dark strands. It was messy, urgent, a continuation of the corridor’s frantic energy tempered only slightly by the shift from cold wood to the slightly scratchy hotel duvet. Months of pent-up frustration and longing poured out in tangled limbs, hitched breaths, and the soft sounds of fabric yielding. The world outside the thin hotel walls ceased to exist. There was only the heat of his skin under her hands, the weight of him anchoring her, the dizzying scent of him – sweat, cheap hotel soap, and something uniquely Matty – filling her senses. Time blurred into sensation: the scrape of stubble, the press of lips, the yielding mattress, the startling intimacy of shared gasps in the near-darkness.
Dawn painted the cheap hotel curtains a pale grey when the buzzing started. It was relentless, vibrating insistently on the nightstand beside Casey’s discarded clutch. She stirred, blinking against the gritty feeling behind her eyes. Her head throbbed. Tequila. Dancing. Matty. Matty. The memories slammed back with visceral clarity. She was tangled in unfamiliar sheets, one leg thrown possessively over Matty’s hip. He was asleep, his face relaxed in a way she’d never seen, one arm curled heavily around her waist, holding her close even in sleep. His breathing was deep and even, a warm puff against her temple.
The buzzing stopped. Blessed silence for five seconds. Then it started again, louder, more insistent. Andy, her foggy brain supplied. Only Andy would call this early on a Sunday morning after a wedding. Or Steph. Oh god, Steph. The manager. Her manager. Matty was a manager. The implications crashed over her like a bucket of ice water. Panic, sharp and cold, sliced through the warm, post-intimacy haze. She carefully, slowly, tried to extricate herself from Matty’s embrace, wincing at the stiffness in her muscles.
His arm tightened instantly, pulling her back. "Mm. No," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. "Five more minutes."
"Matty," she whispered urgently, trying to ignore how good his warm breath felt on her skin. "My phone. It’s… someone’s calling. Probably Andy. Or worse, Steph."
He cracked one eye open, squinting at the offending device still buzzing angrily on the nightstand. "Let it ring." He nuzzled closer. "Not dealing with Durst’s commentary. Or Steph’s… Steph-ness. Not yet."
"But… work," she hissed, a fresh wave of anxiety tightening her chest. The sheer professionalism they’d obliterated last night felt like a suffocating blanket. "What are we…? Monday? What happens on Monday?"
The phone finally stopped. Silence descended again, heavier this time. Matty shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. The sheet slipped down to his waist. In the grey dawn light, the intensity was back in his eyes, but softened with something else. Something that made her stomach flip. He looked at her, really looked at her – the messy curls plastered to her cheek, the smudged mascara, the faint pink marks his stubble had left on her collarbone. His gaze traced them, then met hers. He didn't smile, but the raw honesty from the night before hadn't vanished with the tequila.
"Monday," he said, his voice low and certain, "is Monday." His hand found hers where it lay fisted in the sheet. He gently uncurled her fingers and laced his own through them. His grip was firm. Warm. Possessive. He brought their joined hands to his lips, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to her knuckles. His eyes held hers, unwavering. "And this," he murmured against her skin, the words a vow that sent a shiver through her despite the warmth of the room, "isn’t about Monday. This is about now." He pulled her closer, his breath fanning her ear. "I'm not letting go just because the sun's up, Kenny."
The cheap hotel sheets tangled around Casey’s legs as Matty rolled her beneath him, swallowing her half-formed protest with a kiss that tasted like stale champagne and sleep. His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her hips up against his. That raw, possessive look in his eyes hadn't dimmed; it intensified, burning away the last traces of morning fog clinging to her thoughts about work, Andy, Steph. "Shut up about Monday," he growled against her mouth, his voice rough and low. "Right now, it’s just this."
His lips trailed down her throat, over the marks he’d left hours before, sending fresh shivers across her skin. He pushed the thin strap of her dress aside, the fabric pooling at her waist. The cool air hit her skin, followed instantly by the searing heat of his mouth closing over her breast. She gasped, arching into him, fingers clutching at his shoulders. "Matty—" His name came out a breathless plea, cut off as he moved lower, kissing a path down her stomach, his hands pushing the remaining fabric down her hips. The dress joined the discarded pile on the floor.
He settled between her thighs, his gaze locking onto hers for a heartbeat, intense and unreadable. Then he lowered his head. The first touch of his tongue was electric, deliberate, sending a jolt straight through her core. Her hips jerked involuntarily. "Oh, God," she choked out, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. He didn't let up, his rhythm slow and devastatingly thorough, exploring every sensitive fold, every hidden spot that made her gasp and writhe. Pleasure coiled tight, hot and insistent, building with every stroke, every soft suction.
A moan tore from her throat, high and needy. Instantly, his hand clamped over her mouth, firm but not harsh. His eyes flicked up to hers, dark and demanding silence. The pressure of his palm, the intimacy of the act, the relentless focus between her legs—it was overwhelming. She whimpered against his skin, her body trembling on the edge. He held her gaze, refusing to break contact, watching her unravel as he drove her higher. The coil snapped, shattering into blinding white light. Her cry, muffled completely by his hand, vibrated against his palm as her back arched off the mattress, her whole body convulsing under the force of it. Waves of pure sensation crashed over her, leaving her gasping, boneless, utterly claimed.
He didn’t stop until the tremors subsided, his touch gentling, then finally stilling. He lifted his head, slowly removing his hand from her mouth. Her breaths came in ragged pants, her skin slick with sweat. He watched her, his own breathing heavy, a satisfied, almost feral glint in his eyes. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the gesture shockingly casual amidst the lingering intensity. Before she could catch her breath, before the world could intrude, he was moving back up her body, his weight settling over her again. He was hard, insistent against her thigh. He kissed her, deep and claiming, letting her taste herself on his tongue.
"Still worried about Monday?" he rasped, his voice thick, grinding his hips against her core, drawing a fresh gasp. His hand slid between them, guiding himself. She was still trembling from the aftershocks, hypersensitive, but the look in his eyes brooked no argument, only more. He pushed inside her in one smooth, deep stroke, filling her completely. She cried out, her nails digging into his back. He set a brutal, possessive pace immediately, his mouth on her neck, her shoulder, anywhere he could reach. The bedframe protested against the wall with rhythmic thuds. There was no finesse now, just raw need, a claiming that mirrored the frantic energy of the night before, intensified by daylight and the sheer impossibility of what they’d done. He drove into her relentlessly, chasing his own release, each thrust pushing her towards another dizzying peak. Her legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper. His groan was guttural, vibrating against her skin. "Casey," he gritted out, a broken sound, and then he was shuddering, burying himself deep as he came, his body rigid, then collapsing heavily onto her, his breath hot and ragged against her ear.
Silence descended, thick and sticky as the sweat cooling on their skin. Only the sound of their ragged breathing filled the room, punctuated by the distant hum of the hotel elevator. The grey dawn light had brightened, outlining the cheap furniture and the chaos of discarded clothes. Casey felt utterly wrecked, every muscle limp, her mind blissfully blank for a few precious seconds. Matty’s weight was solid, anchoring, his head resting heavily on her shoulder. His arm remained draped possessively across her waist.
His phone buzzed again, loud and jarring on the nightstand. It vibrated, skittering slightly on the cheap veneer. Then hers joined in, buzzing insistently from the floor where her clutch had fallen. Reality, cold and unwelcome, seeped back in through the cracks. Andy. Definitely Andy. Or Steph. Or both. The sheer magnitude of Monday landed with a sickening thud. Sleeping with Matty. Her manager. The guy who’d spent months expertly hiding any shred of decency behind critiques of her ice scooping. Panic fluttered in her chest, sharp and cold beneath the lingering warmth of him.
Matty lifted his head slightly. His expression was hard to read in the dim light – a mix of sated exhaustion and something darker, more closed-off. He met her gaze, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. He didn’t reach for the phones. They buzzed again, a frantic duet. "Right," he said, his voice rough but devoid of its earlier intensity. It was just flat. Practical. The manager voice. He pushed himself up, the sudden loss of his warmth making her shiver. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his back to her, broad and tense. "Shower. Then we figure out how to face the fucking music."
He stood, not looking back, and stalked towards the tiny bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him a moment before the shower started. Casey stared at the ceiling, the cheap plaster swirls suddenly fascinating. The scent of sex and cheap hotel soap hung heavy in the air. Her own phone buzzed once more, then fell silent. Andy’s name flashed briefly on the discarded screen. Monday loomed, enormous and terrifying. She ran a hand over her face, wincing at the sticky feel of dried mascara. A stray piece of glitter from the wedding decorations, caught in the rumpled sheets near her hip, winked in the weak light. It felt absurdly out of place. She picked it up, a tiny, stubborn sparkle clinging to her fingertip. Like this whole night. Beautiful, messy, impossible. And now, stuck in her teeth. Just like Monday would be.