Chapter 13: Breaking the Walk
The silence in his bedroom was absolute, a velvet weight pressed down by the scent of sweat and sex and lavender. Luna’s breathing had evened into sleep, a soft, rhythmic sound against his shoulder.
Elliot didn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling, at the faint, dancing glow from his PC’s idle LEDs. His mind was a scratched record, replaying the crack of the headboard, the feel of her skin under his tongue, the raw sound of his own voice saying things he’d never dreamed of saying. A possessive, territorial animal had climbed out of him and she had welcomed it with open arms. Now, in the quiet, it retreated, leaving behind a hollow, trembling shock.
What the hell was that?
He was supposed to be the guy who fumbled with bra clasps. Who got nervous before a first kiss. Not… that. The memory of his forearm against her throat, the approving gasp she’d made, sent a bolt of heat and shame directly to his gut.
Just before dawn, he slid out from under her. She murmured, clutching at the pillow he replaced himself with, but didn’t wake. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and padded, barefoot and shell-shocked, into the kitchen.
The routine was automatic. Grind beans. Filter water. The mechanical hum of the coffee maker was a lifeline to normalcy. He leaned against the counter, his fingers tracing the cool marble, and waited.
He heard her before he saw her. A soft, padding step. She appeared in the doorway, swimming in one of his old graphic tees. It hung to her mid-thigh. Her hair was a fantastic, sleep-tousled pink disaster. She looked young, and rumpled, and unbearably real.
“Hey,” she said, her voice scratchy with sleep.
“Hey.” He poured two mugs, sliding one across the island to her. “Cream’s in the fridge. Sugar’s… somewhere.”
She shook her head, wrapping her hands around the ceramic. She took a sip, her eyes closing for a second. When they opened, they were fixed on him, assessing. The quiet stretched, filled only by the drip of the coffee maker and the distant hum of the city waking up.
She took another sip, then a slow, deliberate walk around the island until she was standing beside him. She leaned her hip against the counter, her bare thigh brushing his sweatpants.
“So,” she said finally, a faint, knowing smirk playing on her lips. She glanced down at her own legs, then back up at him through her lashes. “Guess your promise was all talk.”
The words were a spark in dry tinder.
The shy, overwhelmed Elliot from ten seconds ago vaporized. In his place was the man from last night, the one who recognized a challenge in her tone. He saw it now—the flicker of insecurity she was trying to cloak with bravado. She was testing him. Seeing if he’d retreated back into his shell.
He didn’t blink. He set his mug down with a quiet click. His calloused hands, the ones that wrote elegant code, slid slowly up her bare thighs beneath the hem of his shirt. Her skin was impossibly soft. He felt her breath hitch.
“Was it?” he asked, his voice low.
He watched her throat work as she swallowed. The smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of something raw and hungry. Before she could form another taunt, his hands tightened. He spun her around, bent her over the cold marble of the kitchen island with a firm, unyielding pressure.
Her mug skidded, sloshing coffee across the comic books stacked there. A shocked, wet gasp escaped her, instantly smothered by the stone.
“You should know by now,” he said, his voice grating close to her ear as he pushed the shirt up her back, baring her to the cool morning air. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
He entered her in one deep, unceremonious thrust. She cried out, her fingers splaying and scrambling for purchase on the smooth surface. There was no gentle adjustment, no slow build. It was a reclamation. A continuation. The same primal ferocity from the night before, translated into the harsh light of morning.
Her moans were louder here, echoing off the cabinets and the linoleum floor. They mixed with the sound of skin against skin, of her toes curling and uncurling against the lower cabinet door. The forgotten slice of vanilla pie on its plate wobbled with each of his drives.
“Still think it was talk?” he grunted, one hand fisting in her pink hair, not pulling, just holding. Anchoring them both.
“No,” she sobbed, pushing back against him, meeting each stroke with a desperate arch of her spine. “No, Elliot. God.”
He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, every movement erasing a fragment of his own doubt. This was them. This terrifying, honest collision. The smell of burning toast began to seep into the air—the bread he’d put in earlier, now completely forgotten. The coffee maker hissed, its cycle long finished.
Her climax tore through her silently at first, a tensing so profound it locked her muscles. Then it broke as a choked, shuddering wail against the marble. He followed, his release wrenched from him with a force that buckled his knees, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades as he emptied himself into her with a low, broken groan.
For a long minute, the only sound was their labored breathing and the frantic beeping of the smoke alarm from the toaster. He didn’t move. She didn’t either. The cold of the counter was seeping into her skin, his weight a warm, heavy counterpoint.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He righted his shirt over her, the cotton falling softly back into place. He reached across her and with a casual flick, silenced the shrieking smoke alarm. The sudden quiet was ringing.
He turned her around. Her makeup was smudged under her eyes, her lips kiss-swollen. She looked wrecked. Beautiful. His.
A slow, wobbly smile spread across her face. It wasn’t LunarNova’s curated, flirty grin. It was exhausted, real, and held a hint of awe. She reached up and pushed his messy hair out of his eyes, her fingers lingering on his temple.
“So,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “What’s for breakfast?”
He glanced past her at the charred, smoking remains in the toaster. At the cold coffee. At the perfect slice of pie, now adorned with a single, bold coffee splash.
“Takeout?” he said.
Her smile widened. She nodded, leaning into him, her forehead resting against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her upright, feeling the frantic beat of her heart gradually slow to match his own. The kitchen was a disaster. He had a conference call in two hours. She probably had streams to plan.
None of it mattered. The only thing that felt solid, real, and unmovable in his entire world was the weight of her in his arms, and the silent, shuddering truth that neither of them knew how to go back from this.