Chapter 2: The Morning After the Storm
Nick woke to the sensation of lightning.
Not the real thing—no thunder rolling through the pre-dawn quiet, no rain lashing against the windows. This was smaller. Focused. Rarity's magic, arcing across his bare chest in tiny blue sparks that danced along his nerve endings like static electricity made sentient.
His eyes opened slowly, still gummed with sleep, and the first thing he registered was the ceiling of her bedroom—vaulted and painted a deep cream, with ornate molding that probably cost more than his entire apartment. The second thing he registered was that he couldn't move his arms.
He looked up.
Black silk wrapped around his wrists, wound tight enough to hold but loose enough not to hurt, anchored to the wrought-iron headboard with a knot that would make a Boy Scout weep with envy. The ribbon was familiar. It had been tied around a gift box she'd given him two weeks ago—a vintage record player, because she'd noticed his apartment was tragically music-free—and he'd wondered at the time why she'd kept the ribbon after he'd unwrapped the gift.
Now he knew.
Rarity straddled his waist, her knees bracketing his hips, wearing nothing but one of his old band t-shirts and what appeared to be a very satisfied smile. Her mane tumbled loose around her shoulders, wild and untamed in a way the public never saw. The morning light hadn't broken yet, but the candles on her nightstand had been lit—by magic, probably, because he hadn't heard a match strike—and they cast her in gold and shadow.
"Morning," she said.
Nick tugged experimentally at the ribbon. It didn't budge.
"Morning," he said. "I see you've been busy."
"I woke up an hour ago and couldn't fall back asleep." She traced a finger down his chest, following the trail of hair that led to his navel. "You were sleeping so peacefully. I didn't want to disturb you."
"So instead you tied me up."
"I prefer to think of it as ... securing the premise." Her smile widened. "I've been thinking about tying you down properly. Ever since that first night. You remember what I said?"
"Hold still, darling—unless you'd rather I tie you down properly." He remembered. He'd replayed those words in his head more times than he cared to admit. "I thought that was just flirting."
"Everything I say is just flirting until it isn't." She leaned down, her hair brushing his shoulders, her breath warm against his ear. "And this morning, it isn't."
Her magic sparked again, trailing down his sides, and he felt his body respond with embarrassing speed. They'd been together for three weeks now—three weeks of stolen afternoons and late-night phone calls, of learning each other's rhythms and preferences, of discovering that the chemistry between them wasn't a fluke or a phase.
Three weeks of the best sex of his life, and she still found ways to surprise him.
"You're going to be late for your client meeting," he managed.
"Let me worry about that." She sat back up, her weight settling against him in a way that made coherent thought difficult. "You should be worrying about something else."
"What's that?"
"Whether you can be quiet." Her magic wrapped around him—not the ribbon, but something warmer, a gentle pressure that moved with deliberate slowness. "The walls in this building are thin, and my assistant arrives at eight."
Nick clenched his jaw. Hard.
Rarity laughed, low and throaty, and bent to her work.
She started at his throat, lips brushing the hollow where his pulse hammered, teeth grazing the stubble that she claimed to love. Down. Across his collarbone, where she pressed kisses that lingered, that made him strain against the silk binding his wrists. She took her time. She always took her time, treating his body like a garment to be examined, appreciated, perfected.
When her mouth found the sensitive spot just below his ribs, he hissed through his teeth.
"Quiet," she reminded him, and her magic pressed a finger to his lips in a gesture of playful shushing. "Or should I find something to occupy your mouth as well?"
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
He didn't. Mostly because he was too busy trying not to moan as her lips continued their descent, past his hips, past the waistband of his boxers which she tugged down with agonizing slowness. The silk around his wrists creaked as he pulled against it, instinct overriding intention.
"I've barely started," Rarity chided. "Don't tell me you're already losing control."
"I'm not losing anything," he gritted out. "I just—the ribbon—"
"Too tight?"
"No. God, no. It's fine. It's—" He broke off as her hand wrapped around him, a sensation so familiar now but still electric every time. "It's really fine."
"Good."
She bent her head.
The first touch of her mouth made his vision blur. She wasn't in a hurry—she never was, not with this, not when she had him exactly where she wanted him. Her tongue traced patterns he couldn't follow, couldn't predict, and every time he thought he'd adjusted to the sensation, she changed something. Pressure. Rhythm. The angle of her head, the way her hair fell across his thighs like a purple waterfall.
The candles flickered. Somewhere in the apartment, a clock ticked. Outside, the city was starting to stir—cars passing, early birds heading to jobs they probably hated. None of it mattered. There was only this room, this bed, this woman who had somehow decided he was worth her attention.
"I want to touch you," he said, and his voice came out wrecked.
"That's the point." She lifted her head just long enough to speak. "You can't. Not right now. You just have to feel."
"That's a terrible answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
She went back to work, and he stopped trying to negotiate.
Time lost meaning. He existed in a haze of sensation, every nerve ending attuned to her, every muscle taut with the effort of staying still. The silk around his wrists became a lifeline, something to pull against when the pleasure crested too high, something to remind him that this was real, that she was real, that he wasn't dreaming.
When he was close—when he was so close he could taste it—she stopped.
Nick made a sound that was half-groan, half-whimper.
"Not yet," she said.
"I hate you."
"You love me." She crawled up his body, her knees settling on either side of his hips, and the scratch of his t-shirt against his oversensitive skin made him shudder. "Say it."
"You're evil."
"That's not what I asked."
He met her eyes. Sapphire blue, dark with arousal, wide with something that looked almost like wonder. She was so beautiful it hurt to look at her—not just physically, but the whole picture. The wild hair, the kiss-swollen lips, the freckles she usually covered with foundation that were now on full display. This was the Rarity no one else got to see. The one who woke up with bad breath and insecurities and an appetite that could be scary in its intensity.
This was the Rarity he was falling for.
"I love you," he said.
The words hung in the air between them, heavier than he'd intended. He hadn't planned to say them—not yet, not this early, not when it was supposed to be a joke, a deflection. But she'd asked, and the truth had fallen out of him like it had been waiting for permission.
Rarity went very still.
"Say that again," she whispered.
"I love you."
Her eyes glistened. She blinked fast, trying to hide it, but he saw. He always saw.
"I love you too," she said. "I know it's early. I know we agreed to take things slow and see where this goes. But I love you, Nick Belew. I've been trying not to say it for two weeks."
"Two weeks?"
"Since you fixed my espresso machine."
"I just tightened a loose valve."
"You tightened a loose valve and then made me a cup of coffee that was better than anything my expensive monstrosity has ever produced." She cupped his face in her hands. "That's when I knew. When I stopped trying to convince myself it was just physical."
Nick wanted to argue that a cup of coffee wasn't a valid basis for love. He wanted to point out that they were both probably delusional, high on endorphins and good sex and the novelty of finding someone who fit. But he was still bound to the headboard, still aching with need, still completely at her mercy, and arguing felt pointless.
So instead, he said: "I still can't touch you."
"No. You can't." Rarity's smile returned, softer now, tinged with something tender. "But I can touch you."
She shifted her hips, aligning them, and sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.
The pleasure was sharp enough to blank his mind. She was warm and tight and perfect, her body fitting against his like they'd been designed for each other, and he arched up into her before he could stop himself. The ribbon bit into his wrists. He didn't care.
"Stay still," she commanded.
"Or what?"
"Or I'll stop."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
He stayed still.
She rode him with the same patience she'd shown before—slow, rhythmic, each movement calculated to drive him closer to the edge without pushing him over. Her magic sparked against his skin, little arcs of electricity that added another layer of sensation, and he bit his lip so hard he tasted blood.
The walls were thin. Her assistant arrived at eight. He had to be quiet.
He didn't care.
When she leaned forward, changing the angle, he forgot about everything except the way she felt around him. Her name fell from his lips like a prayer, repeated and reverent, and she responded with a gasp that she tried to swallow. Her control was cracking. He could see it in the way her rhythm faltered, the way her nails dug into his chest, the way her eyes fluttered closed.
"Look at me," he said.
She did.
"Don't close your eyes. I want to see you."
"You're supposed to be tied up. Not giving orders."
"I'm giving you a suggestion."
She laughed, breathless, and kept her eyes on his. They moved together, no longer slow, no longer patient, chasing something they'd both already found. The candles guttered. The world narrowed to the feel of her around him, the sight of her face, the sound of her breath catching as she got closer.
When she came, it was with his name on her lips and her magic flaring bright enough to make the shadows dance. He followed seconds later, helpless against the pleasure that crashed over him, and the ribbon finally gave way with a sharp rip as he pulled free and grabbed her hips, holding her against him as the waves receded.
They collapsed into the pillows, tangled and sweaty and utterly ruined.
The candles had burnt down to stubs. The first pale light of dawn was starting to creep through the curtains, painting the room in shades of grey and gold. Somewhere below, a door opened and closed. Rarity's assistant, probably, arriving early for the client meeting Rarity was definitely going to miss.
"Shit," Rarity said, breathing hard. "What time is it?"
Nick turned his head. The clock on her nightstand informed him that it was 8:47.
"You're late for a meeting," he said.
"I know."
"You're very late for a meeting."
"I know." She didn't move. Her head was pillowed on his chest, her hair a tangled mess that he was pretty sure contained at least one of his shirt buttons. "I don't care."
"Your client might care."
"Opal is used to my creative process running long."
"Creative process. Is that what we're calling it."
"What would you call it?"
He pretended to consider. "A very thorough negotiation."
"I like that." She pressed a kiss to his sternum. "You're very good at negotiating."
"Years of practice."
"Mmhmm." She stretched, a long, feline movement that made him want to wake up all over again. "I should get dressed. Opal gets cranky when I keep her waiting, and she's doing the couture collection for the Eclipse Gala. I can't afford to alienate her."
"The Eclipse Gala?"
"The biggest fashion event of the year." She sat up, her expression shifting from satisfied to focused in the space of a heartbeat. "I'm supposed to have the full collection ready in three weeks. Sixteen pieces. I have eleven finished and five in various stages of construction, which means I'm behind schedule and possibly doomed."
"Can I help?"
"Unless you can sew a couture-grade corset in under six hours, no." She swung her legs off the bed and stood, the t-shirt falling to mid-thigh. "But thank you for offering. It's sweet."
"I'm not sweet. I'm practical."
"You're sweet." She padded toward the bathroom, then paused in the doorway. "Nick?"
"Yeah?"
"Last night—sorry, this morning—you mentioned that a tabloid reporter had been sniffing around." She asked it casually, but there was an edge beneath the question. "Have you heard anything more?"
Nick's good mood dimmed slightly. They'd talked about this over coffee a week ago—the fact that someone at the network had been asking questions about his personal life. A woman named Gilded Quill, who wrote for one of the gossip rags that had made a cottage industry of speculating about Rarity's romantic entanglements.
"A few things," he admitted. "She cornered one of my sound engineers yesterday. Asked if I'd been seeing anyone unusual."
"What did he say?"
"He said he didn't know anything about my personal life, which is true. Then he told me you'd called the studio three times last week." Nick sat up, the torn ribbon falling from his wrist. "Bea was very apologetic. I told her it was fine."
"We're going to have to tell people eventually." Rarity leaned against the doorframe, her expression unreadable. "Or at least stop actively hiding. I don't like lying."
"You're not lying. You're just not volunteering information."
"It feels like lying."
The bathroom door closed. Nick listened to the sound of the shower starting up, and tried to ignore the knot forming in his stomach.
They'd been careful. Painfully careful. Stolen hours in her boutique after closing, late-night phone calls that he deleted from his history, meetings that were technically professional but lingered long after the work was done. He'd been fine with the secrecy at first—understood it, even, the need to protect something fragile and new—but three weeks was starting to feel like a long time.
The knot tightened when he noticed Rarity's phone buzzing on the nightstand.
He shouldn't look. He knew he shouldn't look. But the screen was angled toward him, and the notification was right there, and his eyes caught the words before he could stop them.
Caleb [9:02 AM]: Loved the preview in Vogue this month. We should catch up. Coffee sometime?
Nick stared at the screen until it went dark.
Caleb. The name from the breakfast conversation three weeks ago. The one she'd flinched at, the one she'd dismissed as "no one," the one he'd decided not to push about.
The shower was still running. Rarity was singing something off-key and cheerful, completely unaware that her past was currently buzzing on her nightstand.
Nick set the phone face-down. Not his business. Not his problem.
Except it was.
Except everything about her was starting to feel like his business, and that was the terrifying part. The part he hadn't fully processed yet, the part that had been building since the first time she'd laughed at one of his terrible jokes and looked at him like he was worth something.
He was in this. Deep. Deeper than he'd meant to be, deeper than was probably wise.
And now there was a tabloid reporter sniffing around, and an ex named Caleb who apparently read Vogue and sent casual texts about coffee, and a client meeting that was already thirty minutes late.
The bathroom door opened. Steam curled into the bedroom, carrying the scent of lavender and something citrus. Rarity emerged wrapped in a towel, her mane already styling itself into a complicated updo with the help of her magic.
"You look thoughtful," she observed.
"Just tired."
"Liar." She crossed to the bed and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I'll bring you coffee when I come back up. Opal and I shouldn't be more than an hour. Maybe two. She's redesigning the bodice for the finale gown and I need to convince her that sequins are not the answer."
"Sequins are always the answer."
"That's what she said. It's why we fight."
She dressed in a whirlwind of magic and efficient movement—a cream blouse, a burgundy skirt, heels that made her legs go on for miles. She looked nothing like the woman who'd woken him up with silk and mischief. She looked like the designer. The brand. The unicorn who ran one of the most successful boutiques in Canterlot City.
The transformation was impressive. It was also a little sad.
"I'll text you when I'm done," she said. "We can get lunch. There's a new café in the Arts District that I've been dying to try."
"Sure."
She paused at the door. "Nick?"
"Yeah?"
"About what I said earlier. Before." Her cheeks flushed slightly. "The thing I said. Did you mean what you said too?"
"I love you." The words came easier the second time. "Yeah. I meant it."
"Good." Her smile was radiant. "Because I meant it too."
She left.
Nick lay in her bed for a long time after she was gone, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out what to do about the knot in his stomach. The phone on the nightstand remained silent, but he could still see the notification in his mind's eye.
Caleb.
Coffee sometime.
He should ask her about it. He knew he should ask her about it. But the moment had passed, and she was already downstairs with Opal, and he wasn't sure he had the right. They'd only been together three weeks. They'd only just said I love you. Pressing her about an ex-boyfriend felt like overstepping some invisible boundary.
Still.
The shower had stopped running ten minutes ago. The clock now read 9:15. Rarity was definitely late for her meeting, and Nick was definitely overthinking things, and the whole situation was starting to feel like a problem he couldn't solve by being patient and understanding.
He reached for his own phone. No missed calls, no texts. A few emails from work, all urgent in the way that entertainment industry emails always claimed to be urgent. He'd deal with them later.
Right now, he needed to decide what he was going to say to Rarity.
Right now, he needed to decide if he was going to say anything at all.
The phone on the nightstand buzzed again. Nick didn't look this time. He'd seen enough. He knew who it was, and he knew what it meant, and he knew that whatever existed between him and Rarity was about to get more complicated.
He just didn't know if he was ready for complicated.
Below, he heard the bell above the boutique door chime—a customer, probably, or maybe Opal arriving for her appointment. Then Rarity's voice, bright and professional, the voice she used with clients: "Opal, darling! I'm so sorry I'm late. I have the most exciting ideas for the bodice."
Life continued. The world turned. And Nick lay in a bed that smelled like lavender and sex and something that felt a lot like hope, trying to convince himself that everything was fine.
Everything was fine.
Everything was going to be fine.
He was almost starting to believe it when his phone rang.
The screen read: Unknown Number.
Nick stared at it for three rings. Four. On the fifth, he answered.
"Hello?"
"Nick Belew?" A woman's voice, crisp and professional. "This is Gilded Quill. I write for The Canterlot Chronicle. I was wondering if you had a moment to discuss your relationship with Rarity Belle."
The knot in his stomach pulled tight.
And just like that, the morning was over.