Chapter 4: Morning Light, Hard Again
The first thing Leon registered was warmth. Not the stale, clinging warmth of his own bed, but something softer—the press of bare skin against his chest, the weight of a leg draped over his thigh, the steady rhythm of breath against his collarbone.
The second thing was the ache in his bladder. Morning had that effect.
The third thing was the erection currently wedged against the curve of Bea's ass.
He opened his eyes slowly, squinting against the assault of golden light pouring through the half-open curtains. Bea's bedroom looked different in the daytime. Messier. More real. Clothes everywhere—his jeans tangled with her skirt on the floor, his shirt hanging off the corner of a chair, her bra draped over the lampshade like a trophy.
The bed was a disaster. Sheets twisted and bunched, pillows scattered, the duvet kicked to the foot of the mattress at some point during the night. And in the middle of it all, Bea.
She was lying on her side, facing away from him, her dark hair fanned across the pillow. The sheet was pulled up to her waist, leaving her back and shoulders bare. He could see the faint tan lines from summer, the small mole on her shoulder blade, the way her ribs expanded with each breath.
His arm was underneath her—or rather, she was lying on it—and his other hand rested on her hip. Sometime during the night, they'd shifted into this position. Or she had. He definitely hadn't been the one to press his morning wood against her ass.
That was just biology. Unavoidable. Nothing to do with the fact that he'd spent the last eight hours dreaming about her in ways that would make a therapist raise their eyebrows.
He tried to move, carefully, to extricate himself without waking her. His arm was completely numb, pins and needles shooting from his fingertips to his elbow. He shifted his weight, attempting to slide out from under her—
She moved.
Just a small thing. A slight roll of her hips, pressing back against him.
Leon froze.
Maybe she was still asleep. Maybe it was just a natural movement, the kind of thing people did unconsciously. He held his breath, waiting.
She did it again. Slower this time. A deliberate, lazy grind that pushed the curve of her ass flush against his cock.
His hand tightened on her hip. "Bea."
No response. Her breathing was steady, her eyes closed. She looked peaceful. Innocent. Like butter wouldn't melt.
But her hips kept moving. Small, circular motions, almost imperceptible. A slow, torturous rhythm that made his toes curl and his jaw clench.
"You're awake," he said, voice rough.
Nothing.
"You're a terrible actress."
A pause. Then, barely audible: "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You're grinding on me."
"I'm sleeping."
"You're a liar."
She turned her head, just enough to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. The morning light caught the gold flecks in her irises.
"I might be a little awake," she admitted.
Leon stared at her. His heart was doing something complicated in his chest, a mix of arousal and affection and exasperation.
"You're impossible."
"I've been told."
She rolled her hips again, more deliberately now, and he felt himself twitch against her. A low sound escaped his throat—something between a groan and a growl.
"What time is it?" he asked.
Bea glanced at the clock on her nightstand. The digital display read 9:47.
"I have exactly ten minutes before my roommate comes home."
Leon's brain took a second to process that information. "Ten minutes?"
"Mmm." She reached back and found his hand, pulling it from her hip and guiding it between her legs. "So you better make them count."
His fingers slid through the slick heat of her without resistance. She was soaked. Not just ready—drenched. The kind of wet that made his cock ache and his mind go blank.
"You've been awake for a while," he said.
"Guilty."
"How long?"
She shrugged, a movement he felt against his chest. "Since the sun came up. Maybe an hour."
"You just laid here—"
"Thinking about you." She pressed his fingers
thinking about you.” She pressed his fingers harder against her, a silent demand that made his blood run hot.
He didn't need to be told twice.
Leon pulled his hand back just long enough to hook his arm under her leg, lifting it and opening her up to him. She made a small sound—half surprise, half satisfaction—and arched her back, pressing her ass more firmly against his erection.
“Ten minutes,” she reminded him, her voice muffled by the pillow.
“I heard you the first time.”
He guided himself to her entrance, dragging the head of his cock through her folds, coating himself in her wetness. She shuddered, her fingers gripping the sheets.
“Leon.”
“What?”
“Stop teasing.”
He pushed inside her in one slow, deliberate thrust.
Her whole body tensed, then relaxed around him, a long exhale escaping her lips. He stayed still for a moment, letting her adjust, letting himself adjust. She was tight and hot and so fucking wet that he had to close his eyes and count backward from ten to keep from finishing right there.
“Move,” she whispered.
He did.
The first few thrusts were shallow, testing. The bed creaked beneath them, a rhythmic protest that seemed obscenely loud in the quiet room. He pulled her leg higher, changing the angle, and she gasped into the pillow.
“Right there,” she breathed. “Don't stop.”
He didn't.
His hand slid from her hip to her stomach, then higher, palming her breast. She was soft and warm, her nipple pebbling against his palm. He rolled it between his fingers, and she bucked against him, pushing back to meet his thrusts.
“Harder,” she said.
He obliged.
The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room—skin against skin, the wet slide of him inside her, the creak of the bed frame. Bea bit down on the pillow to muffle her moans, but he could still hear them, small and desperate and perfect.
“You feel incredible,” he murmured against her ear. “You know that?”
She laughed, breathless. “Flattery won't make me forget the time.”
“How much time?”
She glanced at the clock. “Six minutes.”
He picked up the pace, driving into her with a rhythm that made her whole body shake. Her ass bounced against him with every thrust, a sight that nearly undid him. He watched the way her skin rippled, the way her back arched, the way her fingers twisted in the sheets.
“Touch yourself,” he said.
“What?”
“I want to feel you come around my cock.”
She didn't argue. Her hand slipped between her legs, fingers finding her clit, and within seconds she was clenching around him, her breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.
“That's it,” he said. “Come for me, Bea.”
She did.
Her body convulsed, a shudder that started in her core and radiated outward, and he felt every pulse, every tremor. He kept moving, drawing it out, until she was limp and gasping beneath him.
“Your turn,” she managed.
He didn't last much longer.
Three more thrusts, and he was gone—burying himself deep, spilling inside her, his hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. The orgasm rolled through him like a wave, leaving him shaking and breathless and completely wrecked.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Bea glanced at the clock.
“Two minutes,” she said. “Shower. Now.”
He pulled out, and she winced—a small, satisfied sound that made him want to do it all over again. But there was no time. She was already rolling off the bed, grabbing a towel from the floor, and pulling him toward the bathroom.
The water was cold when they first stepped in, a shock that made them both gasp. Then it warmed, and they stood under the spray, hands moving over slick skin, washing away the evidence of the night before.
“You have to go,” she said, but her hands were on his chest, tracing patterns in the water.
“I know.”
“My roommate will be here any minute.”
“I know.”
She looked up at him, and there was something in her eyes—something soft and uncertain that he hadn't seen before. “Last night wasn't just—I mean, it wasn't just—”
“I know,” he said again, and kissed her.
It was a different kind of kiss. Slower. Softer. The kind of kiss that said things neither of them was ready to say out loud. When they pulled apart, she was smiling.
“Go,” she said. “Before she sees you.”
He stepped out of the shower, grabbed his clothes from the bedroom floor, and dressed in record time. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair was wet, and he smelled like her shampoo. He didn't care.
At the door, he turned back. Bea was standing in the bathroom doorway, wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping onto the floor. She looked like a painting. Something rare and valuable and completely out of his league.
“Leon,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Come back tonight.”
It wasn't a question.
He grinned, the kind of grin he'd never quite known how to use around her before. “Try and stop me.”
He slipped out the door just as he heard the front door open, the sound of her roommate's keys jangling in the lock. He took the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding, his mind racing, his whole body still humming with the ghost of her touch.
Outside, the Stockholm morning was bright and cold and impossibly beautiful.
He pulled out his phone and typed a message.
That was not how I expected to wake up.
Her reply came thirty seconds later.
You're welcome.
He laughed, shoved his phone in his pocket, and started walking. The city stretched out before him, full of possibility. And somewhere behind him, in a sunlit apartment that smelled like vanilla and sex, Bea was probably doing the exact same thing.
Smiling.
Waiting.
The day was just beginning.