Chapter 5: The Morning After
The first thing Gracie became aware of was warmth. Heavy, solid warmth draped over her hip. Then, the rhythmic puff of breath against the sensitive skin of her bare shoulder. Her own breath hitched, memory flooding back in a dizzying rush: the frantic run, the storm, Chester’s towel, the terrifying intimacy of his hotel room… the rehearsal that had spiraled so devastatingly out of control. The raw, consuming sex that had left her limbs liquid and her mind fractured.
Her eyes snapped open. Dawn light, soft and pale gold, filtered through the wide windows of Chester’s minimalist suite. It illuminated dust motes dancing in the air and the stark lines of the dark furniture. And it illuminated Chester Heartland, deeply asleep beside her, one powerful arm possessively slung over her waist, his face pressed into the crook of her neck. His skin was hot against hers. The crisp white sheets were tangled around their legs.
Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the drowsy aftermath. Finn. Oh god, Finn. Nausea churned in her stomach. She tried to shift, to extricate herself silently, but his arm tightened instantly. Not consciously. A reflex. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hip, firm, anchoring. Possessive.
He stirred. A low groan rumbled in his chest, vibrating against her back. His eyes fluttered open, bleary at first, then focusing with alarming speed. He blinked, looking down at his hand on her hip, then up at her face. His eyes weren't sleepy anymore. They were wide. Dark. Filled with a stark, unvarnished panic that mirrored her own. It wasn't the charming, confident actor waking up. It was pure, undisguised alarm.
"You're real," he rasped, the words rough with sleep, almost disbelieving. His fingers flexed on her skin, pressing slightly harder, as if confirming she wouldn't dissolve.
Gracie couldn't breathe. The air felt thick, suffocating. "Yeah," she managed, her voice barely a whisper. "Real."
He didn't let go. Didn't move his arm. He just stared at her, his gaze tracking over her face, her tangled red hair fanned out on his pillow, the sheet barely covering her breasts. The silence stretched, taut and humming with everything that had happened. Everything they’d done. The frantic coupling on this very bed, the desperate sounds they’d both made. The taste of him still seemed to linger.
"Last night..." Gracie started, needing to break the suffocating quiet, needing to somehow categorize the chaos. "It was... the storm. The paps. The lines..." The excuses sounded feeble even to her own ears.
A slow, incredibly complex expression flickered across Chester’s face. The panic didn't vanish, but something else surfaced – a faint, almost reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes held hers, intense and unreadable. "Yeah," he echoed her earlier word, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "The lines." He paused, his thumb brushing a tiny, involuntary circle on her hipbone. "Got a little... method, didn't we?"
Heat flooded Gracie’s cheeks, spreading down her neck. Shame warred with the visceral memory of his body moving over hers, inside hers. She looked away, focusing on a seam in the sheet. "Chester..."
"Hey." His voice softened slightly, losing the smirk, gaining a raw edge. "Look at me."
Reluctantly, she met his gaze again. The panic was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but so was something else. Heat. A stark, undeniable awareness. His gaze dipped to her lips, then back up. "We crossed it," he stated flatly. "Big time."
"We did," she whispered. The enormity of it crashed over her again. Finn’s trusting smile. Chester’s easy friendship with him. The career implications. The tangled mess they’d created in one rain-swept night. "What do we do?"
He let out a long, slow breath, his arm still heavy on her hip. "Right now?" His thumb brushed that maddening circle again. "Right this second?" He leaned in infinitesimally closer. His breath warmed her lips. "I don't have a fucking clue, Gracie." His gaze dropped again, lingering on the curve of her shoulder where the sheet had slipped. "But I know I need a shower. Badly. And you…" He finally lifted his arm, gesturing vaguely at her tangled state. "You look like you wrestled a hurricane. And lost."
The sudden absence of his weight felt jarring. Gracie sat up abruptly, pulling the sheet with her, covering herself. The cool air hit her sweat-dampened skin, making her shiver. The reality of being naked in Chester Heartland’s bed, wearing nothing but his borrowed clothes discarded somewhere on the floor, slammed home. The scent of sex was faint but unmistakable in the room. "I should go. Back to my room."
He was already swinging his legs out of bed, gloriously, infuriatingly naked. Gracie averted her eyes, but not before catching the powerful lines of his back, the flex of muscle as he stood. He stretched, a languid, unselfconscious movement that showcased every defined inch of him. He didn’t seem bothered by his nakedness at all. "Your stuff’s still soaked and muddy," he pointed out, heading towards the en-suite bathroom. "And your robe is probably damp from the shower last night. Use mine again. Proper shower this time. Without paps interrupting." He paused at the bathroom door, glancing back at her. His expression was impossible to decipher – wary, heated, resigned? "Unless you’re scared?"
The challenge, however lightly delivered, pricked her pride. Scared? Of a shower? Scared of him? After last night? The memory of his intensity, his demanding touch, sent a treacherous pulse of heat low in her belly. "Don't be ridiculous," she muttered, scrambling off the bed, clutching the sheet around her.
He just nodded, a ghost of that earlier smirk returning, and disappeared into the bathroom. She heard the shower turn on, the powerful rush of water hitting tiles.
Alone, Gracie sagged. Her legs felt shaky. She found his discarded t-shirt from last night – the one she’d worn before it all unraveled – and pulled it on. It smelled overwhelmingly of him. She padded to the bathroom door. Steam was already curling out. The idea of sharing that small, enclosed space with him felt like stepping off a cliff. But going back to her room, soaked and disheveled, felt impossible. Cowardly. And part of her, the reckless, traitorous part that had responded so fiercely to him hours ago, hummed with anticipation.
She pushed the door open. The air was thick with steam, fragrant with his expensive shower gel. Chester stood under the powerful spray, his back to her, head tilted back, water sluicing down the hard planes of his back, over the curve of his ass, down long, powerful legs. He hadn’t heard her over the water.
Gracie leaned against the doorframe, watching him. The raw physicality of him, the sheer male beauty, was breathtaking. And it was hers. For one stolen night, it had been hers. The thought was terrifying and exhilarating. She let the t-shirt fall to the floor.
He sensed her. Turned slowly. Water streamed over his face, plastering dark hair to his forehead. His eyes, impossibly blue even through the steam, locked onto hers. They dropped, taking in her nakedness, a slow, deliberate sweep that felt like a physical caress. He didn’t speak. Just held out a hand.
Her legs moved without conscious thought. She stepped into the shower stall. The hot water hit her skin, a shock after the cool air of the bedroom. It cascaded over her head, soaking her hair instantly. She closed her eyes against the downpour.
Then his hands were on her. Large, strong, sliding over her slick shoulders, down her arms. He turned her gently, his body pressing against her back, shielding her from the direct spray. He reached for the soap, working it into a lather in his palms. She felt the rough texture of his calloused hands as they began to glide over her back, slow, deliberate circles. Soaping her. Washing her. The intimacy of it was shattering.
His hands moved lower, over the curve of her waist, her hips. One hand slid around to her stomach, pulling her back flush against him. She felt him, hard and insistent against the small of her back. A low groan escaped him, vibrating through her. His lips found the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. Not a kiss. A slow, open-mouthed drag of his lips and tongue against her wet skin.
"Christ, Gracie," he murmured, his voice thick, lost in the steam and the water's roar. His soapy hand drifted lower, over her belly, fingers tangling in the damp curls between her legs. "Still feel me?"
She gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder. His fingers found her slick center, not entering yet, just exploring the swollen folds, circling the aching nub with a maddening, deliberate slowness. "Yes," she breathed, the word swallowed by the steam. "Everywhere."
His fingers slipped inside her, just two, testing her readiness. She was already impossibly wet, hot, clenching around the intrusion. He groaned again, a raw sound. "Fuck, you are. Soaked." He added a third finger, stretching her gently, curling them expertly. "Just like last night. Couldn't get enough."
The memory, combined with his skilled touch, sent jolts of pure electricity through her. She rocked back against his hand, against the hard press of his cock. "Chester..."
"Turn around," he commanded, his voice guttural. He withdrew his fingers, spinning her to face him. Water streamed over them both. He looked wild, predatory, his eyes dark pools of desire. He gripped her hips, lifting her effortlessly. "Legs. Around me. Now."
She obeyed, wrapping her arms around his neck, her legs locking around his waist. He braced her against the cool tile wall. There was no preamble, no gentle seeking. He guided himself to her entrance and thrust up, hard and deep, seating himself fully inside her wet heat with one powerful stroke.
"Oh God!" she cried out, the sound echoing off the tiles. He filled her completely, stretching her, the angle intense. The steam, the water, the slick slide of their bodies – it was overwhelming.
He held himself still for a second, buried deep, forehead pressed to hers, breathing harshly. His eyes held hers, burning with a desperate hunger. "Tell me," he demanded, his voice low and strained. "Tell me you wanted this. Tell me it wasn't just the storm."
She couldn't lie. Not here. Not now. Not with him buried inside her, owning her. "I wanted it," she gasped, the admission ripped from her. "I wanted you." Her fingers dug into his wet shoulders.
A shudder ran through him. He pulled back slowly, agonizingly, almost withdrawing completely before surging forward again. Deep. Hard. Uncompromising. "Again," he growled against her lips, capturing her mouth in a wet, demanding kiss. His tongue mirrored the thrust of his hips.
He set a relentless rhythm, driving into her with deep, powerful strokes that rocked her body against the tile. Water sluiced over them, mingling with sweat. Each plunge dragged against her sensitive inner walls, building the coiling tension in her belly higher, tighter. His hands gripped her ass, lifting her slightly, changing the angle, hitting a spot that made her cry out, her nails scoring his back.
"Yes! Right there! Chester, please..." She was babbling, lost in the sensation, the friction, the pure, carnal connection. Her head thudded back against the tile.
He dropped his head, his mouth closing over one peaked nipple, sucking hard, his tongue swirling. The dual assault was too much. Her climax tore through her, sharp and sudden, a white-hot detonation that made her arch off the wall, screaming his name as her inner muscles convulsed rhythmically around his cock.
Feeling her clench, he roared, a sound of pure masculine triumph and release. His thrusts became erratic, frantic. He buried himself to the hilt, his body locking rigid against hers. She felt the hot, pulsing rush as he emptied himself deep inside her, groaning her name into the wet skin of her neck, his body shuddering violently with each spurt.
They clung together under the pounding water, gasping, trembling, spent. His forehead rested against hers, his breath coming in ragged bursts. The water gradually cooled the feverish heat of their skin. Reality began to seep back in, colder than the spray.
Chester slowly lowered her, her legs shaky as they took her weight. His eyes met hers, the fierce need replaced by a dazed, almost shell-shocked exhaustion. He traced her cheekbone with a wet thumb, his expression unreadable. She saw the flicker of that morning panic returning, warring with the profound intimacy of what they’d just shared. He leaned in, pressing a brief, almost desperate kiss to her lips.
"Clean slate?" he murmured, the words rough, hopeful, and utterly impossible. He rested his forehead against hers again, breathing her in. The water beat down, washing away the soap, the sweat, the evidence clinging to their thighs. But it couldn't wash away the deed. Or the haunting ringtone of Finn’s call that suddenly, jarringly, pierced the steam-filled quiet. It was coming from the bedroom. Loud. Insistent. The real world crashing violently back in. Chester flinched as if struck. His eyes snapped open, locking onto Gracie’s, filled with renewed, gut-wrenching panic. "Shit. Shit. That's him." He didn’t move. Neither did she. Frozen in the aftermath, the water suddenly felt icy cold. "We're fucked," he breathed, the words barely audible over the spray and the relentless, demanding chime echoing from the other room.