Chapter 4: Morning After and a Secret Touch
The dream dissolved like smoke the moment she opened her eyes, but the feeling of it lingered—heavy and warm and insistent. Liam's hands on her waist. His mouth trailing down her neck. The weight of him pressing her into the mattress, the sheets tangled around their legs. She could still feel the ghost of his breath on her skin, could still hear the low sound he'd made when she'd pulled him closer.
She lay there, staring at the ceiling, her heart pounding against her ribs. Morning light filtered through the burgundy curtains, casting everything in a soft, golden glow. Biscuits was curled at the foot of her bed, snoring softly, oblivious.
Her hand drifted down, almost without her permission, sliding beneath the waistband of her sleep shorts. She was slick, embarrassingly so, and the contact made her gasp. The dream had been so vivid, so achingly real—his bedroom, his scent, the way he'd looked at her like she was something precious.
She let out a shaky breath and pulled her hand free. A wicked grin spread across her face, unbidden. She couldn't remember the last time she'd woken up like this, trembling and needy and utterly consumed by someone.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She grabbed it, expecting—hoping—for a text from Liam. Instead, the screen displayed Amy's face, her contact photo a shot of both of them at a campus festival, cheeks flushed and arms around each other.
Lauren answered, her voice breathier than she'd intended. "Hey."
"LAUREN." Amy's voice was a shriek. "Tell me everything. I've been dying all morning. I saw the story on Jake's Instagram—there was a party? And you left on a motorcycle?"
Lauren laughed, pulling her knees up to her chest. "It's—it's a long story."
"I have time. I have ALL the time. Spill."
She spilled. The words tumbled out in a rush, painting the night in vivid strokes. The near-kiss on his bed. The conversation that had stripped him bare. The motorbike ride that had made her feel like she was flying. The kiss on her cheek that had nearly buckled her knees.
"And then I came home and my dad was waiting up," she finished. "He was not impressed."
"Your dad's a cop, Lauren. Of course he wasn't impressed. But—" Amy's voice shifted, something sharper creeping in. "Wait. So you didn't sleep together?"
"Not—no. We just talked."
"Just talked." Amy repeated the words slowly, like she was testing their weight. "You were in his bedroom. Alone. For hours. And you just talked."
"What's wrong with that?"
Amy went quiet for a moment. Lauren could hear the gears turning in her friend's head, the calculation happening behind the silence.
"Lauren." Amy's voice was careful now. "He's never not slept with a girl he's brought home. That's not a judgment—I'm just telling you what I know. Jake talks, and he's told me things. Liam has a reputation, and that reputation doesn't include conversations."
The words settled in Lauren's chest like a warm weight. He could have tried anything. He had every opportunity, every reason, every expectation. But he hadn't.
"He asked me about my paper," she said, a smile pulling at her lips. "He wanted to hear about Chaucer."
"He what?"
"He's different, Amy. I know it sounds crazy. I know he has a history. But he told me about his dad. About why he is the way he is. He opened up to me in a way that didn't feel like a line."
Amy was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was softer. "You like him."
"I don't—" Lauren hesitated. "I don't know what I feel. It's only been one night. But I feel something. Something that scares me a little."
"That's how it starts, babe. That's how it always starts."
They talked for a few more minutes, Amy extracting every detail with the precision of a detective. By the time they hung up, Lauren's face hurt from smiling. She flopped back onto her pillows, staring at the ceiling, replaying the night in her mind.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was him.
The notification preview showed a photo. She tapped it open and her breath caught in her throat.
Liam was in his room, shirtless, lying on his bed with the sheets pooled around his waist. The photo was casual—clearly taken without much thought—but it was devastating nonetheless. His chest was tan and defined, a thin trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his green boxer briefs. His hair was messy, his eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile playing at his lips.
The caption read: You awake?
She stared at the photo for a long moment, her pulse thrumming. The heat between her legs returned with a vengeance, sharp and insistent. She bit her lip, a thrill racing through her.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She could play it cool. She could deflect. She could wait a few hours to respond, make him wonder.
But the dream was still fresh in her mind. The feeling of him was still on her skin. And she was tired of being careful.
She slid her hand back into her shorts, her fingers finding her slick, swollen flesh. A low sound escaped her throat as she began to move in slow, deliberate circles. Her other hand typed, one thumb moving clumsily over the screen.
Maybe. Why?
She hit send and let the phone fall onto the pillow beside her. Her eyes fluttered shut as she worked herself into a rhythm, the image of him seared into her mind.
The response came within seconds. She could almost hear his low chuckle in the words.
No reason. Just wanted to see if you were thinking about me.
She pressed her thighs together, a shiver running through her. Her fingers moved faster.
You have no idea.
She sent it before she could second-guess herself. Her breathing was ragged now, her hips shifting against her hand. She imagined his mouth on her throat, his hands gripping her waist, his weight pressing her into the mattress.
His reply buzzed through, and she had to force her eyes open to read it.
Prove it.
The words hit her like a bolt of lightning. She gasped, her body clenching around her fingers, her release washing over her in wave after wave. She pressed her face into the pillow to muffle the sound she made, her toes curling, her whole body trembling.
When she finally came back to herself, she was breathless and drenched and utterly, completely ruined.
She picked up the phone again, her fingers shaky.
She picked up the phone again, her fingers shaky. The weight of what she'd just done pressed against her chest, but the thrill outweighed any hesitation. She looked at his message—Prove it—and felt that familiar heat coil in her belly.
She didn't think. She just acted.
She shifted on the bed, propping herself up against the pillows. The oversized band tee she'd slept in had ridden up, bunching around her ribs and leaving her stomach and the tops of her thighs bare. The hem of her sleep shorts had slid down, exposing a sliver of skin above the waistband. Her hair was a riot of dark tangles, the pink strands especially bright in the morning sun.
She angled the phone, framing her whole body in the shot. Her legs stretched out long and bare, the shirt crumpled high on her torso, her skin still flushed from the orgasm she'd just given herself. She caught her reflection in the camera, lips parted, eyes a little wild. She looked like someone she didn't fully recognize.
She hit send before she could change her mind.
The image delivered with a soft whoosh. The silence that followed stretched unbearably. She held her breath, watching the screen, her heart slamming so hard she could feel it in her throat.
Three dots appeared. Then his response.
Fuck, Lauren.
She bit her lip. The raw heat in those two words made her stomach flip.
That was you? He typed again. Can you come over? I need to see you. Now.
Her thumbs moved before her brain could catch up. My parents are gone this afternoon. Come here.
The pause felt like an eternity. She stared at the screen, willing him to say yes. The spinning wheel taunted her. Then, a new message.
I'll be there in an hour.
She gasped, a sound somewhere between laughter and disbelief. The phone slipped from her fingers and thudded onto the mattress. She sprang out of bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floor with a slap. Biscuits startled awake, letting out an indignant mew as she tore across the room.
Her shirt hit the floor in a heap near the door. Sleep shorts followed, discarded without a second thought. She was a whirlwind of bare skin and tangled hair and a grin so wide it made her cheeks ache. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she passed—flushed, disheveled, utterly radiant—and laughed out loud.
The shower water was scalding by the time she stepped in. She let it beat against her skin, washing away the remnants of sleep and the night before. She scrubbed herself with rose-scented soap that her mother had bought on sale, then lathered and rinsed her hair until it squeaked. A tiny voice in the back of her head warned her this was moving fast. She silenced it with the memory of his lips on her cheek, the way his hand had cradled her face.
She stepped out and dried off in a hurry, the cold air raising goosebumps across her damp skin. She walked back into her bedroom, her eyes landing on the longsword mounted on the wall. The polished steel caught the light, flaring gold. Her father's gift, a family heirloom, had always felt like a symbol of something bigger—a reminder of the romantic, chivalric world she'd always yearned for. Now she was about to bring the man who made her feel like she was living in it into this room.
She pulled on a sundress, something light and yellow that flared at the waist. A brush through her hair, a swipe of gloss, a spritz of jasmine perfume at her throat and wrists. She caught her reflection and frowned at the frantic giddiness in her eyes. She'd never been this girl before. The one who dropped clothes on the floor and answered with sultry photos and said yes without a moment's hesitation. He'd unlocked a part of her she hadn't known existed.
Biscuits wound between her ankles, complaining. She bent to scratch his ears.
"Later, boy. I have a visitor coming."
She walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, where a note on the counter confirmed her parents were out. Their handwriting was familiar, a brief scrawl to say there were leftovers in the fridge. The house stood quiet and empty around her, all the usual sounds absent.
She poured herself a glass of water and caught a glimpse of herself in the stainless steel refrigerator. Her cheeks were flushed. Her pulse would not slow. She checked her phone again and found a string of texts from Liam, each one needy in a way that made her chest ache.
Just left. ETA twenty minutes.
Your parents are really gone, right?
Lauren. Do you know how hard it's going to be to keep my hands off you when I see you?
A wave of heat washed through her. She set the phone down and took a long, slow breath. Twenty minutes. She had twenty minutes to figure out how to be the girl who did this without falling apart.
She didn't want to be careful anymore. She wanted to feel the weight of him on top of her, the warmth of his skin against hers. She wanted to taste the salt on his lips and tangle her hands in his hair. She'd spent twenty years waiting for a romance that felt like the books on her shelf—full of longing and tension and epic declarations. This was different. This was messier and faster and utterly terrifying.
But it was also real, and it was happening now, and he was coming to her. That was all that mattered.