Chapter 4: The Confession
The air in Dee’s apartment wasn’t just still now; it was charged, crackling like the silence after a lightning strike. Matt’s words, that raw, greedy confession, hung between them, more tangible than the scent of lavender and old smoke. His grip on her wrist softened, his thumb moving in a slow, absent circle over her frantic pulse.
She could only stare, her mind a white-noise scream of seven years, seven years, seven years.
“Matt,” she finally breathed, the word shattering the quiet.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough, a low scrape of sound. He didn’t let go.
“You lied to yourself.” It wasn’t a question.
“Every single goddamn day.” His other hand came up, fingers tracing the line of her jaw with a reverence that made her shudder. “The way you’d laugh at my terrible jokes. The focus on your face when you’re working. I told myself it was just… fondness. Big brother stuff.”
A weak, disbelieving laugh escaped her. “Big brothers don’t look at their sisters like that.”
“No,” he agreed, his eyes holding hers, that famous blue now dark and utterly serious. “They don’t.” The distance between their mouths was inches, a continent she’d spent years mapping. He closed it slowly this time, a deliberate sealing of a pact. This kiss wasn’t a shattering; it was an exploration, a soft, lingering proof.
When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard. “This is a terrible idea,” Dee whispered, her forehead resting against his.
“The worst,” Matt murmured, his lips brushing her temple. “We’ll ruin everything.”
“Everything.”
He leaned back just enough to see her whole face. “So let’s ruin it.”
The silence after her challenge was a living thing, thick and electric. Matt’s gaze darkened, the blue turning stormy. He didn’t speak. He moved.
In one fluid motion, he closed the final distance, his hand wrapping around her wrist. His grip was firm, warm, inevitable. He pulled her, not gently, against the solid wall of his chest. A low sound escaped him, part growl, part surrender. “You want to know what I want?” His breath was hot against her temple.
He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth crashed down on hers.
The kiss was not gentle. It was seven years of denial shattering. It was frantic and deep, a claiming and an apology fused together. Her back met the bookshelf, the Berlin frame rattling. His hands were everywhere—in her hair, gripping her hips, pulling her closer until no space remained.
Fabric ripped. The sound was shockingly loud in the small room. His henley tore at the seam under her clutching fingers, the grey cotton yielding with a harsh sigh. Her own blouse followed, buttons pinging against the laminate floor like scattered hail. CLOTHES TORN APART. There was no patience, no gentle undressing, only the urgent, necessary demolition of every last barrier between them. Skin met skin, hot and trembling.
“Matt,” she gasped against his mouth, her voice shattered.
“I know,” he breathed back, his lips trailing fire down her throat. “I know.”
His hand closed around her wrist, warm and firm, pulling her across the last invisible boundary until her body collided with his. The contact was electric, a live wire jolting through seven years of careful distance. A low growl vibrated in his chest. “Ask me what I want, then watch my answer dissolve between your thighs as I show you exactly how long I’ve been lying to myself about you.”
The words were a detonation. Before she could process them, his mouth was on hers.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming, a confession, a breaking open. It tasted of cheap champagne and desperate truth, his tongue sliding against hers with a hunger that mirrored the ache in her bones. Her hands flew to his face, her fingers tracing the familiar stubble along his jaw—only now it was under her palms, real and his. He murmured something raw and incoherent against her lips, his hands sliding down her back, gathering the fabric of her shirt, pulling her impossibly closer until there was no space for doubt, for friendship, for anything but this.
The world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the hard plane of his chest against hers, the scent of his skin—now layered with something darker, purely male. Her back met the wall beside the bookshelf, the Berlin photo rattling again in its frame. He broke the kiss, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed to hers. His blue eyes were stormy, unrecognizable. “Dee,” he breathed, her name a prayer and a curse.
He didn’t wait for her answer. His mouth found the frantic pulse at her throat, his hands pushing her shirt up, his palms hot against her ribs. She fumbled for the hem of his henley, tugging it over his head. It joined her shirt on the floor.
CLOTHES HIT FLOOR.
Jeans, belts, the last barriers of cotton and denim followed in a rushed, chaotic heap at their feet. The cool air of the apartment brushed her skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of him. There was no more pretense, no more Hollywood, no more best friends. There was just this: skin on skin, the shock of his body against hers, the solid weight of him pressing her into the wall. His touch was everywhere, learning her, mapping a territory he’d only ever glanced at from a safe, stupid distance.
His hand snapped out, fingers wrapping around her wrist with a sudden, startling pressure. He pulled her against his chest, the soft cotton of his henley rough against her cheek. “Ask me what I want,” he growled, his breath hot against her ear.
Before she could form a word, his mouth was on hers. It wasn’t a question. It was an answer. Seven years of stupid, careful friendship dissolved between their desperate, moving lips. Her back hit the bookshelf, the Berlin photo rattling violently, but his other hand was already there, cradling her head.
Then he pivoted, walking her backwards, his mouth never leaving hers. Her shoulders connected with the drywall with a soft thud. AGAINST THE WALL. The impact shuddered through her, pinning her in place between the unyielding surface and the solid heat of his body. He broke the kiss, both hands now framing her face, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. His breathing was ragged.
“This,” he said, his voice raw. “This is what I want.” He kissed her again, deeper this time, all control gone. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. The taste of him—coffee and something uniquely, infuriatingly Matt—flooded her senses. A low sound escaped his throat, vibrations humming against her lips.
One of his hands slid from her face, down her side, coming to rest on her hip, his fingers digging in. It was possessive, a stark contrast to every friendly, brotherly touch that had come before. She arched into him, a silent plea. His mouth trailed from her lips to her jaw, down the frantic pulse in her neck. “You have no idea,” he muttered against her skin, “how long I’ve lied to myself.”
Matt’s hand slid from her cheek to cradle the back of her neck, his thumb pressing gently into the pulse point there. “I don’t have questions,” he said, his voice a rough scrape. “I have an answer.” His other hand found her hip, pulling her firmly against him. The contact was electric, a shock of heat through the thin fabric of her clothes.
Seven years of restraint evaporated in the space of a heartbeat. His mouth found hers with a desperation that felt like drowning and breathing for the first time. The kiss wasn’t gentle; it was a confession, a collision of all the words they’d never said. Her hands flew to his shoulders, gripping the solid muscle beneath his henley as he backed her across the room.
Her spine met the cool, unyielding plaster.