Chapter 2: Grey Sheets and Confessions
The mattress dipped under his weight as he shifted above her, and Luna felt the world contract to the size of this room—the gray sheets bunched beneath her back, the single lamp throwing gold across the ceiling, the faint smell of leather drifting from the jacket slung over a chair in the corner. Her hoodie was already gone, lost somewhere on the floor. His shirt had followed. She could feel the heat of his chest through the thin cotton of her bra, and her heart was hammering so loud she was sure he could hear it.
He pulled back. Just an inch. Just enough.
"Hey." His voice was rough, quieter than before. "You're shaking."
"I know."
"We can stop."
"I know." She swallowed. "I don't want to."
Leo studied her face for a long moment. The lamp light caught the edge of his jaw, the small scar through his eyebrow, the way his pupils had blown wide and dark. He looked like he wanted to say something else—something careful, something reassuring—but instead he just nodded.
"Okay," he said.
His hands moved to her waist. Slow. Deliberate. His fingers found the button of her jeans, and he paused there, waiting.
She nodded.
He undid the button. Pulled the zipper down. His knuckles brushed her stomach as he worked the denim over her hips, and she lifted herself to help him, kicking the jeans away until she was lying there in nothing but her bra and underwear—plain black, nothing special, nothing she'd chosen for anyone but herself.
Leo sat back on his heels. Looked at her.
Not the way Ethan used to look at her—appraising, calculating, already bored. Leo looked at her like she was something worth taking his time with. Like he was memorizing her.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"Don't."
"What?"
"Don't say things you don't mean."
His brow furrowed. "I don't say things I don't mean."
Luna looked away. The ceiling was easier. The ceiling didn't have green eyes that saw too much.
"Hey." He touched her chin. Gently. Turned her face back toward him. "I'm going to take this off now. Is that okay?"
His fingers were on the clasp of her bra. She nodded.
The bra came away. Cool air hit her skin, and her arms instinctively crossed over her chest—a reflex, a shield, a habit she'd built over years of hiding.
Leo didn't pull her arms away. He just waited.
"You don't have to hide from me," he said.
"I'm not hiding."
"You are."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he didn't know her, didn't know what she'd been through, didn't know the things she'd done to make herself small. But the words wouldn't come.
So she let her arms fall.
Leo's breath caught. Not loud—just a small hitch, barely there. His eyes moved over her, and she felt herself flush under the weight of his gaze.
"Can I touch you?" he asked.
"You don't have to ask."
"I want to."
She closed her eyes. "Yes."
His hand found her ribcage first. Warm. Calloused. He traced the curve of her ribs like he was reading braille, like her body was a language he wanted to learn. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast, and she shivered.
"Cold?" he asked.
"No."
His mouth found her collarbone. Kissed there. Then lower. The hollow of her throat. The space between her breasts. He moved like he had nowhere else to be, like the only thing that mattered was this—her skin, her breath, the way she arched into him without meaning to.
When his lips closed around her nipple, she gasped. His tongue was hot and wet, and he sucked gently, then harder, and she felt it all the way down to her cunt—a sharp pull of pleasure that made her hips buck against nothing.
"Fuck," she whispered.
Leo hummed against her skin. His hand found her other breast, kneading, his thumb circling her nipple until it was hard and aching. He switched sides. Gave the other one the same attention. Luna's fingers twisted in the sheets, and she was already wet—could feel it slick between her thighs—and he hadn't even touched her there yet.
He kissed his way down her stomach. Past her navel. His hands hooked into the waistband of her underwear.
"Can I?" he asked again.
"Yes. Please."
He pulled them off. Slow. Watching her face the whole time.
And then she was naked. Completely. Lying on a stranger's bed with the lamp light painting her skin gold, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn't want to disappear.
Leo sat back. Looked at her.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Look at you."
She felt herself flush again. "Stop."
"I'm not stopping." He leaned down. Kissed her hip bone. "I'm never going to stop."
His mouth moved lower. Across her pelvis. Down the inside of her thigh. He bit her there—gently, just enough to make her gasp—and then soothed it with his tongue.
"Leo—"
"Shh."
He spread her legs. Settled between them. And then his mouth was on her, and Luna stopped thinking.
His tongue was flat and warm, dragging up her slit, and she moaned—a raw, broken sound that she barely recognized as her own. He licked her slowly at first, exploratory, learning the shape of her. Then he found her clit and sucked, and her hips jerked off the mattress.
"Fuck—fuck, Leo—"
He didn't stop. His tongue circled her clit, pressed against it, flicked it in a rhythm that made her vision blur. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her open, and she couldn't have closed her legs if she'd wanted to.
"Please," she gasped. "Please don't stop."
He hummed against her—a low, satisfied sound—and the vibration made her back arch off the bed.
His fingers found her entrance. One slid inside. Then two. Curling up, pressing against something that made stars burst behind her eyes.
"Oh god—"
He pumped his fingers slowly, matching the rhythm of his tongue, and Luna felt the pressure building in her core—tight and hot and inevitable. Her hands flew to his hair, twisting in the dark strands, and she pulled him closer, needing more, needing everything.
"I'm—I'm going to—"
He sucked harder. Fingers curling. And she shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her like a current. Her thighs clamped around his head, and she cried out—his name, something incoherent, a sound that was half sob and half prayer. He worked her through it, tongue gentling but never stopping, until she was trembling and oversensitive and pushing at his head.
"Okay," she gasped. "Okay—stop—"
He pulled back. His mouth was wet. His chin glistened. He was grinning like he'd just won something.
"Good?" he asked.
She couldn't speak. Could only nod.
He crawled up her body. Kissed her—and she tasted herself on his lips, salty and strange and intimate. His cock pressed against her thigh, hard and hot through his boxers, and she reached for it without thinking.
"Can I—" she started.
"You don't have to."
"I want to."
He kissed her again. "Next time."
"Next time?"
"Yeah." His eyes found hers in the dim light. "If you want there to be one."
She didn't answer. Just pulled him closer.
His boxers came off. She didn't see much—just the shape of him in the shadows, thick and heavy—and then he was reaching for the nightstand, pulling out a condom, rolling it on.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
"I want you inside me."
"You sure?"
"Yes. Fuck, Leo—yes."
He positioned himself at her entrance. Paused there. The head of his cock pressed against her, and she felt how wet she was, how ready.
"Look at me," he said.
She did.
He pushed inside.
Slow. So fucking slow. Inching in, letting her stretch around him, watching her face the whole time. It burned—a good burn, a full burn—and Luna gasped and gripped his shoulders.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Yeah. Yeah, keep going."
He bottomed out. Held still. His forehead dropped to hers, and they breathed together, two sets of lungs syncing in the dark.
"Fuck," he whispered. "You feel—fuck."
She laughed. Breathless. Nearly hysterical.
"Move," she said.
He moved.
Slow at first. Pulling out almost all the way, then pushing back in, a long, deep stroke that made her toes curl. His hips found a rhythm, steady and unhurried, and Luna wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper.
"Harder," she gasped.
He gave her harder. Fucked her with a force that pushed the breath from her lungs. The bed creaked beneath them. The lamp on the nightstand rattled. And Luna was moaning, loud and unashamed, because there was no one here to hear, no one to judge, nothing but him.
"You like that?" His voice was rough, raw.
"Yes—yes—"
"Tell me."
"I like it—I love it—fuck, don't stop—"
He didn't stop. He fucked her like he was trying to prove something, like he wanted to leave marks on her memory. His hand found her breast, squeezed. His mouth found her neck, bit down. And Luna felt the pressure building again—that same hot coil in her core—and she knew she was close.
"I'm—" she started.
"Me too. Come for me. Please. Come on my cock."
The words—filthy and desperate and perfect—pushed her over the edge.
She came with a cry, her whole body locking around him, and Leo followed a moment later—groaning into her hair, his hips stuttering, his weight collapsing onto her as he emptied himself into the condom.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Luna felt it. The tears.
They came out of nowhere—hot and fast, sliding down her cheeks, dripping into her hair. She wasn't crying, exactly. Wasn't sad. It was something else. Something she didn't have a name for.
Leo lifted his head. Saw her face. His expression shifted—softened—and he didn't ask what was wrong. Didn't panic. He just pulled out carefully, dealt with the condom, and then gathered her into his arms.
"Hey," he said. "Hey. It's okay."
"I don't know why I'm—" She shook her head. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry."
"It's stupid."
"It's not."
He held her. Rubbed slow circles on her back. Let her cry without asking her to stop, without making her feel broken. And Luna thought—vaguely, distantly—that this might be the first time anyone had ever held her while she fell apart.
After a while, the tears stopped.
"I'm okay," she said. Her voice was thick. Her nose was running.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
He pulled back. Looked at her. Wiped her cheeks with his thumbs.
"You're a mess," he said, but he was smiling.
"I know."
"It's cute."
"Shut up."
He kissed her. Gentle. Soft. Then he rolled off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. She heard water running. He came back with a warm washcloth and cleaned her up, careful and thorough, like he'd done it a thousand times before.
When he was done, he tossed the cloth aside and climbed back into bed.
"Stay," he said.
Luna blinked. "What?"
"Stay. Tonight. I don't—" He stopped. Started again. "I've never asked a girl to stay."
She stared at him. "Never?"
"Never."
"Why me?"
He shrugged. A small, almost shy gesture. "I don't know. You're different."
"That's what they all say."
"I'm not 'they.'"
She looked at him. The green eyes. The sharp jaw. The way he was holding her like she was something fragile.
"I've never wanted to stay," she said.
"And now?"
She didn't answer. Just shifted closer. Pressed her face into his chest. Breathed him in.
He pulled the blanket over them. Turned off the lamp. And in the dark, his hand found hers.
They didn't set an alarm. Didn't talk about tomorrow. Just lay there, tangled together, breathing in sync.
And somewhere in the quiet, Luna felt a crack form in the walls she'd built. Small. Almost invisible.
But it was there.
The crack was small. A hairline fracture in the foundation she'd built after Ethan, the one she'd reinforced with every ignored text, every declined invitation, every night spent alone in her childhood bedroom with the door locked and the lights on.
She could feel it now, lying in Leo's bed with his arm draped across her waist and his breath warm against her hair. The city hummed outside the window—distant sirens, the occasional rush of tires on wet asphalt, someone's dog barking three floors down. The lamp was off, but the blinds let in enough streetlight to paint silver lines across the ceiling.
Luna's eyes were open.
She wasn't tired. She should have been—the crash of endorphins, the emotional whiplash of crying in a stranger's arms—but her body was wired, buzzing with something she couldn't name. His hand on her hip was heavy and warm. His cock, still half-hard from earlier, pressed against her ass through the thin cotton of his boxers.
She felt it twitch.
Neither of them moved. The room was still, suspended in that strange timeless limbo between midnight and dawn. Luna's thoughts raced in circles, but the rest of her—the physical part, the part that had been starved for so long—had settled into something else entirely.
Her cunt throbbed. Persistent. Insistent. A dull ache that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
Behind her, Leo shifted. A small adjustment of his hips, almost unconscious. His cock pressed harder against her, and she heard his breath catch—just for a second, just enough to tell her he was awake too.
They lay there, both pretending.
Luna's hand moved before she'd decided to move it. Sliding down her own hip, past her belly, reaching back until her fingers brushed the waistband of his boxers. He went rigid behind her.
"Luna," he said. Just her name. A question and a warning in one.
She didn't answer. Just slipped her hand beneath the cotton and found him.
Hot. Thick. Already hard again, or maybe he'd never really softened. Her fingers wrapped around his shaft, and he made a sound—low, strangled, like he was trying to swallow it.
"You don't have to—" he started.
"I know."
She stroked him. Slow. Root to tip. She felt the skin slide, felt the ridge of his head beneath her palm, felt the pulse of blood that made him swell against her grip. He was big—bigger up close than she'd realized in the dark—and her hand couldn't quite circle him fully.
"Fuck," he whispered.
Luna turned in his arms. Faced him. His eyes were open now, catching the streetlight, pupils blown wide. She watched his face as she stroked him, watched the way his jaw tightened and his lips parted.
She kissed him.
Soft at first. Just lips. Then deeper, tongue sliding against his, and she tasted the faint mint of toothpaste and underneath it something warmer, muskier, the ghost of her own cunt still on his breath.
Her hand kept moving. Faster now. A steady rhythm that made his hips jerk into her fist. She dragged her thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the slickness that beaded there, and he groaned into her mouth.
"Jesus, Luna—"
She kissed his jaw. His neck. The hollow of his throat, where his pulse hammered against her lips. His hands found her waist, gripped hard, like he was trying to hold on to something that was slipping away.
"I want to taste you," she said against his skin.
Leo went still.
"You don't—"
"I want to."
She pulled back. Looked at him. His chest was rising and falling too fast, and his eyes—those green eyes—were searching hers for something. Hesitation. Regret. An exit.
She gave him none.
Luna slid down the bed. The sheets were cool against her skin, still tangled from earlier. She positioned herself between his legs, and he watched her the whole time, propped up on his elbows, his cock jutting up from his boxers like a beacon.
She pulled the boxers down. He lifted his hips to help.
And then he was bare. Completely. Thick and long and flushed dark at the tip, curving slightly toward his stomach. She wrapped her fingers around the base and leaned in.
The first lick was experimental. Just her tongue, flat and wet, dragging up the underside of his shaft. He hissed through his teeth. She did it again. Slower. Pressing harder. Following the thick vein that ran from root to tip.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, Luna."
She took him in her mouth.
Just the head at first. Sucking gently, letting her tongue swirl around the ridge. He tasted like latex and salt, and underneath it something distinctly him—a musk that made her stomach clench and her thighs press together.
She took him deeper. Relaxed her throat. Let him slide in until he hit the back of her mouth.
"God—"
His hand found her hair. Not pushing. Just holding. Fingers twisting in the pink strands like he needed an anchor. She looked up at him through her lashes and saw his head thrown back, his throat exposed, his chest heaving.
She pulled back. Sucked harder. Bobbed her head in a rhythm that she'd learned from months of Ethan's criticism and demands—but this was different. Ethan had made her feel like a tool. A means to an end. Leo was falling apart beneath her, and the power of it made her cunt clench around nothing.
She used her hand where her mouth couldn't reach. Twisting, stroking, matching the rhythm of her lips. Spit gathered at the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin, and she didn't care. She was making a mess of him. Making a mess of herself.
"Luna—fuck—I'm close—"
She didn't stop. Didn't slow down. Just took him deeper, sucked harder, looked up at him with those eyes that had seen too much and still chose this.
He came with a shout.
His hips bucked off the mattress. His hand fisted in her hair so hard it hurt. And his cock pulsed against her tongue, flooding her mouth with heat and salt and something bitter underneath.
She swallowed.
Every drop. Every pulse. She drank him down like she was starving for it, and when he finally stopped—when his body went limp and his hand fell away from her hair—she pulled back just far enough to look at him.
His eyes were open. Glassy. Dazed.
She swallowed one last time and showed him her empty mouth. Not a word. Not a smirk. Just that open, honest look that said everything.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered.
Luna crawled up his body. Her limbs were shaking—from exertion, from arousal, from the sheer insanity of what she'd just done. She collapsed beside him, sprawled across his chest, her cheek pressed against his pounding heart.
Neither of them spoke.
His hand found her back. Rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades. The gesture was so tender, so unexpected, that Luna felt tears prick at her eyes again—but she didn't let them fall. Just closed her eyes. Just breathed.
"That was—" he started.
"Shh."
"I was going to say—"
"I know."
He laughed. A weak, breathless sound. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer, and she let herself be pulled.
"This is insane," he said. "You know that, right?"
"Yeah."
"We just met."
"Yeah."
"And I'm—" He paused. "I don't do this."
"You said that already."
"I know. I just—" He shook his head against the pillow. "I don't know what this is."
Luna didn't answer. Because she didn't know either. Because the crack in her walls was getting bigger, and she was too tired to patch it up. Because for the first time in eighteen months, she felt something other than fear.
She felt seen.
They lay there as the city slowly quieted. The sirens stopped. The dog three floors down went silent. The streetlight outside flickered once, twice, and then held steady.
Luna's eyes grew heavy.
She didn't fight it.
Somewhere in the last moments before sleep claimed her, she felt Leo's lips press against the top of her head. A kiss so light she almost missed it.
"'Night, Luna," he whispered.
She wanted to say something. Wanted to tell him that she hadn't slept through the night in months. Wanted to tell him that she always woke at 3 a.m. with her heart pounding and her hands searching for exits. Wanted to tell him that his arms felt like the safest place she'd ever been.
But the words wouldn't come.
So she just pressed closer. Let her breathing sync with his. Let the darkness pull her under.
And for the first time in eighteen months, Luna slept without dreaming of Ethan's face.
The crack widened.