Chapter 6: Passionate Reunion
The flat was quiet, a world away from the stadium’s roar. The only light came from a single lamp, casting long shadows across the shelves of books and the framed jerseys on the wall. Ally closed the door, and the click of the latch was as final as a held breath. He turned to her, his bulk filling the space between the cramped hallway and the living room, his face unreadable in the dimness.
“Coffee?” he asked, his voice low.
“No,” Roz said, her own voice barely a whisper. She took a step towards him, then another, until she was close enough to smell the faint, clean scent of his soap and the colder night air clinging to his jacket. She reached up, her fingers finding the coarse wool of his collar. “I don’t want coffee.”
His eyes searched hers, the green of them darkened to a deep, forest shade. He brought his hands up, not to pull her in, but to gently frame her face. His thumbs swept over her cheekbones, a touch so reverent it made her throat tighten. This was the man who could charge through a wall of other men, whose body was a weapon on the field, now handling her as if she were spun glass.
“Are you sure?” he murmured, his breath warm against her lips.
In answer, she rose on her toes and kissed him.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was all the accumulated tension of weeks—the charged dinners, the hospital-room intimacy, the unbearable lightness of his hand on her wrist, the lonely London nights spent listening to his voice on the phone. It was a release. Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him down to her as his own encircled her waist, crushing her to him.
He walked her backwards, never breaking the kiss, through the archway and into the bedroom. The room was as she’d left it days ago, the bed unmade, a book splayed open on his nightstand. He stopped at the foot of the bed, his hands moving from her waist to the buttons of her coat. He worked them slowly, his gaze locked on hers, each pop of a button a tiny punctuation in the silence.
The coat slid from her shoulders to the floor. His fingers found the hem of her jumper, and he drew it up and over her head, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of her stomach, making her muscles quiver. He looked his fill, his eyes tracing the lines of her collarbones, the lace of her bra. “Christ, Roz,” he breathed out, the words full of wonder.
She reciprocated, her fingers tackling the buttons of his shirt. They fumbled, clumsy with urgency. He laughed, a soft, shaky sound, and helped her, shrugging the shirt off. The lamp light played over the landscape of his torso—the powerful shoulders, the defined pectorals, the dark trail of hair leading downward. The faint, yellowing bruise of his cracked rib stood out against his skin, a reminder of his vulnerability.
She touched it, her fingertips feather-light on the discoloured skin. “Does it hurt?”
“Not now,” he said, capturing her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. “Nothing hurts now.”
He laid her back on the bed, following her down, his weight a welcome anchor. His mouth found hers again, deeper this time, his tongue exploring with a slow, devastating patience. He kissed a trail down her throat, to the swell of her breast, his hands working the clasp of her bra with an unexpected dexterity. When her breasts were bare to the cool air and his heated gaze, he paused, just looking.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, and the raw honesty in his voice unmoored her.
He took his time. There was no rush, no frantic race to undress. He worshipped her with his hands and his mouth, learning the geography of her body—the sensitive hollow behind her knee, the soft skin of her inner thigh, the particular spot at the base of her spine that made her arch against him. He peeled away the rest of her clothing, and then his own, until they were both laid bare in the half-light.
His body was a marvel of engineered muscle, but it was his tenderness that undid her. He was careful, infinitely so, positioning himself over her, supporting his weight on his elbows to keep from pressing on his injury. When he finally entered her, it was with a slow, deliberate push that made her cry out, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his back.
He stilled, his forehead damp against hers. “Okay?”
She could only nod, her eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed by the sheer, shocking fullness of him. He began to move, a steady, building rhythm that was both primal and exquisitely controlled. This was nothing like the fumbling, perfunctory sex she’d known before. This was a conversation. His hips asked a question, her body answered. Her soft moans elicited a low, guttural response from deep in his chest.
She lost all sense of time and place. There was only the smell of his skin, the sound of their breathing, the friction of sheets, the increasing pressure coiling deep inside her. She opened her eyes and found him watching her, his expression one of such intense focus, as if memorizing every flicker of pleasure that crossed her face.
“Look at me,” he whispered, his voice strained.
She did. Her gaze locked with his, and it was the most intimate act of all. The connection was absolute, a circuit completed. The pleasure built, cresting from a slow burn into a wildfire, sweeping through her veins until she broke, shattering around him with a sharp, keening cry that she muffled against his shoulder.
He followed her over the edge, his own release a hard, shuddering groan against her neck, his body collapsing carefully onto his good side beside her, his arm draped possessively over her waist.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing slowly returning to normal. The weight of his arm was a solid, comforting truth. She traced the lines of his muscles, feeling the rapid beat of his heart gradually slow under her palm.
“Well,” he finally said, his voice husky with sleep and satisfaction. “That was….”
“Yeah,” she breathed, a languid, utterly sated smile spreading across her face. “It was.”
He shifted, wincing only slightly, to pull the duvet over them. He tucked her against his side, her head finding its now-familiar place on his shoulder. The city lights painted shifting patterns on the ceiling.
“I should probably say something poetic,” he murmured into her hair. “But my brain’s just… static.”
She laughed, a soft, contented sound. “Don’t. This is better.”
They lay in silence for a while, limbs entwined, the warmth of their bodies melding under the covers. Roz listened to the steady thump of his heart, felt the slow, even rise and fall of his chest. This was different. David had always rolled away, already reaching for his phone. Ally held her closer.
“That thing you said,” she began, her voice small in the dark. “About the silence after a loss. I get it now.”
He was quiet for a moment. “How so?”
“All my life, it’s felt like there was this… noise. This expectation. Of who I should be, what I should want. The right career, the right boyfriend.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “With you, it’s just… quiet. The good kind.”
His arm tightened around her. He didn’t speak, but he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and it was an agreement, an understanding.
Eventually, his breathing deepened into the regular patterns of sleep. Roz stayed awake a little longer, listening to the soft sounds of the night—a distant siren, the creak of the old building settling, the rhythm of his breath. She thought of the drainage plans waiting on her laptop, the model influencers who probably populated his world, the vast, unknowable path that had led them here, to this tangled warmth.
She carefully extricated herself, sliding out from under his heavy arm. He stirred, mumbling her name in his sleep.
“Just getting water,” she whispered, pulling on his discarded t-shirt.
She padded barefoot into the kitchen, the cool wooden floors a contrast to the warmth of the bed. She drank a glass of water, leaning against the counter, her body humming with a pleasant, deep-seated ache. Her eyes scanned his living room, the books, the worn sofa, the photograph of his team. This wasn't a player's penthouse. It was a home.
A sliver of doubt, cold and sharp, slid into her contentment. This was real. It was happening. And things that were real could be broken.
She walked back to the bedroom doorway and watched him sleep. He’d thrown an arm across her empty space, his face relaxed, younger-looking. The bruise on his ribs was a stark, purple shadow in the dim light.
Quietly, she crossed the room and slipped back into bed. The moment her body touched the mattress, his arm curled around her, pulling her back into the heat of him without him ever waking up. She settled against him, the doubt receding, replaced by a fierce, protective certainty.
This was different. And she was not going to let it go.
The certainty was a warm, solid weight in her chest, heavier and more real than the duvet. She slept deeper than she had in years, untroubled by the usual skittering anxieties about work or the ghost of David’s disapproval. Her consciousness returned not with a jolt, but in slow, gentle waves. The first was the smell of him on the pillow—soap, skin, something uniquely male and comforting. The second was the dull, pleasant ache between her thighs, a physical memory of the night. The third was the weight of his arm, still draped over her waist, his hand splayed possessively against her stomach.
Morning light, thin and grey, filtered through the blinds, striping the rumpled sheets and the landscape of his body beside her. She shifted minutely, and his arm tightened, a subconscious reflex that sent a thrill through her. He was awake. She could feel the change in his breathing, the slight tension in the muscles along her back.
“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, the word breathed directly into her hair.
She rolled over to face him. His eyes were open, watchful and soft, the green muted in the dawn light. Flecks of gold shimmered around the pupils. He didn’t smile, just looked at her as if she were a complicated and fascinating text he was trying to decipher. He lifted a hand and brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, his fingertips tracing the line of her jaw with a touch so light it was almost not there.
“Hi,” she whispered back, her own voice catching.
He studied her for another long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a slow, lazy smile finally broke across his face, transforming the seriousness into pure, unguarded warmth. It was a smile she had never seen before, one that reached his eyes and crinkled the skin at their corners. He leaned in and kissed her, not with the desperate heat of the night before, but with a slow, deepening certainty that felt like a promise.
When he pulled back, he propped his head on his hand, his gaze sweeping over her face. “So. What’s the plan for today, Architect Macdonald?”
“I have about a hundred emails waiting,” she said, the real world pushing its way in like an unwelcome guest. “And that drainage crisis won’t solve itself.”
He made a low sound of disapproval in his throat. “It’s Sunday. The drains can wait.” His fingers trailed down her arm, leaving a trail of sparks on her skin. “I have a better idea.”
He paused, his eyes searching hers, his expression turning tentative, almost shy. The confident rugby star was gone, replaced by the man who’d quoted poetry over dessert. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a hushed, intimate whisper that was just for her. “I can take you out somewhere beautiful.” He brushed his lips against her temple. “I just want to be with you, Roz.”
The grey morning light carved his silhouette into something ancient and elemental. He moved over her with a fluid strength that silenced the last of her thoughts, the muscles in his shoulders and arms caging her in. His eyes, dark and focused, held hers with an intensity that made the air feel thin.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
“Yes,” she breathed, the word more sigh than sound.
He lowered himself, the heat of his skin searing where it met hers. He kissed her with a consuming slowness, a deliberate reclaiming of the territory they’d mapped hours before. His hands were everywhere, rediscovering the curve of her hip, the sensitive line of her throat, the frantic pulse at her wrist. It was different from the night’s exploratory passion; this was a confirmation, a deep and practiced knowing.
“I want to so this as well,” she murmured against his mouth, her hands sliding down the hard plane of his back.
A sound, something between a groan and a laugh, vibrated in his chest. He shifted, his movements sure and deliberate, and straddled her. He looked strong and warrior-like in the stark light, a statue carved from desire and discipline. The faint bruise on his ribs was a testament to battles fought, but the look in his eyes was for her alone.
“Come here,” he quivered, the control in his voice fraying at the edges as he leaned down. His breath was hot against her ear. “Let me make you feel good, baby.”
His mouth found the pulse point beneath her jaw, and her back arched off the bed. The world narrowed to the press of his thighs against hers, the scent of their shared sleep, the shivering anticipation coiling deep in her belly. Every thought, every doubt about drains and contracts and old ghosts, evaporated in the furnace of his attention.
He was a man who knew his own strength, but his touch was a masterpiece of restraint and precision. He worshipped her with a singular devotion that left her breathless and burning. When she finally cried out, her fingers clutching at the sheets, it was with the shattering certainty that this was no fleeting thing. He followed her into the quiet, his own release a surrendering sigh against her skin, his full weight a blessed, momentary anchor.
For a long time, the only sound was their ragged breathing syncing into something slower, more peaceful. Sunlight now glowed brightly behind the blinds, painting the room in stripes of gold. He rolled onto his side, his hand immediately finding the curve of her waist as if tethered there.
“The drains are definitely going to have to wait,” she said, her voice hoarse.
He laughed, a rich, unguarded sound that filled the room. “Told you I had a better idea.” He propped his head on his hand, his gaze tracing the lines of her face with a possession that felt earned, not taken. “Although my second idea involves coffee. And maybe pancakes.”
“Pancakes sound like a radically good idea.”
“I have my moments.” He leaned in and kissed her shoulder, a soft, lingering press of his lips. “Don’t move. I’ll be the warlord of the kitchen.”
He slid out of bed with a wince she knew he’d try to hide, the cracked rib protesting the movement. She watched him pull on a pair of sweatpants that hung low on his hips, his back a map of powerful muscle and faded scars. The sight of him, this vulnerable warrior padding barefoot toward the kitchen, made something fierce and protective clench in her chest.
The scent of coffee soon began to weave its way into the room, a mundane magic. Roz lay amidst the tangled sheets, the phantom feel of his hands still imprinted on her skin. The quiet was different now. It wasn't an absence, but a presence—a new, shared space they had built between them, and it felt, for the first time, like something that could truly be hers.