Chapter 7: The Reveal
The heavy hotel room door swung shut behind them with a solid, muffled thud, sealing them into a silence that felt worlds away from the bustling Princes Street below. Before Roz could even take in the room, Ally’s arms were around her, lifting her effortlessly off her feet. She let out a startled gasp that turned into a laugh, her own arms locking around his neck.
“What are you doing?” she giggled, her voice echoing in the vast, high-ceilinged space.
“Tradition,” he murmured into her hair, his breath warm against her scalp. He carried her across the threshold of the penthouse suite as if she weighed nothing, his steps sure and steady on the plush carpet.
He didn’t put her down. Instead, he walked them further into the room, and the view stopped her breath. The entire far wall was glass, a sweeping, unobstructed panorama of the Edinburgh skyline. There, illuminated against the bruised purple of the evening sky, was the Castle, its ancient stone walls glowing under the spotlights, a silent sentinel over their modern luxury.
“Oh, Ally,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on the scene.
He finally set her down gently, but his hands stayed on her hips, anchoring her. “I know you’re not into the rugby,” he said softly, his voice close to her ear. “But this… this is my city. I wanted to share it with you from up here.”
She turned in his arms, facing him. The opulence of the room framed him perfectly—the deep, rich mahogany of the sideboards, the velvety sheen of the charcoal grey sofa, the soft glow from the minimalist lamps. But all she saw was him. The intense focus in his green eyes, the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders.
“It’s incredible,” she said, meaning more than the view.
His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth, and the atmosphere in the room shifted, the air thickening with a familiar, charged energy. His fingers tightened on her hips, pulling her flush against him. She could feel the hard lines of his body, the evidence of his desire pressing into her stomach.
“You mentioned something about lace earlier,” he reminded her, his voice a low, rough tease. His hands slid from her hips to the hem of her dress, bunching the dark fabric slowly upwards.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. “I might have.”
His knuckles brushed the bare skin of her thighs as he pushed the dress higher, his eyes locked on hers, watching every flicker of reaction. The cool air hit her skin, followed by the searing heat of his palms. He hiked the dress up to her waist, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of her tights and the delicate lace of the garter belt beneath.
“Christ, Roz,” he breathed, his voice full of naked awe. His fingers traced the top of one stocking, following the delicate strap of the garter. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Then he was kissing her, and any thought of the view vanished. This wasn’t like the slow, worshipful exploration of his book-lined flat. This was raw and hungry, all teeth and desperate, open-mouthed kisses. She met his intensity with her own, her hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer. He walked her backwards until her shoulders pressed against the cool, unyielding glass of the massive window. The entire city sprawled beneath them, a galaxy of lights, and they were at its centre, hidden in plain sight.
He broke the kiss, his chest heaving. “Look,” he commanded, his voice husky.
She turned her head, her cheek against the cold pane. Edinburgh lay before her, the Castle so close she felt she could touch it. His hands were on her, urgent and possessive, pushing her dress up further, his mouth on her neck, her collarbone.
“They can’t see us,” he whispered, as if reading the flicker of self-consciousness in her eyes. “It’s just us.”
His hands worked quickly, pulling down the tights and the lace beneath, his touch firm and sure. The clothing pooled around her ankles. He turned her to face the window fully, his body a solid, warm wall behind her. His arms came around her, one hand splaying across her stomach, holding her secure, the other moving lower, dipping between her legs.
She gasped, her hands flying up to brace against the glass, her breath fogging a small circle on the surface. The contrast was dizzying—the cold, hard pane against her palms and forehead, and the scorching heat of his body behind her, his fingers working a devilish, knowing magic that made her knees buckle.
“Ally,” she choked out, her eyes squeezing shut.
“Look at it,” he insisted, his voice rough in her ear. “Look at your city.”
She forced her eyes open. The world was a blur of light and shadow, her vision swimming. His fingers didn’t let up, his rhythm relentless, pushing her higher and higher. The pressure built, a coiling, unbearable tension that threatened to snap. She was exposed, vulnerable, yet utterly safe in his grasp. The immense, historic vista in front of her and the intimate, primal act behind her merged into a single, overwhelming sensation.
Her climax ripped through her with a force that stole her voice. A silent, seizing shudder that made her arch back against him, her nails scraping against the windowpane. He held her through it, his arms like steel bands, his own harsh breaths hot against her neck.
When the waves receded, leaving her boneless and trembling, he gently turned her around. Her dress was still rucked up around her waist. Her face was flushed, her hair a mess. He cradled her face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away the tears she hadn’t even realized had escaped.
“Okay?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.
She could only nod, her throat too tight for words.
He kissed her, deep and slow, then dropped to his knees on the luxurious carpet in front of her. He looked up at her, his eyes dark with devotion and desire, and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh, right where the lace of the garter had been.
“My turn,” he said, his voice a promise.
Later, they lay tangled in the centre of the enormous bed, the duvet a chaotic sea of white around them. The room was dark now, save for the city lights painting shifting patterns on the ceiling. Roz was curled against Ally’s side, her head on his chest, listening to the steady, solid thump of his heart. The scent of him, of them, clung to the crisp hotel sheets.
“You know,” he said into the silence, his voice lazy and satisfied, “for someone who claims not to be interested in my world, you sure know how to christen a five-star suite with a view of the stadium.”
She smiled against his skin. “It’s a good view. Even I can admit that.”
He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at her. In the dim light, his face was all shadow and sharp planes. “Was it too much? The window… I got carried away.”
“No,” she said, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. “It was… intense. In a good way.”
He captured her hand, kissing her fingertips. “I can’t seem to be gentle with you. I want to be. I plan to be. And then I see you and I just…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“Don’t you dare start being gentle now,” she whispered.
He laughed, a low, happy sound, and lay back down, pulling her closer. They were quiet for a while, the events of the evening settling around them like dust.
“The team has a two-week tour coming up,” he said, his voice casual, but she felt the slight tension in his body. “South Africa. It’s a long way.”
A cold little knot tightened in her stomach. Two weeks. It felt like a chasm opening up. She thought of his flat, the quiet mornings, the coffee, the stacks of books. She thought of returning to her own sterile apartment, to the silence that wasn’t the good kind.
“When do you leave?” she asked, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile.
“Tuesday.” He paused. “Come with me.”
The words hung in the air, simple and enormous. She lifted her head to look at him. “What?”
“Come with me,” he repeated, his eyes serious. “The guys bring partners sometimes. There’ll be time between matches. We could… I don’t know. See things. Be together without this…” He gestured vaguely at the room, at the temporary luxury. “Without this ending.”
Her mind raced. Her job. The drainage crisis. The sheer, terrifying speed of it all. Going on tour with a rugby team? It was the most alien concept imaginable.
But his face. In the half-light, he looked younger, vulnerable. The shy man from the bookshop was back, asking for something huge.
“Ally, I… my work…”
“I know,” he said quickly, too quickly. “It was a daft idea. Forget I said it.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was retreating, the shutters coming down.
She thought of the silence in his flat, the one that felt like belonging. She thought of the crushing noise of her own loneliness. He was offering her a way to keep the quiet.
Before she could lose her nerve, before the doubt could catch up, she spoke.
“Okay.”
He stilled. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, the word feeling more right with every second. “Okay. I’ll come with you.”
The smile that broke across his face was pure, unadulterated joy. It transformed him, lighting up his eyes and crinkling the corners. He pulled her into a crushing hug, laughing into her hair. “Really?”
“Really,” she mumbled into his shoulder, her own smile spreading. It was mad. It was impulsive. It was utterly unlike her.
And it felt completely, terrifyingly right.
He held her for a long time, neither of them speaking. The city glittered beyond the window, a map of possibilities. The tour, the distance, the world outside—it all felt manageable as long as this, the weight of his arm around her, didn’t have to end.