Chapter 3: The Open Door
The kiss wasn’t soft. It was a collision—a direct, claiming answer to every look, every charged silence since she’d stepped into the amber kitchen light. His mouth was hot and tasted of the whiskey he’d been drinking hours before. Millie gasped into it, the sound swallowed whole as his hands tightened on her thighs, pressing her back harder against the wall. The cool, flat paint was a shock against her shoulder blades.
She kissed him back with a desperation that surprised her, her fingers spearing through his tousled hair, pulling him closer. Every coherent thought dissolved into pure sensation: the scrape of his stubble against her chin, the solid, unyielding heat of his chest against hers, the dizzying strength in his arms as he held her aloft. Her legs locked around his waist, anchoring her to the only stable point in the spinning room.
He broke the kiss, his breath ragged against her slick lips, his forehead resting against hers. His eyes were black in the jagged streetlight shadows.
“I’ve been thinking about this since you walked in,” he repeated, the words a rough vibration against her skin.
“I know,” she breathed, the admission leaving her in a rush. “I saw you thinking it.”
A low, incredulous laugh escaped him. He shifted his grip, one hand splaying against the small of her back, the other cupping the side of her face, his thumb tracing the arch of her cheekbone. He studied her, his playful confidence gone, replaced by something sharper, more focused.
“That fucking look you gave me,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Like you were picking out a dessert.”
Before she could answer, he was kissing her again, deeper, slower now, a deliberate exploration that made her head swim. He walked them away from the wall, carrying her the few steps to the bed as if she weighed nothing. He didn’t lay her down gently. He followed her down, his weight settling over her, a welcome pressure that pushed the air from her lungs in a soft oof.
The sheets were cool and tangled. The scent of him—soap, skin, clean cotton—was everywhere. He kissed a trail from her mouth to her jaw, down the column of her throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just above her collarbone. A shiver, violent and pleasurable, racked her whole body.
“Josh,” she said, his name a question, a warning, a plea.
He propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at her. Her blonde hair was fanned out across his pillow, the messy bun completely undone. A few strands stuck to her damp temples. Her green eyes were wide, pupils blown, her lips swollen from his mouth.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice gravel. He wasn’t teasing. It was a genuine offer, a door held open. But his whole body was tense with the effort of holding still.
Millie reached up. She traced the line of his jaw, feeling the bristle under her fingertips. She let her hand slide down the corded muscle of his neck, over the sharp ridge of his collarbone, coming to rest over his heart. It hammered against her palm, a wild, synchronized rhythm to her own.
She didn’t speak. She answered by pulling his head back down to hers.
It was all the permission he needed. His hands, which had been holding him so carefully above her, began to move. He tugged her tank top up and over her head, the fabric catching for a second on her arms before he tossed it aside. The cool air hit her skin, followed immediately by the heat of his palms. His touch was neither hesitant nor reverent; it was sure, hungry, mapping the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip, the flush spreading across her chest.
Her own hands were just as eager, pushing the grey cotton shirt off his shoulders. He shrugged it away impatiently, breaking their kiss just long enough to pull it free from his wrists and let it fall to the floor. Then his skin was against hers, solid and smooth and overwhelmingly real. She ran her hands over the planes of his back, feeling the muscle shift under her fingertips with every movement he made.
He kissed her again, and again, each one stealing a little more of her reason. His mouth was everywhere—her lips, her throat, the swell of her breast. When his hand slid between them, down past the waistband of her jeans, she arched against him, a broken sound escaping her that was half-sigh, half-sob.
“Wait,” she gasped, her fingers fumbling for the button of his jeans.
He helped her, his movements swift and efficient. There was a brief, clumsy tangle of fabric, the rustle of denim and cotton being shoved aside, the thud of a discarded belt hitting the floor. Then there was nothing between them.
He paused again, hovering over her, his body trembling with restraint. The streetlight cut across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the dark hunger in his eyes. He searched her face, and what he saw there—the raw want, the surrendered guard—made him let out a shuddering breath.
“Okay?” he whispered.
She nodded, pulling him down by the back of his neck. “Yeah. Okay.”
He entered her in one slow, inexorable motion. Millie cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. It was a stretch, a burn, a perfect, shocking fullness that made the world narrow to this room, this bed, this man above her. For a moment, they both went perfectly still, fused together, breathing each other’s air.
Then he began to move.
It wasn’t gentle. It was urgent, primal, a physical conversation that picked up right where their stolen glances had left off. The headboard knocked a steady, muffled rhythm against the wall. Every thrust drove a soft gasp from her lips, every retreat left her aching for the return. She met him move for move, her hips rising to meet his, her legs wrapping tighter around him, pulling him deeper.
The quiet, observant girl from the kitchen was gone. In her place was someone ferocious and single-minded, lost in the feeling of his skin sliding against hers, the hot blast of his breath in her ear, the building, coiling pressure low in her gut. She bit his shoulder to stifle a moan. He groaned in response, the sound vibrating through her.
“Look at me,” he gritted out.
Her eyes, which had been squeezed shut, flew open. His gaze held hers, unwavering, as his rhythm began to fracture, losing its smooth control. Seeing him come undone—the flutter of his eyelids, the parting of his lips—was what finally undid her. The tension snapped, a wave of pure, white-hot pleasure crashing through her so violently it blurred her vision. She choked on his name, her body convulsing around his.
He followed her over the edge a second later, his own release shuddering through him with a low, ragged groan that he buried in the curve of her neck. His full weight slumped against her for a moment, heavy and damp with sweat, before he rolled to the side, taking her with him, keeping them joined.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing slowly easing. The knock of the headboard had stopped. The only rhythm now was the slowing pound of their hearts.
Millie lay with her head on his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat beneath her ear. His arm was around her, his hand absently stroking her bare shoulder. The comedown was a physical ache in her muscles, a hollow, satisfied warmth in her bones. The reality of what had just happened began to seep in, cold and clear around the edges of the warmth.
Josh pressed his lips to the top of her head. “So,” he said, his voice rough but the familiar teasing note creeping back in. “You find the bathroom okay?”
A surprised, breathless laugh hiccupped out of her. She smacked his chest lightly. “Shut up.”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through her. They lapsed back into silence. It was different from the tension-filled quiet in the hallway. This was thick, laden with the smell of sex and sweat and the fading adrenaline of a crossed line.
Outside the window, the solid black of night was softening to a deep, predawn grey. A few early birds began to tentatively chirp. The room came back into focus—the half-unpacked boxes, the silent laptop, the Lego Death Star on the floor by the door, a forgotten sentinel.
Josh’s fingers stilled on her arm. “Sun’s coming up,” he said quietly.
Millie knew what it meant. The promise he’d made in the hallway. I’ll drive you home first thing, when the sun’s up. The real world, with its practicalities and consequences, was arriving on schedule. She felt him draw a breath, as if to say something else, but he didn’t.
She just closed her eyes tighter, pressing her face against his skin, trying to memorize the exact feel of it, the exact scent. For a few more minutes, she pretended the light outside wasn’t changing at all.