Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
She smiles, slow and knowing. “Then it’ll have to be mine.”
I kiss her again, sealing it, my hand tightening at her waist. “Then let’s get going.”
CHAPTER 17
Juno
My apartment has never felt smaller.
Not cramped, but almost as if it senses what is about to happen and is holding its breath along with me.
I pace once, then stop myself and lean against the counter, forcing my feet to stay put. I’m nervous, yes—but not in a way that’s unpleasant.
This isn’t fear. It’s anticipation laced with uncertainty. I didn’t plan on sleeping with Crosby. Granted, I’ve thought about it a time or two over the last few weeks, usually late at night in bed before I went to sleep. But I didn’t walk into Axel’s party tonight with the idea that I’d score.
And now I’m waiting for him to arrive, which should be any minute. We didn’t leave the party at the same time, Crosby waiting another ten minutes. It was a plan we didn’t talk through or attempt to reason. We kissed, we looked at each other like gravity had finally won, and I told him to come over.
“Is this a stupid idea?” I ask myself out loud, so I have to pay attention to it.
I try to catalogue the reasons I should hesitate, because that’s how my brain works—order, logic, risk assessment. He’s a subject. I’m embedded. There are lines people like me don’t cross because crossing them muddies perception, complicates narrative, threatens credibility. I’ve built my career on restraint and integrity, on knowing where the camera ends and I begin.
And yet.
What draws me to Crosby isn’t recklessness.
It’s the opposite.
It’s how down-to-earth he is. He’s controlled in a way that isn’t stringent. Collected without being rigid. He doesn’t posture, doesn’t need to be loud to take up space, and is so secure in his own skin, it invites you to be the same.
There’s no second-guessing, no looking around for validation. He carries responsibility like it’s part of his skeletal structure, not a burden he resents.
I’ve spent most of my adult life being the one who decides. Where to go, what comes next, how to navigate uncertainty. I didn’t realize how tired I was of that until I met a man who doesn’t ask me to lead, doesn’t need me to reassure him, doesn’t offload his uncertainty onto my shoulders.
With Crosby, I feel like we’re on common ground.
And that right there is why I’m going for this. I can reason that what we’re doing might not be the best idea, but Crosby’s the type of man who makes it a safe bet.
In essence, I trust him.
That’s the part that tips me over the edge. Not lust. Not curiosity. Not need.
Trust.
The quiet conviction that whatever happens next won’t be careless, won’t be a regret I have to explain when I look at myself in the mirror tomorrow.
The knock comes sooner than I expect. Taking a deep breath, I open the door, and there he is—jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes steady and intent in a way that makes my stomach dip.
We stare at each other, silently waiting for one of us to chicken out and call this whole crazy thing off.
It won’t be me.
I know that much.
But still, we need boundaries at the very least.
“I need to say something,” I begin, noting his eyebrows lift ever so slightly. “Before this goes anywhere.” He watches me patiently, arms loose at his sides. “This has to be compartmentalized,” I continue, logic clicking into place the way it always does when I’m nervous. “What happens here can’t bleed into the work. I won’t compromise that, and I won’t put you in a position—”
Crosby crosses the space between us, the movement unhurried but absolute, drying up my words. He steps over my threshold and into my space, and before I can finish drawing breath, his hand is at my jaw, firm and sure, tilting my face up to his.
Then he kisses me.
Not tentatively. Not as a question. This isn’t a testing brush of lips or a careful feel-out. It’s bold and powerful, his mouth claiming mine with a confidence that tells me he knows exactly what he wants and has no intention of apologizing for it.
The pressure is steady and thrilling, causing my head to spin. His other hand slides to my waist like it’s always known where it belongs.
The kiss blooms immediately hot and my body responds, lust blooming low and fast. My hands fist into his shirt as the last of my carefully ordered thoughts scatter uselessly. There’s no room left for analysis, no space for caution.
There’s only this man, his body and my decision to focus on only sensation and certainty that I want this.
Crosby’s hands squeeze, warm and sure at my waist, and I feel the tension I’ve been holding unravel. I kiss him back and when we break apart, my forehead presses to his chest for a calming moment.