LS Phoenix's Blog

 As the sun begins to bleed through the curtains of Room 412, the reality of the "morning after" sets in. But Hayes didn't just come back for a wedding; he came back for a life.

Chapter Five

Shades of Navy

Jude

The darkness of the hotel room isn't empty; it’s thick with the weight of eighteen months of longing. Hayes is a solid, searing heat against me, his skin sliding against mine in a way that feels like a long-overdue homecoming. When he moves, I follow. When he breathes, I inhale. It’s as if the distance between us never existed, yet every touch is sharpened by the agonizing fact that it did.

He’s not gentle anymore. The polite ex from the wedding table is dead and buried. This is the Hayes who takes what he wants, and God help me, I want him to take everything I have left. I want him to strip away the armor I’ve spent a year and a half perfecting. I want him to see the scars he left and the ways I tried to heal without him.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice a low vibration that I feel in my bones.

I open my eyes, my vision adjusting to the silver slivers of moonlight cutting through the heavy curtains. He’s hovering over me, his muscles corded and tense, looking like a god carved from shadow and regret. He reaches down, his fingers interlacing with mine, pinning my hands to the pillow above my head. It’s a move of pure dominance, and it makes my breath catch in a way that has nothing to do with the air in the room.

"I’m not a ghost, Jude," he whispers, leaning down until his lips are a hair’s breadth from mine. "And I’m not a postcard. I’m right here. Tell me you feel me. Tell me I’m real."

"I feel you," I gasp, arching my back as he settles his weight more firmly between my thighs. "Hayes... please. I've felt you every day for eighteen months, but it was never enough. It was never like this."

He doesn't make me wait. When he finally moves to close the distance, it’s a slow, deliberate surrender. I let out a broken sound—half-sob, half-groan—as we finally become one again. It’s too much and not enough all at once. The physical sensation is overwhelming, a sensory overload that makes my head spin, but it’s the emotional floodgate opening that truly wrecks me. Every What If I’ve ever whispered to my ceiling at night is being answered in the rhythmic, driving heat of his body against mine.

Hayes isn't just making love to me; he’s reclaiming me. His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is deep, possessive, and tastes like a promise he’s finally brave enough to keep. I break my hands free from his grip, wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting to fuse our skin together so he can never walk away again. I want to be so intertwined that he doesn't know where he ends and I begin. I want to leave a mark on his soul the way he left one on mine.

"You’re so perfect," he growls against my skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive junction of my neck and shoulder, marking me in the dark. "How did I ever think I could live without this? How did I think the world was worth seeing if you weren't the one standing next to me? Every horizon I photographed was just another place you weren't."

"You couldn't," I manage to choke out, my fingers digging into the muscles of his back, tracing the familiar landscape of his spine. I want to leave marks. I want him to wake up tomorrow with the physical evidence of what he’s done to me, what we’ve done to each other. "You were miserable, Hayes. Admit it. Tell me you were as lonely as I was."

"I was a shell," he says, his pace quickening, his breathing becoming a series of ragged, desperate hitches. "I was a fucking ghost, Jude. I walked through Berlin and I felt like I was made of glass. One wrong move and I’d just shatter into nothing. Every time I hit the shutter on my camera, I was trying to capture something that felt like home, but nothing ever did. Because home was here. Home was you."

The room feels like it’s shrinking, the air growing hotter and heavier until there’s nothing left in the universe but the sound of our skin meeting and the frantic beat of two hearts trying to sync up after a lifetime apart. I’m lost in him—in the scent of sandalwood, the friction of his stubble against my collarbone, and the way he says my name like it’s the only word that matters.

The rhythm he sets is a punishment and a prayer, each thrust a deliberate erasure of the eighteen months that kept us apart. His hips snap against mine, a brutal, beautiful cadence that steals the air from my lungs. I’m not just taking him; I’m absorbing him, trying to make up for lost time with every frantic beat of our bodies. The bed frame protests, a rhythmic creak that joins the symphony of our ragged breaths and the sounds of our reunion.

He changes the angle, hitting a place deep inside me that makes my vision go white. A sharp cry tears from my throat, raw and unashamed. Hayes answers with a guttural groan, one hand sliding from my hip to my shoulder, pressing me down, forcing me to take every punishing inch. He leans down, his forehead pressed to mine, his sweat dripping onto my skin, mixing with my own. We’re a single, panting, desperate entity.

“Hayes,” I gasp, his name a broken plea on my lips. “Don’t stop. God, don’t ever stop.”

“Never,” he growls, the word vibrating through his chest and into mine. He reaches between us, his fingers wrapping around my cock, already slick with pre-cum and straining. His grip is firm, and sure, his strokes matching the relentless pace of his hips. It’s too much, a sensory overload that threatens to shatter me completely. I’m trapped in the overwhelming pleasure of him inside me and the exquisite friction of his hand on me.

The pressure builds, a coiling heat at the base of my spine, tightening, tightening, until it snaps. My orgasm rips through me like a lightning strike, a violent, convulsive wave that bows my back off the bed. I scream his name, a hoarse, desperate sound that’s swallowed by his kiss as he covers my cry. My release pulses over his fist, hot and endless, and I feel myself clenching around him, pulling him deeper, milking him for everything he has.

The feel of me coming undone is his undoing. With one final, powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt and stills. A deep, shuddering groan escapes him as he finds his own release, pouring himself into me in a scalding, possessive rush. I feel the pulse of it, the heat of him filling me, a tangible claim that feels more real than any promise. His entire body goes rigid, every muscle locked, before he collapses against me, his full weight pinning me to the mattress, his face buried in the crook of my neck as his body trembles with the aftershocks.

We stay like that for a long time, the only sound the ticking of a clock on the bedside table and the distant, dying thrum of the music from the ballroom below. The wedding is still happening, people are still dancing and drinking and making their own memories, but we are a world away. We are in the after.

Eventually, the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by a heavy, soul-deep exhaustion. Hayes shifts, rolling to the side but keeping me tucked firmly against his chest, his arm draped over my waist like a heavy, warm anchor. He pulls the duvet over us, shielding us from the cool air of the room, creating a cocoon for just the two of us. I can feel the dampness of our skin cooling, the steady rhythm of his lungs against my back.

"You're thinking again," he murmurs into my hair, his voice sleepy and thick. "I can hear the gears turning, Jude. Stop it. Just be here. Don't let the world back in yet."

"I’m just..." I pause, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, the reality of the situation finally beginning to settle in. The "What If" is gone, but the "What Now" is terrifying. "I’m wondering what happens when the sun comes up. Is this just a wedding mistake? Are you going to wake up and start looking for your camera and the nearest airport? Are we going to be a memory again by noon?"

Hayes stiffens beside me. The relaxed posture vanishes instantly. He sits up slightly, propping himself on an elbow so he can look down at me. His expression is dead serious, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes me feel completely exposed. The moonlight catches the sharp line of his jaw and the depth of the regret he’s still carrying.

"I sold the flat in Berlin, Jude."

I blink, the words taking a moment to penetrate the post-coital haze. "What? When?"

"I sold it a month ago.  All of my belongings are here. I’ve been staying in a hotel while I looked for a place. I didn't tell anyone because I didn't know if you’d even speak to me. I thought maybe I'd ruined everything so thoroughly that I'd just have to live in the same city as you and watch you from afar. I thought maybe I’d see you in a coffee shop and have to pretend I didn't know how you like your espresso." He reaches out, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. "I didn't come back for Leo’s wedding, Jude. I came back for you. The wedding was just the only way I knew I could get you in a room where you couldn't run away. I knew if I sent an email, you’d delete it. If I called, you’d hang up. I had to see you. I had to know if there was anything left of us."

The What If that has been haunting me for eighteen months suddenly vanishes, replaced by a terrifying, beautiful What Is. It’s a weight being lifted off my chest, one I didn't even realize I was carrying. My heart feels too big for my ribs.

"You came back for me?" I whisper, my voice cracking.

"I’m done with the distance," Hayes says, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip. "I’m done with the 'somedays' and the 'maybe laters'. I want the mess, Jude. I want the boring Tuesdays. I want the morning-afters where we both have bad breath and we're late for work. I want to argue about whose turn it is to make coffee and what color to paint the guest room. I want everything I was too stupid to realize I had the first time. I want the reality of you, not the memory."

I feel a tear slip from him, trickling down my temple and into my hair. This is the unsaid word. This is the ending I never let myself hope for because the disappointment would have been too much to handle. I spent so long convincing myself I was fine without him that I forgot what it felt like to be whole.

"I still want to paint that room navy," I say, a small, watery laugh escaping me as I reach up to wipe my eyes.

Hayes grins, and for the first time since he walked upto Table Nine, the tension completely leaves his shoulders. He looks younger, lighter. The man who left for Berlin had the weight of the world on his back; the man lying here just looks like he’s finally come home. "Navy is a terrible color for a small room, Jude. It’ll feel like a cave. We’ll be living in a hole."

"It’ll feel cozy," I counter, pulling him down by his neck until he’s lying over me again, his weight a comfort I never want to be without. "It’ll feel like us. Dark and a little bit intense."

"See?" he whispers, his nose brushing against mine, his eyes full of a soft, steady light. "We’re already at it. We’re trying again. We’re failing at the paint color and winning at everything else. We're already building something out of the wreckage."

"Yeah," I say, closing my eyes and breathing him in, letting the scent of him settle into my lungs like it belongs there. "We are."

I think about the last year and a half—the hollow dates, the long hours at the office, the way I avoided certain songs on the radio. It all feels like a different life now. A life that belonged to a version of me that didn't know how to forgive. But looking at Hayes now, with the moonlight softening the edges of his face, I realize that forgiveness isn't a single moment. It’s a choice we’re going to have to make every morning.

"Don't leave again," I whisper, the vulnerability finally catching up to me. "I don't think I have another 'What If' left in me, Hayes."

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, and his voice is as solid as the ground beneath us. He leans down, kissing my forehead, then my eyelids, then finally my mouth—a slow, lingering kiss that tastes like a homecoming. "I’ve seen the world, Jude. There’s nothing out there that’s better than this. There’s nothing that feels as good as you."

As the first hints of dawn begin to bleed through the curtains, turning the room a soft, hazy gray, I realize that the wedding wasn't the end of a story. It wasn't the final chapter of a tragedy we couldn't finish. It was the prologue to something better. The What If is over. We’re finally writing the What Now.

I drift off to sleep with the weight of him holding me down, finally feeling like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. No more postcards. No more ghosts. No more wondering what could have been if only one of us had been brave enough to stay. Just Hayes, just me, and a room that’s definitely, absolutely going to be painted navy.

I’m not designing houses for strangers anymore. I’m finally building a home for myself. And for the man who never truly left it. I look at Hayes and realize that every foundation I've planned was just waiting for him to walk back through the door.

The End. 

Come back next week for another story.

The Trope: HEA (Happily Ever After) / Grand Gesture

The Thought: The final chapter is about the "What Now." Hayes revealing he sold his flat in Berlin is the ultimate grand gesture—it proves he’s not just passing through. The argument over the paint color (Navy!) shows that they aren't just back together; they’re actually living again.

The Question: Do you need a "Five Years Later" epilogue, or is a "Morning After" resolution enough for you?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

The hotel room door closes, and the rest of the world vanishes. For Hayes, this isn't just a hookup—it’s a rediscovery of the only map he ever cared to memorize.

Chapter Four 

Skin Contact

Hayes

The weight of him in my arms is the only thing that feels real. The hotel room is bathed in the soft, amber glow of the bedside lamps, a stark contrast to the chaotic neon pulse of the wedding we just fled. I lay Jude down on the mattress, and for a second, I just hover over him, my hands planted on either side of his head.

I need to breathe him in. I need to catalog the way his hair is fanned out against the white pillows and the way his eyes are dark with a mixture of fear and absolute, wreckless desire. The air between us is thick, charged with the kind of electricity that precedes a massive storm.

"You're still here," I whisper, my voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel. I’m terrified that if I blink, I’ll wake up back in my flat in Berlin, staring at a blank wall and a half-packed suitcase, realizing this was just another fever dream born of loneliness.

"I'm still here," Jude breathes back. He reaches up, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, his touch light as a feather but feeling like a brand. "I didn't think I’d ever be in a room with you like this again. I’d convinced myself I’d imagined how it felt. That I’d made up the way you look at me when nobody else is watching. I thought I'd turned you into a ghost just so I could live with the haunting."

"I didn't imagine a second of it," I say, and then I’m kissing him again.

This isn't the frantic, desperate collision from the hallway. This is slower. It’s intentional. I taste the salt of his skin and the lingering sweetness of the wine, but mostly I just taste Jude. I let my tongue sweep against his, a slow, rhythmic demand that makes him moan low in his throat. It’s a sound that travels straight to my core, tightening the knot in my stomach until it’s almost unbearable. I’ve photographed some of the most beautiful sights in the world—sunsets over the Spree, the grit of urban ruins—but nothing compares to the sound of Jude’s surrender.

I shift, sliding my body between his legs, feeling the friction of our suit trousers. It’s a teasing, agonizing heat. I’m hyper-aware of every point of contact—the way his thighs feel against mine, the way his hands are now clutching at the back of my shirt, pulling me closer as if he can’t get enough air. Every inch of me is burning for him. My skin feels too tight for my body.

I pull back just enough to look at him, my breath hitching as I take in the sight of him. His cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen and wet. He looks thoroughly ruined, and the possessiveness I felt at the table—watching every other guy in the room eye him like he was a prize to be won—doubles in intensity.

"You have no idea," I mutter, leaning down to press my face into the crook of his neck. I inhale deeply, the scent of him—something clean and warm, like sunshine and expensive soap—filling my lungs. "I spent a year in Berlin looking at the most beautiful architecture in the world, and all I could think about was the way the light hit your shoulders in the morning. I’d be in the middle of a shoot, and I’d see a shadow that reminded me of the way you curve into me, and I’d lose my breath. I was surrounded by history, Jude, and all I cared about was ours."

Jude’s hands tighten on my shoulders, his nails digging in slightly through the fabric of my shirt. "You should have said that then, Hayes. You should have told me instead of just... sending postcards of buildings. You sent me a picture of the Fernsehturm when I wanted a picture of you. You sent me monuments when I wanted your voice."

"I was a coward," I admit, the honesty stinging worse than the distance ever did. I move my mouth to the sensitive spot behind his ear, nipping at the skin until he shudders beneath me. "I thought if I didn't say it, it wouldn't hurt as much. I thought if I stayed detached, I could do the work. I thought I could outrun the feeling of you. But the work was hollow without you there to see it. Every success felt like a failure because you weren't the first person I called. I'd win an award and go home to an empty bed and realize I'd traded the sun for a handful of stars."

"It hurt," he whispers, and I can hear the years of repressed pain in those words. "Every time I saw your name in my inbox or a photo of yours in a magazine, it was like a fresh cut. I tried to be happy for you. I tried to be the bigger person everyone talks about, but I just wanted you home. I wanted you to be the person who walked through my door, not the person on my screen."

I lift my head, framing his face with my hands. I use my thumbs to wipe away the moisture at the corners of his eyes, my heart breaking for the time we wasted. "I’m sorry. Jude, I am so goddamn sorry. I’m done with postcards. I’m done with distance. I’m done with everything that isn't this. I'm done searching for a frame when the picture was already perfect."

He looks at me, really looks at me, searching for the lie, for the restlessness that usually defines me. When he doesn't find it, his expression softens into something so vulnerable it makes my chest ache. He reaches for the buttons of my waistcoat, his fingers trembling, fumbling with the fabric in his haste.

"Then show me," he says, his voice a low, steady challenge. "Don't tell me anymore. Just show me what I’ve been missing. Show me that I'm not just a stop on your way to somewhere else."

I don't need to be told twice. I sit up just enough to shuck off my waistcoat and toss it toward a chair, followed quickly by my tie. I watch Jude’s eyes track the movement, his gaze lingering on my chest as I start on the buttons of my shirt. The silence of the room is heavy, broken only by the sound of our breathing and the distant, rhythmic thump of the bass from the party below, a heartbeat we've escaped.

When I finally pull my shirt off, Jude lets out a shaky breath, his hands coming up to rest on my bare skin. His palms are cool, a perfect contrast to the feverish heat of my body. He traces the lines of my muscles like he’s relearning a map he once knew by heart, his touch hesitant at first, then demanding.

"I missed this," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the line of my collarbone, moving down to the center of my chest. "I missed the way you feel. I forgot how... real you are. You've been a memory for so long, I forgot you were flesh and bone."

I reach for his jacket, helping him slide out of it, then I’m working on his tie. I’m slow about it, savoring the way he watches me, the way his breath hitches every time my knuckles brush against his throat. I want to prolong this, to stretch out the anticipation until we’re both screaming for it. I want to make up for every night I spent alone.

"You’re killing me, Hayes," he groans, his head falling back against the pillows, exposing the long, elegant line of his neck.

"Good," I say, a smirk tugging at my lips, though my own desire is a physical ache in my throat. "I want you to feel every second of this. I want you to remember this night the next time you think about What If. I want this to be the only thing you can think about when you close your eyes. I want to be the only ghost in your head."

I pull his shirt open, exposing the pale, smooth skin of his chest. I lean down, trailing kisses from his collarbone down to his sternum, my stubble grazing him. He’s arching off the bed now, his hands moving to my hair, pulling me closer, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that sound like music.

"Hayes... please. Now."

I stop, looking up at him, my pulse racing. "Please what, Jules?"

"Please don't stop," he says, his voice breaking, his eyes swimming with a mixture of love and desperation. "Don't go back to the wedding. Don't go back to Berlin. Just stay right here in this room until the world ends. Just be mine again."

I move back up, capturing his lips in a kiss that is more of a vow than anything I’ve ever said. It’s deep and messy and full of the history we’ve been trying to outrun. My hands find the waistband of his trousers, and for a moment, we just stay like that—suspended in the quiet of the room, the only sound the frantic beating of our hearts against each other.

The What If has finally been answered. It’s not a ghost anymore. It’s the weight of him under me, the taste of him in my mouth, and the knowledge that I’m never letting go again. I’ve chased light all over the globe, but the only light I ever needed was right here, reflected in his eyes.

"I'm staying," I promise against his mouth, my voice thick with emotion. "I'm staying until you tell me to leave. And even then, I’m going to fight you on it. I'm going to argue for every second I lost."

Jude laughs, a small, genuine sound that breaks the last of the tension, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in eighteen months. He pulls me down for another kiss, his legs wrapping around mine, pulling me into the heat, demanding more, taking everything I'm willing to give and then some.

I reach for the lamp, clicking it off, plunging us into the shadows of the room. But I don't need the light to see him. I know every curve, every scar, every hidden place where he’s sensitive. My hands remember him even if my mind tried to forget. And as I pull him closer, discarding the last of our clothes, I know that for the first time in a long time, the frame is finally complete.

The make-out session deepens, becoming more frantic as the last of our barriers are gone. Every touch is a revelation, a rediscovery of a language we both thought we’d forgotten. I map out his body with my hands, my mouth, my teeth, needing to reclaim every inch, to leave my mark so he knows he’s home.

"You're mine," I growl into the crook of his neck, the possessive urge finally breaking through my restraint. "Say it, Jude. Tell me who you belong to. Tell me who you've been waiting for."

"I'm yours," Jude gasps, his hands clenching in my hair, his body trembling beneath mine. "I’ve always been yours, Hayes. Even when I was trying to hate you. Even when I was trying to move on. It was always you. It was only ever you."

The admission is the final blow to my defenses. I pull back, looking at him in the silver moonlight filtering through the curtains. He looks ethereal, beautiful, and utterly mine.

"I love you," I say, the words finally free after being trapped in my chest for years. "I never stopped. Not for a single second. Not in Berlin, not on the plane, not even when I was pretending I didn't care."

Jude’s eyes fill with tears again, but this time he’s smiling—a real, radiant smile that lights up the dark. He reaches up, pulling me down for one last, lingering kiss before the world dissolves into the pure, rhythmic heat of us finally becoming one again. The What if we tried again isn't a question anymore. It’s our reality.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

The Tagline: He’s done with postcards. He’s ready for the real thing.

The Trope: Only One Bed / Emotional Rediscovery

The Thought: This chapter moves past the physical and into the raw, unsaid apologies. By stripping away the suits and the wedding finery, we’re left with the "real" them. It’s about the vulnerability of admitting that moving away didn't mean moving on.

The Question: What’s more intimate to you: the physical reconnection or the verbal apology?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

The wedding is a blur of noise and strangers, but in a shadowed alcove away from the prying eyes of their friends, the "What Ifs" finally catch up to them. No more running.

Chapter Three

Cornered in the Dark

 Jude

The world narrows down to the rough silk of Hayes’s tie clenched in my fist and the heat radiating off him. I don’t think. I can’t think. If I let a single logical thought into my brain, I’ll remember the eighteen months of silence. I’ll remember the way I stared at my phone for hours, waiting for a text that never came. I’ll remember the hollow, echoing sound of my apartment after he packed his cameras and his restlessness and left.

But right now, the only thing that matters is the way he looks at me—like I’m the only thing in this overcrowded ballroom that isn’t a blur. His eyes are dark, searching, and filled with a desperation that mirrors my own.

"Stay," I whisper, the word catching in my throat. "Don't you dare stop, Hayes."

I don't wait for him to bridge the gap. I pull him those last few inches, and when his lips finally crash against mine, it’s not the soft, tentative reunion I’ve seen in movies. It’s a collision. It’s a desperate, messy attempt to reclaim everything we lost. It’s a riot of need that has been suppressed for over five hundred and forty days.

Hayes groans into my mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through my entire frame. His hands slide from my face to my waist, his fingers digging into my sides, pulling me so flush against him that I can feel the erratic, thundering of his heart. It’s the same rhythm as mine. It always has been. He tastes like the expensive champagne and the peppermint he always chews when he’s nervous. It’s the taste of my entire twenties—the taste of every late-night argument and every early-morning apology. It makes my knees go weak, and for a second, I’m grateful for the wall at my back.

I pull him further into the shadows of the alcove, wanting to hide us from the three hundred people just a few feet away. My hands leave his tie and find his hair, my fingers tangling in the dark strands I’ve spent a year and a half trying to forget the texture of.

He’s here. He’s solid. He’s mine, even if just for this stolen, frantic minute.

"Jude," he gasps against my lips, his grip on my hips tightening until it’s almost painful. "God, J."

The nickname should sting. It should feel like a violation of the boundaries I’ve worked so hard to build. But right now, it feels like a brand. It feels like he’s reclaiming the parts of me I tried to bury, the parts I tried to give away to people who didn't know how to hold them.

We’re both breathless when he finally pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and blown out. His tie is a mess, his hair is ruffled, and his lips are swollen from me. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—a masterpiece of ruin that I caused.

"We can't do this here," I say, my voice trembling, my lungs burning for air. I’m hyper-aware of the crowd again, the clink of glasses, the laughter that feels like it’s mocking the wreckage of my heart. "People are... they’re going to see. Chloe is already watching us like a hawk."

"Let them," Hayes says, his thumb tracing the curve of my bottom lip, his touch heavy and possessive. "I don’t care about Chloe or Leo or anyone else in this room. I’ve spent eighteen months caring about what I should do, what I was supposed to feel. I’m done with it."

"I do," I say, trying to find some semblance of the partner I’m supposed to be, the man who has a career and a life that doesn't revolve around a photographer with wanderlust. "I have a reputation to maintain, Hayes. I’m a professional. I don't get cornered in alcoves at weddings."

He lets out a short, huffed laugh, a flash of the old Hayes—the one who pushed my buttons just to see the sparks, the one who loved to see me lose my composure. "A professional? Is that what you call this? Because you look pretty unprofessional with your hands buried in my hair and your chest heaving like you just ran a marathon."

The teasing tone makes a different kind of heat flare in my gut. It’s the spark of the challenge. The right person, wrong time angst is still there, thick and heavy, but beneath it, the flirting—the sharp, possessive energy that always defined our best nights—is waking up. It’s a muscle memory I didn't know I still had.

"You’re an asshole," I mutter, though I don't let go of him. I slide my hands down to his shoulders, gripping the expensive wool of his suit.

"And you're a partner at your firm," he counters, stepping even closer, his thigh sliding between mine in a move that is purely, intentionally provocative. "Does the partner want to go back to Table Nine and watch Cami try to put her hand on my leg again? Does he want to watch her flirt with the 'realist' who doesn't do romance?"

The mention of Cami makes my vision go red for a second. I remember the way she looked at him, the way she assumed he was available just because there wasn't a ring on his finger or a person by his side. She saw the surface; she didn't see the scars he left on me.

"She was very interested in your perspective," I say, my voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, dangerous thing. I let my hands slide down his chest, feeling the hard, familiar muscle beneath the charcoal wool. I linger over his heart, feeling it jump under my palm. "Maybe you should go back and tell her more about Berlin. I’m sure she’d love to hear about all those ghosts. Maybe she can be your new ghost."

Hayes grins, a slow, predatory thing that makes my stomach flip. He knows exactly what I’m doing. He knows the jealousy is a confession. "Are you jealous, Jude? It’s a good look on you. Makes your eyes go dark. Makes you look like you might actually bite."

"I’m not jealous," I lie, my fingers finding the top button of his waistcoat and giving it a sharp, meaningful tug. "I just think she has terrible taste in men. And I hate to see a perfectly good wedding ruined by bad taste."

"Is that so?" Hayes leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear, his stubble grazing my skin. His breath is hot, sending a shiver straight down my spine that settles deep in my marrow. "Because you used to tell me my taste was the only thing about me that was perfect. Especially when it came to you. You used to say I was the only one who saw the real you."

The arrogance of him should be annoying, but it’s so familiar it feels like home. I lean my head back against the wall, looking up at him through my lashes, challenging him to keep going. The "what if" is still screaming, but for the first time, it’s not a question of if we can do this. It’s a question of how much we can burn before we get caught.

"I might have been biased," I whisper. "I was young and impressionable. I didn't know any better."

"You were never impressionable, Jude," Hayes says, his hand sliding up my side, his palm flat against my ribs, feeling the way I expand and contract with every ragged breath. "You were always the boss. You just let me think I was in charge because it kept me entertained."

He’s right. We were a power struggle that neither of us wanted to win because the fight was the only thing that made us feel alive. We were two fires trying to outburn each other.

The music changes again—something fast and loud, a bass-heavy track that brings a roar from the dance floor. It’s the cue for the "younger" crowd to really start drinking, for the ties to come off and the decorum to vanish.

"Jude! There you are!"

We both jump, springing apart like teenagers caught behind the gym. I feel the cold air rush into the space between us, and I hate it. It’s Leo, looking slightly disheveled and very drunk, swaying toward us with a bottle of beer in his hand and a lopsided grin on his face.

"Hey, Leo," I say, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I try to smooth down my hair with one hand while Hayes frantically adjusts his tie, looking everywhere but at our friend.

"I was looking for you guys," Leo says, grinning broadly. He doesn't seem to notice the charged, electric atmosphere or the fact that we’re standing in a dark alcove together, looking like we just stepped out of a storm. "Table Nine is a ghost town. Cami is looking for you, Hayes. She wants to do shots. She says you’re intriguing."

Hayes clears his throat, his face a mask of polite indifference that I know is a total lie. "Actually, Leo, I think Jude and I were just about to head out. The noise is getting to be a bit much."

Leo’s eyes go wide, his brows shooting up into his hairline. "Already? The party’s just starting! We haven't even done the late-night poutine bar yet. You can't miss the poutine, man."

"I have a... headache," I say, reaching for the first excuse I can find. I rub my temple for added effect. "The lights. Too much champagne. And Hayes was just being a gentleman and offering to call me a car. He’s always been... helpful."

Hayes looks at me, a flicker of genuine amusement—and something hotter—in his eyes. "A gentleman. Right. That’s me. Always looking out for the welfare of others."

Leo looks between us, his drunken brain finally catching on to the static in the air, the way we’re standing just a little too close, the way our eyes keep snapping back to each other. A slow, knowing, slightly mischievous smile spreads across his face. "Oh. Oh. Right. A headache. Yeah, those are the worst. Very sensitive things, heads. You guys should definitely go. Get some... rest. A lot of rest."

He winks—an exaggerated, ridiculous movement—and claps me on the shoulder with enough force to make me stumble. "Good to have him back, man. Seriously. Don't let him get away this time. Some things are worth the fight."

The air leaves my lungs. Don't let him get away this time.

Leo stumbles back toward the dance floor, shouting for Chloe, leaving a heavy, ringing silence in his wake. Hayes doesn't look at me immediately. He’s staring at the spot where Leo was standing, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"He’s drunk," I say softly, the words feeling inadequate.

"He’s right," Hayes says. He turns back to me, and the playful, flirting energy is gone, replaced by something much more intense. Much more dangerous. The "What if we tried again" isn't a question anymore; it’s a demand. "I’m not running this time, J. I don't care about the car. I don't care about the poutine. I’m taking you home."

"Hayes—"

"No," he says, stepping back into my space, his hand finding the back of my neck and pulling me forward until our noses touch. "No more 'What Ifs'. No more 'Maybe later'. I’ve spent over five hundred days wondering what it would be like to have you in my bed again. I spent every night in Berlin staring at the ceiling and picturing this. I’m not waiting another five minutes."

The bluntness of it makes my blood roar. It’s the raw, unfiltered honesty I always craved from him. This is the Hayes I fell in love with—the one who knew what he wanted and went after it with everything he had, consequences be damned.

"I have a room," I whisper, the confession feeling like a total surrender of my pride. "In the hotel wing. Chloe insisted on booking it for the wedding party so we wouldn't have to drive. It’s... it’s just down the hall."

Hayes’s eyes darken, a predatory, hungry gleam taking over his expression. "Show me. Now."

We walk through the ballroom, but it feels like we’re moving through a different dimension. The lights are too bright, the music too loud, the people too many. I can feel everyone’s eyes on us, or maybe it’s just my own guilt screaming at me. I see Cami at the bar, looking around the room with a frown, but we’re already halfway to the glass doors that lead to the hotel corridor. We’re ghosts in the making.

The moment the doors click shut behind us, the noise of the wedding dies down to a distant, muffled hum. The hallway is long, carpeted in a deep burgundy that swallows the sound of our footsteps. The air is cooler here, smelling of industrial cleaner and stale air, but all I can smell is Hayes.

I reach into my pocket, my fingers trembling so violently I almost drop the key card. I don't look at him. I can’t. If I look at him, I’ll lose it right here in the hallway, and I still have a shred of dignity left. I can feel him behind me, a silent, powerful presence that makes every hair on my body stand on end. He’s like a storm front moving in.

We reach Room 412. I swipe the card. The light flickers green, a tiny beacon of permission.

The door hasn't even fully closed behind us before Hayes has me pinned against it.

The sound of the lock clicking into place is the loudest thing in the room. His hands are everywhere—on my waist, in my hair, gripping my shoulders as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. He’s kissing me again, but this time it’s different. It’s not a question anymore. It’s possessive. It’s hungry. It’s eighteen months of starvation coming to an end.

"Tell me you want this," he growls against my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right below my ear, sending a jolt of pure electricity through me. "Tell me you want me, Jude. Tell me I’m not dreaming this."

"I want you," I choke out, my head falling back against the wood of the door, my eyes fluttering shut. I reach for his jacket, pulling it off his shoulders, needing to get past the layers of wool to the man underneath. "I’ve never stopped wanting you, you idiot. Every single day."

He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, his breathing heavy and ragged. He looks like a man who’s finally found his way back to the light after a long, grueling journey in the dark.

"Good," he says, his voice a low, dark promise that makes my heart stop. "Because I’m going to make sure you never forget it again. I’m going to make sure you never want anyone else."

He lifts me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and carries me toward the bed in the center of the room.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

The Tagline: One dance wasn’t enough. One kiss is a revolution.

The Trope: Secret Encounter / Jealousy

The Thought: This is where the power shift happens. The arrival of Cami forces Jude’s hand, turning his bitterness into a fierce, possessive need to reclaim what was once his. It’s the breaking point—the moment where the social expectations of the wedding party die and their private history takes over.

The Question: Is jealousy a "red flag" or a "green flag" for you when it’s written this intensely?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

 Hayes is used to looking at the world through a lens, keeping everything at a safe distance. But standing on a dark terrace with Jude, the "distance" between Berlin and home finally collapses.

Chapter Two

Depth of Field

 Hayes

The weight of him against my chest is a phantom pain made real. For eighteen months, I’ve imagined this—Jude in my arms, the scent of his skin, the way he fits into the curve of my body like he was designed for it. And now that he’s actually here, I feel like I’m vibrating apart.

The music from the ballroom filters out onto the terrace, a distant, muffled reminder that the rest of the world exists. But out here in the shadows, it’s just the two of us and the cold stone of the railing. I can feel the heat radiating off him, a contrast to the biting evening air.

I press my forehead against his, closing my eyes. I can feel him trembling. Or maybe it’s me. My hands, usually so steady when I’m holding a camera, are shaking as they rest on his waist.

"One dance," I whisper, the words feeling like a prayer. "That’s all I asked for."

"You always ask for one thing and take another, Hayes," Jude says. His voice is a ragged thread of sound, but he doesn't pull away. His fingers are still curled into the hair at the back of my neck, holding me there. Holding me, not just touching me.

"I’m not taking anything tonight," I tell him. I pull back just an inch, enough to look into those eyes—the same eyes that used to watch me sleep, now guarded and sharp with the hurt I put there. "I’m just... I’m standing here. I’m finally standing still. I’m done running, Jude."

The song fades out, the final piano notes lingering in the humid air before the upbeat tempo of a pop song kicks in. The spell doesn't break, but it cracks. Jude lets out a long, shaky breath and finally drops his hands, the sudden absence of his touch feeling like a drop in temperature.

"We should go back in," Jude says, stepping away. He brushes at his suit jacket, his movements frantic and stiff, as if he’s trying to wipe the memory of my hands off the fabric. "People will notice. Chloe already thinks something is up."

"Let them notice," I say, though I know he’s right. Jude always cared about the optics, the polished surface of things. I was the one who liked to get underneath, to find the mess. "But fine. Let's go back to Table Nine and play the part."

Walking back into the ballroom feels like walking into a different climate. The heat, the noise, the bright gold lights—it’s all too much after the quiet of the terrace. I follow Jude back to our seats, watching the way his shoulders are hunched, as if he’s bracing for a hit. He sits down and immediately reaches for his water, drinking it as if he’s been wandering a desert.

We sit down just as the main course is being served. The bridesmaid, Cami, is already leaning toward me again, her glass of wine nearly empty and her eyes bright with interest.

"There you are," she chirps, her hand finding my bicep again. It feels like a lead weight. "I thought you’d deserted us for the open bar already."

I catch Jude’s profile. He’s staring straight ahead at the center of the dance floor, his jaw tight. He looks miserable, and a sick, selfish part of me is glad. Because if he’s miserable, it means he still cares. If he didn't care, he’d be laughing. He’d be flirting back with some stranger.

"Just needed some air," I tell Cami, forcing a smile that doesn't reach my eyes.

"Well, now that you’re back, you have to tell me about Berlin," she says, leaning closer. Her perfume is sweet—too sweet—and it makes me miss the rain-and-cedar scent of Jude. "I’ve always wanted to go. Is it as romantic as everyone says? I imagine it's all cobblestones and candlelight."

"It’s a city of ghosts," I say, my eyes sliding toward Jude. He flinches, just a tiny movement of his hand on the tablecloth. "Plenty of history. Not much room for romance if you’re looking for the wrong thing. It’s a place where you go to get lost, but you usually just end up finding the things you were trying to leave behind."

"Ouch," Cami laughs, oblivious to the subtext. "You’re a bit of a cynic, aren't you? Is that part of the photographer's brooding starter pack?"

"He’s a realist," Jude interrupts. He finally turns his head, his gaze cool and level as it lands on Cami. "Hayes doesn't do romantic. He does... perspective. He likes to look at things from a distance so he doesn't have to get his hands dirty."

He says the word like a dirty secret. Perspective. The thing I told him I needed when I packed my bags eighteen months ago. The thing I thought would make me a better artist but only made me a lonelier man.

"Perspective is important for a photographer," Cami says, trying to keep the conversation on her turf. "You have to see things other people miss."

"Oh, he sees everything," Jude says, his voice dripping with a sudden, sharp-edged sarcasm that makes the couple across from us look down at their plates. He reaches for his wine, draining the glass in one go. "He just doesn't always know what to do with it once it’s in focus. He’s great at the capture, terrible at the development."

The tension at the table is thick enough to choke on. I can feel the heat of Jude’s anger radiating off him, and it’s a living thing. I want to grab his hand under the table and squeeze until he looks at me. Not with coldness, but with the fire I know is still there.

I lean in, lowering my voice so only Jude can hear me over the clinking of silver. "Are we doing this now, J? In front of the salmon?"

"Don't call me that," he snaps, his eyes flashing with a sudden, beautiful hurt. "And we aren't doing anything. I’m just making conversation with your new friend."

He turns to the man on his other side, a guy I don’t recognize, and starts an animated conversation about urban planning. It’s a dismissal. A wall. He’s using his professional life as a shield, and it’s a move I recognize from our darkest days.

I spend the next twenty minutes half-listening to Cami talk about her career in PR, while every nerve ending in my body is tuned to the man sitting six inches to my left. I watch the way Jude’s hand shakes when he goes to adjust his silverware. I watch the way he avoids looking at me, even when our knees accidentally brush under the cramped table. Every time our skin touches—even through layers of wool and cotton—it’s like a jump-start to my heart.

Finally, the speeches start. Leo stands up, looking happy and terrified in equal measure. He talks about Chloe, about how he knew the moment he saw her that his life was going to be divided into before and after.

Before and after.

I look at Jude. He’s watching Leo, his expression soft and heartbreakingly sad. I know what he’s thinking. We had a before. We were supposed to have an after. But we got stuck in the middle, in the messy, gray space of the what if. We became a cautionary tale while our friends became a triumph.

"To Chloe and Leo," the room choruses, a sea of glasses rising into the air.

I drink, but the champagne tastes like ash. I look at Jude, and for a split second, he looks back. It’s a look of pure, unadulterated longing that he’s too tired to hide.

As soon as the toast is over and the band starts back up with a high-energy set, the room dissolves into motion. People are heading for the bar, for the dance floor, for the exits.

"I’m going to get another drink," Jude says, standing up so fast his chair nearly topples.

"I'll come with you," I say, standing just as quickly. Cami starts to say something, but I ignore her. There is only Jude.

"I don't need an escort, Hayes. I’ve managed to buy my own drinks for eighteen months."

"I need the drink, Jude. Relax. It’s a big room."

We walk toward the bar in silence, a tense, vibrating silence that makes the hair on my arms stand up. The line is long, a bottleneck of thirsty guests, so we end up standing in a shadowed alcove near the back of the room, waiting for an opening.

Jude is staring at a floral arrangement like it holds the secrets of the universe, his chest heaving.

"You’re doing it again," I say softly, stepping into his line of sight.

"Doing what?"

"Running." I step closer, blocking him into the alcove, using my height to shield him from the crowd. I’m tired of the games. I’m tired of Cami and the small talk and the eighteen months of pretending I’m fine. "You get overwhelmed, and you run. You did it on the terrace, and you’re doing it now. You’re looking for the nearest exit."

"I am not running," he says, his voice rising, thick with tears he refuses to shed. He looks up at me, and the mask is gone. Underneath is the raw, jagged hurt of a man who’s been hollowed out. "I am trying to survive this night without screaming, Hayes! Do you have any idea what it’s like? To have you just... show up? To sit there and look at me with those eyes like you didn't break my damn heart?"

The word break hangs in the air between us, heavy and permanent. It’s the first time he’s admitted it. The first time he’s let me see the cracks.

"I know," I say, my voice cracking. I reach out, my hand trembling as I cup his jaw. This time, he doesn't flinch. He leans into it, just a fraction of an inch, his eyes fluttering shut. "I didn't take anything with me, J. That was the problem. I left my heart here, with you. Because you are my heart. I spent eighteen months realizing that I didn't move on—I just moved away."

I let my thumb trace the line of his cheekbone. He feels so real. So solid. "I missed you so much it felt like I was dying. Every time I saw something beautiful, I reached for my phone to tell you, only to remember I didn't have the right anymore."

Jude lets out a sob—a small, broken sound that he tries to swallow. He opens his eyes, and they’re swimming with tears, reflecting the gold lights of the ballroom.

"What if we tried again?" he asks, the words so quiet I almost miss them. It’s the question that’s been haunting us both. "What if it’s just the same mess as before? What if we're just better at hurting each other than loving each other?"

"Then let it be a mess," I say, my voice dropping to a low, fierce growl. I step even closer, our chests brushing with every breath. "I’d rather be a mess with you than perfect with anyone else. I’m done with 'What If', Jude. I want 'What Is'."

His gaze drops to my mouth, and I know I’m lost. The bar, the wedding, the hundreds of people—they all fade into a blur of meaningless noise.

"Hayes," he breathes, his hand coming up to grip my wrist, his pulse thrumming against my skin.

"Say it," I prompt, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Tell me to stop, or tell me to stay. But don't tell me to be polite."

Jude doesn't say either. Instead, he reaches up, grabs my tie with a fist of pure desperation, and pulls me down.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

The Tagline: He’s spent a year chasing the light, only to find it was always right here.

The Trope: Dual POV / Right Person, Wrong Time

The Thought: Chapter two flips the script. We realize Hayes wasn't the cold, moving-on success story Jude thought he was. By getting inside Hayes's head, we see that Berlin was a prison of his own making. This chapter highlights the realization that "perspective" is useless if you're looking at the wrong view.

The Question: Do you prefer the "pining" POV or the "bitter" POV in a second-chance romance?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Returning to the city was supposed to be about a fresh start, not a confrontation. But when Jude finds his name card placed inches away from the man who broke his heart eighteen months ago, "miserable" becomes an understatement.

The Seating Chart from Hell

Jude

The air in the ballroom is a cloying mix of expensive lilies and even more expensive perfume. It’s the kind of atmosphere that’s supposed to feel romantic, but to me, it just feels like a trap. I tug at my tie, wondering for the hundredth time if it’s too tight or if the constriction in my throat is purely psychological.

"You okay, Jude?" Chloe asks, passing by with a glass of champagne in each hand. She gives me a sympathetic wince. "Sorry about Mark. Food poisoning is a bitch."

"I'm fine," I lie, forcing a smile that feels brittle. "The solo life suits me. More room for cake."

"That's the spirit," she chirps, though her eyes linger on me a second too long before she disappears into the crowd of tulle and black ties.

I make my way toward the seating chart, my heart doing a nervous, erratic dance against my ribs. I just need to find Table Nine, eat my salmon, toast the happy couple, and vanish before the real partying starts.

I find the gold-trimmed card for Table Nine. My name is there, written in elegant calligraphy. And right next to it, sharing the same corner of the table...

Hayes.

The name hits me like a physical blow to the stomach. My vision blurs for a split second. Eighteen months. It’s been eighteen months since I’ve had to breathe the same air as Hayes, and now I’m expected to sit close enough to him to feel the heat of his skin.

I walk toward the table, my legs feeling like lead. The seat is empty, but his name card is mocking me, propped up against a crystal water glass. I sink into my chair, my hands trembling just enough that I have to hide them in my lap.

The wedding was always going to be a risk. We have too many mutual friends, too much shared history to avoid each other forever. But Table Nine? This is a targeted assassination by the seating coordinator.

I’m staring at the empty chair next to me, tracing the letters of his name with my eyes, when the scent hits me. Sandalwood and citrus.

Him.

"Is this seat taken, or did I get lucky?"

The voice is a low, familiar rumble that vibrates right through my chair and into my spine. I look up, and there he is. Hayes. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that makes his eyes look like stormy seas, his dark hair pushed back, just a few stray strands hitting his forehead. He looks infuriatingly handsome.

"Hayes," I say, my voice sounding more breathless than I mean for it to come out.

"Jude." He doesn't sit, not yet. He just stands there, his hand resting on the back of the chair, his knuckles brushed against the fabric just inches from my shoulder. "I heard you were bringing a plus one. Mark, was it?"

"He couldn't make it," I say, trying to sound indifferent. "Last-minute thing."

"Shame," Hayes says, but the corner of his mouth twitches in a way that suggests he doesn't think it’s a shame at all. He finally sits, the movement fluid and confident. He’s so close I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

"You look... good, Jude. Really good."

"Don't," I snap, the words come out sharper than they should.

He raises an eyebrow, his expression softening into something that looks dangerously like regret. "Don't what?"

"Don't do the polite ex thing. We aren't those people, Hayes. We never were."

"Fair enough," he says softly. He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a private whisper that shuts out the noise of the three hundred other people in the room. "Then how about we just be two people who are miserable at Table Nine together?"

I look at him, really look at him, and for a second, the eighteen months of silence vanish. The need to touch him is so sudden, so violent, that I have to grip the edge of the table to stop myself from reaching out.

"I can do miserable," I whisper back.

"Good," Hayes says, his eyes dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before he looks away. "Because I think it’s going to be a very long night."

I settle back into my chair, the velvet fabric suddenly feeling like it’s vibrating with the proximity of him. Around us, the wedding reception is a blur of clinking silver and forced laughter, but Table Nine feels like it’s been encased in a soundproof bubble.

"So," Hayes says, his voice cutting through my internal spiral. He’s leaning back, one arm draped over the back of his chair—the same casual, arrogant posture that used to make me want to kiss him and shove him off a cliff simultaneously. "How’s the architect business? Still designing houses for people with more money than taste?"

I take a long, slow sip of my water, trying to find my center. "It’s good, Hayes. I’m a partner now. And most of my clients actually have excellent taste."

"Partner," he repeats, and there’s a flicker of something—pride? Regret?—in his dark eyes. "I always knew you’d get there. You were always the one with the plan."

"And you?" I ask, turning the tables before the nostalgia can choke me. "Still jumping from city to city for the next big story?"

Hayes is a photojournalist, or at least he was when we were together. He was always chasing the light, always looking for a frame that told a story he couldn't put into words. It was the reason he left—a six-month contract in Berlin that turned into a year, then eighteen months, then a "we should talk" phone call that ended everything.

"I’m back for a bit," he says, and his voice drops a half-octave. "Based in the city again. For now."

My heart stutters. Back. He’s back in my city, walking the same streets, maybe even frequenting the same coffee shop, The Brew House, on 4th Street where we had our first fight. The thought is infuriating.

"Good for you," I say, my tone clipped. I reach for my wine glass, but my sleeve catches on the edge of the floral centerpiece. As I move to untangle it, Hayes’s hand shoots out, his fingers brushing against my wrist as he steadies the vase.

The contact is like a lightning strike. I freeze. His skin is warm, his touch firm, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves. I can see the pulse jumping in his neck. He doesn't pull away immediately; his thumb grazes the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, a slow, deliberate movement that makes my breath hitch.

"Jude," he whispers, his eyes searching mine.

"Don't," I breathe, finally jerking my arm back. I can still feel the ghost of his touch, a searing brand on my skin. "We’re here for Leo and Chloe. That’s it."

"Right," he says, pulling his hand back and clenching it into a fist on the table. "Leo and Chloe."

The first course arrives—some sort of delicate tartlet that looks like it belongs in a museum. I pick at it, my appetite nonexistent. On Hayes’s other side, a bridesmaid in a champagne-colored dress leans in, her smile wide and predatory.

"You’re Hayes, right? Leo’s friend from college?" she asks, her voice dripping with practiced charm.

I watch out of the corner of my eye as Hayes shifts his focus. He puts on the mask—the charming, effortless Hayes that everyone falls in love with. He laughs at her joke, leans in to hear her over the music, and for a moment, I am completely erased.

The jealousy is a sharp, jagged thing in my chest. It shouldn't be there. I don't have the right to be jealous. We broke up. He moved to Germany. He stopped calling.

But watching her hand rest on his forearm makes me want to scream. I look away, focusing intensely on my tartlet, but I can hear them. I can hear him being Hayes for someone else.

"I’m Cami," she says, her voice loud enough for me to hear. "I didn't see a ring on your finger, Hayes. Surely someone like you isn't here alone?"

"Just me," Hayes says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "My date had a last-minute... conflict."

He’s lying. I know his "lying" voice. He didn't have a date. He came here alone, just like I did.

"Well," Cami purrs, "I think there’s an open spot on the dance floor later. If you’re looking for a partner."

I can’t take it. The "What If" is screaming in my ears. What if I hadn't let him walk away? What if I’d gone with him? What if we tried again?

I stand up abruptly, my chair screeching against the parquet floor. A few people at the table look up, including Hayes. His conversation with Cami dies instantly.

"Everything okay?" he asks, his brow furrowing.

"I need some air," I say, not looking at him. I turn and walk toward the terrace doors, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm.

The night air is cool, a welcome relief from the suffocating heat of the ballroom. I lean against the stone railing, looking out over the manicured gardens of the estate. The music is a muffled thump behind me, a heartbeat I can’t escape.

I hear the door creak open and shut. I don't have to turn around to know who it is. The scent of sandalwood and citrus finds me first.

"You always did hate a crowd when you were overwhelmed," Hayes says, stepping up to the railing next to me. He doesn't look at me; he looks out at the dark trees.

"I'm not overwhelmed," I lie, my voice trembling.

"You’re a terrible liar, Jude. Always have been."

He turns then, his hip leaning against the stone, his eyes fixed on my face. The moonlight catches the sharp line of his jaw and the deep, aching sadness in his expression.

"Why are you out here, Hayes? Cami seemed very interested in your career goals."

"Cami is a distraction," he says, taking a step closer. The space between us is shrinking, the air growing thick with the things we never said. "And I don’t want to be distracted. I’ve spent eighteen months being distracted, and it hasn't worked."

"What hasn't worked?"

"Forgetting," he whispers. He reaches out, his hand hovering near my face before he loses his nerve and drops it. "Every city I went to, every face I photographed... I was looking for you. It’s pathetic, isn't it?"

My breath hitches. This is the unsaid word. The one that’s been rotting between us since the day he left.

"You left, Hayes," I remind him, the old hurt bubbling up, hot and acrid. "You chose the job. You chose the 'What If' over the 'What Is'."

"I know," he says, and he sounds utterly defeated. "I was an idiot. I thought I had to choose. I thought if I stayed, I’d resent you for holding me back. But I didn't realize that leaving meant I’d just spend the rest of my life resenting myself."

He takes another step, and now he’s firmly in my space. I can feel the heat of him, the familiar gravity that always pulled me toward him.

"Jude," he says, his voice a low plea. "What if we stopped pretending?"

Before I can answer, the band inside starts a new song. It’s a slow, haunting melody—a piano cover of that song. Our song. The one we danced to in our tiny kitchen on our first anniversary.

The irony is almost laughable.

"They’re playing it," I whisper, a tear finally escaping and tracking down my cheek.

Hayes reaches out then, and this time he doesn't pull back. His thumb catches the tear, wiping it away with a tenderness that shatters the last of my defenses.

"Dance with me," he says.

"Hayes—"

"One dance. No crowds, no bridesmaids, no architects or partners. Just us. Please."

I look into his eyes, and I see it all—the eighteen months of silence, the longing, the anger, and the terrifying, beautiful possibility of again.

"Okay," I whisper. "One dance."

He leads me further into the shadows of the terrace, away from the windows. He pulls me into his arms, one hand settling firmly on my lower back, the other clasping mine. It’s like coming home after a long, brutal winter. My head fits perfectly against his shoulder, the wool of his blue suit soft against my cheek.

We move slowly, barely swaying to the music. The silence between us is no longer empty; it’s full of the ghosts of our past and the weight of our future.

"I still have the letter," Hayes murmurs into my hair.

"The one I wrote you before you left?"

"Yeah. The one where you told me to be happy, even if it wasn't with you." He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. "I tried, Jude. I really did. But I don't think I know how to be happy without you."

The honesty of it is a physical weight. I reach up, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"What are we doing, Hayes?"

"I don't know," he says, his face inches from mine. "But I know I’m tired of wondering what if."

And then, he leans in. He doesn't kiss me—not yet—but his forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling in the cool night air. It’s a promise and a question all at once.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

The Tagline: The seating chart from hell is about to become his favorite mistake.

The Trope: Second Chance / Forced Proximity

The Thought: This chapter is all about the "mask." Jude is trying so hard to be the successful, unbothered partner at his firm, but Hayes’s presence acts like a magnet, pulling all that repressed hurt to the surface. It sets up the fundamental conflict: can you ever really be "just friends" with the person who holds the blueprint to your heart?

The Question: Have you ever had to play it cool in front of someone who completely wrecked you?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days of waking up with a hole in my chest that no amount of fame could fill. I told myself if I ever got her back, I’d be slow. I’d be careful. I lied. Seeing her surrender, hearing her admit she still loves me, snaps the last bit of my control. I’m not just looking for a night of pleasure; I’m looking for a reclamation. I’m going to mark her so deeply that she’ll feel me in her marrow long after the sun comes up. Tonight, the "Lady Killer" finally gets his prize.

Chapter Five

My hands are on her before the last word leaves my lips, gripping the hem of that ridiculously oversized shirt. With one sharp tug, I rip it down the middle. The fabric tears with a satisfying sound, and her gasp is everything I've imagined it would be for three years. She's bare beneath it, all smooth skin and taut nipples that peak under my gaze.

"Look at you," I murmur, my voice thick with possession as I trace the line of her collarbone with my fingertip. "All this time, hiding from me." I follow the path of my finger with my tongue, tasting the salt of her skin. She shudders, her hands coming up to grip my biceps, her nails digging in just enough to make my blood hum.

I don't rush. I'm a man starved, but I'm savoring the first meal after a famine. I kiss a slow, deliberate path down her body, memorizing the texture of her skin, the way she trembles when I find a sensitive spot. I linger at the hollow of her throat, then lower, my teeth scraping gently against the swell of her breast. Her back bows off the bed, a silent plea for more.

I chuckle, a dark, rough sound. "Patience, Charlie. I'm going to worship every inch of you before I ever let you come. You stayed away for three years? Then you'll wait a little longer for this." I capture one tight peak in my mouth, sucking hard, my hand rolling the other nipple between my fingers. She cries out, her hips lifting instinctively, seeking the friction she craves.

I pull back, leaving her panting and flushed. "Not yet," I command, my voice leaving no room for argument. "I want you desperate. I want you so wet for me that these sheets are soaked before I even think about giving you what you want." I slide down her body, my shoulders forcing her thighs wide. "I'm going to make you come with my mouth until you forget your own name. And then," I look up the length of her body, my eyes locking with hers, "and then, I'm going to fuck you until you remember only mine."

I lower my head, my breath ghosting over the slick heat of her. She's already drenched, her body betraying the desperate need she's trying to hide. The scent of her arousal is intoxicating, a drug I've been craving for far too long. I press a single, open-mouthed kiss to her pussy, and her whole body jolts as if struck by lightning.

"Fuck," she sobs, her fingers grasping at my head, trying to guide me where she wants me most.

I chuckle against her, the vibration making her whimper. "Oh no, sweetheart. You don't get to rush this." I use my thumbs to part her, exposing the swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves. I blow on it, watching it stiffen even more. "I'm going to enjoy this. Every. Single. Second."

And then I taste her.

I flatten my tongue and drag it slowly from her entrance to her clit, savoring the first real taste of her on my tongue. She's impossibly sweet, impossibly wet, and it's everything I've fantasized about and more. I do it again, slower this time, deliberately teasing. Her hips buck, trying to force more contact, but I pin her down with an arm across her pelvis, holding her still for my assault.

I feast on her like a man condemned, my tongue swirling and flicking, learning every ridge, every sensitive spot that makes her gasp and writhe. I alternate between broad, flat strokes and pointed, precise flicks against her clit. When I suck the hard bud into my mouth, her back arches off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from her throat.

"Please," she begs, her voice ragged. "Please, I can't..."

I release her with a wet pop, looking up her body. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her face a mask of pure, desperate pleasure. "You can," I growl, my voice muffled against her thigh. "And you will." I slide two fingers inside her, groaning at how tight she is, how she clenches around me immediately. "I want you to come on my face, Charlie. I want to feel you fall apart against my mouth. Give it to me."

I curl my fingers, finding that spot inside her that makes her see stars, and I return my mouth to her clit, sucking hard and fast. It only takes a few more seconds before she shatters. Her entire body goes rigid, then breaks into a series of violent tremors. A scream tears from her throat as she floods my mouth, her inner walls clamping down on my fingers like a vise. I don't stop, working her through every wave of her orgasm until she's a limp, panting mess on the black silk sheets.

I finally lift my head, my face glistening. I crawl up her body, caging her in with my arms. "One," I murmur against her lips, letting her taste herself on my mouth. "That's one. We're nowhere near done."

I can feel the frantic beat of her heart against my chest as she struggles to catch her breath. Her eyes are hazy, unfocused, but I know she's not done. Not by a long shot. I push myself up, my knees bracketing her hips, and with deliberate slowness, I reach for the button of my jeans. Her gaze follows my hands, her breath hitching in anticipation.

The sound of my zipper lowering seems impossibly loud in the quiet room. I peel the denim down my hips, my cock springing free, hard and heavy against my stomach. Her eyes widen, a fresh wave of desire washing over her features as she takes me in. I kick my jeans and boxers away, leaving me completely bare, completely exposed to her.

I lower myself back over her, my weight pressing her into the mattress, the heat of my skin branding hers. My cock rests against her slick, sensitive core, and we both groan at the contact.

"You see what you do to me?" I murmur, my voice a low growl as I rock my hips, sliding my length through her wetness. "Three years of this, Charlie. Three years of waking up hard for you." I notch the head of my cock at her entrance, teasing, threatening. "Do you have any idea how many times I've imagined this exact moment?"

She tries to lift her hips, to take me inside, but I pull back, denying her. "Ah, ah, ah," I tsk, shaking my head. "I told you. I'm in charge." I reach between us, my fingers finding her clit, still swollen from my mouth. I circle it slowly, lazily, and her body arches again, a fresh wave of arousal coating my cock.

"Please," she whispers, her voice broken. "Please, I need you."

"I know you do," I say, my voice thick with satisfaction. I lean down, my lips brushing against her ear. "But you're going to take me how I want to give it to you. And I want you to beg." I press the tip of my cock inside her, just barely, letting her feel the stretch before I pull back out again. "Beg me for it, Charlie. Tell me how much you need my cock inside you after all this time."

A fresh tear escapes the corner of her eye, tracing a path through the sweat on her temple. It's not a tear of sadness; it's one of pure, unadulterated surrender. Her pride, the last wall she's built between us, finally crumbles.

"Please," she whimpers, her voice cracking. "Please, I'm begging you. I need you inside me. I've always needed you."

That's all it takes. The words I've waited three years to hear. With a guttural groan, I drive into her in one smooth, deep stroke, burying myself to the hilt. The sensation is staggering—she's impossibly tight, impossibly wet, and the feeling of finally being inside her again, of claiming this part of her, is almost enough to undo me right here and now.

We both cry out. Her nails rake down my back, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper, as if she's trying to fuse our bodies together. I give her a moment to adjust, to feel the weight and the reality of me filling her, stretching her.

"Fuck," I breathe, my forehead dropping to hers. "You feel... you feel like coming home."

I start to move, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in, setting a deep, punishing rhythm that's been building in my mind for years. Each stroke is a claim, a brand. I'm not just fucking her; I'm erasing every man who came before me, every doubt, every moment we wasted.

"Tell me," I demand, my voice ragged as I piston into her, the sound of our bodies slapping together filling the room. "Tell me you're mine."

"Yours," she gasps, her eyes rolling back in her head as I hit a spot that makes her whole body clench. "Oh god, I'm yours. Only yours."

I angle my hips, grinding against her clit with every thrust, and I feel her body begin to tighten again, the tell-tale tremors starting in her thighs. "That's right," I growl, my pace becoming more erratic, more desperate. "And you'll always be mine. No one else will ever have you. No one else will ever know this feeling."

I reach between us, my thumb finding her clit again, rubbing it in tight, hard circles as I slam into her. "Come for me again, Charlotte. Let me feel you. Let me feel you fall apart on my cock."

Her body bows, a silent scream on her lips as her orgasm crashes through her. Her inner walls clamp down on me like a fist, and the sensation is too much. With a roar, I bury myself deep inside her and let go, pouring myself into her, marking her from the inside out in a way she can never wash away.

I collapse on top of her, both of us shaking and breathless, our bodies slick with sweat. I roll us, pulling her with me so she's sprawled across my chest, my cock still nestled inside her. I can feel our combined release leaking out of her, and a primal sense of satisfaction washes over me.

I kiss the top of her head, my breathing slowly returning to normal. "Three years," I murmur into her hair. "And I'm never letting you go again."

Come back next week for another story.

The Trope: "You Are Mine" / Primal Play

The Thought: This isn't just a spice scene; it’s a dialogue. Every touch and every command from Killian is a response to the three years of silence Charlie gave him. He uses his mouth and his body to demand the truth from her, proving that while she might have run away, her body never left him. It’s raw, it’s intense, and it’s the moment their past and present finally collide.

The Question: Do you prefer the first "reunion" scene to be soft and emotional, or feral and high-stakes like this one?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

The Obsidian is more than a building; it’s a fortress of my own making. But tonight, the walls feel like they’re closing in. I’ve spent three years reinventing myself as the "Lady Killer," a man who takes what he wants and discards the rest. Now, Charlie is standing in my living room, wearing my shirt and looking at me with the same blue eyes that ruined me when I was twenty-two. The storm outside is nothing compared to the one I’m about to unleash. She wants a car? She wants to leave? She clearly doesn't realize that in this penthouse, I am the only law.

Chapter Four

The ice clinks against the crystal glass, a sharp, lonely sound that echoes through the cavernous living room of my penthouse. I don’t turn on the lights. I don't need them. The floor-to-ceiling windows act as a massive, glowing canvas, painting the dark marble floors in the neon blues and frantic ambers of the Manhattan skyline.

I’ve stood here a thousand times, looking out at the city I conquered, and felt absolutely nothing. Tonight, the air in the penthouse feels thick, heavy with the scent of rain and the ghost of that floral perfume that’s been haunting my lungs for the last hour.

I take a long pull of the Scotch, the burn familiar and grounding. My wrists still itch where the metal was biting into them—a physical ghost of the restraint I’m currently struggling to maintain.

The guest suite door is closed, but I can hear the muffled hiss of the shower.

She took the choice. She went for the water.

Part of me—the darker, more impatient part that’s been running the show since I saw her dive into the SUV—wishes she’d stayed in the foyer. I wanted to see if she’d actually let me peel that silk off her. I wanted to see if the teeth she grew were just for show or if she’d fight me all the way to the floor.

I set the glass down on the marble counter with a decisive thud and start stripping off the rest of my formal gear. The tuxedo shirt is damp and clings to my skin, a reminder of the gala, the cameras, and the world I hate. I rip it open, buttons skittering across the floor, and toss it into the shadows.

I’m standing there, shirtless and restless, when the sound of the shower stops.

The silence that follows is deafening. I find myself holding my breath, my ears tuned to the click of a door, the patter of bare feet on the marble. I’ve had the most famous women in the world in this penthouse, and I’ve never been this wound up. I’ve never felt this... predatory.

I grab the bottle of Scotch and head for the oversized Italian leather sofa that faces the guest wing. I sit, leaning back, the cool leather against my bare skin a sharp contrast to the fire in my gut. I wait.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen.

Then, the door to the guest suite creaks open.

A sliver of warm light spills out into the hallway, and then she appears.

She isn't wearing the silk dress anymore. She’s wearing one of my black T-shirts—one she must have scavenged from my dresser. It’s huge on her, the hem hitting the middle of her thighs and her elbows swallowed by the sleeves. Her hair is wet, dark and heavy, clinging to her neck and shoulders.

She looks small. She looks fragile. She looks like the only thing in this entire city that matters.

"Killian?" she whispers, her eyes searching the shadows of the living room until they land on me.

I don't move. I don't answer. I just watch her walk toward me, the oversized shirt swishing with every step, exposing the long, pale line of her legs.

"Come here, Charlie," I say, my voice sounding like it was dragged over gravel. "I’m over here."

She hesitates, her fingers twisting the hem of the shirt. It’s an old habit—one she had when she was eighteen and nervous. Seeing it now, after everything, makes a knot of possessive heat tighten in my chest.

"Since a car's not coming," she says, repeating my own words back to me, her voice gaining a bit of that new steel. "What’s next, Killian? Are the phone lines cut? Is the bridge out? How long are you planning on keeping up this act?"

"As long as it takes," I murmur, taking a slow sip of the Scotch as she stops a few feet away. "I’m a rockstar, Charlie. We aren't exactly known for our hospitality."

I stand up, the movement slow and deliberate, and the way her eyes track the movement down my chest, lingering on the tattoos and the tension in my abs, tells me everything I need to know. She might be mad, she might be terrified, but she’s still mine.

"You're not leaving tonight," I say, stepping into her space until she has to tilt her head back to look at me. "The rain is worse. The streets are flooded. And quite frankly... I’m not done looking at you."

She lets out a shaky breath, her gaze darting to my mouth before snapping back to my eyes. "Looking is all you're going to do, Killian. I mean it. I'm not eighteen anymore. I don't just fall apart because you're standing close to me."

"Is that right?" I move another inch closer, the heat radiating off her freshly scrubbed skin hitting me like a physical wave. She smells like the soap from my bath—sandalwood and citrus—mixed with that deep, floral underlying scent that is hers alone. It’s an intoxicating cocktail, and I’m a man with a very high tolerance who is suddenly feeling very drunk.

I reach out, my hand hovering near her waist before I let my fingers catch the hem of the shirt—my shirt—and tug. Just enough to pull her stumbling against my bare chest.

She gasps, her palms landing flat against my heart. I can feel her trembling, a fine, electric vibration that echoes the hammering of my own pulse. "You were always a terrible liar, Charlie. You say you don't fall apart, but your heart is trying to beat its way through your ribs right now."

"It's adrenaline," she snaps, though her voice lacks its usual bite. "I've had a very stressful night. I was nearly trampled by a crowd, kidnapped by a madman, and now I'm being held hostage in a penthouse that looks like a Bond villain's lair."

I let out a low, dark chuckle, the sound vibrating through both of our chests. "A Bond villain? I like to think I have better style. And I don't want to conquer the world, sweetheart. I already did that. It was boring."

I slide my hand up from the hem of the shirt, my palm flat against the small of her back, pressing her closer until there isn't a sliver of air left between us. I want her to feel every bit of the tension she’s caused. I want her to know exactly what she’s dealing with.

"You were the one who changed, Killian!" she says, her voice rising with a sudden, sharp desperation. She tries to push back, but I don't budge. "You became the 'Lady Killer.' You became someone I didn't recognize. I saw the headlines. I saw the girls. You traded everything we had for... for this." She gestures vaguely at the opulence around us.

"I became what the world wanted me to be!" I roar, the sound echoing off the high, dark ceilings. My grip tightens on her waist, not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor her. "I became the monster they paid to see because you weren't there to keep me human. You were eighteen, Charlie. You were too young to know how to handle the dark, so you ran. And I let you. I let you walk away because I thought I could survive it."

I lean in, my forehead resting against hers, my breath hot on her lips. The Scotch, the rain, the three years of bitterness—it all boils down to this one, singular point in time.

"But you're twenty-four now. You're a woman. And I’m tired of being the only one who remembers how good we were."

"Killian..."

"Don't," I growl, my hand sliding up to cup the back of her head, my fingers tangling in her damp hair. "Don't say my name like that unless you're going to follow it with a 'yes.' Because I'm thirty-five years old, and I don't have the patience for games anymore. I want you, Charlie. I want to hear that little sound you make. I want to see you break for me."

I lean down, my lips brushing hers in a whisper of a kiss that makes her entire body shudder. It’s a taunt, a promise of the devastation to come.

"Tell me to stop," I whisper against her mouth, my thumb grazing her bottom lip. "Tell me you don't want this as much as I do, and I'll call you that car. I'll even pay the driver to take you wherever you want to go. But you have to say it. You have to look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me anymore."

I wait. The silence in the room is agonizing, the only sound the frantic beating of her heart against my palm. I can see the battle behind her eyes—the logic, the pride, the fear—all warring with the raw, undeniable heat between us.

She looks at me, and for a second, the Lady Killer is gone. I’m just Killian, the guy from the tour bus, and she’s the girl who knew my soul before I sold it.

"I can't," she breathes.

"Can't what, sweetheart?"

"I can't tell you I don't love you."

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

The Trope: Forced Proximity / Villainous Intent

The Thought: This chapter is all about the power shift. Killian isn't the boy from the tour bus anymore; he’s a man with the resources to be truly dangerous. By lying about the car and the storm, he’s testing how much of the "old Charlie" is left and how much of the "new Killian" she can handle. It’s the classic dark romance setup: the hero isn't a hero at all—he's the obstacle.

The Question: At what point does "protective" cross the line into "possessive" for you in a MMC?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Trapped within the sleek, black walls of The Obsidian, Charlie is forced to face the ghost of her past. Killian Saint isn’t the boy she once knew—he’s a man who has traded his heart for a reputation. As the clothes come off and the truth comes out, Charlie must decide if she’s brave enough to handle the "Lady Killer" in the dark.

Chapter Three

The silence in the penthouse is heavier than the rain outside. It presses against my eardrums, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the storm hitting the floor-to-ceiling glass.

I’m standing in the center of the foyer of his penthouse, and I’ve never felt smaller. The floors are a polished black marble that reflects the city lights like a dark lake. But none of the luxury matters because the only thing I can see, the only thing I can feel, is Killian.

He’s discarded his leather jacket, tossing it onto a chair without taking his eyes off mine. He looks lethal in the dim light as his fingers go to his wrists, unbuttoning his cuffs. The gold links hit the floor with a tiny, sharp ping that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room.

"A car's not coming, Charlie."

His voice is a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates right through the soles of my feet. I clutch my evening bag against my chest, my knuckles white.

"But—"

"But what?" he interrupts, stopping just inches from me. He’s so much taller than he was when I was eighteen, and he uses every inch of that height to loom over me. "Right now, the only thing that matters is that you're in my house, you're soaking wet, and you're looking at me like you want to scream."

He reaches out, his fingers tangling in a damp lock of my hair, tugging just enough to force me to look up at him.

"I'm going to give you two choices," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that dangerous, honeyed growl. "You can walk into that bedroom, take a hot shower, and put on one of my shirts. Or, you can stay right here and let me peel that dress off you myself. Because I've spent three years trying to remember what’s under that silk, and I’m about ten seconds away from losing my patience."

My mouth opens, a small, shocked O, but the air in my lungs has turned to lead. His thumb grazes my bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to see the white of my teeth.

"Which is it, Charlie?" he asks, his silver eyes dark with a hunger that makes my blood run hot. "Do you want to be a good girl and go to the shower? Or do you want to find out why they really call me the Lady Killer?"

"The shower," I whisper, the words barely finding their way out.

"Good girl." He doesn't sound proud; he sounds disappointed. He lets his hand drop, but his gaze remains fixed on mine. "Down the hall. First door on the right. There are towels in the cabinet and a stack of my shirts in the drawer. Don't take all night, Charlie. I don't like to be kept waiting."

I don't look back. I practically flee down the hallway, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the marble. I find the guest room—a space that is larger than my entire living room—and lock the door behind me with a trembling hand.

I lean against the wood, my eyes closed, trying to draw a full breath. The air in here is cool and smells like him. Everything in this building smells like him. It’s suffocating.

I peel the damp silk dress off my body, letting it fall in a sodden heap on the floor. My skin is covered in goosebumps, shivering from the cold and the adrenaline. I step into the bathroom, a sanctuary of gray stone and chrome, and turn the shower on as hot as it will go.

As the steam fills the room, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My hair is a disaster, my makeup is smudged, and my eyes look... haunted. Or maybe they just look hungry.

I step under the spray, the heat nearly scalding, but I welcome the sting. I scrub my skin until it’s pink, trying to wash away the feeling of his eyes on me, but it’s useless. The way he looked at me in the foyer... it wasn't just desire. It was a claim.

When I finally step out, the mirror is completely fogged over. I wrap myself in a plush white towel and walk back into the bedroom, my heart starting to race again. I find the drawer he mentioned and pull it open.

It’s filled with black T-shirts. Nothing else. Just row after row of soft, expensive cotton that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. I pick one up, the fabric feeling like a second skin against my palm. I pull it over my head, the hem falling all the way to mid-thigh, and the scent of him hits me like a physical blow. It’s sandalwood and something darker, something purely Killian.

I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. I look small in his clothes. Fragile. Like a girl playing dress-up in her father’s closet—except the thoughts I’m having aren't innocent at all.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my hands, and walk back out into the hallway.

The living room is dimly lit now, the only light coming from the glowing skyline of Manhattan and a few amber lamps. Killian is standing by the window, a glass of dark liquid in his hand. He’s discarded his shirt, his back a canvas of black ink and corded muscle.

The tattoos tell a story I haven't read. A serpent coiling around his spine, lyrics I don't recognize scrawled across his shoulder blades, and a small, faded star right at the base of his neck—the one I used to kiss when we were hiding in the shadows of a stadium.

I stand there, frozen, watching the way his muscles ripple as he takes a sip of his drink. He doesn't turn around, but I know he knows I’m there.

"You took your time," he says, his voice a low vibration in the quiet.

"I... I had to warm up."

He turns then, and the breath leaves my body. The sight of him shirtless is enough to make my knees weak. He looks like a god carved from obsidian and silver. His gaze drops to the shirt I’m wearing, his eyes darkening as he sees the way the fabric clings to my damp curves.

"It looks better on you than it does on me," he murmurs, setting his glass down on the glass table. He starts walking toward me, his movements fluid and dangerous.

"Killian, I should go. The rain is slowing down, I can—"

"The rain isn't the problem, Charlie." He stops right in front of me, so close that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. He reaches out, his fingers catching the hem of the shirt, tugging it just enough to make me stumble forward. "The problem is that you think you can walk into my life, dive into my car, and then just... leave. Like the last three years didn't happen. Like you didn't leave a hole in my chest that no amount of scotch or stadium tours could fill."

"You were the one who changed, Killian! You became the 'Lady Killer.' You became someone I didn't recognize."

"I became what the world wanted me to be!" he roars, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He grabs my upper arms, his grip firm but not painful. "I became the monster they paid to see because you weren't there to keep me human. You were eighteen, Charlie. You were too young to know how to handle the dark, so you ran. And I let you."

He leans in, his forehead resting against mine, his breath hot on my lips. "But you're twenty-four now. You're a woman. And I’m tired of being the only one who remembers how good we were."

"Killian..."

"Don't," he growls, his hand sliding up to cup the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my damp hair. "Don't say my name like that unless you're going to follow it with a 'yes.' Because I'm thirty-five years old, and I don't have the patience for games anymore. I want you, Charlie. I want to hear that little sound you make. I want to see you break for me."

He leans down, his lips brushing mine in a whisper of a kiss that makes my entire body shudder.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers against my mouth. "Tell me you don't want this as much as I do, and I'll call you that car. I'll even pay the driver to take you wherever you want to go. But you have to say it. You have to look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me anymore."

I look at him, my heart breaking and mending all at once. The silver in his eyes is bright now, full of a desperate, raw honesty that the "Lady Killer" would never show the world.

I could say it. I could lie and save myself.

But as his thumb brushes my bottom lip, and the scent of him wraps around me like a shroud, I realize I’ve never been good at lying to Killian Saint.

"I can't," I breathe.

"Can't what, sweetheart?"

"I can't tell you I don't love you."

Killian lets out a sound that’s half-growl, half-sob, and then his mouth crashes onto mine.

Trope Talk: The "His Shirt" Moment

The Trope: The Boyfriend Shirt / Vulnerability in the Dark.

The Thought: Is there anything more classic (and effective) than the FMC wearing the MMC's oversized T-shirt? It’s such a powerful visual of his "claim" on her. In this chapter, the boundary moves from physical space to emotional honesty. Killian is stripping away her defenses just as much as she’s stripping off that damp dress. The tension here isn't just about the spice; it's about the fact that they are both still utterly wrecked by each other.

The Question: Does seeing the FMC in the MMC’s clothes make you swoon, or do you prefer it when he’s the one wearing something of hers?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

vCover Design by LS Phoenix

Trapped within the sleek, black walls of The Obsidian, Charlie is forced to face the ghost of her past. Killian Saint isn’t the boy she once knew—he’s a man who has traded his heart for a reputation. As the clothes come off and the truth comes out, Charlie must decide if she’s brave enough to handle the "Lady Killer" in the dark.

Chapter Three

The silence in the penthouse is heavier than the rain outside. It presses against my eardrums, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the storm hitting the floor-to-ceiling glass.

I’m standing in the center of the foyer of his penthouse, and I’ve never felt smaller. The floors are a polished black marble that reflects the city lights like a dark lake. But none of the luxury matters because the only thing I can see, the only thing I can feel, is Killian.

He’s discarded his leather jacket, tossing it onto a chair without taking his eyes off mine. He looks lethal in the dim light as his fingers go to his wrists, unbuttoning his cuffs. The gold links hit the floor with a tiny, sharp ping that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room.

"A car's not coming, Charlie."

His voice is a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates right through the soles of my feet. I clutch my evening bag against my chest, my knuckles white.

"But—"

"But what?" he interrupts, stopping just inches from me. He’s so much taller than he was when I was eighteen, and he uses every inch of that height to loom over me. "Right now, the only thing that matters is that you're in my house, you're soaking wet, and you're looking at me like you want to scream."

He reaches out, his fingers tangling in a damp lock of my hair, tugging just enough to force me to look up at him.

"I'm going to give you two choices," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that dangerous, honeyed growl. "You can walk into that bedroom, take a hot shower, and put on one of my shirts. Or, you can stay right here and let me peel that dress off you myself. Because I've spent three years trying to remember what’s under that silk, and I’m about ten seconds away from losing my patience."

My mouth opens, a small, shocked O, but the air in my lungs has turned to lead. His thumb grazes my bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to see the white of my teeth.

"Which is it, Charlie?" he asks, his silver eyes dark with a hunger that makes my blood run hot. "Do you want to be a good girl and go to the shower? Or do you want to find out why they really call me the Lady Killer?"

"The shower," I whisper, the words barely finding their way out.

"Good girl." He doesn't sound proud; he sounds disappointed. He lets his hand drop, but his gaze remains fixed on mine. "Down the hall. First door on the right. There are towels in the cabinet and a stack of my shirts in the drawer. Don't take all night, Charlie. I don't like to be kept waiting."

I don't look back. I practically flee down the hallway, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the marble. I find the guest room—a space that is larger than my entire living room—and lock the door behind me with a trembling hand.

I lean against the wood, my eyes closed, trying to draw a full breath. The air in here is cool and smells like him. Everything in this building smells like him. It’s suffocating.

I peel the damp silk dress off my body, letting it fall in a sodden heap on the floor. My skin is covered in goosebumps, shivering from the cold and the adrenaline. I step into the bathroom, a sanctuary of gray stone and chrome, and turn the shower on as hot as it will go.

As the steam fills the room, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My hair is a disaster, my makeup is smudged, and my eyes look... haunted. Or maybe they just look hungry.

I step under the spray, the heat nearly scalding, but I welcome the sting. I scrub my skin until it’s pink, trying to wash away the feeling of his eyes on me, but it’s useless. The way he looked at me in the foyer... it wasn't just desire. It was a claim.

When I finally step out, the mirror is completely fogged over. I wrap myself in a plush white towel and walk back into the bedroom, my heart starting to race again. I find the drawer he mentioned and pull it open.

It’s filled with black T-shirts. Nothing else. Just row after row of soft, expensive cotton that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. I pick one up, the fabric feeling like a second skin against my palm. I pull it over my head, the hem falling all the way to mid-thigh, and the scent of him hits me like a physical blow. It’s sandalwood and something darker, something purely Killian.

I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. I look small in his clothes. Fragile. Like a girl playing dress-up in her father’s closet—except the thoughts I’m having aren't innocent at all.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my hands, and walk back out into the hallway.

The living room is dimly lit now, the only light coming from the glowing skyline of Manhattan and a few amber lamps. Killian is standing by the window, a glass of dark liquid in his hand. He’s discarded his shirt, his back a canvas of black ink and corded muscle.

The tattoos tell a story I haven't read. A serpent coiling around his spine, lyrics I don't recognize scrawled across his shoulder blades, and a small, faded star right at the base of his neck—the one I used to kiss when we were hiding in the shadows of a stadium.

I stand there, frozen, watching the way his muscles ripple as he takes a sip of his drink. He doesn't turn around, but I know he knows I’m there.

"You took your time," he says, his voice a low vibration in the quiet.

"I... I had to warm up."

He turns then, and the breath leaves my body. The sight of him shirtless is enough to make my knees weak. He looks like a god carved from obsidian and silver. His gaze drops to the shirt I’m wearing, his eyes darkening as he sees the way the fabric clings to my damp curves.

"It looks better on you than it does on me," he murmurs, setting his glass down on the glass table. He starts walking toward me, his movements fluid and dangerous.

"Killian, I should go. The rain is slowing down, I can—"

"The rain isn't the problem, Charlie." He stops right in front of me, so close that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. He reaches out, his fingers catching the hem of the shirt, tugging it just enough to make me stumble forward. "The problem is that you think you can walk into my life, dive into my car, and then just... leave. Like the last three years didn't happen. Like you didn't leave a hole in my chest that no amount of scotch or stadium tours could fill."

"You were the one who changed, Killian! You became the 'Lady Killer.' You became someone I didn't recognize."

"I became what the world wanted me to be!" he roars, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He grabs my upper arms, his grip firm but not painful. "I became the monster they paid to see because you weren't there to keep me human. You were eighteen, Charlie. You were too young to know how to handle the dark, so you ran. And I let you."

He leans in, his forehead resting against mine, his breath hot on my lips. "But you're twenty-four now. You're a woman. And I’m tired of being the only one who remembers how good we were."

"Killian..."

"Don't," he growls, his hand sliding up to cup the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my damp hair. "Don't say my name like that unless you're going to follow it with a 'yes.' Because I'm thirty-five years old, and I don't have the patience for games anymore. I want you, Charlie. I want to hear that little sound you make. I want to see you break for me."

He leans down, his lips brushing mine in a whisper of a kiss that makes my entire body shudder.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers against my mouth. "Tell me you don't want this as much as I do, and I'll call you that car. I'll even pay the driver to take you wherever you want to go. But you have to say it. You have to look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me anymore."

I look at him, my heart breaking and mending all at once. The silver in his eyes is bright now, full of a desperate, raw honesty that the "Lady Killer" would never show the world.

I could say it. I could lie and save myself.

But as his thumb brushes my bottom lip, and the scent of him wraps around me like a shroud, I realize I’ve never been good at lying to Killian Saint.

"I can't," I breathe.

"Can't what, sweetheart?"

"I can't tell you I don't love you."

Killian lets out a sound that’s half-growl, half-sob, and then his mouth crashes onto mine.

Trope Talk: The "His Shirt" Moment

The Trope: The Boyfriend Shirt / Vulnerability in the Dark.

The Thought: Is there anything more classic (and effective) than the FMC wearing the MMC's oversized T-shirt? It’s such a powerful visual of his "claim" on her. In this chapter, the boundary moves from physical space to emotional honesty. Killian is stripping away her defenses just as much as she’s stripping off that damp dress. The tension here isn't just about the spice; it's about the fact that they are both still utterly wrecked by each other.

The Question: Does seeing the FMC in the MMC’s clothes make you swoon, or do you prefer it when he’s the one wearing something of hers?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

vCover Design by LS Phoenix

 If fame is a drug, then tonight I’m suffering from a lethal overdose. Between the flashing bulbs of the vultures outside and the cold bite of steel against my wrist, the line between "icon" and "inmate" has officially blurred. I should be at an after-party, buried in a blur of expensive gin and forgettable faces. Instead, I’m being chauffeured through the rain in a mobile cage, shackled to the roof of my own car like a trophy Marcus doesn't want to lose.If fame is a drug, then tonight I’m suffering from a lethal overdose. Between the flashing bulbs of the vultures outside and the cold bite of steel against my wrist, the line between "icon" and "inmate" has officially blurred. I should be at an after-party, buried in a blur of expensive gin and forgettable faces. Instead, I’m being chauffeured through the rain in a mobile cage, shackled to the roof of my own car like a trophy Marcus doesn't want to lose.

Chapter 2

If there is a God, He’s a sadistic bastard with a wicked sense of humor.

I’m currently shackled to the ceiling of a Cadillac Escalade like a common criminal because my manager, Marcus, decided that my "creative outlet" at the gala—specifically, putting my fist through a paparazzo’s lens—required an enforced cooling-off period. My left wrist is pulsing with a dull ache where the metal bites into the skin, and my head is thumping in time with the windshield wipers.

I was prepared for a long, brooding ride back to my empty penthouse. I was prepared to drink a bottle of something expensive until I forgot why I was angry.

I was not prepared for the door to fly open and for Charlotte "Charlie" Evans to dive into my lap.

Watching her scramble into the car was like seeing a ghost manifest in high-definition. For three years, she’s been a flickering image in the back of my mind—the one who walked away before I could ruin her, the girl who tasted like innocence and looked at me like I was something worth saving.

Now, she’s sitting inches away, shivering in a piece of silk that should be illegal. She’s older. Twenty-four, I believe she said. The roundness of her face has sharpened into elegant lines, and the way that dress clings to her damp skin makes my teeth ache with the sudden, violent urge to bite.

"Twenty minutes," I repeat to her, though the words feel like they’re being dragged out of me.

She’s staring at me with those wide blue eyes, the ones that used to be full of light but now hold a guarded, shimmering heat. She looks terrified and pissed off, yes, but there’s something else beneath it. The same pull that used to make her follow me into dark corners when she was eighteen. The same magnetic force that used to make her breath hitch whenever I got too close.

The SUV rolls into the underground garage of The Obsidian, the fluorescent lights strobing across her face. My driver, Miller, brings the beast to a smooth stop in the private bay. He’s a professional—he doesn't look back, doesn't ask questions. He just kills the engine.

"We’re here, Boss," Miller says, his voice flat as he kills the engine. The silence of the underground garage is immediate, broken only by the ticking of the cooling manifold and the muffled, distant roar of the city above. "Locksmith is standing by. I’ll bring him over to the door."

I let out a harsh, jagged breath, my left arm starting to go numb from being hiked up toward the ceiling for the last twenty minutes. My shoulder is screaming, a dull, throbbing reminder of just how much of a mess tonight has been. "Tell him to hurry the hell up. I’m done with this cage."

Beside me, Charlie is a vibrating wire of tension. I can feel the heat radiating off her damp skin, the scent of rain and some floral perfume I remember from three years ago filling the cramped space of the SUV.

I reach out with my free hand, my fingers closing over the leather strap of her bag to pull it toward me, my body shifting to block any chance she has of sliding past.

"I can get my own bag," she snaps, her voice trembling but her chin held high as she reaches for the door handle on her side. "And I can walk to the nearest exit. I am not going up there with you, Killian. This has gone far enough. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I have absolutely no interest in being part of whatever twisted rockstar psychodrama you’re currently starring in."

"The door is locked, Charlie," I growl, not even looking at her. I’m too busy staring at the red mark the cuff is leaving on my wrist. "And unless you want to crawl over me—which, by all means, be my guest—you aren't going anywhere until I’m out of these. Sit back. Don't make me tell you twice."

She lets out a sound of pure frustration, a huff that would be cute if I weren't so goddamn agitated. A moment later, the rear door clicks open, letting in the cool, subterranean air of the garage. A wiry man in a gray jumpsuit scurries forward, his eyes wide as he takes in the sight of the world’s biggest rockstar cuffed to the grab handle of a Cadillac like a common criminal. He doesn't say a word; he just fumbles with a heavy ring of keys and a pick set, his hands shaking just enough to make me want to growl at him.

The metal clinks and protests, the sound echoing off the concrete pillars of the garage, and then—finally—the weight drops. My arm falls to my side, the blood rushing back into my hand with a stinging, electric burn. I flex my fingers, the relief so sharp it almost makes me dizzy.

"Finally," I snap, rubbing the reddened skin of my wrist before shouldering past the man. "Now move out of my way. I’ve had enough of this garage to last a lifetime."

The locksmith scurries back, nearly tripping over his own toolbox as I slide out of the SUV and finally stand at my full height.

"Let’s get moving," I snap. Rolling my shoulders, the leather of my jacket creaks, and I take a deep breath of the garage air. It’s better than the car. Slightly.

I turn back to the SUV, offering a mock-polite hand to Charlie. She stares at my hand—and then at my face. Her eyes are a storm of blue and silver, and for a second, I think she might actually spit on me. Instead, she ignores my hand entirely, climbing out on her own and smoothing down that dangerous and still damp silk dress. She looks like a queen who accidentally wandered into a back-alley brawl, and I’ve never wanted to ruin someone more in my life.

"This way," I say, nodding toward the private elevator that leads directly into the heart of The Obsidian.

"I'm not—"

"Charlie," I cut her off, my voice sharp enough to draw blood. "Look around. You want to walk out that gate and have a hundred cameras catch 'The Lady Killer's' long-lost muse looking like she just crawled out of his bed? Because that’s the story they’ll write. They’ve been looking for a reason to tear you apart since the day I met you six years ago. You walk out now, and you’re fair game. You come upstairs, and you’re safe. Your choice."

Her face pales, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. She knows I’m right. The media has spent three years trying to figure out who broke my heart, and while they never got her name, they’d recognize the way she looks at me in a heartbeat.

She marches toward the elevator, her heels clicking an angry, defiant rhythm on the concrete. I follow close behind, watching the way the silk of her dress swishes against her thighs. I’m thirty-five years old. I’ve had my pick of the most beautiful women in the world. Models, actresses, heiresses—they’ve all been in my bed, and none of them ever made my blood roar like this. None of them ever made me feel like I was young again, desperate and starving for one look from a girl who loved books more than she loved me.

We step into the elevator, and the doors hiss shut with a sound that feels incredibly final. The mirrors reflect us back—the dark, tattered rockstar and the elegant, shivering librarian.

"You've grown up," I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. The silence of the elevator is too much, too intimate. I’m standing behind her and I can see her reflection watching me in the mirrored walls, her pupils blown wide.

"Yeah, I noticed," she says, her voice dry as a desert. "Funny how time doesn't actually stop just because you aren't around to watch it pass."

I let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrates in my chest. I move closer, until the heat of my body is radiating against her back, until I can smell the rain dampening her hair. I can see the fine hair on the back of her neck stand up. I don't touch her, but I cage her in, leaning forward and planting my hands on the brass railing on either side of her slim shoulders.

"Ooh, someone grew some teeth," I murmur, leaning down until my breath stirs the stray hairs at her temple. "Tell me, Charlie... do they bite? Or do you only use them when you’re safely tucked behind a locked door?"

She gasps, her hands flying up to the brass railing of the elevator to steady herself. I can feel her shivering, a fine tremor that starts in her shoulders and works its way down.

"Killian," she warns, her voice breathy, full of that familiar terror-mixed-with-desire that I’ve spent a thousand nights dreaming about.

"And now," I growl, my teeth grazing her earlobe, sending a jolt through her that I feel in my own bones, "you’re twenty-four. You’re a woman. And I’m a man who doesn't have to be careful anymore."

I lean down so my lips are right against the sensitive skin behind her ear. I can smell her now—the real her, beneath the rain and the perfume. 

"You have no idea," I continue, my voice dropping an octave as I crowd her further against the railing. "Three years is a long time to think about all the things I’ve dreamt about doing to you since the night you left. The things I couldn't even put into songs because they were too dark, too loud, too much for anyone but you to hear."

I can feel the hitch in her breathing, a jagged rhythm that matches the hammering of my own heart. The elevator is rising, forty floors of sheer, unadulterated tension.

"And now?" she asks, her voice a fragile thing.

"And now," I growl, my teeth grazing her earlobe, sending a jolt through her that I feel in my own bones, " And I’m a man who doesn't want to be careful anymore. I’ve spent a decade being what the world wanted. Tonight, I just want to be the man who takes what he wants, what’s mine."

The elevator dings—a bright, artificial sound that shatters the moment. The doors slide open to my foyer. 

Charlie stands frozen, her chest heaving, her eyes darting toward the open door as if she’s measuring the distance to the nearest exit.

"Don't even think about it," I warn her, my voice low and dangerous. "You aren't going anywhere until I say so."

The silence of the penthouse is immediate and suffocating. It’s just us. The rain is still lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights below looking like a blurred galaxy.

Charlie turns to face me, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield. "Okay. I’m here. You’ve had your fun. Now call me a car, Killian. I’m serious."

I walk toward her, slow and deliberate. I strip off my leather jacket and toss it onto a chair, my eyes never leaving hers. I start unbuttoning my cuffs, the gold links clinking on the marble floor.

"A car's not coming, Charlie."

"But—"

"But what?" I interrupt, stopping just inches from her. I’m a head taller than her, and I use every bit of it to loom. "Right now, the only thing that matters is that you're in my house, you're soaking wet, and you're looking at me like you want to scream."

I reach out, my fingers tangling in a damp lock of her hair, tugging just enough to make her look up.

"I'm going to give you two choices," I say, my voice dropping into that dangerous, honeyed growl. "You can walk into that bedroom, take a hot shower, and put on one of my shirts. Or, you can stay right here and let me peel that dress off you myself. Because I've spent three years trying to remember what’s under that silk, and I’m about ten seconds away from losing my patience."

Charlie’s mouth opens, a small, shocked 'O', but no sound comes out.

"Which is it, Charlie?" I lean in, my thumb grazing her bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to see the white of her teeth. "Do you want to be a good girl and go to the shower? Or do you want to find out why they really call me the Lady Killer?"

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Trope Talk: The Experienced Claim 

The Trope: Age Gap / The Golden Cage. 

The Thought: This chapter moves the boundary from a cramped car to a sprawling penthouse, but the air actually gets tighter. Killian isn't pretending to be a "nice guy" anymore—at thirty-five, he’s embracing the "Lady Killer" reputation and using every bit of his experience to rattle Charlie’s "good girl" exterior. He’s already "claiming" her presence before the cuffs are even off. It’s the ultimate power play: he gives her a choice, but we all know there’s only one way this ends. 

The Question: When it comes to an age-gap romance, do you like the MMC to be a protective mentor type, or a "corrupting influence" like Killian Saint?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix