Chapter 2: The Hours Before Dawn
1180 Words
The rain stopped sometime after 2 a.m.
Maya didn't notice.
She was curled against Leo's chest in the back seat of his car, her cheek pressed to the damp fabric of his shirt, listening to his heartbeat slow from a gallop to something steadier. The windows were still fogged. The air smelled like rain, like skin, like the two of them tangled together.
His hand moved slowly up and down her spine. Lazy. Possessive. Every few strokes, his fingers would drift lower — just below her waist — and then back up again, as if he couldn't help testing the boundary.
"You're thinking too loud," he murmured.
Maya smiled against his chest. "How can you tell?"
"Your breathing changed." His lips brushed the top of her head. "And you went still. The way people do when they're about to say something they're scared to say."
She tilted her face up. In the dim light filtering through the fogged windows, his features were soft and sharp at once — the strong line of his jaw, the small crease between his brows, the way his mouth looked well-kissed and still hungry.
"I wasn't planning this," she said quietly.
"Neither was I."
"Does that scare you?"
His hand stopped on her lower back. He looked at her for a long moment — really looked — and she saw something there she hadn't expected. Not just want. Something rawer.
"It terrifies me," he said. "But not in the way you think."
She propped herself up on one elbow, suddenly needing to see his face clearly. The movement made the car shift, and she felt the evidence of what they'd done pressed between them — the warmth, the slight soreness, the intimacy that made her blush even now.
"Then in what way?"
Leo reached up. His thumb traced her lower lip — slowly, back and forth, watching the movement like he was memorizing it.
"Because I've wanted you for a year," he said. "Every elevator ride. Every time you laughed in the hallway. I'd go home and think about your hands. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're concentrating." His thumb paused at the corner of her mouth. "And now I've had you. And I already know — once isn't going to be enough."
Maya's breath caught.
She kissed his thumb, then his palm, then the inside of his wrist where his pulse jumped beneath her lips. He tasted like salt and something sweeter underneath.
"Who said anything about once?" she whispered.
A low sound escaped him — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan. His hands slid to her hips, and he pulled her on top of him in one smooth motion. She straddled him in the narrow back seat, her thighs bracketing his hips, her hair falling around them both like a curtain.
His hands moved up her thighs, pushing the hem of her dress higher. His palms were warm and rough and she could feel every callus, every fingerprint, every inch of skin he claimed.
"You're going to be the death of me," he said.
She leaned down, her mouth hovering just above his. "What a way to go."
He kissed her — slower this time, deeper. His tongue slid against hers, and she felt the kiss everywhere: in her chest, her belly, the place where her body was already starting to ache for him again.
His hands found her hips, guided her. She rocked against him experimentally, and they both gasped into each other's mouths.
"Maya —"
"I know." She was already reaching down between them, already positioning herself, already desperate for the feeling of him inside her again.
He stopped her with a hand on her wrist.
"Wait." His voice was strained, barely controlled. "Look at me."
She did.
His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, but there was something else there too — a tenderness that made her chest ache.
"I want to see you," he said. "When it happens again. I want to watch your face."
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
And then she lowered herself onto him slowly — so slowly — and the sound he made was almost pained. Her name. Just her name, over and over, as she began to move.
---
The sun was thinking about rising when they finally stumbled into his apartment.
He lived twenty minutes from the diner, in a building with a creaky elevator and hallways that smelled like old books and coffee. She didn't remember the drive. She didn't remember the walk from the car to the door. All she remembered was his hand on hers, his thumb stroking her knuckles, and the way he kept looking at her like she was something precious.
His apartment was small and neat. A leather couch. A shelf of worn paperbacks. A bed in the corner with dark sheets that she fell into gratefully.
He stood at the foot of the bed, watching her.
"You're still dressed," she said.
"So are you."
She sat up slowly, never breaking eye contact, and pulled her dress over her head. Let it fall to the floor. She wasn't wearing anything underneath — she hadn't been for hours, since the back seat of his car.
Leo's jaw tightened. His hands went to his belt.
"Wait," she said softly. "Let me."
She crawled to the edge of the bed, knelt in front of him, and unhooked his belt with fingers that trembled slightly. Not from nerves. From wanting.
She pulled his shirt over his head. Ran her palms down his chest, his stomach, felt him shiver beneath her touch. Pressed her lips to the warm skin over his heart.
"You're beautiful," she whispered.
He made a sound — broken, almost — and pulled her to her feet, then back onto the bed. He laid her out beneath him like she was something sacred. His mouth traced a slow path down her throat, her collarbone, the curve of her breast. He took his time. He had all night now.
And when he finally settled between her thighs, when she felt the weight of him pressing against her, she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him down.
"Don't stop," she breathed.
He didn't.
---
Later — much later — they lay tangled in his dark sheets, the morning light just beginning to seep through the blinds.
Maya traced idle patterns on his chest. He played with her hair.
"We should probably talk about what happens next," she said.
"We should," he agreed.
Neither of them moved.
Finally, he tilted her chin up with one finger. "Breakfast first. Then we talk. Then —" His thumb brushed her lower lip. "Then I'm going to make you stay all day."
"Am I going to want to leave?"
"No," he said simply. "You're not."
She smiled — slow, wide, helpless — and kissed him one more time.
The rain was gone. The sun was rising. And for the first time in a very long time, Maya wasn't thinking about leaving.
She was thinking about staying.
- Writer
