12. TWENTY YEARS IN A NIGHT

The light woke me first. Thin morning strips cut across the floorboards, too sharp to ignore. My body ached everywhere—in the good way, the kind of soreness that reminded me of every position Maddox had folded me into last night. My legs were still tangled in the sheets, sticky from the mess we hadn’t bothered to clean up.

Beside me, Maddox stirred, his arm heavy across my stomach. For a moment I just lay there, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair curled damp against his forehead, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth where sleep softened him.

Then my stomach growled loud enough to break the spell.

He cracked one eye open. “Was that you or me?”

“Me,” I admitted, laughing softly. “Guess I forgot to eat after… well, everything.”

He grinned, slow and lazy, then pushed himself up. The sheet slid away, baring him completely, and my mouth went dry all over again. “Come on,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “Let’s find something to eat before you waste away.”

We stumbled into the kitchen naked, the wood floor cool under our feet. The fridge was half-empty, but there was a bowl of fruit on the counter—grapes, strawberries, a couple of bruised peaches. Maddox grabbed a handful of grapes and tossed one into his mouth, then flicked another at me. I caught it, barely.

“Not bad,” I said, chewing.

He leaned back against the counter, his whole body loose, unguarded in a way I’d never seen before. The morning light from the window cut across him in soft gold, catching on the damp edges of his hair, tracing the curve of his shoulders. It slid down the slope of his chest, across the trail of hair leading to the thick weight hanging between his legs. Even half-soft, he was unapologetic about it, heavy and swinging, like his body knew it had nothing to prove.

I told myself to stop staring, but my eyes betrayed me. I traced every line, every shadow—the ridge of his collarbone, the faint scar near his rib, the way his abs flexed as he popped another grape into his mouth. He didn’t pose; he didn’t need to. The man was carved out of presence, and here he was, standing barefoot in my kitchen, naked like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He caught me. Of course he did. His mouth curved into that smirk, sharp and knowing. “You’re staring.”

I swallowed, heat rising in my neck. “You threw fruit at me,” I countered. “What do you expect?”

He didn’t answer, not right away. Instead, he pushed off the counter and stepped closer, the air shifting with him. He plucked a strawberry from the bowl, its red skin glossy in the light, and held it between his fingers. He didn’t hand it to me—he brought it to my lips.

I parted them. The fruit was cool, sweet, bursting as I bit into it, juice running down my chin in a thin line. His thumb caught it before it could fall, dragging slow across my skin. And then, instead of pulling back, he slid his thumb past my lips.

The taste shifted—strawberry fading into salt, into him. His eyes locked on mine, steady, searching, daring me. I closed my mouth around his finger, sucked the sweetness clean, my tongue curling instinctively. His lips parted, breath catching.

That was all it took. The tension, dormant for the length of a grape and a joke, snapped back with brutal clarity. My pulse spiked, heat pooling low in my stomach, every nerve on edge.

“Shower?” he asked finally, his voice low, rough, like the word had already lived in his throat for minutes.

I swallowed hard, the taste of strawberry and him lingering on my tongue. “Yeah,” I said, already knowing food wasn’t the hunger either of us needed to feed.

He took my hand, led me back toward the bathroom.

The mirror was still fogged from the night before when he turned on the water. Steam filled the air, curling into every corner, and through it I watched him step under the spray. Water coursed over his chest, down the ridges of his stomach, over the thick weight of him hanging between his legs. My pulse spiked just watching.

I should’ve walked in immediately, but I couldn’t. I just stood there, rooted in the doorway, drinking him in. Twenty years, and I still wasn’t used to the sight of him—of this. Back in high school, he’d been my best friend, the boy with the easy laugh, the one who never looked at me like I was less. Now he was a man, carved and powerful, every muscle taut, his body carrying the proof of discipline and years.

And I couldn’t stop staring at his cock, heavy and beautiful, water glistening as it swung slightly with every shift of his hips. My mouth went dry. This was the part I’d never had—never even dared to imagine in such detail back then. And now here it was, right in front of me, real and dripping under the shower’s spray.

Part of me wanted to step in, to touch, to take. Another part wanted to stay there in the doorway forever, to memorize the image until it was seared into me. This man—my Maddox, and yet not mine at all.