Chapter Text
It was embarrassing to admit, even in the privacy of her own thoughts, but yes—she had been imagining what it would be like to be kissed by Simon.
And hell, that wasn’t weird, was it? Most people do that. Right?
Still, the reality of it—the absolute truth she had to swallow—was that whatever fantasy she had conjured up in her head was nothing compared to this.
Because she had been wrong. Completely wrong.
If she’d been waiting for something rough, desperate, and unhinged… Simon Riley was none of those things.
Oh, wait—are you still wondering? Are you waiting for confirmation that this wasn’t some fever dream?
Yes, he kissed her.
Right there. In that very moment.
His hands—those massive hands that could crush, could kill—were cradling her face as if she were made of glass. Thumbs brushing against her skin, steady, reverent.
And his lips? God, his lips.
They moved.
Firm. Decisive. Not hurried or impatient but unrelenting in their purpose. There was no room for her to doubt, no room for hesitation, as his kiss pulled her under. Deep. So deep that breathing felt impossible—not that she cared.
Between the pressure of his mouth, the heat of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth against her lower lip—fuck, her chest burned like she’d forgotten how to inhale.
And then there was that sound. That sound.
A faint, gravelly groan, ripped from his throat when she instinctively pulled back to gasp for air. It was so quiet, so raw, but it sent shivers tearing down her spine.
There were no words.
No words for the way his scent—cologne and warmth and a hint of whiskey—wrapped around her like a drug.
No words for the way his fingers tightened, just slightly, against her jaw, as though grounding her.
No words for the way he made her entire body hum, alive in a way it had never been before.
Simon Riley kissed her like no one else ever had.
And maybe—maybe—no one else ever could.
And, as some wise old soul had said before, good doesn’t last.
The kiss ended.
Her lips, still tingling, parted as if to chase after him, to bring him back. But the moment was already slipping between her fingers like grains of sand.
Her eyes opened, searching—aching—for that soft gaze he’d given her throughout the night. That fleeting glimpse of vulnerability, of humanity, that seemed to crack through his carefully constructed armor.
But she didn’t find it.
Instead, Simon buried his face in her shoulder, the warmth of his breath brushing her skin, uneven and shallow. His broad shoulders, towering and imposing, were hunched as if bracing against a storm.
His hands came up, planting themselves on the wall on either side of her head, boxing her in—but not in the way that made her heart race with anticipation. No, this was different.
His chest heaved with deep, deliberate breaths, as though he was trying to wrestle control over something he couldn’t quite contain.
He was close—too close—but it wasn’t enough.
Not like this.
The silence between them felt heavy, like it carried the weight of something unsaid, something he didn’t have the courage to speak.
She wanted to reach out, to run her fingers through his hair, to coax him out of whatever war he was fighting within himself.
But she didn’t.
Because she could feel it—the invisible wall slamming back into place, shutting her out.
Her throat tightened as she whispered, “Simon?”
His body stiffened at the sound of his name, but he didn’t move. Didn’t look at her.
Instead, his voice came low, raw, muffled against her shoulder.
“Shouldn’t’ve done that.”
It felt like one of those movies—the bad romantic ones. The ones where the girl somehow “gets” the bad guy, the one who couldn’t love anyone.
Was that this? Was he the bad guy? And was she supposed to be the fool who tried anyway?
Her heart thudded unevenly in her chest as the words slipped from her lips, quiet and careful.
“What do you mean?”
She already knew. Or at least, she thought she did. Simon wasn’t like other men—wasn’t like anyone she’d known. If she wanted anything with him, anything real, she’d have to take her time. Go slow.
But then doubt twisted in her chest, the sharp edges of insecurity cutting into her voice.
“You didn’t like it?” she asked softly, hating how small she sounded.
“I did,” he said, the words landing heavy between them, like they carried a weight even he couldn’t quite bear. His head dipped lower, his breath brushing her neck, and when his nose grazed her skin, she nearly melted on the spot.
“It’s… different,” he admitted, voice rough and raw.
Her breath hitched. “Bad or good?”
Simon went still. For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to answer. That he’d let the silence swallow them whole.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, he muttered, “…Never been good at it.”
Her lips curved into the smallest, faintest smile, her courage rising as her hands dared to slide up, just barely grazing the edges of his jaw.
“Well,” she said, her tone light but her heart hammering, “there’s always a first.”
Her words hung in the air, daring, inviting. A challenge.
And for a moment, Simon just stood there, his breath warm against her skin, his fingers twitching at his sides like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. Like he was caught between wanting to run and wanting to pull her closer.
But then his hands shifted—uncertain, almost hesitant—resting lightly at her hips, his thumbs brushing over the fabric of her shirt.
His voice dropped even lower, a gravelly whisper against her ear.
“You shouldn’t make it so easy for me.”
"I am not making it easy for you," she admitted, her voice trembling just enough to betray her nerves. She tried to fake calmness, tried to steady herself under his gaze. "I want this. I want to try this... Do you want the same? Do you want to try?"
Fear hung between them, unspoken but heavy.
Not the fear of danger, but the fear of giving too much. Of laying herself bare like an open book. Of being honest with someone who could so easily crush her if he chose.
It wasn’t easy for her, this kind of honesty. The vulnerability felt sharp, like a knife cutting through her defenses. And it stung, realizing just how much she cared whether he answered yes or no.
Because people were supposed to take care of each other’s hearts, weren’t they? That’s what she’d always believed. But life had taught her that not everyone saw it that way. Not everyone cared as much about the weight of compromise or the fragility of feelings.
Did Simon?
Could Simon?
Would he be able to hold her heart—and his own—without breaking both of them in the process?
Past the kisses. Past the electric waves rushing through their bodies. Past the rush of heat and the vibrant swirl of emotions.
Could he stay?
“I do,” he finally said, his voice low, almost cautious. “But I can’t promise you for it to be good.”
Her lips twitched into a small, almost teasing smile. “Hm, are you some kind of crazy man?”
He paused, tilting his head slightly, his lips curving into that faint, almost-smile of his. “Well—”
“Wait, do not answer that one,” she cut in, raising a hand as if to stop him mid-thought.
And there it was—a sound she hadn’t expected but instantly craved to hear again. A soft, muffled laugh, more breath than sound, but it still warmed the air between them.
It worked for her.
It worked too well.
It started with another kiss. Or maybe two. No—too many to count. Each one blurred into the next, her mind spinning in a haze of heat and sensation. His hands roamed her back, strong and steady, pulling her closer every time she thought she'd manage to pull away. And when she finally broke free—almost free—she could still feel his breath on her lips, his grip lingering on her hips, like his touch had marked her somehow.
“I—uh, gimme a sec,” she stammered, stumbling out of his hold, practically tripping over her own feet as she backed toward the bathroom.
She closed the door behind her, pressing her back against it as she tried to catch her breath. She glanced at herself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, wide eyes, hair slightly mussed. God. Get it together.
But instead of calming herself down, she grabbed her phone and immediately texted Millie.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as a new wave of panic set in. She could picture him out there—tall, calm, probably standing there like he owned the place. What was he even doing? Just waiting for her?
Her phone buzzed, and Millie’s reply came through almost instantly.
Breathe. Right.
She set her phone down, splashed some water on her face, and opened the door—only to find him standing in her room.
“Simon?”
He didn’t answer right away. His back was to her, and he was holding something in his hands. She stepped closer, her heart racing as she realized he was looking at one of her photos.
He glanced over his shoulder, holding up the frame. “This you?”
It was an old picture—her and Millie at some party, laughing at something stupid. She wasn’t sure why it felt so embarrassing, but it did. Maybe it was because he looked so... normal about it, like standing in her room and picking through her life wasn’t a big deal at all.
“Yeah, that’s me,” she said, crossing her arms as her nerves crept up again.
His eyes wandered. Not in a leering way—he wasn’t looking at her so much as everything else. Her books. Her clothes draped over a chair. The half-open drawer with socks spilling out.
“You don’t mind me snooping, do you?” he asked, completely deadpan, as if he wasn’t already doing just that.
“Mind? Are you serious right now?” she shot back, trying to sound annoyed but mostly sounding flustered.
His lips twitched into the faintest smirk, and he set the photo down. “Relax. Just... getting to know you.”
“By going through my stuff?”
“Better than askin’ questions you don’t want to answer,” he said, his tone light but carrying just enough weight to make her heart skip a beat.
She didn’t know whether to scream at him or kiss him again.
"Better than asking," he repeated, his voice low, almost teasing, and she knew it was an indirect. Of course, it was.
"Huh! I knew you didn't want me asking," she quipped back, tilting her chin up in mock defiance, though her heart was doing flips in her chest.
The corner of his mouth twitched, his cocky expression settling into something so effortlessly hot it made her knees weak. Shit, did I say that with my face?!
"You can ask," he replied smoothly, stepping closer. "Just don’t wait for me to answer all of 'em."
The air thickened. His steps were slow but deliberate, and before she could think too hard about what was happening, his hands were on her again. It was natural now, like something between them had shifted, something fragile had finally given way. That invisible thread keeping them close but never close enough had snapped, and now nothing was holding him back.
He touched her like he’d been waiting a lifetime to do it. His hands clenched the fabric of her dress, pulling her in, anchoring her to him. His lips found her neck, slow and deliberate, and she swore she felt her heart stop.
It was too much. Too good. The way his breath brushed her skin, the way his stubble scraped lightly against her collarbone, the way every sigh she let out seemed to spur him on.
Her hands found his shoulders, gripping tightly as if to steady herself, but it only pulled him closer. His lips moved lower, and she felt her head tilt back of its own accord, giving him more space, letting him in without a word.
And God, the little sounds she made—the soft, shaky sighs, the unsteady inhales—they undid him. He wasn’t sure what he was chasing anymore: the sound of her breath, the feel of her against him, or the rush of finally having what he’d craved.
“Simon,” she whispered, and it wasn’t a plea or a question—it was a breaking point. For both of them.
Oh. God.
OH. FUCKING GOD.
She had seen naked men before. Sure, it was a thing that happened. Nothing special, nothing to write home about. She’d never really felt like it was something to admire, to worship, to actually see.
But now?
Hell itself had grabbed her ankles, yanked her down into a fire she didn’t know she could burn in, and whispered, "Naughty little thing," in every possible way.
Simon wasn’t naked. Not yet. He was just taking his shirt off.
JUST THE FUCKING SHIRT.
And yet here she was, back arching slightly against the bed, legs pressing together at the sight. It wasn’t just about the skin. It was about him, about the way his body moved as he pulled the fabric over his head. He wasn’t overly defined, not the kind of body you’d see in magazines. He didn’t need to be. He was something else entirely—raw, powerful. His body wasn’t built to be admired; it was forged to be a weapon.
Dangerous.
And yet, somehow, she couldn’t help but think... it was made to protect, too.
Her eyes traced the scars littering his skin, each one a story carved into his body, and for a moment, the heat of the room cooled just slightly. A twinge of worry crept into her thoughts. She wasn’t a medic, but she knew enough to understand that a bullet to the chest wasn’t something you just shrugged off.
“Few stories you have here…” she murmured, her fingers itching to reach out but hesitating.
“Hm, some…” His voice was low, almost casual, but when he turned his gaze to her, that stare nearly broke her. It was like he could see straight through her, but not in a way that unsettled her. It made her feel known. "Problem?"
“Not at all,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the storm inside her.
The marks on his skin would never be a problem.
But the ones inside him?
Those were a different story entirely.
Another way to make her freeze.
That was what this was, wasn’t it? Another way of making her blood run cold and hot at the same time. Her eyes grew wide, her cheeks flushed crimson, her lungs filled with shaky breaths, and her stomach... God, that weird, fluttering feeling that tied her insides into knots.
It wasn’t until he took the last piece of her clothing away that she truly felt it—completely exposed.
Not exposed as in no clothes. No, this was deeper, more intimate. It was like he had peeled her open, layer by layer, until there was nothing left but her. Every insecurity, every thought, every feeling laid bare under his gaze.
She had never felt like this before—like she was completely at someone’s mercy—and actually wanted that person to like what they saw.
“Gorgeous,” he said, his voice low, thick, full of something she couldn’t quite name.
But what caught her wasn’t his words. It was his eyes. He wasn’t staring at her body, though she had expected that. No, his gaze stayed on her face—on her wide, shining eyes, the curve of her flushed cheeks, the soft part of her lips as she tried to catch her breath.
Simon saw her.
And it made her feel more naked than anything else ever could.
She didn’t know what to do with the way he looked at her, the way he felt about her. But Simon? Simon was discovering something entirely new, a terrain he’d never stepped foot on before.
New feelings, new emotions.
And there was no unknowing it now.
How could he un-learn the way his heart tightened when she smiled? The way his entire body burned with the need to protect her, to care for her? How could he stop liking her, stop wanting her, stop craving the way she looked at him like he was someone worth staying for?
How could Simon Riley stop wanting to be around her?
He couldn’t.
There was no turning back.
But there was never really any turning back, was there?
If Simon thought about it long enough, he’d see it. The exact moment it all started. That first night she texted him. A simple, stupid message. And then? His mind just wouldn’t shut the fuck up.
What happened to him being empty? Being cold?
There used to be a hollow point in his chest—a dark, unfeeling void he’d relied on for years. But now? Now, it felt... strange. Unfamiliar. Like something had started to fill it.
Not all at once, but in pieces.
Doubt. Wanting. Waiting.
Waiting for something more. For something bigger than the bullets, maps, and blood that made up his life.
And now here he was, staring down at her—her skin glowing in the low light, her chest rising and falling with shallow, rapid breaths as his lips trailed along her collarbone.
Her body moved under his hands, and it made him feel... whole. Full. More alive than he’d ever been.
There was nothing in the world that could compare to this.
Nothing.
Nothing close to the sound of her gasping his name, to the feel of her gripping his shoulders like she’d drown without him.
And definitely nothing close to how badly he wanted her to see him.
Not just his body. Not just his scars. Not the mask he wore every single day to keep the world out.
No, he wanted her to see him.
Him and only him.