I stirred awake slowly, the remnants of sleep pulling me back under before I finally blinked my eyes open. I shifted slightly and felt the warmth beside me—Oliver.
He was watching me, his intense gaze softened by a rare tenderness. His fingers ran lightly through my hair,
absently stroking the strands as if he was trying to memorize the feel of them.
"You sleep like you're fighting off dreams," he said quietly, his voice carrying a rare warmth.
I blinked, still caught between the haze of sleep and the reality of waking up next to him. "And you watch me sleep like you're trying to figure something out."
He chuckled softly, a rare sound that made my heart skip. "Maybe I am."
I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips, but beneath the teasing, there was a lingering uncertainty. As if reading my mind, Oliver gave a low sigh and leaned closer, brushing his lips against my forehead.
"Don't look so worried," he whispered, his fingers still tangled in my hair. "I still feel exactly what I felt last night."
Before I could respond, his lips brushed against mine, the kiss gentle but charged with the same heat as before. My body responded immediately, arching toward him as his hand slid down my side, his touch leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.
I pulled him closer, my hands wandering over his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath my fingertips, and the slight roughness of hair that covered his skin. It added a raw, masculine texture to his already commanding presence, making my pulse quicken. The soft moan that escaped him sent a wave of desire crashing through me, my fingers tangling in the hair as I relished the sensation of his warmth beneath my touch.
The Nebula had long since worn off, but the connection between us was still there—undeniable, powerful, and dangerously intoxicating
Oliver's hand slid lower, finding the curve of my hip, and I let out a soft gasp as his lips moved down my neck, pressing heated kisses against my skin. We didn't speak—there was no need for words as our bodies moved together again, this time slower, more deliberate. It was softer than last night, but just as intense.
Oliver's touch was unhurried, almost reverent, as his fingers traced the line of my waist, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin just below my ribs. I shivered under his touch, every nerve alive with anticipation. His lips followed the path of his hand, ghosting over my collarbone before dipping lower, leaving a trail of warmth that set my skin on fire.
I closed my eyes, letting the sensation wash over me as his mouth pressed soft, lingering kisses along my chest, his breath warm and teasing against my skin. It was different from the raw intensity of the night before—this was slower, deeper, as if he was savoring every inch of me, like he wanted to memorize the feel of my body beneath his hands.
I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze, and what I saw there stole my breath. His eyes were filled with something that went beyond simple lust. It was need, but more than that—it was a connection, a vulnerability that I hadn't seen before.
Without a word, I reached for him, pulling him on top of me, our bodies fitting together perfectly. His weight was familiar now, comforting, as he slid inside me with a slow, deliberate thrust. This time, his movements were different—careful and gentle, each motion carrying an almost reverent tenderness.
He paused, his lips brushing against my ear as he asked, "Are you sore?"
"A little," I admitted, my voice soft, tinged with honesty.
His gaze searched mine, filled with concern. "We can stop if you need to. Just say the word."
"Don't stop," I whispered, my hands clutching at his shoulders, my voice trembling with need. "Please, don't stop."
A faint, satisfied smile touched his lips as he kissed me deeply, his thrusts continuing with a measured rhythm. Each movement was unhurried, coaxing a growing wave of pleasure while grounding me in the moment, his care and consideration making the experience all the more intoxicating.
A soft gasp escaped my lips, my hands clutching his shoulders as he moved against me, each slow, sensual stroke drawing me deeper into him. It was softer, yes, but the intensity was still there, the tension between us electric. Our breathing synced, our bodies finding a rhythm that felt like it had always been there, just waiting to be discovered.
He filled me completely, in every sense of the word. Perfectly erect, his length pressed into me with a precision that felt almost impossible, the slight curve of him hitting every spot just right, coaxing sensations I didn't know I could feel.
In the clarity of the moment, I understood why his past encounters had been few and far between. Any woman lucky—or foolish—enough to share his bed would become addicted to him, to the way he moved, to the way he seemed to understand exactly what I needed before I even knew it myself.
Despite the simplicity of our position, he knew exactly how to make it feel anything but ordinary. His rhythm was deliberate, perfectly attuned to my body, each movement building a pleasure so intense it left me breathless. His speed and pressure shifted with flawless precision, his hands roaming over me with a caress that made every nerve in my body hum.
His forehead pressed against mine, his breath hot and ragged as he moved inside me, slow and deep, every thrust sending waves of pleasure through me. I felt his hand slide into my hair, gently pulling, tilting my head back so his lips could find mine again.
The kiss was tender, but it held the same fire as the night before, and I lost myself in it, in him. Every sensation was magnified, every brush of his skin against mine sparking something raw and undeniable between us.
I clung to him as the pleasure built, wave after wave, until I was lost in him completely. Every thought, every fear, every worry melted away until there was nothing but the feeling of him moving inside me, the taste of his kiss, the heat of his body pressed against mine.
And as the pleasure crested, pulling me under, I knew without a doubt—I was his. Completely.
He was masterful, holding back his release with a control that left me in awe. Every thrust, every deliberate movement, was calculated to push me higher, to keep me teetering on the brink until I thought I might break apart. His hands roamed my body, his touch both possessive and tender, sending shockwaves through me.
As the pressure coiled tighter in my core, he leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice low and commanding. "Cum for me," he whispered, the words like a spark igniting a fire inside me, "please."
I couldn't hold back anymore. My body tightened, the release hitting me like a tidal wave, shattering into pure, overwhelming ecstasy.
He didn't stop, his movements deliberate and controlled, continuing to draw out every ounce of my pleasure. My body was still trembling from the aftershocks of my climax, hypersensitive to every thrust and touch. His breathing grew heavier, more ragged, and I could feel the tension in his body building as he held back.
"Lux," he moaned, his voice low and strained, each word dripping with need. "Are you ready for me? Do you want me to cum for you?"
The question sent a thrill coursing through me, igniting a fire that made my heart race all over again. I met his gaze, my voice soft but insistent. "Yes. Please. I want it. I want all of you."
"Say it again," he demanded, his thrusts slowing but growing deeper, more intentional, as he waited for my words.
"Please," I begged, my voice trembling with anticipation. "I need you. I need to feel you cum for me."
That was all it took. His restraint finally snapped, his body tensing as he drove into me one last time, his release overtaking him in a raw, powerful wave. A guttural groan escaped his lips, his hands gripping me tightly as he buried himself deep, the heat of his climax sending another shiver through me.
Even in his release, he didn't lose control entirely, his movements slowing to a languid rhythm as he rode out the final pulses of pleasure.
As the waves of bliss subsided, leaving my body limp and trembling, a single, inescapable truth clawed its way to the surface of my mind. I was addicted to him. Utterly. Irrevocably. And it was worse—so much worse—than any drug I'd ever taken. Drugs were fleeting; they numbed, dulled, or made you forget. But with him, it wasn't just about the pleasure or the rush. It was the way he filled every hollow part of me, the way he made me feel alive, whole, and utterly seen.
No high had ever come close to this. Nothing else could touch the raw, consuming pull he had over me. I knew it in my bones, in the pounding of my heart: I'd crave this, crave him, for the rest of my life. I'd chase this feeling, this unshakable need, again and again—no matter how much it cost me, no matter how much of myself I had to give.
We laid there in silence afterward, our breaths mingling as we both drifted in and out of the moment.
Eventually, Oliver stirred, pulling away gently before rising from the bed. "Come on," he said, his voice low. "Let's clean up."
I followed him to the bathroom, the connection between us humming in the air like a live wire.
The shower was brief but sensual. We didn't say much, but the silence was comfortable, intimate. We didn't need words.
When we finally stepped out, Oliver wrapped a towel around his waist and headed into the kitchen, leaving me to dry off and follow. I couldn't help but watch him as he moved—his bare back, the way his muscles shifted with every step. The intensity from last night hadn't faded; if anything, it was more potent now.
He set a plate in front of me—a simple breakfast of eggs and toast, but it was the way he moved, the ease in his actions, that made the gesture feel more intimate. He sat across from me, his eyes meeting mine with a quiet intensity as he took a sip from his coffee.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The comfortable silence from earlier still lingered, but I could feel the shift in the air. Reality was creeping back in.
Oliver set his cup down, leaning forward slightly, his expression growing more serious. "It's time to talk business."
The shift in his tone made my stomach twist slightly. I knew this conversation was coming, but the weight of it hit me harder than I expected.
"I'm worried, Lux." His voice was low, almost a growl. "Aspen won't just let you keep playing this game. You've gotten in too deep. She'll kill you if she finds out you've been making moves behind her back. And I can't…" He trailed off, his jaw tightening.
The thought of Aspen killing me wasn't new—I'd known the risks from the start. But hearing Oliver say it, the concern in his voice, the tension in his body, made it feel more real. I swallowed hard, pushing down the fear that crept up my spine.
"I'm being careful," I said quietly. "We're turning her people against her, little by little. The more they see she's squeezing them dry, the easier it'll be to pull them over to our side."
Oliver's eyes darkened, his hand clenched around his mug. "I know what you're doing. And I can't say I'm not impressed. But Lux… I need you to keep your head down for a while. Stay out of the Vault's mess. Go back to the streets for a bit."
I blinked, taken aback. "You want me to leave the Vault?"
"For your safety," he muttered, looking away as if the words pained him. "It's getting too dangerous."
A wave of anger flared inside me. "I'm not running away, Oliver. I've fought too hard to and I can't just leave now. I can help here. I know I can."
But beneath the anger, something else twisted inside me—a sharp, unwelcome pang of betrayal. His suggestion stung in a way I hadn't expected. It wasn't just about leaving the Vault; it was the feeling that he wanted to push me away. Like he was running from what was between us, from the pull we both felt but neither of us dared to fully name. It felt less like he was trying to protect me and more like he was trying to protect himself. From Aspen, from fallout, from me. And that realization cut deeper than I wanted to admit.
Oliver's gaze snapped back to mine, his expression torn between frustration and something else. "I don't want you to die. You don't understand how deep this goes. You might think you're getting ahead, but one wrong move and—"
"I won't make a wrong move," I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended. "And I'm not leaving. I can help you. We're turning her men against her. We're weakening her grip, one step at a time. I'm not going back to the streets, Oliver. I'm staying here."
His eyes searched mine for a long moment, his brow furrowing. "I don't want to lose you." The raw vulnerability in his voice made my chest tighten. "Then don't push me out."
He let out a long breath, running a hand through his damp hair. "I'm not pushing you out… I just can't stand the thought of something happening to you."
I reached across the table, taking his hand in mine.
As Oliver's touch softened, and his movements became more protective than possessive, I couldn't help but feel the shift in him. The way he held me now wasn't just about claiming or control, but something deeper, something more fragile and real. His once-dominant demeanor—the one I'd come to associate with his power and position—had given way to something else entirely. A need to protect, to shelter me in a way that went beyond the physical.
It was a feeling I wasn't used to—one I didn't know how to process. I'd never really felt protected before. My life had been a constant battle, every step a calculated move to defend myself from the world and the people in it. The idea of someone stepping in, of a man standing between me and danger, felt foreign. Unnatural, even. I'd always thought of myself as my own savior, never a damsel in distress waiting for someone to swoop in.
When I first met Oliver, he treated me like a fighter. Like someone who could hold her own and push back when the world pushed too hard. But now, in this moment, he held me like I was a fragile teacup—delicate, breakable, and in need of careful handling. It was jarring, this shift in how he saw me, and I wasn't sure if it comforted me or made me want to push him away. It stirred something unfamiliar, something I wasn't sure I wanted to name.
I thought back to the moment in the Isles, when Oliver had come to my defense, the memory as vivid as if it had just happened. The theater guard had grabbed me—hurt me—and in that instant, I saw something flash in Oliver's eyes that I'd never forget. He hadn't hesitated. He had drawn his gun, and with a single shot, he had ended the threat.
Cold, decisive, dominant.
But that moment of brutal dominance was fading now. His walls were crashing down around us, crumbling with every kiss, every whispered breath against my skin. The man who had once been a fortress of power and control was now letting me see behind those walls, showing me something raw and unguarded.
He was letting me in.
He had always been dominant with me, always in control, but now there was something different in the way he touched me. He wasn't just trying to take; he was trying to give. To show me that he trusted me in a way he hadn't trusted anyone in a long time.
He was letting his guard down, brick by brick, and in doing so, he was allowing me to see the man behind the mask.
Oliver dressed quickly; his movements purposeful but not rushed. His shirt slid over the frame of his chest, his hands moving deftly as he buttoned it up, his eyes occasionally gazed back to me. There was something different in the way he looked at me now—a softness, maybe, or perhaps it was the weight of what we both knew we were stepping into.
He straightened, tightening his belt with a quiet snap before running a hand through his hair. "You're staying here," he said, his tone more serious than before. "Don't head out right away." He paused, his gaze locking onto mine with a mixture of protectiveness and frustration. "Our relationship stays here, between these walls, until everything cools off. I don't want anyone knowing, not yet."
I understood why. It wasn't about hiding—Oliver wasn't ashamed of me. It was about survival. If Aspen found out, it would put a target on my back. A bigger one than there already was.
He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. Before he turned to leave, his eyes drifted to the hallway closet. "I got something for you. There's an extra outfit hanging in the closet. Thought it might come in handy." A small smirk tugged at his lips. "Picked it out myself."
My heart fluttered at that, the idea of him selecting something specifically for me. It was such a simple thing, but it felt like a quiet declaration that I mattered to him—outside of the chaos of the Vault, outside of the danger we were both constantly entrenched in.
He crossed the room in a few long strides, stopping in front of me. His hand reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from my face before leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead. "Stay safe, Lux," he murmured. "Don't do anything reckless. Wait a few hours before you leave."
I nodded again, the weight of his words settling in. He straightened, gave me one last look, then turned and left, the door clicking softly behind him.
For a moment, the apartment felt too big, too quiet without him in it. The faint scent of his cologne still lingered in the air, mixing with the remnants of our intimacy.
Curiosity tugged at me, and I made my way to the hallway closet, pulling the door open. There it was, hanging neatly on a hook—an outfit that was surprisingly perfect for me. A sleek, fitted leather jacket, a simple yet elegant top, and jeans that looked like they would hug every curve just right. Oliver had picked this? The thought of him selecting each piece, imagining me in it, made my chest tighten with an unfamiliar warmth.
The clothes fit me perfectly, like they had been tailored for me. The jacket molded to my body, the material soft but durable, the kind of thing that made you feel like you could take on anything. The jeans were snug but comfortable, accentuating my legs, and the top—simple, yet stylish—was just enough to balance the rest of the outfit. It was me, through and through.
Oliver knew me. In ways I hadn't even realized.
I lingered in the apartment, following his instructions, waiting the few hours as he'd asked. But my mind was restless. Thoughts of Aspen, of the crumbling control in the Vault, of Farrah—it all weighed on me. The minutes ticked by slowly, the anxiety gnawing at me until I couldn't sit still any longer.