Page 42 of The Beautiful Collision
I lean over to retrieve one, deliberately dragging my breasts across his chest. He groans, and his hands twitch where they’re still gripping the headboard. I can tell he desperately wants to break the rules, but it’s almost as if he fears doing so will break the spell.
“You can touch me now,” I tell him as I tear open the wrapper.
His hands immediately find my hips, not grabbing or directing, just holding. Like he needs to anchor himself to something real. I roll the condom onto him, giving him a few extra strokes that make his breath hitch and elicit a groan from him.
Then I’m positioning myself above him, one hand braced on his chest, the other guiding him to my entrance. We lock eyes as I sink, taking him inch by glorious inch. The stretch is perfect—just the right side of too much—and when I’m full of him, we both need a moment to adjust.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel?—“
“I know.”
I feel it too, this electric connection that’s about so much more than the physical joining of our bodies. It’s about trust and vulnerability and two people who’ve been performing for so long they forgot what real felt like—someone who provides care and can’t show weakness, and someone who just feels lonely.
We’re two imperfect people with one perfect connection.
I start to move, rolling my hips in a rhythm that makes us both groan. His hands slide up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples in a way that sends sparks straight to my clit. But this is still my show. I catch his wrists and pin them to the mattress beside his head, lacing our fingers together.
The position leaves me in complete control, and I use it. I ride him hard and fast, chasing my pleasure while watching his face contort with ecstasy. Every time I clench around him, his grip on my hands tightens. Every time I grind down just right, he makes these desperate sounds that I want to bottle and keep.
“Maya, I can’t—“ His voice is wrecked. “I’m gonna?—“
“Do it,” I command, speeding up my movements. “Let go, Maine. Just let go.”
And he does. With a hoarse shout, he comes beneath me. His body goes rigid, then shakes with the force of his orgasm. I ride him through it, drawing out his pleasure until he’s whimpering with overstimulation, with a look on his face that tells me this is the first time he’s really relaxed—let himself go gooey—in ages.
I’m close myself, so close I can taste it. I release one of his hands to touch myself, but he beats me to it. His thumb finds my clit with surprising accuracy, circling with just the right pressure. And the skillful movement of his thumb and the feeling of him still hard inside me push me over the edge.
My whole body seizes, pleasure detonating through every nerve ending. I hear myself making these desperate, keening sounds as the waves hit—my thighs trembling, inner muscles clenching rhythmically around him. I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but ride out the aftershocks that pulse through me.
Afterward, we lie there panting, a tangle of sweaty limbs and racing hearts. I can feel his pulse where my cheek rests against his chest, gradually slowing from its frantic pace. His arms come around me, holding me close but not tight. Like he’s afraid I’ll spook if he presumes too much.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Without lifting my head, I reach for it.
The group chat:So…? Bet…?
I stare at the message for a moment. Sophie and the others, waiting to hear if I’ve conquered the unconquerable Maine Hamilton. If I’ve made him fall for me, turned him into another notch on my belt. The very idea makes me want to laugh. Or cry. Or possibly both.
Because this thing between us? Whatever just happened? It wasn’t about winning some stupid bet with the girls or any of the bullshit we’ve been playing at for weeks. It was about two exhausted people finding a moment of real connection in all the fake.
So, fuck that, and fuck them.
I type a single laughing emoji——and hit send.
Let them think what they want. The game, for me, was over the moment he let me see him slumped against that door. Everything since has been something else entirely. The bet will be forgotten instantly because I’m the social ringleader, and none of those girls will dare resist.
I set my phone aside and press a kiss to Maine’s chest, over his heart. His arms tighten around me, and I feel him press his lips to the top of my head. I lift my head to look at him. His hair is a mess, his lips are swollen from our kisses, and there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that matches what I feel in my chest.
He pulls the blanket over us, cocooning us away from the world. Tomorrow we’ll have to deal with reality. With the complicated feelings and the fact that we just shattered every rule we set for ourselves. But tonight we can just be Maine and Maya.
Not the performer and the party girl.
Not the invisible son and the discarded daughter.
Just two people who found something real in all the fake.
And whatever comes next, we’ll figure it out.
act 2
