Page 26 of Keller

"Fuck, Quinn."

I bite his shoulder, and he swears again, driving deeper. The angle shifts, and suddenly every thrust hits exactly where I need it. My thighs tense. Heat coils low in my belly.

"Right there, Keller. Yes. Don't stop."

He doesn't. His rhythm stays consistent, brutal, perfect. The pressure builds, tightening until I can't hold it back. My orgasm slams through me, and I cry out, body clenching around him.

He follows seconds later, burying his face against my neck as he comes.

We stay pressed together, breathing hard. My legs are still wrapped around him, his forehead resting against mine.

After a moment, he carries me to the bed and lowers us both down. He holds me as the city noise filters faintly through the windows. Our breathing slows together.

We stay tangled together, sheets half kicked off the bed. The city glow filters through the tall windows, casting a faint orange light across the exposed brick. I wonder if he keeps these tall windows open like this, and I wonder how he sleeps with so much light coming in.

My heartbeat slows. His hand rests loosely on my hip.

I should probably get dressed, butI don't move. I don't want to leave.

"You always this quiet after?"

Keller's voice breaks the silence, dry and matter-of-fact. I turn my head to find him watching me, his glasses back on, expression unreadable.

"I'm admiring your loft."

He laughs. Actually laughs, not just a smirk or a huff. The sound is unexpected, unguarded. It catches me off guard enough that I laugh, too.

"Sorry, I don't know why that was funny. I guess I'm delirious."

The tension that was strung tight between us loosens, making me laugh, too. There wasn't anything particularly funny about what I said, or anything else.

We shouldn’t be laughing, but we are, and it breaks whatever fragile thing might have made this awkward.

I shift onto my side, propping my head on one hand. I trace a line along the sheet with my finger. "I've enjoyed getting to know you tonight."

"Me, too."

"You're the first guy I've given my number to on a matchbook, by the way. That's not my normal MO."

"I wondered about that. Nice move, by the way. That was a first for me."

"It was less of a move and more utility. I didn't really want to walk up to you and start a conversation after—" I stop, not wanting to name what happened between us at the gala. "But I wanted to see you again."

"I'm glad you did."

He doesn't check his phone, or shift away, or offer to call me a ride. He just lies there, one arm behind his head, watching the ceiling fan spin slowly.

Am I staying here with him, in his bed?

The realization settles somewhere in my chest. My heart flutters slightly at the thought. I didn't plan to stay, but I guess I figured sex might be on the table. But now here, in the moment, I'm caught off guard.

Men usually don’t do this. There’s always a polite cue. A stretch toward the edge of the bed. A comment about an early morning.

I let myself relax further into the sheets. My body loosens, satisfied, content in a way I haven't felt in months. Maybe longer.

"You want water or something?"

"I'm good. Thank you, though."