Unspoken Heat

Ava's pov

Nicholas hadn’t looked at me in three days.

Not really. Not like before.

Late nights at the office. Locked doors. Muted phone calls. Every time I walked into a room, he walked out. Every time I spoke, he replied with clipped, cold syllables that made my chest tighten.

He kissed me.

He kissed me.

And now? He was acting like I was invisible.

I told myself it didn’t matter. That the kiss was a mistake—a heat-of-the-moment, rooftop-confession-under-the-moonlight kind of accident. I told myself I’d imagined the way his hand shook when he pulled away, the way his breath caught like he wanted more.

But each hour he stayed away twisted something sharp and unfamiliar inside me. Something that made my throat tighten and my skin burn with questions.

It stormed on Thursday.

The kind of storm that drowns streets and steals power lines.

I forgot my umbrella—because of course I did. The Uber broke down two blocks from the apartment. By the time I finally stumbled through the front door, my blouse clung to my skin like a second layer, my soaked jeans suctioned to my legs, and "My heels squeaked with every step, a humiliating soundtrack to my entrance."

I didn’t expect him to be home.

The apartment was still. Dim.

But then I heard it—his voice. Low. Sharp. Coming from the study.

The door was cracked.

I paused, pretending to care about the business call, but really, I just missed the sound of his voice—the way it used to fill rooms, and my thoughts.

His voice was a jagged whisper on the phone. “Because if someone finds out... I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”

A beat of silence.

Then the click of the call ending.

I backed away instinctively, heart hammering. My heel slipped on the hardwood, and I caught myself against the wall just as the study door opened.

Nicholas stood there.

He froze.

So did I.

His gaze dropped. Slowly. Painfully slow. From the crown of my wet hair down to my rain-slicked blouse, which left nothing to the imagination. My nipples pushed through the soaked lace of my bra. My jeans clung like a second skin, tracing every curve of my thighs.

His eyes flicked up again. They were darker than I’d ever seen them.

He didn’t blink.

I shivered. Not from the storm. From him.

He stepped forward, silent, and tugged a towel from the coat rack. Without a word, he wrapped it around my shoulders. His hands brushed against my collarbone, then down to the small of my back as he pulled the towel tight.

His fingers lingered. Just for a second too long.

Then, he stepped back, jaw tight.

He looked like he was struggling to breathe.

“I heard your call,” I whispered.

He said nothing.

“You said... you couldn’t pretend anymore.”

He looked away, jaw working, then slowly met my eyes again. “You shouldn’t have heard that,” he said sharply. “It was a business call—and not something for you to overthink.”

“You shouldn’t have kissed me,” I shot back. “But you did.”

His nostrils flared. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I’m not asking,” I whispered. “I feel it too.”

He looked at me like I was a line he wasn’t supposed to cross but desperately wanted to.

“I can’t—” he started, then stopped.

“You’re not a child anymore,” he said after a beat, voice raw.

“No,” I whispered, stepping closer. “I’m not.”

The towel slipped off one shoulder.

He didn’t move to fix it.

“I’m losing control,” he muttered.

I could feel it—the heat between us humming like electricity. My lungs forgot how to breathe.

Air snagged in my chest.

I forgot how to exhale.

Without another word, he scooped me up into his arms.

His grip was tight. Possessive. Like he couldn’t bear the space between us anymore.

He carried me through the hallway, past the shadows of rooms we never entered together. His scent surrounded me—clean and woodsy, the kind of warmth that always made my knees weak.

He pushed open my door with his shoulder and set me gently on the bed.

“You should shower. The heater’s on,” he said, his voice husky. “Get warm. Then lock your door.”

He turned to leave, but I caught his hand.

“Nicholas.”

He paused.

“Do you want me?” My voice trembled.

He didn’t answer right away.

His eyes flickered to my lips, then away. His hand was still in mine, but he didn’t squeeze back. He looked at me like he wanted to pull me close and push me away all at once.

Then he said, barely above a whisper,

“That’s the problem.”

And he left.

---

I lay back on the bed, my heart thudding so hard I could feel it in my fingertips.

I stared at the ceiling. Then at the door. Still closed.

Heat coiled low in my belly, relentless and impossible to ignore.

I grabbed my iPad and flipped it on. A while back, my best friend sent me a blog full of steamy scenarios. I’d laughed. But now? Now I needed something to distract me from the ache inside me.

From the space where his body should have been.

I dimmed the lights. Rested against my pillows. Pressed play on one of the audios. My fingers trailed down my stomach, slow and tentative.

His name escaped my lips in a breathless moan.

“Nicholas…”

My eyes fluttered shut. The sound of his voice from earlier still echoed in my mind. “I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”

The fantasy swirled around me like smoke.

What he’d do if he came back in.

What he’d say if he saw me like this.

I arched slightly, the pleasure growing. My breath shallow.

“Nicholas…”

My eyes blinked open.

And I froze.

He was standing at the door.

Silently.

Watching.

A jolt shot through me.

I had no idea how long he’d been there. But the light was on. The iPad still playing. The blanket halfway off my body.

Heat flooded my cheeks.

He didn’t speak. His jaw flexed once.

“I saw your room light was still on,” he said, voice cool—controlled. Too controlled. “You should turn it off before you sleep.”

And then, just like that—

He turned around.

And walked away.