Chapter 128 Chapter 128 Stop Playing
Nick, Vince, and I are in our underwear, drunk, playing video games on my couch.
Kate broke up with Nick, and he seems more heartbroken than he wants to admit. They came over earlier, we ordered food, and we’ve been playing for hours. Ivan is out—it’s 2 a.m.—and he’s been gone all day.
Vince isn’t sad about Ashley anymore. At least not in the same way. He let some things slip tonight—secrets that made my stomach turn. She made him sick too. He was down for a week. And then there was the other side piece. He’s an idiot, no question, but Ashley was evil.
Just leave him.
Don’t stay.
I don’t think Vince could ever treat anyone right.
Now he’s dozing off on the couch beside us, still in his boxers, muscles relaxed but somehow still defined. Nick and I keep playing, talking shit back and forth as we race.
“Turning the controller is not helping you make that turn,” he teases. “It’s not a steering wheel.”
“Leave me alone,” I shoot back, shoving him with my whole body. “I have my own technique.”
I linger there longer than I should, pressed against the warmth of him.
Nick still has his shirt on, paired with his boxers. Vince is out cold, barely moving except for the slow rise and fall of his chest. I don’t even know how we ended up half-naked, but here we are. I’m in shorts and a bra—lacy, enough to cover what it needs to.
Neither of them lets their eyes linger too long.
At least not obviously.
Vince starts snoring, low and steady. Nick and I chuckle as we load into another race.
A second later, Nick swerves in front of me, sending my car spinning into the barrier.
“Are you kidding me?” I snap, tossing my controller to the floor.
I launch myself at him, trying to steal his controller. We struggle, laughing, shifting on the couch—
And then he stills.
Our eyes lock.
The controller slips from his hands.
His lips are on mine.
Everything in me ignites.
My skin pebbles under the softness of his touch, the way he kisses me—slow, deliberate, like he’s been thinking about this longer than he should have. I tug at his shirt, desperate, but he hesitates.
He pulls back slightly. “I’m not built like Vince.”
“I don’t want Vince,” I whisper, brushing my lips along his neck. “I want you. Take me to my room.”
Nick doesn’t hesitate again.
He lifts me, and just like that we’re moving—straight down the hall, straight into my bedroom. My feet barely touch the floor before we’re pulling at each other’s clothes, whatever remains between us.
There is nothing wrong with Nick’s body.
He’s softer, yes—but real.
I pull him flush against me. He’s so tall he has to lean down to kiss me, and when he does, it’s deeper this time. Hungrier.
We climb into the bed, limbs tangled, kissing like we’ve been holding this back for years.
“Condom?” he asks, breath uneven.
“I want you bare,” I murmur, reaching between us, letting my fingers trace over him, feeling his swollen veins, the tension already building.
He exhales sharply. “Are you sure you can’t get pregnant?”
“Yes. Very sure…” I pause, brushing my lips against his again. “But if I was going to have some miracle baby… I’d want you to be the dad.”
Something in him shifts.
Both of his hands come up to cup my face, grounding me before his lips meet mine again. Then his hands move—down, over my body, gripping, exploring, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of me. He rests them on my ass, pulling me toward him.
Between my legs, everything is already spilling over. My body reacts to him in a way it’s only ever done for one other person. The butterflies bash around inside.
Fucking asshole.
Ivan.
Get out of my head.
Nick pulls back suddenly. “Is your phone in here?”
I nod, confused, and hand it to him. A second later, soft music fills the room. I blink at him. It’s cute. Adorable. Unexpected. And it hits me somewhere deeper than I want to admit. We’ve known each other for so long. Shared things no one else knows. Built something quiet and steady over time.
Everything about this feels… bigger.
“I love you,” I say, the words slipping out mid-kiss.
Nick freezes.
His eyes go wide, then soften in a way that makes my chest ache. This is the second time I’ve said those words first.
“I love you,” he says back.
And just like that, everything tilts.
In one smooth movement, he shifts over me, spreading my legs with his knee. A moment later, he pushes inside me, and a deep, guttural sound tears from his chest.
I gasp, gripping him, pulling him closer like I need him there to breathe.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You feel amazing. I could die like this—buried inside you, in your arms. I fucking love you so much.”
The emotion in his voice is raw.
It cuts through me.
Every time he moves, I feel like I’m giving him something—piece by piece—until there’s nothing left to hold back. He turns us, shifting our weight, and suddenly I’m on top.
I move with him, letting myself feel everything—every sound, every breath, every reaction he gives me. His hands grip my hips, guiding me, grounding me.
I lean back, taking his hands and placing them where I want them. His third favorite body part. My tits.
“You’re perfect,” he says, his voice rough. “Right here. In this moment.”
Something in me cracks.
The emotion builds too fast, too much. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes, but I don’t stop. I let it take me, pulling him with me into it, into everything we’ve been holding back.
We fall apart together. Riding it out until only our words remain.
It takes a moment to come back from it—to breathe again, to feel the world settle.
Then—
Nick sits up, pulling me with him until we’re pressed against the headboard. His arms wrap around me, holding me close, still inside me, like he doesn’t want to let go.
And I don’t either.
I could stay like this forever.
His love feels… pure.
Kind.
Soft.
Everything he is.
“I have to tell you something,” he says quietly.
I lift my head from his chest, already missing the warmth of him. My fingers slide into his black hair as I look into his black eyes.
He takes a deep breath, his gaze dropping between us.
“I have cancer.”
I blink, then laugh lightly, tapping his chest. “Stop playing, step-brother.”
But he doesn’t laugh.
The look on his face—
It doesn’t change.
“What kind?” I ask, my voice breaking before I can stop it.
“The kind that’s already stage four,” he says softly. “The kind that kills you. It’s a form of leukemia. I haven’t been responding to treatment.”