Keeping you a secret was her thing.

But honestly—who needed to know that Lottie Matthews was spending her nights with a younger guy? No one. It wasn’t anyone’s business, and she preferred it that way. Secrecy made the whole thing feel illicit, electric.

So here you were, tangled in the dim amber light of some bougie hotel room she’d impulsively booked. Could you blame her?After a full day of community leadership—borderline cult leadership, though that only ever came up when she wanted it to—you were the one place she didn’t have to be composed. She could unravel with you.

When her spine arched, her jaw fell slack, her breath shook, and her hips jerked up toward your mouth, she’d let out a sharp, helpless exhale. Then she collapsed back into the pillows, hand loosening from your hair. You lifted your head slowly from between her legs, her taste still warm on your tongue, and crawled up to lie beside her.

She caught her breath, then pushed herself upright against the headboard, reaching for the bedside drawer. Cigarettes. She slipped one between her lips, lit it, and let the flame crackle out as she tossed the lighter aside.

“It’s bad to smoke, you know?” you murmured, propping yourself on your elbows.

She didn’t look at you yet, only exhaled to the side, lashes low. Her skin glowed under the lamp—bronze and rose, stretched over muscle that still trembled faintly. When she finally turned her head toward you, her eyes drifted down your torso.

From beside her, your bare chest rose slowly, skin flushed from exertion and warm lamplight. The faint sheen of sweat on your shoulders caught the glow, and the shadows sharpened the lines of your muscles. Your top surgery scars—two pale arcs curving beneath your pecs—stood out softly in the warm light. Her gaze lingered on them, tracing every inch with quiet reverence before returning to your face. You felt her attention like a touch.

“You say that all the time,” she murmured around her cigarette.

“And I mean it every time.”

She smirked, taking another drag. “And do I ever listen?”

“No,” you said, leaning a little closer, “but I like that you pretend to consider it.”

She huffed a soft laugh, smoke curling up between you. Her free hand drifted down, fingertips brushing your stomach then down to happy trail fingers playing with the hair like she was just making sure you were still there. You stayed still under her touch, watching her, feeling the comfortable afterglow settle over the both of you.

“Come here,” she said quietly—not commanding, not pleading, just wanting.

You shifted closer until your shoulder touched hers, your thighs brushing. She tilted her head, studying you again like she was memorizing something she didn’t want to admit she cared about.

“You look too good in this light,” she said under her breath.

“You should see what I get to look at,” you replied, eyes dropping deliberately down her body and back up.

She rolled her eyes, but her lips curved. “Flatterer.”

“Only when it’s true.”

She took one last drag, stubbed the cigarette out on the small tray beside her, and turned her full body toward you—knees folding, hair falling, gaze softening in a way she’d deny if you ever brought it up later.

“Come back here,” she whispered, fingers hooking behind your neck. “I’m not done with you yet.” Other hand staying pressed against stomach on happy trail before it slid up to trace your top surgery scars.