Archive of Our Own ^beta

Belly has always been told that she sucks at holding her liquor, and she’s inclined to believe that’s true.
Not like that claim really has a leg to stand on, though – she’s pretty sure she can count on one hand the times she’s felt the warm buzz of alcohol really reach her head without her leaning into it, without amplifying the effect it had on her impulses.

But she’s pretty fucking drunk tonight, and then there’s the gummy Taylor slipped her.

That’s the reason she gets out of bed, stumbling on her feet to go down the steps. She catches her reflection in a little ornamental mirror by the stairs. She feels absolutely disgusting, and she looks the part, too. The remnants of her make-up are all smudged, dragged under her eyes by both the tears and the fingers that wiped them away, the white ribbon she had so carefully tied in her hair just a few hours back reduced to a thread knotted in a tangled mess of hair and sand, and God, the sand – she feels it everywhere, the irritating grain on her face, on her legs from when she fell to her knees on the beach, doubled over by the revelation, by the regret, by him.

Him.

She needs to talk to him, to confront him again. Rage is still pumping through her veins, sending electricity down every nerve in her body, and he’s all she can see when she closes her eyes to try and sleep anyway, so she might as well go take it out on the real thing.

She needs to smack him. She needs to shove him away, to set free the punches locked inside her fists. Ask him how dare he speak now, of all times. She needs...

Conrad is in the kitchen, of course. He thinks he’s a smug bastard, still nursing the self-delusion that he can see right through her after years of barely any contact, as if he could possibly know what she might or might not want for herself. Your wedding is at a country club, who are you?

Belly knows him too, though. She knows there’s no way he’d go straight to bed after the discussion they had. After having poured his soul out. He’d need to decompress, to watch the black waves from the dock, to remove himself from the surroundings for a little while and think. Maybe go for a swim. Grill some poor chicken.

Or drink some water.

She rushes to him, a half-empty glass still in his hand, and Belly can see the light shift in his eyes when he sees her.

“Go away, Belly,” he says, and he places the glass in the sink with a clink. He doesn’t sound harsh, just tired.

Belly has gathered a number of wicked words to throw at him in the last half an hour, but now that she’s facing him, she’s drawing a blank all of a sudden.

“This is my house as much as it’s yours,” she blurts out. She wants to smack herself as soon as the words exit her mouth.

One of Conrad’s eyebrows raises in infuriating mockery. “Not yet, it is not,” he says, the insolent fuck. “But okay.”

He attempts to shoulder-push her aside, but Belly reaches out to the kitchen island surface and blocks him in his place. When Conrad looks down at her through his eyelashes, Belly can feel his gaze pierce through the last sliver of confidence she was holding on to. She’s never seen this kind of darkness float in his eyes, never. It takes all of her to not break eye contact.

“Let me get out,” he says, his voice low. “Or get out... I don't- Belly, I can’t be in the same room with you.” She can't tell if that’s a warning or if he’s begging her.

Belly’s breath catches in her throat. “That's going to be a little hard, considering I’m marrying your brother,” she forces out.

It’s an absolutely vile thing to admit, but the reaction that gets punched out of him every time the wedding is mentioned gives her a buzz that’s unclear to place.

Conrad sighs and closes his eyes in defeat, but he doesn’t pull back. She can feel the warm puffs of his ragged breath on her face, and it’s electric. “You know perfectly well what I mean,” he says.

“I know shit about you anymore, Conrad.”

Conrad scoffs a laugh, but it’s the kind that doesn’t reach the eyes. They’re still red and swollen around the edges, and he looks absolutely beaten, but the desperation they were harboring on the beach cleared a path for something Belly still can’t put her finger on.

“Repeating something over and over won’t magically make it any truer, Belly,” he says, challenging her. “Now, please, let me go.”

“What is that supposed to mean?"

Consciously, she knows she should let it go; she knows that nothing good can come out of pushing Conrad into a corner. It’s not fair to him, either – but the mix of explosive emotions stirring up inside her is playing her like a string puppet.

He ignores her question.

“I won’t say this again. Get out, Belly,” he says between his teeth.

It stokes the fire in her veins, the way he won’t stop saying her name. It rolls out of his mouth and hits her right in the chest.

Conrad probably thought he sounded too bitter, because Belly watches him close his eyes as if he’s trying to compose himself, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer, gentle.

“We’ve said enough for tonight, don’t you think? Go get some sleep,” he sighs.

That calm façade only makes her sick to her stomach.

“What am I supposed to say to him now?” Belly cries out, raising the hand that isn’t holding him back to his chest, meaning to hit him maybe, to push him away, anything to sedate the heartbeat ramming at her ribcage.

She follows Conrad’s gaze as it darts in the direction of the stairs – she’s being too loud. Everyone is either asleep or too drunk to even care, but she still makes an attempt to tone it down.

“Am I supposed to let you stand up there with him on his wedding day?” The words come out of her mouth broken, her voice laced with a sentiment that resembles desperation more than anger now. She can hear how it sounds like she’s almost pleading with him, and she fucking hates that.

The hand that was meant to push him away now rests on his chest, useless.

“I’m sorry. I really am,” Conrad whispers, not stepping away from her orbit. He’s not pronouncing her name this time, but somehow, Belly thinks it’s still not helping very much. “But this is not all on me.”

She’s opening her mouth to argue, but then a feathery touch of fingers appears on Belly’s arm and every objection dies on her tongue. The low lullaby of his voice, or the barely-there brush of his hand, or the way he looks at her – not vulnerable anymore but confident, like he knows something she doesn’t – or maybe a mix of it all sends her head spinning and a wave of heat down her body. She could swear fucking sparks are sprouting from the spot on her skin he’s touching.

They’re so close, and she’s suddenly so pliant under his touch that he only needs the slightest pressure to swing her by her waist and pin her against the counter.

The intensity in Conrad’s eyes roots her in place and shatters her reality, stretching that moment impossibly thin. In one split second, Belly has all the time in the world to shift her eyes between his moonlit lips and face; all the time to remember who she is and where she’s going; all the time to decide, despite everything and with absolute clarity, Yes, I’m willing to risk it all.

He is so close she only needs to tilt her chin and melt into his arms, and that’s what she does.

She feels herself lean into him. She flutters her eyes shut, and just as she’s thinking she’ll see him on the other side of whatever she’s bringing herself into, he escapes her lips. Just by a few inches, barely enough for Belly to see the smugness radiating from his face.

Conrad is looking at her like he can read her.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s what I thought.”

An impossible blush blossoms on Belly’s cheeks, painting her face red. She's at a loss for words, her heartbeat so loud she can barely hear over the whistle in her ears. The cold marble is still pressing on the small of her back, to which she’s grateful because there’s no way she’d be able to stand on her own at the moment – even when she has a hand fisted in Conrad’s cotton shirt for leverage.

And she does, doesn’t she? She doesn’t remember holding onto him or pulling him to her, but she’s just tried to kiss him, so that’s probably how it went down.

She also doesn’t remember Conrad claiming more and more of her personal space, yet here he is, a knee pressed between her legs, a hand squeezing her arm, his eyes unwavering and never leaving hers, as if in wait for something, anything.

He probably expects her to shove him away with all the strength she can muster, Belly thinks. To yell at him just like she did on the beach. To call him sick, a traitor, a fucking bastard of a brother.

She doesn’t know what she expects.

What she does know is that she’s clamping her hand in a white-knuckled grasp on his shirt again and she’s yanking him toward her for good this time, or maybe she’s pushing into him, she has no way of knowing because suddenly Conrad’s tongue is in her mouth and her hands are fiddling with his pants buttons and her brain registers nothing that isn’t the bite of Conrad’s teeth on her bottom lip, or the firm pressure of his hands attempting to hoist her up on the kitchen island.

She kisses him back like she has nothing to lose.

In a fleeting moment of lucidity, Belly is aware she’s supposed to be worried sick about someone walking in on them. Especially if that someone would happen to be her soon-to-be husband. As quickly as it surfaced, though, the faint image of Jeremiah is brushed aside.

The single word that isn’t filtered out by her brain is just a litany of Finally, finally, finally... that only gets drowned by Conrad’s loud breathing on her face and lips.

Conrad slaps her hands away where they’re still working at his zipper; she’s hopeless with anything requiring a steady hand when she’s turned on.

And oh, she’s so turned on it hurts. She’s been like this for hours.

Belly loops an arm around Conrad’s neck and leans on the other hand for support as she watches Conrad push his pants and underwear down his hips.

There must be an open window somewhere, because a sweep of cold air hits her flushed skin as Conrad suddenly halts. Has his rationality caught up with his impulses? Has he changed his mind?

The white-hot arousal tangling up in her belly is making it difficult for her to think straight. She’s going to scream if he doesn’t do something about it right away.

Then his hand trails to her center; merely a questioning hover, the slightest contact that she still arches into. Belly tries to follow his movements, desperately craving his touch, but he simply pulls her panties to the side, keeping his eyes locked on hers all along.

He has not changed his mind. He’s just silently asking for the green light. He’s just silently reminding her, There’s no turning back from this.

Belly is aware that, unless the Fishers keep a condom jar by the salt and pepper ones, this is going to be raw and quick and dirty.

She’s been on birth control since the first time they fucked. Conrad knows. He doesn’t need to ask.

It’s utterly sick how indecorous and good that makes her feel.

Belly nods frantically against Conrad’s forehead, spreading her thighs further to give him better access to the place she most wants him. She’s hanging on the edge of the counter with one foot still propped on the floor, skirt all ridden up by her waist, trembling all over – Conrad comes to her aid and lets her drape a leg over his arm, brings a hand to her mouth to cup it shut, and bottoms out in one single, steady, delicious movement.

Belly’s head falls back, and she silently thanks every divinity that might be listening for Conrad’s hands muffling her uncontrollable moans.

After so many years, it looks like he still knows how to drag it out and how to bring down the curtain quickly. Now, he’s wisely doing everything in his power to not make it last.

They don’t have time. And he remembers exactly how she likes to be fucked.

He’s doing it slow and deep, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in to the hilt, meeting no resistance at all because she’s so wet it’s almost indecent. Belly lets out a shaky breath as he watches her face, lost in the sheer intensity of him moving in and out of her.

In a way, it’s reminiscent of their first times together; Conrad, always gentle and tender, working through every nook and cranny of her body with the utmost care so that they could find out together what she liked, what made her sob, and what made her scream.

Together, it didn't take long to discover that she liked it when he took his time.

So, slow and hot and deep – check.

Belly’s lace panties are catching on her clit with every movement; it’s a kind of friction that’s equal parts exquisite and painful, but when Conrad brings his fingers between her legs and rubs on it, that’s when she swears she sees stars.

His unwavering eyes stay on her as she turns liquid under his touch; Belly knows she’ll be done for in a minute or two.

She wants to cry over how seen and known by him she feels. Did he store away every little aspect of her, keeping it within reach in case it ever needed dusting off again?

Conrad is grunting in her ear, the roll of his hips maintaining a steady pace, and Belly tears his hand off her mouth so she can crash their lips together in what is more a blend of moans and spit than a kiss.

“You knew,” Conrad groans against her demanding mouth. “You knew coming here this was going to happen.”

Oh. Dirty talk – check.

She clenches around him and gets a rougher set of thrusts in return. She nods and nods between kisses, her sobs growing higher in pitch for the change of pace.

Of course Belly knew. That's the reason she came to find him in the first place.

In the blink of an eye, playtime is over. First, she feels Conrad’s smile widen on her lips; then she feels a strong hand on the small of her back pushing her closer to the edge of the counter; then she feels her eyes roll back into her skull at the change of angle.

Conrad is dropping her on his dick over and over, reaching so deep that Belly’s vision starts to blur. She’s holding on to him for dear life, gasping for the pleasure building in the pit of her stomach, for Conrad’s hand fisted in her sweat-drenched hair, for the feeling of being as close as two bodies could be.

She missed this so badly. She missed him.

When she comes, it’s harder than she has in a long time, clawing at Conrad’s shoulders and nipping at his fingers to keep herself from crying out.

He watches her as she rides it out, awe-struck. Then she clenches impossibly around him, and she gets to do the same.

She tightens her grip on the moment, on his shoulders, on the look of complete adoration in his eyes.

Later, when he’s still panting against her skin, Conrad’s small voice asks if she’s still going to get married.

Belly just nods, the faintest smile on her lips.

It’s too little, too late. She’s not the kind of person who backs off the day before her wedding. What about the guests? What about the expectations? What about the flowers, the champagne, her mom who has just come around?

What about Jere?

Belly keeps waiting for the guilt to hit, but it seems to elude her.

Conrad nods and presses a kiss to her damp forehead. They both knew what this was when they started it – a one-time thing, a goodbye.

Okay, Belly hears him say, and she loves him so much for not fighting it.

She goes up the stairs to her fiancée with his brother's come running down her thighs.

The reflection in the mirror stares at her with commiseration one night later, as Belly is getting ready for the rehearsal dinner.

Just the classic everyday girl routine: she slides into her beautiful long dress, she puts her hair up in a tight bun, she puts her face on, and finally she pleads with herself pointing a threatening finger at her mirrored image.

You will behave. You will act naturally. You won’t look in his direction more than two, maybe three times all night.

Then Conrad shows up looking like sex incarnate in that damned black button-up shirt, and there’s only so much a girl can endure.

Point is, as scrupulous as she can be at steeling herself against staring at him, there’s nothing she can do about the other way around.

And Belly swears she can physically feel Conrad’s eyes on her. They leave a trail that burns on her, setting her skin aflame. Above all – and as vivid and real as the people in front of her – she feels his hands on her body, in her mouth, she feels the bruises on her ass and back from where they’d been grinding against the counter edge just the night before. The pressure of his hand, hooked below her knee, as he folded her leg closer to her chest so that he could fuck into her just the way he knows will get her off fastest.

Belly takes a long, shaky breath and downs her glass of wine in one gulp.

Later, when most of the guests are scattered around the room and Jeremiah is deep into a conversation about his new job, Conrad takes her by the hand and drags her down a deserted hallway. For a brief, alarming moment Belly thinks she knows what he’s going for, but he moves past the restroom and stops behind the corner by a service door.

The rational side of her sighs in relief.

“Conrad? This is not a good idea, everyone–” Belly stutters.

Conrad guides her softly against the wall and cradles her face in his hands, in silence. Belly shakes under his touch and waits – what for, she’s not sure. For him to beg her, perhaps. To implore her to change her mind. To tell her he loves her yet again. To kiss her senseless, to find a way into her dress, to make her come on his fingers, there, against the wall.

He does nothing of the sort. He bridges the gap between them and brings their lips together in the softest of kisses – so completely different from the frantic, clothes-shredding passion that took over them just a handful of hours earlier.

Conrad’s fingers outline a trail to her throat, and there’s no way he doesn’t feel the frenzied pounding of her heartbeat under his thumb.

She leans into him, welcoming him, but the kiss never grows hurried. It’s just a graze of lips meeting again and again and again with no haste, as if there were no gathering of people just one wall away, as if no one could ever notice that the bride and best man were missing together like the biggest fucking cliché ever.

Desperate doesn’t even begin to cover it.

It’s nothing like what happened last night. But this time the guilt creeps up on Belly and swallows her whole.

So, turns out it’s not a one-time thing.

The next couple of times it happens, it’s Belly who initiates things.

Conrad is quite elusive after the wedding, hiding clumsily behind time zones and busy schedules, but even California can’t shield him from Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Belly isn’t sure where they stand now that vows stand between them, but doubts slowly start vanishing in the crossroads of hugs and handshakes taking place on the summer house doorstep; Conrad’s gaze lingers on her face one moment too long, as does his open hand on her back after he greets her with a hug.

He turns to say hello to the others, a nagging lock of hair falling over his forehead that he keeps trying to tame with a quick flick of his head. He runs his fingers through it with his Omega hand as he exchanges verbal jabs with Steven, then Jeremiah is pushing a beer into his hands.

She hopes no one’s watching, because she can’t bring herself to tear her eyes off him.

He takes a sip, and he’s laughing at something the guys said, but his eyes lock with hers over the bottle, and when he’s shrugging off his coat, and when he’s raking his fingers through his hair again.

It’s just the faintest spark, but Belly nurtures it until it grows into an open flame.

Taylor drags her away by an arm, declaring there’s far too much broccoli to roast to be wasting time like this, and Belly can’t stop smiling.

That night, she stays up late watching bad movies and drinking hot cocoa with Taylor. When it’s time for bed, she takes a leap of faith and slips into Conrad’s room.

He’s still fully dressed as he walks toward her.

“About time,” he says, and they’re on.

Deep down, Belly is aware this is how it ought to be; this thing they have going on is solely holding together because he’s three thousand miles away for the better part of the year.

This thing. Conrad calls it an affair, but she doesn't like the ring of it, it's so old school – Conrad laughed when she told him, her head on his chest, and retorted that be that as it may, the definition wouldn’t change the nature of it.

He also said: please don’t call me, unless the house is on fire, or Steven is about to die again.

He made it sound like a joke, sitting on his reasons for it. Belly never asked for any.

So when she facetimes him one late afternoon, crossing fingers that she’d get off on the technicality, she’s surprised when he picks up at the second ring.

Conrad’s face on her screen starts out pixeled, then gains definition second by second.

“That’s cheating,” his slightly distorted voice says.

The image is finally clear enough to show that he’s smiling. A weight is lifted from Belly’s shoulders, and she feels herself take a breath.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she says, smiling.

He laughs, and his image gets shaky as he probably props his phone up somewhere. There’s what appears to be a large, scholarly book open in front of him, a pile of other volumes to the side, and a fuming mug that he grasps to take a sip from. The background is just a plain, eggshell painted wall lined with the portion of what looks like a neatly stacked bookshelf. He must be in a library, or his apartment, perhaps.

“So, are you going to ask me what I’m wearing or something?” he asks with a cheeky smile.

Belly giggles and slaps her forehead in mock frustration. So not the library, then.

She shakes her head, the smile still tugging at her lips. “It’s a video call, I can literally see what you’re wearing.”

And she can, alright. It’s a button-up – obviously – in a very light blue hue, which Belly’s sure must’ve looked very grown-up and formal until he relaxed into it, undoing the top two buttons to make a show of that perfect collar bone of his.

Just the smallest patch of skin, and she’s a mess of flushed cheeks and shivering hands. She mentally curses herself, hoping it doesn’t show through the screen.

“Isabel, are you blushing?” Conrad teases her, though, elbow on the table, propping his chin up.

If Belly was red-faced before, now she’s flushed crimson. There is just something about him addressing her with her full name. She’ll need to look into it.

“Oh, shut up.”

The following hour falls through the cracks of her day with Belly barely clocking it. That’s how effortless it is to talk to him. Being around him.

Belly gets reminded of why she needs to ration him out to herself, and mutters that she’d better go. Conrad nods – he needs to keep studying, anyway.

“Oh, and Belly?”

“Yes?”

“Do not video call me either, darling.”

Belly can’t get rid of everyone fast enough. By the time Adam finally asks the guys to go on a fishing trip, they’ve already been in Cousins for three days.

She feels like she’s losing her mind, having to shrink herself while Conrad is at arm’s length. She doesn't trust herself enough to fully talk to him, to even look at him, afraid her feelings might spill out with her every action and word.

So when she overhears the guys discuss it over breakfast, she’s quick to say, “I think Conrad mentioned earlier he wasn’t feeling great.” Too quick, maybe.

Jeremiah knits his brows at her just as Conrad steps into the kitchen, eyes still cloudy from sleep.

Belly turns to face him. “Right? Didn’t you say you were coming down with something?” Her words sound casual, but her expression, meant only for Conrad, reads: Back me up or else.

As always, he delivers.

Not an hour later she’s straddling him and finally breathing again, his fingers lacing with hers and fiddling idly with her wedding band. There’s no intention behind it; it’s clear Conrad’s mind is elsewhere, but she still slips off the golden ring and drops it on the nightstand.

She’s never broken eye contact with him all the while, and it looks like Conrad finds that amusing.

“That makes it a lot better,” he scoffs a laugh, sitting up to trace her spine with his hands and bump their noses. “Doesn’t change that you’re letting me inside your body, though.”

Belly cups his face and kisses him, smiling against his lips.

“You know I love Jere, but he started it. Now we’re even,” she moans around her words as Conrad tightens his grip on her hips and pulls her down into a sharper, rougher thrust.

Belly clenches around him, her mouth falling open in a silent scream before morphing into a smile, and she decides – if getting fucked harder while watching Conrad’s gaze turn pitch black is what she gets in retaliation for saying she loves her husband, she might do it more often.

“Not to be a spoilsport,” he groans, stroking a soothing hand on the curve of Belly’s waist, as if in apology. “But you were even about a dozen fucks ago.”

The insolent fuck hisses as Belly’s nails dig half-moons into his shoulders.

“At least I’m not fucking my brother’s wife,” she teases, her hands trailing into Conrad’s hair, pulling at the roots.

"You would never ruin the friendship with Taylor like that.”

“I don’t know, it turned out so well with you guys...”

They breathe in each others laughter, which gets softer and softer until it’s indistinguishable from a moan, as the roll in Belly hips slows down to take him deeper, to make him squirm.

Not always, but sometimes it feels like the regret and remorse Belly keeps sealed away at the back of her mind break free, and the only way she knows to keep them from hurting is by laughing them off. Maybe it’s the same for Conrad.

But as quickly and forcefully as the feelings resurface, Conrad exorcises them with his lips, with his fingers, with the way he searches her face, with his words – the ones he speaks and the ones he keeps locked in.

With all of him.

And with the way he loops an arm around her waist, flips her over, and covers her with his body to take care of business – twice.

Belly and Jeremiah plan a big party in Cousins for their fifth anniversary – it’s in August, so it's a piece of cake to talk friends and family into taking a couple of days off to drive to the summer house.

Jere is ridiculously excited about it, so she’s happy to leave most of the organization in his skilled hands. She only vaguely knows who’s attending and devotes most of her energy to putting up colorful decorations and garlands.

That’s probably why Conrad showing up with a plus-one takes her by surprise.

She thinks she holds it together – no obvious cracks in her nonchalance, no fading smiles, no excessive glances in their direction, even.

When he handles the introductions, Belly doesn’t even register the girl’s name; she’s too busy hitting replay on Conrad’s tone when he said This is my old friend, Isabel, and on the look on his face (smug grin, dark eyes, fucking gorgeous) as he unashamedly used friend and Isabel in the same sentence.

Belly pretends to hear someone call her from the other room and slips away. She might be able to keep her emotions in check, but she can’t stamp them out completely.

It takes a while before they manage to find a moment of what resembles privacy in a corner of the living room.

“Your girlfriend seems really sweet,” she says once the pleasantries are out of the way.

Conrad laughs softly, and he takes a moment before replying. “She isn’t my girlfriend.”

A stupid pang of relief washes over Belly.

“Well, you fucked her,” she says matter-of-factly, taking a sip from her flute and scanning the room to make sure nobody’s within earshot.

“I wasn’t aware that was not allowed,” he says, that provocative smirk never leaving his face. His hands sink into his jeans pockets, and he looks perfectly at ease; to any outside eye, it’s just small talk with his sister-in-law.

“Of course you're allowed,” Belly’s reply is razor-sharp, but her lack of courtesy doesn't seem to disturb him; if anything, he looks all satisfied with himself. “I don’t fucking care,” she piles on.

Conrad scans her face with inquisitive eyes, tilting his head to the side. His mouth falls open as if ready to bite back, and Belly catches sight of his tongue as he’s still measuring his words. In her mind, and with a force she couldn’t withstand even if she wanted to, visions of that tongue are flooding in – it’s on her neck and in her mouth, it’s wet under the pads of her fingers and on her clit and in her mouth again.

The sound of Conrad’s voice snaps her out of her self-inflicted daze. “Do I really need to remind you you’re married? I mean, it’s your anniversary today. There’s a party going on and everything.”

He’s not being judgmental, which frustrates Belly even more. He’s not upset, either – he just wants to make sure Belly never forgets he can see right through her.

Belly acts out a loud laugh and goes back to mingling before she punches him in the face, or sucks his dick.

Laurel calls her from the kitchen, and for five whole minutes, Belly’s mind is off Conrad as she assembles fruit trays.

The worst part is, they don’t even fuck; Belly is quite certain she can’t get away with escaping her own wedding anniversary, and getting rid of one partner is trouble enough without making it two.

She feels his eyes burn holes into her back all day.

Later that night, she takes extra time getting ready for bed. She draws herself a hot bath, buying some time by making sure the jet of water isn’t too strong, then sits in her bathrobe to mellow out and unpack the day.

She grabs her phone.

Some things never change, but Belly is quite annoyed that her inability to keep her heartbeat in check while scrolling through Conrad’s chat falls under that category. She likes to pretend she’s outgrown her smitten-teenager phase, so that’s obviously not helping.

The last message dates back to almost a year ago, when she wished him a happy birthday, and he replied with a very plain: Thank you, Belly.

Polite, tactful. Infuriating, really.

Wish you were here, she remembers gathering the courage to add, but he left her on read. He didn’t even double-tap to throw her a bone and like it.

She props her chin on her hand and stares at the page some more. After long moments of weighing her words carefully, she finally types: I missed you today

She winces in embarrassment and rushes to delete it.

Well, that was underwhelming, she types instead. She deletes that, too.

Belly scratches at her face, groaning in frustration.

Her thumb hovers over the screen for a few seconds before she finally hits send on You owe me one

She steals glances at the blue bubble through her fingers as if it burned, then she rides a surge of bravery and adds Don't bring your girlfriend next time

Mercifully, the three jumping dots appear right away.

Hang in there, Belly. See you soon.

And I told you, Agnes isn’t my girlfriend.

Belly’s face breaks into a wild smile, then she rushes to leave her phone on the sink and dip into the water so she won’t be tempted to keep the conversation going.

When she taps herself dry after a while, all flushed and relaxed, there’s a new text waiting to be read.

I missed you too, by the way. In case you need it spelled out.

In what is arguably not Belly’s finest hour, she jumps on him the moment she hears the door shut.

“Fuck, Belly,” Conrad laughs softly. “Wait a second, he literally just stepped out.”

It’s no use; Belly keeps crawling up his body, breathing him in and peppering his neck with wet, hungry kisses. If she had to pick one single part of Conrad’s body as her favorite, Belly is sure it would be the hollow of his neck – that’s the spot where the mouth-watering scent of him is strongest.

“Shut up,” she hisses, bringing a hand to his face to kiss him on the mouth. “It’s been months.”

Conrad traces her bottom lip with his tongue. “It’s always months,” he points out.

“Well,” Belly shoves him backward until the back of his knees hit the couch. “This time it’s too many months.”

It’s a few days before Christmas, and Jeremiah was supposed to be out of the office already, but something came up with a big client that couldn’t wait until next year. He gave Belly a mindless peck on the lips and promised it wouldn’t take long, then took off quickly.

Steven and Taylor decided it was the perfect time for last-minute present pickups – from which, to Conrad and Belly’s utter delight, they were both absolutely banned. Denise, who finally managed to make an appearance, tagged along.

So Belly feels perfectly at ease sliding Conrad’s belt out of its loops in the middle of the living room.

He tries to grab her wrists, but it’s a weak effort, a put-up job. He sits back against the backrest cushions where Belly is still pinning him, no real escape attempt in sight.

“Belly, please. I’m not fucking you on the couch,” he whispers.

But he’s not holding back anymore. He tilts his head and finds her lips in a bruising kiss, wrapping Belly in his arms. She moans into his mouth, unable to hold in the profound, unadulterated relief that rises inside her every time she’s back in Conrad’s orbit. In his hold.

And under him – that’s where she needs to be, soon.

“I mean, I see the vision,” Conrad groans against her lips, eyes dark, his hands traveling down to grab her ass. “But it’s way too risky.”

He pushes their hips together, grinding into her, and Belly is so deliriously turned on that her vision turns spotty; she doesn’t care. She’s pretty sure she’d let him fuck her on every surface of the house. She can only be grateful that it falls to him to be the responsible one.

They somehow make it upstairs (stopping to make out twice, the kind of speed bump Belly gladly welcomes), but they barely reach Conrad’s room. Not fully clothed, at least – there’s a trail of sweaters and shoes leading to it.

Conrad curses the cold weather for all the layers he’s forced to peel off her, and Belly's joyful giggle rebounds through the room.

When she’s down to her underwear, Conrad picks her up and drops her on the bed.

Belly rises on her forearms and soaks it in – only for a moment. It’s all she can allow herself without going insane. The image of Conrad undressing in their room, his hair still damp and curly from melted snow, looking at her like he’s never wanted anything more in his life.

From the start, she’s kept an imaginary string tied around her finger as a quiet reminder to cherish these moments, well aware that each one could be the last – the last before he falls in love, before he finds someone, before he decides he’s done stabbing his brother in the back.

But it’s a slippery slope. The sunlight seeping in through the window covers one side of him in a golden glow; he looks ethereal as he reaches behind his neck to take off his shirt, and Belly’s heart skips a beat.

She can’t stop the flashes of wishful thinking from flooding in uninvited.

It's Conrad buying Christmas gifts with her and sending postcards from all the places she visits.

It's Conrad making love to her and sleeping next to her when they’re done. Conrad being the one she wakes up to, the one she steals the last cup of fresh coffee from.

Conrad claiming her and coming home to her and committing to her.

This has to be enough, though. She just needs to hold onto it tight enough.

Slowly, one of Conrad’s knees sinks into the mattress between her spread legs, and she’s naked now, but his eyes stay locked on hers.

He strokes an open hand over her thigh. “I fucking love you,” he says, and it’s soft and breathy and barely over a whisper and Belly so desperately wishes she could believe it.

He clutches the hand she’s pressing on his head as he goes down on her, making her sob until her throat feels hoarse. She comes twice before he’s even pushing inside her, and when he finally does, Belly crosses her ankles behind his back and pulls him closer, deeper – she wants everything he’s willing to give.

Conrad latches onto Belly’s neck, the sharp movements of his hips never faltering as he sucks on her skin. At any other time, she’d scold him and ask him to stop, though reluctantly so, but today every nerve in her body is overloaded with a pleasure that shuts out everything else.

Part of her wants him to mark her, after all.

Belly’s back arches off the mattress after an especially fine thrust, and Conrad uses the momentum to hook her legs over his shoulders. She lets out a gasp of surprise.

He looks so good with a fine line of perspiration glistening along his jawline; she pictures reaching out and running the flat of her tongue on it – but her ankles are draped around his neck and the pressure as he slides in and out of her is so unbelievably hot that she can only lie there and take it.

She could come from this, she could come untouched; Conrad still presses two fingers on her clit, drinking in the way that makes her throw her head back into the mattress, and that’s what pushes her over the edge.

Belly comes with Conrad’s name on her lips, and he bends over to swallow it and the moans that come with it, to capture her lips while he comes too, burying his orgasm deep inside her.

Usually, they don't bask in the afterglow; they’re always on borrowed time, and that’s a luxury they can't afford. But this time Belly holds onto his shoulders and a whispered Please is all it takes for Conrad to collapse on her shivering body again.

He nuzzles against her damp neck, his nose brushing over her slowing heartbeat. He lifts his head to look at her, smiling softly, a hand caressing her fanned out hair and her nape, and this is it – this is the moment she could finally be true to herself, and to him.

The moment she draws a line and lets the truth out.

Because it’s there – she can feel it lodged in her throat, she sees it mirrored in Conrad’s eyes. If only she opened her mouth, it would pour out.

But it just can’t be.

So she cups Conrad's face and kisses him, slowly, unhurriedly, desperately. She sobs against his tongue, but if he notices, he doesn’t show it.

When they’re out of breath, he goes back to tracing her neck and face with open-mouthed kisses.

Belly draws lazy shapes on his back. She takes in the room, quiet and bathed in afternoon gold, the pants crumpled by the nightstand, Conrad’s heartbeat drumming against her skin, steady and cruelly reassuring.

Then a floorboard creaks, there’s a shift in light, and her sated gaze drifts toward the door as she senses movement at the edge of her sight.

She stares back into Jeremiah’s eyes, a document folder in one hand and Conrad’s belt in the other, as he watches in horror.