**Chapter 5: Games**

The rain taps a steady rhythm against the windowpane, blurring the late afternoon light into something soft and gray. Inside, the air smells like old paper, cedar, and the faint, clean scent of Drake’s soap. He’s sitting cross-legged on the hardwood, back straight as a rod, eyes locked on the chessboard between us like it’s a tactical map he’s sworn to defend. I’m sprawled on my stomach beside him, chin propped on my folded arms, watching the way his jaw tightens when I deliberately hover my knight over a square he hasn’t covered yet.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, like gravel under boots.

“I’m not going to,” I lie, smiling. My finger traces the edge of his king. “I’m just admiring the architecture. Very structural. Very… you.”

He doesn’t look at me. He never does when he’s concentrating, but that’s never stopped me before. Drake’s been like this since the day we met. All sharp lines and quieter words, ex-military posture wrapped in a flannel shirt that’s seen better days. He doesn’t do soft. Doesn’t do easy. And yet, here we are, sharing a living room, a game, and a silence that’s started to hum with something entirely different.

I move the knight. It clicks into place.

Drake exhales through his nose. “That’s a sacrifice.”

“Maybe,” I say, shifting closer so my knee brushes his thigh. The contact is brief, accidental, or so I tell myself. “Or maybe I’m just showing you I’m not afraid to take a risk.”

His eyes finally drag up to mine. Dark. Unreadable. But there’s something there, a flicker of heat that makes my pulse jump. “You’re playing with fire, Holly.”

“Good thing I like getting burned.”

He doesn’t smile. He never does. But the corner of his mouth twitches. Something like amusement. Something like surrender. He reaches out, his hand covering mine where it rests near the board. His fingers are calloused, warm, and impossibly heavy. He stills my hand.

“You talk too much,” he says, but his thumb strokes over my knuckles, slow and deliberate.

“I talk because you never do,” I reply, leaning in until our faces are only a breath apart. I can see the gold flecks in his irises, the faint scar along his jawline, the way his breath hitches when I don’t pull away. “So I fill the quiet. Even when it’s not quiet anymore.”

His gaze drops to my mouth. Then back to my eyes. The air between us thickens, charged and heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks. I feel it in my chest, in the quickening of my breath, in the way my skin prickles where his hand still covers mine.

Drake’s voice is a low rumble. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“Guilty.” I let my free hand drift up his arm, tracing the line of his forearm, feeling the hard muscle beneath worn cotton. “But you’re still playing. Which means you’re not mad. Which means you like it.”

He swallows. His grip on my hand tightens, just slightly. “I like winning.”

“Then let me win,” I whisper.

That’s all it takes. In one fluid motion, he flips my hand over and presses a kiss to my palm. It’s not gentle. It’s possessive. Claiming. My breath catches. The chessboard, the rain, the room—it all dissolves into the background. There’s only his mouth on my skin, the rough slide of his lips, the heat radiating from him.

He stands, pulling me up with him. I stumble into his chest, my hands instinctively going to his shoulders. He’s solid. Real. Overwhelming. His free hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters.

“Promises,” I breathe.

His mouth crashes into mine.

It’s not tentative. It’s not careful. It’s Drake all at once: hungry, demanding, unapologetic. His lips are hard and hot, tasting of coffee and something darker, something that makes my knees weak. I melt into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, my body pressing flush against his. He groans against my mouth, the sound vibrating straight through me. One of his hands slides down my back, gripping my ass, pulling me so hard I can feel every hard line of him through our clothes.

I gasp into his mouth. He takes it, swallowing my sound as his tongue sweeps past my lips, claiming me completely. I whimper, arching into him, desperate for more friction, more heat, more of him. He responds by lifting me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. I’m light in his arms. He always treats me like I am.

He backs us toward the rug in the center of the room, still kissing me like he’s starved. The chess pieces clatter to the floor as he moves, ignored. He lowers us down until we’re on our backs, me pinned beneath him, my head sinking into the wool rug. The world narrows to the sound of our breathing, the scrape of fabric, the sharp intake of his breath when his hips roll against mine.

“Drake,” I pant, tugging at his flannel shirt. “Please.”

He breaks the kiss, just long enough to shove the shirt over his head. I gasp at the sight of him: broad shoulders, defined chest, skin marked by old scars and newer tension. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, fixed on me like I’m the only thing keeping him grounded. He kicks off his boots, shrugs out of his jeans, and I can’t stop staring. My hand trembles as I reach for him, and he catches my wrist, pressing it flat against his chest.

“Look at me,” he growls.

I do. And when I do, I see it. The grumpy mask is gone. In its place is something raw, something vulnerable, something that makes my heart ache. He lowers his head, pressing his forehead to mine. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers. “Tell me now, Holly, and I walk away.”

I laugh, breathless, shaking my head. “You don’t get to ask that. You already took what you wanted.”

His hand slides up my back, fingers hooking into the hem of my sweater. He pulls it over my head in one smooth motion. I shiver in the cool air, but not for long. His mouth is on my collarbone, my shoulder, my breast, sucking and biting until I’m crying out his name. His hands are everywhere: rough palms mapping my skin, calloused thumbs brushing my nipples until they ache, sliding down my stomach, unbuttoning my jeans with practiced efficiency.

When he finally slips his hand between my thighs, I arch off the rug, a broken sound tearing from my throat. He’s already hard, already aching, and he knows exactly how to touch me. Two fingers, slow and sure, sliding through my wetness, circling my clit with a rhythm that makes my toes curl. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him deeper.

“Please,” I beg, and he groans like I’ve shot him.

He shifts, positioning himself between my legs, his cock pressing against my entrance. I can feel every inch of him, thick and hot and begging. He lines himself up, the tip pressing against me, stretching me. I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders.

“Relax,” he murmurs, voice ragged. “I’ve got you.”

He pushes in slowly, giving me time to adjust, to take him. The stretch is exquisite. Overwhelming. I cry out as he bottoms out, our bodies fitting together like we were carved from the same bone. He stills, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to mine, breathing like he’s trying to keep himself from losing control.

“Fuck,” he curses. “You’re so tight. So fucking perfect.”

“Say it again,” I whisper, smiling through the haze.

He bites my lip, hard enough to make me gasp. “You’re perfect. You’re mine. Say it.”

I laugh, breathless and giddy. “I’m yours.”

That’s all he needs. He pulls back, just enough to thrust forward, and the room explodes. He sets a pace that’s punishing and precise, each drive hitting deep, hitting sweet spots that make my vision blur. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down, kissing him through every thrust. He groans into my mouth, his hips snapping forward with military rhythm, but there’s nothing controlled about the way I’m coming undone beneath him. My nails rake down his back. My thighs tremble. My breath comes in ragged gasps as he hits me again and again, relentless and demanding.

“Look at me,” he orders, voice rough.

I open my eyes. His are wild, dark, completely focused on me. On us. He slows his pace, drawing out every thrust, grinding his hips in tight circles that make my toes curl and my stomach clench. I’m close. So close.

“Drake, I’m—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

I do. The climax rips through me like lightning, sharp and blinding, my body arching off the rug as waves of pleasure crash over me. I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders, my inner muscles clamping around him as I shudder through the aftershocks. He follows me over the edge a second later, groaning my name like a prayer as he spills inside me, his body going rigid before he collapses against me, panting.

We stay like that for a long moment, hearts hammering, sweat-slicked skin pressed together, the only sound our breathing and the rain against the glass. His weight is heavy, but I don’t mind. I run my fingers through his hair, feeling the tension slowly drain from his shoulders. He presses a kiss to my temple, then another to my cheek, then finally my mouth, soft and slow this time.

“Still think you’re distracting me?” he murmurs against my lips.

I grin, breathless. “Absolutely.”

He huffs a laugh, low and rough, and rolls onto his side, pulling me with him so I’m curled against his chest. He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling the rug up over us like a blanket. His hand finds mine, lacing our fingers together. His thumb traces slow circles over my knuckles.

“You’re trouble,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. Only warmth. Only me.

“Your trouble,” I correct, tilting my head to look up at him.

He meets my gaze. The grumpy mask is gone, replaced by something quiet and steady. Something real. He brushes a stray lock of hair from my face, his touch feather-light. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yours.”

The chess pieces lie scattered on the floor, forgotten. The board is tilted, a king knocked sideways. Neither of us cares. The game was never about winning. It was about this. The space between us closing. The silence breaking. The moment when playfulness turned to something heavier, something deeper, something that left us both breathless and utterly spent.

I press my face into his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow back into rhythm. His fingers trace idle patterns on my arm. The rain continues to fall. The afternoon light fades into twilight. But none of it matters. Not when he’s holding me like this. Not when he’s finally, truly, here.

I smile against his skin. “Next time,” I murmur, “we’re playing cards.”

He huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to my hair. “You’re impossible.”

“Marry me,” I tease.

His arm tightens around me. “Don’t push your luck, sunshine.”

I grin. I wouldn’t have it any other way.