"How's that McFlurry?"

August glances at me from the corner of his eye, his mouth half-full, cheek bulging to the side like a chipmunk. I'm sitting at the other end of his kitchen table, feet tucked beneath me, watching as he works through his Oreo McFlurry at an annoyingly slow pace—the one he swore he didn't want, but I ordered for him anyway.

"S'alright," he mumbles around a mouth full. "Didn't really want one."

"Really? Because," I lean over the table, peeking into his cup, "it looks like you've just about polished it off."

He chews, then swallows hard. My eyes narrow at him when he scoops another bite into his mouth. There's something in his eyes I can't quite place—hesitancy, apprehension, impatience, maybe. I'm not entirely sure.

But if I'm being honest, I'm a little confused. Part of me expected him to kiss me senseless the second we pulled up to his house—press me up against the front door, lift me onto the kitchen counter. Every time we've been alone since agreeing to this arrangement, he hasn't hesitated—not once—to kiss me, to touch me.

But tonight, August simply just parked my car in his driveway, unlocked the front door for me, and toed off his shoes, neatly lining mine alongside his by the entryway. Then he sat at the far end of the kitchen table, eating his McDonald's in silence.

I know dinner probably wasn't what he'd expected—my dad not showing up, those pictures of his family, letting him see a part of me I've never shown anyone before. And then the argument in the car.

But still—I thought he'd at least kiss me.

Especially after he said, For as long as you want me, I'm yours.

Well, I want him. I don't think I've ever wanted August Williams more than I do right now. I want him to kiss me until I can't breathe. Until nothing else exists but him.

But maybe I'm wrong, I think to myself. Maybe I'm reading this all wrong, and he's thinking I'm just... too much now.

I bite down on the corner of my lip, glancing out the kitchen window that's propped open, trying to shake the thoughts loose. I know I'm overthinking—this whole trial period was his idea, after all. I don't have the luxury of spiraling over this; I'm on borrowed time, and it's slipping away faster than I can hold onto it. And with less than a week left together, I intend to make the most of it.

I take a deep breath, the salt air from the ocean drifting in through the window, steeling myself before turning back to him. I wait patiently as he finishes chewing his McFlurry. My patience, however, wears thin the moment he takes another spoonful.

I let out an exasperated sigh. "August."

"What?" he mumbles.

"In the nine years I've known you, I don't think I've ever seen you like McDonald's as much as you do right now," I huff, tilting my head back at the ceiling. "You normally give me a speech about high sodium intake."

"It is high in sodium," he mutters, grimacing as if he suddenly remembers, then abandons the McFlurry. I roll my lips against a smile.

"Do you, um..." I start after a moment, my eyes drifting to the empty Chicken McNuggets carton in front of me. I push it aside, trying to find the words to say, I want to make out with you. Maybe more. But you're acting weird. "Do you—"

"I should probably grab fresh sheets for the guest bed," he says abruptly, standing so quickly that his chair scrapes against the floor, making me startle. "Haven't changed them since Lucy and Clara stayed over."

"Oh, um, okay," I say, though it sounds more like a question than a response. I watch him round the corner, disappearing down the hall, leaving me alone in the quiet kitchen.

I glance around, even more confused than I was a second ago, as I listen to August in the hallway. The linen closet creaks open—there's a string of curses as something spills onto the floor, followed by the muffled rustle of sheets and towels.

The cool hardwood meets my bare feet as I slip off my chair and quietly pad down the hall toward August.

"I can help you make the bed," I offer, even though the last thing I want is to sleep in this guest bed. We've shared a bed at the last two hotels—New York, then LA. So, I just assumed he'd want me in his bed.

I guess I assumed wrong.

"It's fine," he says, wrestling with what looks like Christmas-themed sheets, ones dotted with rows of marching nutcrackers. "I can do it."

I follow him into the guest bedroom as he shakes out the sheets. He's still in his clothes from dinner—the cream knit polo I gave him for his birthday two years ago, the pants that hug his ass so perfectly I've had to actively fight the urge to stare every time he turns around, and his hair—God, that perfect mess of waves.

I groan internally, my eyes flicking to the stairs at the end of the hall that lead up to his bedroom, then back to him as he continues to fight with the fitted sheet. I rest the side of my head against the doorway, watching as he manages to tuck one corner, only for the first side to pop loose when he moves to the opposite end. With a jaw set, he starts over.

I blow out a breath. "August."

"I can bring you something to sleep in if you need." He pauses, raking a hand roughly through his hair again—it's now in absolute disarray from how many times he's run his hand through it tonight. "I don't think I have any pajamas with geese-wrangling cowboys, but you can borrow my I Closed My Book to Be Here shirt. I know you like that one."

"Can't we just..." I begin, swallowing as he bends at the waist, stuffing a pillow into its case. "I mean, can't I just sleep in your bed?"

The words tumble out before I can stop them, and I immediately feel like an idiot. He hasn't made a single move since we left my dad's. He's setting up the guest bed for me, even offering me something to sleep in. Clearly, he doesn't want that. And here I am, practically begging for him to let me sleep with him in his bed.

I peek up at him through my lashes, adding, "We shared a bed at the last two hotels."

He pauses, straightening as he drags another hand through his hair before bracing them on his hips. When he turns, his eyes settle on me, and my stomach twists with a sharp ache that sinks all the way down to my toes. My eyes fall to his socked feet, bracing myself for him to say no—that it's a bad idea.

And that, I think, is what actually might break me tonight.

He takes two quiet steps closer until I see his feet right in front of me. When I chance another glance at him, I catch the warmth in his eyes—a deep, endless brown, softened by the amber glow of the lamp he turned on when he walked in.

"The problem is, Maisie," he says, his voice low and ragged as he braces one hand against the doorway. "If I kissed you, I don't think I'd be able to stop." My startled gaze snaps up, and his drops to my lips, his jaw clenching as he adds, "And once you're in my bed, I won't be able to keep my hands off you. I'm just... really trying to give you some space after everything that's happened tonight."

An elation ripples through me, melting into every crevice of my chest like warm honey spilling over.

"Oh." My fingers press to my lips, a ghost of a smile tugging at the edges. Nodding, I shuffle closer to him, tentatively reaching out to toy with the button on his knit polo—I wonder if he remembers I bought it for him. "What if I told you I don't want space from you?"

His throat works, Adam's apple bobbing, before his eyes meet mine. His grip on the doorframe tightens, knuckles turning white, and his eyes turn so dark that I can barely make out the flecks of amber. I like him like this—watching his careful composure slip, bit by bit.

"You don't want space?"

"Not from you. Not even a little."

I peek up at him, my heart thundering in my chest, before my hands move gently to cup his jaw. Rising onto my tiptoes, I brush my lips against his, silently pleading for him to kiss me back.

"I don't want you to think I'm taking advantage of the moment," he whispers against my mouth.

I give his bottom lip a soft pull, my tongue tracing its edge. He shudders, slipping closer, hands finding my waist.

"I've been thinking about this since we left LA," I breathe. "Hardly taking advantage—if I'm the one asking you to kiss me, to touch me."

A rough sigh escapes him, his fingers digging into my hips before he pulls me flush against him, and then he's kissing me like he wants to devour me.

He kisses me deep, his tongue grazing my lips, and I melt into him as he backs me against the doorway. A moan escapes him when my lips part, and he sweeps his tongue against mine. He tastes like chocolate and vanilla from his McFlurry, smells like the spice from his cologne, and feels like everything I've ever wanted.

August bends, his hands slipping beneath my thighs to lift me. I wrap my legs around his waist, holding on as he starts moving down the hallway.

He halts, and I pull back to look at him, finding us at the base of the stairs. His eyes dart between the kitchen table, the living room sofa, and the stairs leading to his room. Those brows crease, like he can't decide where he wants me.

"Can't decide?" I ask, squeezing my legs to grind into him, trying to nudge him along.

He groans, eyes slipping shut. "Trying to figure out which fantasy I want to make real first."

Heat blooms low between my thighs, spreading warmth everywhere we touch. I let my head fall to his shoulder, grinning as his hand flexes possessively against me.

"First?"

"First."

"How many places have you thought about this?"

"More than I'd care to admit," he says, his eyes flicking back to mine before his socked feet begin to carry us toward his room. "I've told you this before."

"God, you really are a fanboy, aren't you?" I tease, dragging my fingers through the hair at the back of his head, nails scraping lightly as he starts up the stairs. His hands are already working to untie the laces at the back of my dress.

"Don't tell me you haven't thought about this too," he murmurs, his head dipping as his lips brush against the swell of my breast. He leaves a trail of soft, wet, distracted kisses, like he can't go any longer without the taste of my skin against his lips. "I know you have, Maisie."

"Okay, yeah," I gasp when his mouth finds the fabric of my dress. I arch into him, offering more of myself as he nudges the fabric aside, then sucks the skin just beneath it. "Maybe I have."

"Jesus," he pants against my skin, one hand reaching to grip the banister at the top of the stairs like he needs to steady himself.

August stumbles us toward the wall to the left and settles me on top of the hallway table, his mouth finding mine again. A stack of books and... something else tumbles to the floor, the picture above tilting crookedly. He doesn't seem to care, and neither do l, because his hands are under my dress now, searching until they find the lacy edge of my underwear.

A moan chokes out of me when his palm slips between my thighs, pressing with just enough pressure that dark spots cloud the edges of my vision, making me move against him.

Nine years of pent-up tension, of what was basically foreplay without any release, and now I'm all sensation—a loose spark in a carnival of lights, ricocheting wildly from one burst of color to the next. Colors and sounds and a sparking shrill, rattling through me.

His free hand moves to cradle my jaw, thumb pressing until I open wider for him, letting his tongue slide against mine. A satisfied, low rumble vibrates in his chest, and I roll my hips into his hand, chasing the friction.

I love him like this—unbuttoned, disheveled, desperate. But I want more. I want to be in his bed, feel his sheets beneath me, have the space to really see him.

"Your bedroom, Gus," I pant between kisses, tapping his shoulder.

He nods quickly. "Yeah, okay. Good idea."

August lifts me off the table like I weigh nothing, making a sharp turn to the right—only to stumble us straight into the bathroom. We crash into the shower, and I yelp, clutching his shoulders as we nearly tumble into the tub, shower curtain twisting around us.

"August, this is your house." I laugh against his neck, struggling to untangle us from the curtain. "How do you not know where you're going?"

"I'm distracted," he mutters, spinning us out of the room as I pepper wet kisses down the line of his throat. My fingers slip under the hem of his polo, brushing against warm skin until it's untucked, and I'm tugging it free. I pull it over his head, tossing it behind me so my hands can roam over all those hard lines of his chest and the faint dusting of hair.

"Fuck," he groans as I press a deep, sucking kiss to the edge of his collarbone. His steps falter, two steps to the left, as he tries to navigate his way to his room. I press another to the hollow of his throat. "Fuck."

He nudges the door open with his shoulder, and it swings wide, hitting the wall with a thud as we finally reach his bedroom. He tosses me onto the bed, pillows scattering around me. I push them aside, my hair spilling halfway across my face. The room is small, the bed taking up most of the space, draped in a dark gray comforter with olive-green striped sheets and topped with a yellow gingham blanket his grandma made for him four Christmases ago. Not a thing is out of place—everything is so neatly made, so August. A few of his favorite books are stacked beside an old lamp on the nightstand, next to framed photos of August with his family—and another of us that I barely catch a glimpse of.

I've been in his room before, sure—sat on his bed, helped him pick out clothes for interviews, run up here to bring him tea and NyQuil when he's been sick. But never like this. Never with him standing in front of me, raw need written on his face, affection in his eyes, something earnest—something I can't quite place.

"Hi," he whispers, a small, quiet smile pulling at the edges of his lips.

"Hi," I whisper back.

"I'm going to take this off now," he murmurs, his gaze dragging down my body before his hands find the hem of my dress.

"Okay," I breathe, nodding. He slides his hands beneath the fabric, his fingers skimming across my stomach as he slowly lifts the dress over my head. He lets out a soft exhale, a pained look crossing his face, jaw flexing.

I lie there, stripped down to just a strapless bralette and matching thong, waiting, trying to fight the urge to cover myself.

"What?" I ask, confused by his expression.

"You still do that thing," he says grimly.

"What? What thing?"

"That thing where, when you like something," he says, moving toward me, "you buy one in every color. You used to do it with your sweatshirts."

I shake my head, surprised. How does he even remember that? I haven't done that since college—since my mom died, since Andrea suggested it might be best not to, with all the paparazzi taking photos. Back then, if I liked a sweatshirt or a dress, I'd just buy it in another color—less time spent shopping, more time wearing what actually felt like me. Now, I have a stylist to pick things out for me.

"And these. These are just like the ones you were wearing at the shoot," he murmurs, tracing a finger along the waistband of my underwear, "but with hearts instead of purple little flowers."

I let out a breathy laugh, tilting my eyes toward the ceiling in disbelief. "You were looking at me in the dressing room."

"Of course I was looking at you," he rasps out, rough and husky. I feel the bed dip as he places one knee beside me, slowly crawling forward until he's hovering over me, eyes locked onto mine. "I've always been looking at you, Maisie."

He leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss over the fabric of my bra where my nipples are peaked. I melt into the pleasure of his touch, the heat of his mouth. My head tilting into the pillows as everything inside me rattles and aches.

My hands drag through the back of his hair, fisting gently as his lips trail down between my breasts. His tongue darts out briefly to taste my skin before he murmurs, "Tell me how you've thought about me touching you."

I blink up at the ceiling. "What?"

"You said you've thought about it, too. This—me touching you. Tell me how you imagined it." His lips brush the edge of my bra. "I want it to be exactly what you want. How you've thought about me touching you."

Honestly, I'm pretty sure he could do the bare minimum, and it would be better than any sex I've ever had.

"Um, I..." My eyes drop to August, shirtless and kneeling just above me, waiting for my answer. He looks offensively obscene like this. His broad chest, jeans unbuttoned—did I do that? I can't remember—the strong cut of his hips, the dark smatter of hair that disappeared below the waistband of his boxer briefs. God.

"Don't go shy on me now, Mace. You started this," he murmurs, eyes dark, lips swollen. Then his expression softens, a bashful tilt of his smile that makes everything ache. "It's just me."

I shift beneath him, the heat of his gaze unraveling every careful thought I've tried to hold together. I've thought about August in a hundred different ways—but mostly, I've imagined the scrape of his scruff against the inside of my upper thigh, the softness of his lips, the heat of his tongue.

"I've..." My voice is barely a whisper. "I've thought about your mouth on me."

His gaze drops to the lace of my underwear, and he nods eagerly. "Yeah, okay. I can do that."

——————————

Sorry for the late post, everyone. Thanks so much for being patient! Also, I apologize for leaving this smutty chapter on a cliffhanger. That wasn't the original plan—it just got away from me and turned out too long, so I had to split it.

I know I've been posting new chapters regularly since the start, but I'm going to start posting them as I finish. With only ten(?) chapters left, I don't really want it to take another ten weeks to finish. So, bear with me as I try to land this plane!

See you all very soon with an August POV, xx.