He Opened the Door In Just a Towel
The click of the hotel door was louder than I expected.
Sharp. Final. Like the sound sealed something in.
Or trapped me.
I stood there in the entryway.
Not saying a word.
Wes didn’t either.
He just watched me. Towel still around his neck. Water still clinging to his chest.
No shirt. No apology in his eyes. Just that look. The one that said he was thinking things he hadn’t said out loud in years.
He leaned back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest.
His biceps flexed with the movement, casual like he wasn’t even trying.
“So…” he said, voice low.
“You gonna stand there all night, or come in?”
My heart wouldn’t shut up.
But my legs moved anyway.
I stepped in. Slowly. Cautiously.
“There’s no party here,” I said.
He didn’t even flinch.
“Nope.”
“You lied.”
“I did.”
I stared at him. My hands clenched at my sides.
“Why would you do that, Wes?”
He pushed off the wall and walked toward the minibar. His back looked wider than I remembered. Thicker. Stronger. The muscles across his shoulders flexed when he twisted the cap off a bottle.
“I figured you wouldn’t come if it was just me.”
“So you tricked me?”
He turned, bottle dangling loosely in one hand.
“I just want to talk Noah,” he said.
“Without everyone watching.”
I folded my arms across my chest. Tried to hold myself together.
“You got something to say, say it.”
He exhaled. Set the drink down with a soft thunk. And walked toward me.
Each step slow. Heavy. Like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get.
“You asked me why,” Wes said, stopping just inches from me.
“Why I made your life hell back in college.”
I nodded, jaw tight.
He was close enough now that I could smell the soap on his skin.
That clean, fresh scent mixed with something warmer. Something human.
“You wanna know the truth?” he said.
“That’d be nice.”
He paused.
Then his voice dropped—low, rough, real.
“Because you made me nervous.”
I blinked. Staring. “What?”
“You looked at me different than everyone else did,” he said.
“Back then, I didn’t get it. But I felt it. Every time you were in the room, I—”
He stopped. Shook his head, like the words tasted bitter coming out.
“You made me feel things I wasn’t ready to feel.”
I swallowed hard.
My throat felt like it barely worked.
“And instead of dealing with that, you humiliated me?”
He nodded. Once.
Quiet. Solid. No excuses.
“Yeah. I am sorry about that.”
“You made me the punchline of your own confusion?”
Another small nod.
“I was scared,” he said, voice rasping.
“Not of you. Of me.”
Silence stretched between us.
Thick. Heavy. Charged.
And then he said it—
“You still make me nervous Noah.”
That line—God. It hit like a bruise I didn’t know was still tender.
I should’ve walked out. Should’ve thrown the door open and left him there with his guilt and muscles and five years too late. But I didn’t. I stayed.
Because that look in his eyes wasn’t cocky. Wasn’t cruel. It was starving.
I leaned in first.
Just barely.
And he took the rest.
I leaned in first—just barely—and Wes took the rest.
His mouth crashed into mine like he’d been holding back since college. Like he hated himself for wanting it, but needed it more than air. His hand caught my jaw—tight, like I’d run if he didn’t grip hard enough—and his lips opened against mine, hot and rough.
He tasted like hotel soap and whiskey and something darker.
His tongue slid past my lips. Slow. Tasting me like he wasn’t sure if this was a mistake or the only thing he’d ever done right.
I groaned into him, hand fisting the back of his neck. Wet skin under my palm. His chest crushed against mine—all heat, all muscle, all anger.
And when he gripped my waist and yanked me flush against him—
I gasped.
Soft. Choked. Just this helpless little sound into his mouth.
He growled. Not a moan. Not a sigh. A fucking growl.
And then everything went primal.
He kissed me like he wanted to ruin me—teeth on my bottom lip, breath hot, his hips grinding into mine without shame or hesitation. His hand slid lower, grabbing the back of my thigh, hoisting it up like he couldn’t get close enough.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was five years of tension breaking like a snapped cord.
He kissed like a man possessed.
And I kissed him back like I was drowning and he was the only sin that could save me.
When I finally tore away, I was shaking. Breathless. My lips were raw. My whole body thrummed.
Wes’s eyes were still on me. Black with want. Voice low and broken.
“You okay?” he asked, voice wrecked.
I nodded. Barely.
“Yeah. Just—fuck.”
I looked at him. Really looked.
Wes Carter. My bully. My crush. My fucking mess of a memory.
And right now? He looked like he wanted to worship me and destroy me at the same time.
He sat back on the edge of the bed. Legs spread. Elbows on his knees. Still shirtless. Still looking at me like he couldn’t believe I was real.
“You still want answers?” he said.
I nodded.
His palm patted the space between his thighs.
“Then come here,” Wes said, voice all gravel. “Come closer.”“
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