What If We Tried Again: Chapter Four - Skin Contact

The hotel room door closes, and the rest of the world vanishes. For Hayes, this isn't just a hookup—it’s a rediscovery of the only map he ever cared to memorize.

Chapter Four 

Skin Contact

Hayes

The weight of him in my arms is the only thing that feels real. The hotel room is bathed in the soft, amber glow of the bedside lamps, a stark contrast to the chaotic neon pulse of the wedding we just fled. I lay Jude down on the mattress, and for a second, I just hover over him, my hands planted on either side of his head.

I need to breathe him in. I need to catalog the way his hair is fanned out against the white pillows and the way his eyes are dark with a mixture of fear and absolute, wreckless desire. The air between us is thick, charged with the kind of electricity that precedes a massive storm.

"You're still here," I whisper, my voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel. I’m terrified that if I blink, I’ll wake up back in my flat in Berlin, staring at a blank wall and a half-packed suitcase, realizing this was just another fever dream born of loneliness.

"I'm still here," Jude breathes back. He reaches up, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, his touch light as a feather but feeling like a brand. "I didn't think I’d ever be in a room with you like this again. I’d convinced myself I’d imagined how it felt. That I’d made up the way you look at me when nobody else is watching. I thought I'd turned you into a ghost just so I could live with the haunting."

"I didn't imagine a second of it," I say, and then I’m kissing him again.

This isn't the frantic, desperate collision from the hallway. This is slower. It’s intentional. I taste the salt of his skin and the lingering sweetness of the wine, but mostly I just taste Jude. I let my tongue sweep against his, a slow, rhythmic demand that makes him moan low in his throat. It’s a sound that travels straight to my core, tightening the knot in my stomach until it’s almost unbearable. I’ve photographed some of the most beautiful sights in the world—sunsets over the Spree, the grit of urban ruins—but nothing compares to the sound of Jude’s surrender.

I shift, sliding my body between his legs, feeling the friction of our suit trousers. It’s a teasing, agonizing heat. I’m hyper-aware of every point of contact—the way his thighs feel against mine, the way his hands are now clutching at the back of my shirt, pulling me closer as if he can’t get enough air. Every inch of me is burning for him. My skin feels too tight for my body.

I pull back just enough to look at him, my breath hitching as I take in the sight of him. His cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen and wet. He looks thoroughly ruined, and the possessiveness I felt at the table—watching every other guy in the room eye him like he was a prize to be won—doubles in intensity.

"You have no idea," I mutter, leaning down to press my face into the crook of his neck. I inhale deeply, the scent of him—something clean and warm, like sunshine and expensive soap—filling my lungs. "I spent a year in Berlin looking at the most beautiful architecture in the world, and all I could think about was the way the light hit your shoulders in the morning. I’d be in the middle of a shoot, and I’d see a shadow that reminded me of the way you curve into me, and I’d lose my breath. I was surrounded by history, Jude, and all I cared about was ours."

Jude’s hands tighten on my shoulders, his nails digging in slightly through the fabric of my shirt. "You should have said that then, Hayes. You should have told me instead of just... sending postcards of buildings. You sent me a picture of the Fernsehturm when I wanted a picture of you. You sent me monuments when I wanted your voice."

"I was a coward," I admit, the honesty stinging worse than the distance ever did. I move my mouth to the sensitive spot behind his ear, nipping at the skin until he shudders beneath me. "I thought if I didn't say it, it wouldn't hurt as much. I thought if I stayed detached, I could do the work. I thought I could outrun the feeling of you. But the work was hollow without you there to see it. Every success felt like a failure because you weren't the first person I called. I'd win an award and go home to an empty bed and realize I'd traded the sun for a handful of stars."

"It hurt," he whispers, and I can hear the years of repressed pain in those words. "Every time I saw your name in my inbox or a photo of yours in a magazine, it was like a fresh cut. I tried to be happy for you. I tried to be the bigger person everyone talks about, but I just wanted you home. I wanted you to be the person who walked through my door, not the person on my screen."

I lift my head, framing his face with my hands. I use my thumbs to wipe away the moisture at the corners of his eyes, my heart breaking for the time we wasted. "I’m sorry. Jude, I am so goddamn sorry. I’m done with postcards. I’m done with distance. I’m done with everything that isn't this. I'm done searching for a frame when the picture was already perfect."

He looks at me, really looks at me, searching for the lie, for the restlessness that usually defines me. When he doesn't find it, his expression softens into something so vulnerable it makes my chest ache. He reaches for the buttons of my waistcoat, his fingers trembling, fumbling with the fabric in his haste.

"Then show me," he says, his voice a low, steady challenge. "Don't tell me anymore. Just show me what I’ve been missing. Show me that I'm not just a stop on your way to somewhere else."

I don't need to be told twice. I sit up just enough to shuck off my waistcoat and toss it toward a chair, followed quickly by my tie. I watch Jude’s eyes track the movement, his gaze lingering on my chest as I start on the buttons of my shirt. The silence of the room is heavy, broken only by the sound of our breathing and the distant, rhythmic thump of the bass from the party below, a heartbeat we've escaped.

When I finally pull my shirt off, Jude lets out a shaky breath, his hands coming up to rest on my bare skin. His palms are cool, a perfect contrast to the feverish heat of my body. He traces the lines of my muscles like he’s relearning a map he once knew by heart, his touch hesitant at first, then demanding.

"I missed this," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the line of my collarbone, moving down to the center of my chest. "I missed the way you feel. I forgot how... real you are. You've been a memory for so long, I forgot you were flesh and bone."

I reach for his jacket, helping him slide out of it, then I’m working on his tie. I’m slow about it, savoring the way he watches me, the way his breath hitches every time my knuckles brush against his throat. I want to prolong this, to stretch out the anticipation until we’re both screaming for it. I want to make up for every night I spent alone.

"You’re killing me, Hayes," he groans, his head falling back against the pillows, exposing the long, elegant line of his neck.

"Good," I say, a smirk tugging at my lips, though my own desire is a physical ache in my throat. "I want you to feel every second of this. I want you to remember this night the next time you think about What If. I want this to be the only thing you can think about when you close your eyes. I want to be the only ghost in your head."

I pull his shirt open, exposing the pale, smooth skin of his chest. I lean down, trailing kisses from his collarbone down to his sternum, my stubble grazing him. He’s arching off the bed now, his hands moving to my hair, pulling me closer, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that sound like music.

"Hayes... please. Now."

I stop, looking up at him, my pulse racing. "Please what, Jules?"

"Please don't stop," he says, his voice breaking, his eyes swimming with a mixture of love and desperation. "Don't go back to the wedding. Don't go back to Berlin. Just stay right here in this room until the world ends. Just be mine again."

I move back up, capturing his lips in a kiss that is more of a vow than anything I’ve ever said. It’s deep and messy and full of the history we’ve been trying to outrun. My hands find the waistband of his trousers, and for a moment, we just stay like that—suspended in the quiet of the room, the only sound the frantic beating of our hearts against each other.

The What If has finally been answered. It’s not a ghost anymore. It’s the weight of him under me, the taste of him in my mouth, and the knowledge that I’m never letting go again. I’ve chased light all over the globe, but the only light I ever needed was right here, reflected in his eyes.

"I'm staying," I promise against his mouth, my voice thick with emotion. "I'm staying until you tell me to leave. And even then, I’m going to fight you on it. I'm going to argue for every second I lost."

Jude laughs, a small, genuine sound that breaks the last of the tension, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in eighteen months. He pulls me down for another kiss, his legs wrapping around mine, pulling me into the heat, demanding more, taking everything I'm willing to give and then some.

I reach for the lamp, clicking it off, plunging us into the shadows of the room. But I don't need the light to see him. I know every curve, every scar, every hidden place where he’s sensitive. My hands remember him even if my mind tried to forget. And as I pull him closer, discarding the last of our clothes, I know that for the first time in a long time, the frame is finally complete.

The make-out session deepens, becoming more frantic as the last of our barriers are gone. Every touch is a revelation, a rediscovery of a language we both thought we’d forgotten. I map out his body with my hands, my mouth, my teeth, needing to reclaim every inch, to leave my mark so he knows he’s home.

"You're mine," I growl into the crook of his neck, the possessive urge finally breaking through my restraint. "Say it, Jude. Tell me who you belong to. Tell me who you've been waiting for."

"I'm yours," Jude gasps, his hands clenching in my hair, his body trembling beneath mine. "I’ve always been yours, Hayes. Even when I was trying to hate you. Even when I was trying to move on. It was always you. It was only ever you."

The admission is the final blow to my defenses. I pull back, looking at him in the silver moonlight filtering through the curtains. He looks ethereal, beautiful, and utterly mine.

"I love you," I say, the words finally free after being trapped in my chest for years. "I never stopped. Not for a single second. Not in Berlin, not on the plane, not even when I was pretending I didn't care."

Jude’s eyes fill with tears again, but this time he’s smiling—a real, radiant smile that lights up the dark. He reaches up, pulling me down for one last, lingering kiss before the world dissolves into the pure, rhythmic heat of us finally becoming one again. The What if we tried again isn't a question anymore. It’s our reality.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

The Tagline: He’s done with postcards. He’s ready for the real thing.

The Trope: Only One Bed / Emotional Rediscovery

The Thought: This chapter moves past the physical and into the raw, unsaid apologies. By stripping away the suits and the wedding finery, we’re left with the "real" them. It’s about the vulnerability of admitting that moving away didn't mean moving on.

The Question: What’s more intimate to you: the physical reconnection or the verbal apology?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix