Shameful | Congressman!Kylo x Reader

Chapter 15: I'm Your Boss

PLOT TWIST HEHA 

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P.P.S. 5.6k READS??? crying and throwing up. if you ever feel discouraged by this slow burn, just read the kink warnings in the intro to this story. it's gonna be all of that and MORE!!!!! 

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I was half-awake when his left leg came to rest on top of mine, further wrapping himself around me. Half-awake when his lips pressed barely-there kisses gently and methodically to the top of my head. Half-awake when he shifted his arm that was draped over me upward, and his thumb ended up resting right between my breasts. Three-quarters awake when I found myself turning over to face him, blindly seeking him out and feeling him pull me close into his chest. One of my legs snuck its way over to straddle his hip, my arm wrapped halfway around his back, my head nestled into the plush crook of his elbow. Not a single inch of space between us.

Our bodies fully intertwined, our slow breaths in sync, our slumbers light and dreamless. Totally enveloped in each other. Bliss in shades of sweet, candied pink and twinkling blue.

—

I was fully awake, though, when I felt the mattress shift, warmth stolen from me, his body gently slipping out of my grasp. I peeled my eyes open just enough to watch him leave the room, quietly and without another word. I laid frozen on my side, wrapping my arms around myself in a futile attempt to mimic the warmth and comfort his body provided.

I peeked at the time on my phone— it was only 7:15.

I weakly dragged his pillow toward me, seeking reassurance in scraps of his leftover scent. I didn't fall back asleep. I laid completely still, eyes half-lidded and staring at the curtains, willing myself not to shed a single tear over my boss who still wouldn't kiss me.

I desperately shove last night into the box with a clear lid and hesitantly shut it, outfitting it with a brand-new lock. His sudden departure has all but cemented the fact that he doesn't have a box with a clear lid of his own.

Kylo's POV

I store each moment with her in a notebook, and it's already halfway full.

When I can't steal away quickly enough, I obsessively commit the images to memory, recapitulating over and over and over again until my fingers shake and I can finally get everything down on paper. I write it all down only so I can make room for more.

These days, there's a near-constant shooting pain in my wrist from jotting down every single earth-shattering thing she does that makes my heart soar.

I devoted three whole pages to our moment on the couch days ago. The way she smelled, sounded, looked, felt, when I breathed her in and held her so, so dangerously near to my lips. I lost myself in her. I lose myself in her every second I'm around her.

There's two pages full from our night at the hotel bar. Four from the day I first met her at the fundraiser. One and a half that detail her little expressions while she watches me give speeches— speeches that I have to work endlessly hard to recall because they keep getting crowded by memories of her.

Eight, and counting, from our two nights in the same bed. I didn't allow myself to sleep last night; I had to enshrine exactly what it felt like to be immersed in her—branded against my skin. I snuck wanton touches in the hopes of sealing some part of me into her, just the same. I tore myself away from her this morning only to recount it to my notebook while it was still fresh. If only she knew— but she can't.