“Fuck,” she whispered, sweat bright on her lip. “Just like that, Dante—”
“I know I can make you come with just my cock,” I said.
I drove in deeper, teeth gritted, her soft cry lighting up my whole nervous system. Her legs snapped tight and she made this sound, a choking gasp that turned into a laugh, then a moan, then both. “You’re such an asshole—” she started, but she was already gone, hips shuddering into aftershock.
I savored the way she convulsed, slick and helpless around me. I slowed, barely moving, just holding her in that trembling suspension, until she sagged and I felt her warmth trickle down my wrist. Then, when I knew she was spent, I leaned in, licking sweat from her jaw, and whispered: “Next time, you’re going to do this to me. I don’t care how big your stomach gets. I want you underneath, on top—anywhere you want.”
“You didn’t make me squirt,” she said.
“I didn’t make you squirt yet,” I said.
She laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “You want me to flood the fucking Airbnb? What if Marco wakes up and comes in here?”
I nuzzled her neck, savoring the salt and the laughter. “Then he’ll see what a real woman looks like when she’s satisfied.” I held her gaze, thumb stroking her thigh. “Come on, Jade. I know you can. I remember the first time. It was so fucking hot.”
Her mouth parted, color blooming in her cheeks. “That was—”
“Extenuating circumstances,” I finished for her. I let her legs down, steadied her, and pulled her back against the counter so her ass landed with a clatter. “You were stressed. Exhausted. Out of options.” Each word a heartbeat as I slid my palm up between her thighs again, teasing, no rush at all. “You’re all that again, aren’t you?”
She tried to glare, but her eyes shimmered—a dare, or maybe a plea. And I’d always been good at seeing through her. “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to finger you until you squirt all over my hand.”
She wriggled, maybe protesting, maybe inviting, but her breath sharpened and her hips tilted against my hand. I took my time, rubbing careful circles around her clit—barely touching, just enough to make her squirm. She tried to lean away, then leaned in, caught in the undertow she pretended wasn’t there.
“Fuck, Dante—” Her voice was a hiss, her hands bracing against the countertop. I could feel her pulse everywhere—her thighs, her stomach, even her jaw. I slid two fingers inside, slow, then angled up, pressing against that spot she always pretended didn’t exist: the part that wanted to lose control.
The effect was instant. She sucked in air, knuckles white on the laminate, face gone pale then flushed. “I mean it—don’t—” But then she gasped, sharp and wounded, and her hips bucked hard against my wrist. I bent my head, blew softly on her clit, then pressed harder, rubbing deep and relentless.
She shook, trembling from the core out, and I swore at how good she looked like that: fighting herself, fighting me, then breaking anyway. When it started, there was no stopping it—her whole body pulsed, then clenched, then let go. Warm, wet; a raw surge that soaked my fingers, splashed my hand, hit the tile floor.
She almost screamed, then bit her own fist, eyes wide and wild. I eased her through it, another slow drag of my palm along her clit, coaxing every ounce of pleasure until she was limp and boneless in my arms.
When the last tremor faded, she slumped on the counter, panting, hair stuck to her cheeks. I grinned, wiped my hand on a dish towel, and said, “You want pancakes with that?”
She aimed a weak punch at my shoulder, missed, then let me catch her. After a second she started laughing, ragged and breathless, like a woman who’d survived a natural disaster and decided she liked it.
“Jesus Christ, Dante.” She put her head on my chest, clinging. “Do you ever just run out of ego?”
“Not when it comes to you.” I kissed the top of her head, happy just to hold her, both of us lost in the gentle static of coming down. “We’re going to be fine, Jade. Even if it’s only five minutes at a time.”
And five minutes at a time was all the safety I could offer.
Chapter 5: Jade
The house was so sterile it felt like an experiment. Light poured in through the windows, blank and featureless, turning the lake outside into a blinding white smear. I almost missed the noise of New York. Instead, I got this: three mugs drying by the sink, a limp bunch of celery hanging half-dead over the crisper, and somewhere down the hall, Marco swearing at cartoons.
There wasn’t even a clock. Just the shape of the sun on the wall and the radiator’s hiccuping, echoing through the baseboards. Whoever owned this place had packed up time and left behind only family photos, like they wanted you to marinate in someone else’s memories. I made a lap of the house, ignoring the sore ache between my legs and the low throb of pleasure that still lingered in my bones. I hated how much I wanted it, even now, sweat drying on my collarbones.
I checked the doors, the sight lines, the neighbor’s window, the backyard—iced over and shaggy, a plastic sandbox’s gravemarker poking through the snow. I wasn’t really looking for an intruder. I was looking for a way back to sanity, if one existed.
Barefoot, I drifted down the carpeted hall, slow-walking each room like I was stalling for an encore. The main bedroom reeked faintly of old medicine. A battered copy of Chicken Soup for the Caregiver’s Soul sat on the side table, barcode from a nursing home still stuck to the cover. I ran my fingers over the faded blue comforter and felt a weird pang—nostalgia, maybe—for the most normal bed I’d seen since leaving home for grad school. I wanted to crawl under the covers and sleep for a thousand years.
The kitchen was quieter, but somehow more alive. Heat from the radiator pressed against my back. Dante’s cologne still clung to the air—sharp, expensive, impossible to ignore. He was gone, obviously. But there was a note propped on the counter, because Dante never missed a chance for dramatics, even if the back door was ten steps away.
It was scribbled on the back of a grocery receipt, barely legible:
Gone to walk perimeter. Don’t freak out. Love you.
