It wasn’t just desire coursing through me—it was something deeper, something that feels like it’s been buried inside me for years, waiting for her to unlock it. The longing, the need to make her mine, to keep her safe, to build a life with her—it all surged to the surface. It’s like I’ve been walking through life numb, and now, with her, I finally feel awake.
I want to make her mine forever. This isn’t just about the thrill of having her; it’s about more than that. It’s about creating something permanent, something real. I see a future with her, a family, something I never thought I’d have. A home that isn’t filled with silence and coldness, but with warmth, love, and the sound of children’s laughter. Our children. A family she and I create together.
I know I’m crossing a line. I’ve crossed so many already that it’s hard to see where the lines even are anymore. But I don’t care. She’s brought something to life inside me that I thought was long dead. Ever since Rocco died, just minutes after he was born, I’ve carried this emptiness. The pages and pages of things we would do together still sit on my desk, unused for decades. The path I thought my life would take, the reliability and predictability… I thought things would stay perfect forever.
My mother never recovered, and my stepfather… he made sure we all suffered for it. That kind of loss, that kind of pain—it changes you. It hardens you. But with Francesca, it feels like there’s a chance to fill that void, to heal in a way I never thought possible.
She doesn’t know about what else my stepfather did, about the nights I spent imagining what it would be like if Rocco had lived, if I’d had a brother to protect from the world and if my mother had never met him. Never had a reason to leave my father. I’ve never told anyone. It’s always been locked away, along with all the memories of those verbal lashings, the way my stepfather’s eyes would darken before he struck with words dripped in venom. But now, with her, I want to share everything. I want to let her in, show her all the broken pieces, and let her help me put them back together.
I know this might seem wrong to others—maybe even to her. But I’ve learned that morality isn’t always black and white. Sometimes, it’s about survival, about doing what you have to do to keep the things you love. I’ve had to live in the gray areas my whole life, and this is no different. What we have, what we could have—it’s worth any price.
She’s my salvation, my redemption. The only person who’s ever made me feel like I’m more than the sum of my darkness.
The Devil Makes Work for Idle Hands
Dante
The restof the conference is uneventful. The highlight of my days are my nightly dinners with Francesca—usually at one of my old stomping grounds. On the weekend, we do all of the touristy things like Alcatraz, Pier 39, Golden Gate Park, Palace of Fine Arts, Coit Tower, Golden Gate Bridge, and Lombard Street. She insists on buying a giant penis cookie in the Castro, and I have to watch her eat it—slowly.
It’s fucking torture.
I also take her to some of my favorite spots like West Portal, Noe Valley, my favorite hidden stairways, and then we end the weekend at Vesuvio Cafe, my favorite bar. Francesca has multiple glasses of wine, and I try not to think about how we only have a few nights left.
Soon, she’ll go back to San Diego and I’ll go back to Santa Barbara.
I suppose I could let it go and forget anything ever happened. It would probably be easy, seeing as we’ve spent so much time together platonically.
Except, I woke up this morning to a notification on my calendar.
About a year ago, she inadvertently shared her personal calendar with me, which included the dates of her period. Since she’s regular, I can estimate when she’s ovulating, and I’d added a private alert for myself.
Because of that, I happen to know that her fertile window starts tonight.
As she sips her red wine, my eyes track down her throat and focus on her red lipstick. She’s wearing a cropped white shirt and ripped jeans, and her hair is pulled into a clip at the base of her neck. She asks me about living in San Francisco, about my practice, about the conference, and all I can think about is sinking into her cunt and filling her up.
Fuck.
Ever since the kiss, I’ve slept uninterrupted every night, and I wake up in the cot after sleeping from dusk to dawn. I’ve been a good boy—keeping my distance, flirting whenever I had the chance, and touching her whenever I could—innocently, of course.
My hand brushing against hers while we walked.
Wrapping an arm around her waist when she stumbled on the ferry to Alcatraz.
Letting my eyes linger on her lips for a second too long.
Of course I haven’t stopped thinking about our kiss, and it seems she hasn’t either.
She seems to watch me whenever she doesn’t think I’m paying attention, and she flirts right back whenever I dare to cross that line with her either in person or over email.
I’maddictedto everything about her.
After another glass of wine, we retreat back to the hotel. She’s smiling as she walks, and her skin is radiant in the orange glow of the sunset. All I can think about is pressing her against one of these buildings and kissing her again—making it known that she’smine—but we arrive at the hotel before I get a chance.
“I’ve had way too much to drink,” she murmurs, stepping out of her sandals and unclipping her hair. “I’m going to shower, and then I’ll probably head in for an early night.”
Stay with me,I think.
She just gives me an apologetic look as she walks over to the bathroom. “Thank you for dinner. Again. This trip has been… one of the best trips of my life.”
