Chapter 36 #2
When I come back to myself, Nora’s slumped against my chest, arms around my shoulders, the two of us breathing like we barely survived a disaster together.
Her skin is hot and slippery, her hair mashed to one side, and her face—Jesus, her face is flushed and open, her eyes glassy and full of something definitely not just post-orgasmic bliss.
I hold her there, mouth at her temple, my hands stroking up and down her waist until her muscles stop quivering. We cling to each other for a long moment, our breathing impossibly loud in the sudden hush of the apartment.
Eventually, she draws back and looks at me with that wry, crooked smile that ruins my ability to think.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been fucked on an entry table before breakfast,” she murmurs. “That was . . . wow.”
“You say that like it was my idea,” I say, and she laughs, pure and easy, her head dropping to my shoulder.
“It was absolutely your idea,” she says. “You lifted me up here.”
“And I’ll lift you again,” I say, scooping her up with a yelp and carrying her to the bedroom.
“David!”
She laughs—warm and bright—as I kick the door shut even though there’s no one to hide from.
We hit the bed in a tangle, her on top this time.
“How do you even have the energy in you to do this again?” she asks, lowering herself on top of me.
I arch back, hissing through my teeth as she sinks down all the way.
“You bring something out in me,” I say, lifting the shirt until she’s pulling it over her head and tossing it to the side.
My hands instantly cover her breasts. “And it’s been a long, long time since I’ve had this. I want you all the time.”
“Me, too,” she whispers, pressing up through her thighs and riding me, slow at first. Then with wild abandon, her breasts bouncing as she grinds down, taking what she wants.
I flip us over midway, pinning her wrists above her head and driving into her slow and deep, then fast and punishing, our bodies slick with sweat and come, the sheets twisting under us.
She begs for more, her voice hoarse. “Fuck me, David. Harder.”
I drive into her over and over, until we’re a mess of limbs and exhaustion, collapsing in a heap after what feels like hours, the room smelling like sex and satisfaction.
Archie scratches at the door sometime later, whining softly, and Nora laughs breathlessly against my chest, her body still flushed and marked from my hands. “We should probably let him in before he starts howling out of loneliness,” she murmurs, fingers trailing up and down my back.
I disentangle myself just enough to roll out of bed, ignoring the protest in my legs and the ache in my back that tells me we aren’t, in fact, in our twenties. Nora steals the sheets, wraps them around herself, and shoots me a lazy, sidelong smile as I pull on boxers and pad to the door.
Archie barrels in like he’s got pressing business to attend to. He noses at the edge of the comforter until Nora, halfheartedly, lets him up. Then he collapses in a heap, tail thumping, and sticks his head in her lap as if reporting for post-mission debrief.
She scratches behind his ears and glances at me, eyebrow up. “You look like you’ve been through a war.”
“That’s not even the worst of it,” I say, catching her foot under the sheet and tugging lightly. “You still have to meet my father tomorrow.”
She groans and drops her head back against the pillow. “Remind me why we’re doing that?”
“Bonding. Transparency. And also, he’s my lead counsel. So, you know, strategy.”
“Is this brunch, or the Spanish Inquisition?”
“My father doesn’t do brunch. He does cross-examination with coffee service.”
She lifts her head, considering. “I can take it. So long as there are bagels.”
“There will be bagels.” I kneel by the bed and rest my arms across the mattress, chin on folded hands. “But we don’t have to go. We can call in sick. Refuse to present ourselves for familial prosecution.”
I say it as a joke, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how much I mean it.
There’s a deep, genuine part of me—the animal brain, or the exiled romantic, or just the father whose universe got rearranged when a woman in a pencil skirt leveled him with a look—that wants to hole up in this apartment with Nora for the rest of the weekend.
For the rest of the year. For as long as it takes for the world outside to turn safe, slow, or even just less fucking complicated.
She catches it, of course. The split second where the joke lands and then fractures into something vulnerable.
“We could run,” she says. “If it gets too awkward, we could point at something and then take off in the opposite direction.”
“Perfect escape plan.”
I roll onto my back, draping an arm over my eyes, and for a long, quiet moment, there’s a luxurious, gentle nothingness.
No schedules. No filings. No hearings looming like a guillotine.
Just Nora’s breathing, the weight of Archie’s upturned belly as he angles for a scratch, and the remnants of our bodies entangled under the sheets.
It’s not lost on me how much I want this. How, for maybe the first time in memory, I want something more than I want to win. Than I want to be right. Than I want to prove I can do it all alone.
It’s a small recognition, and it reorganizes the furniture in my head.
Kingsleys are raised to believe a single premise: wanting leaves you exposed, so want less.
Run leaner. Be the one who can afford to lose.
I’ve lived inside that premise so long I mistook it for a personality.
And now some quiet part of me is sitting up and saying, out loud, for the first time I can remember: I would rather have this and risk losing it than protect myself into another empty apartment.
But the world doesn’t wait, and my phone buzzes.
I pick it up, half expecting it to be Caleb asking about hearing prep or Bennett confirming dinner plans for next week.
Instead, it’s a photo from Dominic.
Michaela in front of the aquarium, pulling the most theatrically devastated face I’ve ever seen on a human child. Bottom lip extended to a degree that suggests professional coaching. Eyes the size of dinner plates. Hands clasped under her chin.
The caption reads:
Dominic:
How can you deny this face, Jen?
Followed immediately by:
Dominic:
Oops. Wrong chat.
The message vanishes. Unsent.
But the group chat has already seen it, because the responses arrive like a controlled detonation.
Serena:
We all saw that, Dominic.
Caleb:
Dom. What are you doing?
Layla:
hat was absolutely not the wrong chat and everyone here knows it.
Bennett:
I’m staying out of this.
Audrey:
Logan says to tell you that unsending a message after four people have read it is ‘statistically futile.’ His words.
Dominic:
I have no idea what any of you are talking about. There was no text. Nothing happened. I am enjoying a perfectly wholesome afternoon with my niece.
I type with the precision of a man filing an objection.
Me:
Dominic. You are not using my daughter to guilt Jenna into spending time with you.
Dominic:
I would NEVER. Michaela was simply making a face. I documented it for posterity. The intended recipient is irrelevant.
Caleb:
The caption said “Jen.”
Dominic:
Autocorrect.
Bennett:
From what? What word autocorrects to “Jen”?
A pause that stretches long enough to confirm he’s scrambling.
Dominic:
Zen. I was sending a message about Zen. Michaela’s been stressed. I’m a supportive uncle.
Logan:
That’s the worst lie you’ve ever told. And you once told a client his merger was “basically approved.”
Dominic:
That merger DID go through.
Caleb:
Three years later. After litigation.
Nora has been reading over my shoulder. She’s shaking against me—silent, full-body laughter, the kind that makes the bed vibrate.
“He’s using our daughter as bait,” I say.
Nora looks at me a moment then smiles.
“She’s absolutely in on it,” she says, wiping her eyes. “You know that. She probably directed the photoshoot.”
“She definitely directed the photoshoot.”
My phone buzzes one final time.
Jenna:
For the record, I saw the photo before it was unsent. The child is cute. The man is transparent. Neither fact changes my plans for the afternoon, which involve the absence of Dominic Cruz.
Jenna has left the chat.
Dominic:
She used my full name with the word ‘involve.’ That’s progress.
Me:
She called you transparent.
Dominic:
That just means she’s paying attention.
I set the phone facedown. Look at Nora. She’s still laughing, pressing her face into my shoulder, her whole body warm and shaking against mine.
“He’s hopeless,” I say.
“He’s relentless. And I’m fairly certain she loves it.”
“I love you,” I whisper, leaning in and brushing my mouth against hers.
“I love you, too.”