Chapter 20
20
S he was curled against me, one leg thrown across my waist, her face buried in my chest. I didn’t move, didn’t even breathe too hard. I just lay there, taking it all in.
The way her breath warmed my skin.
The faint scent of sex still clinging to the air.
The way my arms fit around her like they belonged there.
Sunlight crept through the windows, slipping past the dust-covered blinds, painting soft light across the room. It was the only thing in the apartment not fully renovated. The drywall was patched, but unfinished. Paint cans in the corner. A tarp folded at the foot of the bed. But it didn’t matter. She made the space feel full. Alive. Like home.
Her lashes fluttered, then her eyes blinked open. She looked up at me with that sleep-heavy stare, mouth slightly parted, breath still slow.
“Morning,” I murmured.
She didn’t speak. Just buried her face in my chest and sighed.
I smiled and stroked her back. “Hungry?”
She mumbled something into my skin that sounded like a reluctant yes.
I sat up slowly and reached for the tote in the corner. Pulled out some sweats and a hoodie. Tossed her the softest sweatshirt I owned.
She caught it and raised an eyebrow. “That’s all I get?”
“It’s oversized,” I smirked. “That’s the look, right?”
She tugged it over her head, and sure enough, it hit mid-thigh. No pants. Just legs and attitude.
I bent down to dig in the tote again. “You left these here once.”
She looked up just as I held out a pair of her old black combat boots.
Her eyes widened. “I forgot all about those.”
“I didn’t.” I stepped closer, watched as she slipped them on without socks. “I kept ‘em right here. Like I knew you’d come back for them.”
She stood and adjusted the hem of the sweatshirt. No bra. No panties. Her legs bare. Boots laced but slightly loose.
I stared. Couldn’t help it.
Her hair cascaded over her small shoulders, her lips still swollen from last night, and I was already half-hard again.
She caught my look and tilted her head. “We’re still going to breakfast, right?”
I licked my bottom lip. “If you keep looking like that… I don’t know.”
We went to DeLuca’s anyway.
It was early enough that we didn’t need to wait. She slid into the booth across from me, my hoodie swallowing her frame. The sweatshirt hit just above her knees, but the way she moved—the soft sway of her hips when she walked, the ease in her laugh when she teased me about ordering the same thing every time—I could barely focus.
She ordered the seafood omelet. I got my usual Denver.
“Still basic,” she teased, stealing a bite of mine before her own came.
“You like basic,” I muttered, eyeing her mouth.
She smirked. “Sometimes.”
We ate slow. Talked. Didn’t rush anything.
After, while she thumbed through the menu like I had worked her into the type of appetite that she needed more, I checked Twitter out of habit.
That’s when I saw it.
Sinners. Ryan Coogler. Early buzz is insane. Emotional. Raw. Erotic. Beautiful.
“Wanna catch a movie?” I asked casually.
She lifted her brow. “You’re full of surprises today.”
We ended up at the theater in Robinson.
It was perfect because it wasn ot crowded. The energy low and cozy.
She curled up beside me in the leather seats, that sweatshirt still her only armor. Legs bare, her scent faint under her skin, thighs warm when they brushed mine. I reached over, slid my hand over her knee. She didn’t stop me.
Then the screen lit up, and everything else faded.
The dialogue. The pacing. The tension. The culture. Seeing Us. And the music made me feel alive. I couldn’t help how my fingers tapped beats against her thighs. She seemed to love it. Embrace it. Open her thighs to it.
When Annie pressed Elijah’s palm to his dick and said, “Your body still remembers me,” I felt Amaya stop breathing for a second.
I looked at her. She didn’t look at me.
But her thighs squeezed together.
When Sammie leaned into Pearline and whispered, “You’re beautiful. I want to taste it,” I couldn’t get the taste of Amaya off my mind. I leaned in, kissed her shoulder, my hand sliding higher beneath the hem of my sweatshirt. She didn’t stop me.
Didn’t even flinch.
She just shifted slightly—opened for me—and I dragged my fingers along her inner thigh, teasing her until I felt that wet heat again.
My breath caught.
“You’re soaked,” I whispered.
“You started it,” she murmured, eyes still fixed on the screen.
I slipped two fingers inside her.
She arched. Just a little. Just enough.
I worked her slow, careful, my thumb circling her clit while the sounds of the movie swelled around us. Her hips moved in subtle rhythm, her breath soft and tight, her hand gripping my forearm like she was barely holding it together.
When she came, she shuddered, thighs quaking, her mouth parting in a silent gasp.
I pulled my fingers out slow, brought them to my mouth, and licked them clean. Every drop.
She finally looked at me.
And I kissed her—deep, slow, hungry.
The rest of the movie, she didn’t sit still.
Her hand rested in my lap, fingers brushing my thigh. Then sliding higher. When Mattie rode Stack, she palmed me through my sweats, soft at first, then firmer, like she knew exactly what she was doing. She kissed my jaw. Stroked me slow.
I hissed through my teeth, trying to keep it together, but my head fell back. She stroked me the way I fucked her—smooth, deep, just enough twist at the top to make me twitch. It took everything in me to pay attention to the horror of the film, to really dig deep into the brilliant masterpiece, but her presence and the memory of her touch pressed upon me with every breath I took.
By the time the credits rolled, we were both wrecked.
We didn’t make it to the bed.
As soon as we stepped into my apartment, I pressed her to the counter, flipped up the sweatshirt, and dropped to my knees.
She was soaked again. Still sensitive.
But I didn’t give her time to protest.
I opened her with my tongue and sucked her clit slow, deep, savoring every inch of her.
“Fuck, Amir?—”
“I’m not stopping,” I growled. “I need to taste you again.”
Her back arched, her thighs clenched around my head, and when I slid two fingers into her and sucked harder, she came again—loud, shaking, one hand gripping the edge of the counter while the other pushed my head deeper into the wetness of her.
I stood, pulled her against me, and lifted her onto the marble. She wrapped her arms around my neck, still breathless.
I freed myself, thick and leaking, and slid into her in one stroke.
We both groaned.
Her heels dug into my back. My hands gripped her thighs.
I fucked her hard and slow, the way she liked it—deep enough to make her eyes roll, slow enough to feel every pull, every squeeze, every tremble.
Her arms tightened. “Amir…”
“Yeah, baby.”
“I’m gonna—fuck?—”
“I got you.”
She came around me hard, clenching like she didn’t want to let go, and I followed—my cum deep and hot, burying myself in her as our bodies locked together, breath tangled, hearts racing.
We collapsed on the couch after, half-dressed, limbs intertwined.
She laid her head on my chest, her fingers tracing idle circles over my skin.
I pulled the hoodie down over her bare thighs and kissed her temple.
Neither of us spoke. We didn’t have to.
Our actions said everything.