Chapter 13 - Nico
Nearly three in the morning, and the water is scalding but it’s not hot enough.
Nothing is enough. Not four hundred pull-ups.
Not cold water. Not the discipline I’ve spent a lifetime building.
Nothing has been enough since she knocked on my door in those pajama shorts that barely covered her perfect ass.
I brace one hand against the tile, the other finally wrapping around my aching cock.
I've been hard since she appeared in my doorway, nipples visible through that thin tank top, honey eyes dark with want.
Stayed hard while I buried my face between her thighs and made her scream.
Stayed hard through every orgasm I gave her, my cock throbbing painfully while I denied myself.
Stayed hard when I pulled out of her tight, perfect pussy without finishing, my body screaming at me to thrust back inside, to lose control, to claim her completely.
Now, alone behind a locked door, I grip myself with desperate need.
The first stroke is rough, punishing. Pre-cum leaks from the tip, making my hand slick as I work my shaft. This isn't pleasure, it's survival. But the moment I touch myself, the memories assault me.
Her at my door, those silk shorts clinging to her hips.
Christ. The way she looked at me. Like I was everything she needed.
I stroke faster, rougher, remembering how she kissed me, desperate and hungry, her tongue sliding against mine while she pressed her barely-covered pussy against my cock through my sweatpants. I could feel how wet she was even through the layers. Could smell her arousal, sweet and intoxicating.
The monster in my chest wanted to shove those shorts aside and fuck her against the door. Wanted to grip her throat while I pounded into her, wanted to make her take every inch while she clawed at my back. Wanted to fill her with my cum until it dripped down her thighs.
Instead, I gave her control. Technique. Kept the real hunger caged.
My hand moves faster, grip tightening. Another memory floods in: on my knees between her spread legs, her pussy glistening in the low light.
That first taste, fuck. Sweet and salty and purely her.
I wanted to devour her. Wanted to spread her wider, hold her down, eat her until she sobbed.
Wanted to make her come on my tongue over and over until she begged me to stop.
Her clit was so sensitive, swelling under my tongue as I circled it, flicked it, sucked it between my lips.
The sounds she made, desperate little whimpers and moans that went straight to my cock.
When I pushed two fingers inside her, she was so tight, so wet, clenching around me like her pussy was trying to pull me deeper.
"Nico, please, I need…"
She needed my cock. I knew it. Could feel it in the way her hips bucked against my face, seeking more.
But I just curled my fingers, found that spot that made her whole body arch, and made her come on my tongue instead.
Made her scream my name while I drank her down, while my cock leaked pre-cum in my sweatpants, untouched and aching.
Then inside her. Christ, being inside her.
My fist flies over my cock as I remember.
She was so fucking tight. When I first pushed in, even with how wet she was, I had to go slow.
Watched her face as I stretched her, filled her, claimed her inch by inch.
Her pussy gripped me like a vice, hot and perfect, and I had to stop when I bottomed out or I would have come right then.
"You're so big," she gasped, nails digging into my shoulders. "So fucking thick."
I wanted to lose it. Wanted to grab her hips and fuck her into the mattress. Wanted to flip her over and take her from behind, pull her hair while I pounded into her. Wanted to watch my cock disappear into her pussy over and over while she screamed for me.
Instead, I fucked her with perfect control.
Measured thrusts hitting just the right angle.
My thumb on her clit in precise circles.
Making her come around my cock while I stayed locked in my cage, counting backward from one thousand, thinking about anything except how badly I wanted to fill her with my cum.
Four times. I made her come four times, felt her pussy clench and pulse around me, felt her soak my cock with her release. The last time, she was sobbing my name, tears streaming down her face from the intensity, and still I held back. Still I couldn't let go.
"You didn't…" she said, confused and hurt when I pulled out, the condom empty.
Because if I came inside you, even with the condom, I'd never be able to let you go.
My orgasm builds now, pressure at the base of my spine, balls drawing up tight. I'm close, so fucking close, my cock throbbing in my fist as I remember her face when she came, the way her pussy clenched, the way she said my name like a prayer.
Her name tears from my throat, raw and desperate. My cock pulses violently as I come, thick ropes of cum painting the shower wall, more and more until my knees buckle. The orgasm rips through me, devastating, everything I held back exploding out of me at once, spilling over my fist.
The shame hits immediately. I clean up, dry off, pull on sweatpants with hands that won't stop shaking.
I should go to her and tell her… something.
But I'm a coward who can only come alone in the shower, so I stay in my bed, imagining her breaths through the wall, the slow rise and fall of her chest.
Morning arrives with arctic distance. Marisol emerges looking flawless. Hair sleek, makeup subtle but perfect, wearing jeans that hug her ass and a silk blouse that hints at the body I've now tasted.
She won't look at me. Pours coffee without commenting on how terrible it is. No jokes about Horse Man or tactical bananas. Just polite, professional distance that makes my chest ache.
"Morning," she says, voice carefully neutral.
"Morning."
The silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. I watch her move around the kitchen, notice how she unconsciously touches the spots I kissed. Her neck, her collarbone. Each time she catches herself and drops her hand quickly.
"I have meetings at La Sirena today."
"I'll drive you."
She grabs her purse, yanking the zipper closed with a sharp snap. "Fine."
I try to bridge the distance, stepping toward her until she flinches back. "Marisol."
"What?" She busies herself arranging things in her bag, not looking up.
"About last night…" My hand reaches for her arm but stops mid-air, hovering in the space between us.
"What about it?" Her voice is flat, defensive. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the movement quick and agitated.
"I…"
What can I say? That I wanted her so badly I had to lock myself in the bathroom to come? That the thought of being vulnerable with her terrifies me more than any combat zone?
She shoulders her bag and exhales sharply through her nose. "It's fine, Nico. We both got what we needed. Let's move on."
The words cut deep. She got orgasms. She wanted intimacy. She got technique. She wanted connection. And I'm too fucked up to give her what she actually needs.
At La Sirena, she pauses at the entrance, finally breaking the silence that's suffocated us all morning.
"I heard you," she says quietly, not looking at me. "In the shower."
My blood turns to ice.
"I heard you say my name when you came."
Her knuckles are white on the door handle. She heard me. Heard me lose control, heard the desperation in my voice when I came. Knows now that I wanted her, needed her, but couldn't share that moment with her.
"You could have said it to me," she continues, voice cracking. "You could have let me see that. Let me have that part of you instead of locking yourself away."
She's right. She offered me everything. Her body, her trust, her vulnerability. And I gave her everything except the one thing that mattered: myself.
"Marisol…"
"Never mind. It doesn't matter."
She disappears inside, leaving me sitting in her car, forehead against the steering wheel, letting her walk away.