Chapter 19 #2
We talk about dance for five minutes. Real questions, real interest. She attends classes.
Gentle stretching, she says, nothing intense.
She invites me to come. The invitation is casual, sincere.
No agenda beyond possible friendship. My chest aches with something I'd forgotten: the possibility of a friend who doesn't know my history, who might like me for who I am now.
"I'd like that," I say.
She reopens the laptop. "You're welcome to stay if you want company. This is tedious but not private."
"I should keep walking. But thank you."
I leave her office feeling lighter. She's the first person here who wasn't assessing, testing, or protecting. Just offering normal friendship like I'm a normal person.
Back in the hallway, I pass the kitchen. Sera's on the phone, but she raises the wine glass in salute. The side door to the bar is closed. I'm heading for the service stairs when the back garden door opens.
Marisol enters carrying garden cuttings. Bougainvillea branches heavy with magenta blooms, sprigs of lemon balm, a few citrus blossoms. Her golden hair falls loose and chaotic around her shoulders, the at-home version of herself. We stop four feet apart.
She looks at me without smiling. No warmth softens her honey-colored eyes. "Daphne. Settling in?"
"Getting there."
"Good." She shifts the cuttings to her other arm, a few bougainvillea petals falling to the floor.
"Adrian's turned the main floor into a crime scene for tomorrow's vendor meeting.
Forty chairs where no chairs should be. Consider yourself warned.
" The joke is there and she steps on it before it can land, like she resents her own mouth for trying.
The comment wants to be funny and won't let itself be. What she gives instead of the warmth I can feel her holding back, two-handed, like it might spill.
"I'll keep that in mind."
She nods once, walks past me toward the kitchen with her cuttings.
Forty seconds total. Polite distance, nothing more—except for the half-second where a joke flickered and died behind her eyes.
Everyone swears Marisol is all sparkle and noise, always bouncing off the walls.
I believe them now. I've felt her holding the whole sparkling weight of it back so it can't reach me.
The mother hen, guarding the nest, deciding I'm a hawk.
I climb the service stairs on tired legs.
Gunner sits at the desk, laptop open, that complete stillness that means he's deep in something operational.
Hallstein's photo is visible on the screen for a moment before he minimizes it.
He looks up when I enter, and something shifts in his gray eyes. Hunger, relief, possession.
"How was it?"
I cross to him, summarizing in the dry register he knows is really me. "Sera was warm and called me paloma. The Siren was generous about my dance. Isa gave me nine words total. Juliet was a relief. Normal friendship, imagine that. Marisol was Marisol."
"So it went well."
"Parts of it."
I don't wait for him to move. I sit sideways in his lap, and he shifts to accommodate. One arm coming around my back, his other hand settling on my thigh. I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in his cedar soap smell.
"Marisol really doesn't like me," I say against his neck.
"She doesn't trust you. There's a difference." His hand tightens on my thigh, fingertips pressing into muscle in a way that makes me remember exactly how those hands felt inside me. "She protects what's hers fiercely. Always has."
"And I'm not hers."
"Not yet." His hand moves higher on my thigh, deliberate now. "But you're mine."
"Yes." The word comes out soft, certain. His hand slides between my thighs, cupping me through my jeans. Even through the denim, his touch makes me gasp. "Yours. And I think you like reminding me."
"Always." His voice drops, rough and dangerous.
Before I can respond, he's standing, lifting me with him. My back hits the wall beside the desk, his body caging me in. His hands grip my wrists, pin them above my head with one hand while the other goes to my jaw, forcing me to look at him.
"You walked through my building today," he says, voice low and controlled. "Let my family see you. Let them assess you." His thumb traces my lower lip. "But you came back to me."
"Where else would I go?"
"Nowhere." His free hand drops to my throat, not squeezing, just holding. Possessing. "You don't go anywhere anymore. Not without me knowing. Not without my permission."
The words send heat flooding between my thighs, the way they always do when he talks to me like this. He feels it. The way I press closer instead of pulling away, the way my breath catches.
"You're exhausted," he observes, but his grip doesn't loosen. "Walking through their judgment, earning their acceptance. You think you need rest."
"Don't I?"
His laugh is dark. "No, paloma. You need to remember who you belong to. You need me to fuck every thought out of your head except my name."
His mouth crashes into mine, hungry and demanding. His hand releases my wrists to grip my hair, angling my head where he wants it. I moan into his mouth, my hands finding his shoulders, nails digging in through his shirt.
He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. "Take off your clothes."
"Gunner…"
"Now." The command in his voice makes my pussy clench. "Every piece. I want you naked while I'm still dressed. I want you to feel the difference."
My hands shake as I pull off my shirt, unhook my bra. His eyes track every movement, dark with hunger. I push down my jeans and underwear together, step out of them. Stand naked before him while he's still fully clothed, the power dynamic making me wetter.
"Good girl." He steps back, just enough to look at me fully. "Now get on your knees."
I drop without hesitation, the floor hard against my knees. He unbuckles his belt slowly, deliberately, making me wait. When he finally frees his cock, it's already hard, already leaking for me.
"Open your mouth."
I part my lips and he pushes inside. Not gentle, not slow. His hand fists in my hair, controlling the pace as he fucks my mouth. I take him deep, tears forming at the corners of my eyes, but I don't pull back. This is what he needs. To claim, to possess, to remind us both who I belong to.
"That's it," he growls. "Take it all. Show me how much you want to belong here."
His cock hits the back of my throat and I moan around him, the vibration making him curse. He pulls out suddenly, hauling me to my feet.
"Bed. Now. On your hands and knees."
I crawl onto the bed, presenting myself to him. I hear his clothes hitting the floor, then feel the bed dip behind me. His hands grip my hips, positioning me exactly where he wants me.
"You're dripping," he says, running one finger through my wetness. "Walking through my building, meeting my family, and all you could think about was getting back to my cock."
"Yes," I gasp as he pushes two fingers inside me, stretching me.
"Say it."
"I couldn't stop thinking about you. About this. About you inside me."
He withdraws his fingers, replaces them with the head of his cock. "Then take what you came back for."
He slams into me with one hard thrust, filling me completely. I cry out, my arms giving out so my chest presses to the mattress. He doesn't give me time to adjust, just starts fucking me with deep, punishing strokes that have me seeing stars.
"This is what you needed," he growls, one hand sliding up my spine to grip the back of my neck. "Not rest. Not comfort. You needed me to fuck you until you remember that nothing else matters except this."
"Please," I gasp, not even sure what I'm begging for.
"Please what?" His other hand slides around to find my clit, circling it roughly. "Tell me what you need."
"Harder. Please, fuck me harder."
He gives me what I ask for, his pace becoming brutal, perfect. The sound of skin against skin fills the apartment, mixing with my cries and his growled curses. I'm close, so close, my pussy clenching around him.
"You don't come until I say," he commands, his fingers still working my clit. "You come when I tell you to, because your pleasure belongs to me too."
The dominance in his voice nearly pushes me over despite his command. I bite the sheet, trying to hold back, my whole body trembling with the effort.
"Good girl," he praises, and somehow that's worse than the commands. "Taking it so well. So perfect for me."
His thrusts become erratic, his control finally breaking. "Now," he growls. "Come for me now."
I shatter instantly, my orgasm ripping through me with such intensity I scream his name. He follows immediately, pumping into me as he comes, his grip on my neck tightening as he marks me from the inside.
We collapse together, him still inside me, both breathing hard. After a moment, he pulls out carefully, turns me to face him. His thumb traces my cheek with surprising gentleness.
"Next week, everything changes." His voice carries weight, warning. "After Tuesday, no one will question that you belong here. That you belong to me."
I search his face, seeing the darkness there, the danger he's planning. "What happens next Tuesday?"
His smile is all edges. "I stop waiting. Nine years of waiting ends." His hand slides to my throat again, gentle but possessive. "And when it's done, when I come back covered in blood that isn't mine, you'll still be here. In my bed. Waiting for me."
The promise and threat in his words send a shiver through me. I pull him down for another kiss, tasting myself on his lips.
"I'll be here," I whisper against his mouth. "Always."
His cock twitches against my thigh, already hardening again. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet. Not even close."