34. Ryan
Ryan
Obviously, I know I probably shouldn’t be watching this.
My trip to the market didn’t take long at all, and when I come back up the path, the first thing I hear is a soft, needy gasp I’ve heard before. I still on the front veranda, shifting the paper bag in my hand and stepping to the side, looking in through the window.
It’s just in time to watch Graham grab Serena’s hips and pull her down flush over his cock.
The sight of it turns my cock hard instantly. It’s like watching porn, but better, because this is Serena. Because I know what it feels like to be inside her, to have my mouth on her ear, to tangle my hands in her hair and feel the flutter of her walls around my cock.
I watch them fuck for too long, I know. Watch Serena rock on him, watch her drop her forehead down onto his shoulder, watch her brace herself on the back of the couch and ride him as if her life depends on it.
And I can’t stop myself from imagining my part in a scene like that. I could be kneeling on the bed, entering her from behind. She could take me in her mouth. I could even just stand behind her, watch, stroke myself and get off onto her back.
Her beautiful bare back, her spine curving, her mouth opening into an O.
Graham finishes quietly, grunting, and Serena starts to let out a noise herself, but he claps a hand over her mouth, holding her as she writhes on him. I watch the muscles in her back contract, relax, then see her curl over top of him, spent.
For a long moment, they stay still like that together. As quietly as I can, I reach into my pocket, grab the Vespa keys, and press the button that makes it beep, like a car locking.
The two of them startle, move, righting Serena’s shirt, hips pulling apart, Graham pulling out of her. I head through the door just as they settle back together, fully clothed but clearly pleased with themselves.
I come to a stop like I wasn’t expecting to see this. Like I wasn’t just watching Serena’s tits bounce, like I didn’t see Graham burying himself inside her.
“Well,” I say, dropping my bag on the counter and raising an eyebrow at them. “This is cozy.”
“Fuck off,” Graham mutters, but when Serena tries to stand up, he tugs her back down, so she’s now sitting in his lap.
If her face wasn’t already flushed from the fucking, it would heat now.
Even after such a short time of knowing her, it’s something I’ve learned to predict—the pattern of her blushing.
There’s a sound on the stairs, and Travis comes down to find Serena and Graham sitting on the couch together, with me standing in the kitchen. His careful gaze moves among all of us, then he asks, “So, are we doing this? Serena, you’re comfortable with it?”
Leave it to Travis to get right to business.
She swallows, gives Travis a look that I don’t quite understand, then says, “I’m open to giving it a try.”
My cock twitches excitedly at that, still quite worked up from the scene I just watched. I think about the exact measurements for my famous scones to make my cock behave. Just for a little bit at least.
I’m sure all three of us want is to steal Serena away to a bedroom. But Serena doesn’t need endless fucking from a bunch of horny men. What she needs—especially after that work-out—is something in her belly.
“I’m going to make dinner,” I announce, gesturing to the bag on the counter, from which a few carrots and a loaf of bread stick out.
“I just got off the phone with the team,” Travis says. “They’re working around the clock. Those pictures of your roommates, Serena? We were able to buy them off. They won’t be showing up anywhere publicly.”
Serena sighs, and Graham rubs his hand over her back. I watch Travis, waiting for him to show any sign of jealousy. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just turns and takes a phone call.
And just like that, we’re over the little detail of us all sharing Serena, like it was never a question at all.
In an effort to show off the best parts of the villa, Serena helps me set up dinner outside, on the second-floor terrace. Even after a quick nap in her room, she still looks jet-lagged, a little clumsy from the exhaustion.
“Are you doing okay?” I ask, as we set out wine glasses and plates.
She glances up at me, thrusts a hand through her curls.
Earlier, some people from local boutiques arrived with trunks and trunks of clothes.
Serena took one look and said she would have to go through it all tomorrow, though there was more than a hint of excitement in her voice.
“Yeah,” her voice is soft, her hazel eyes shining with flecks of gold under the Edison string lights. “I was mostly worried about my roommates, but I feel better knowing about the security. And about that picture not going out. My friend, Sid… he’s really private.”
I nod, “Makes sense. I wouldn’t want pictures of me getting out, either.”
Once the table is set, Serena goes to fetch the other two, and I bring out the food, doing my best not to boast about how good it’s going to be.
It’s the best part of being a chef—watching the moment someone takes a bite of your food, and you can see the quality register on their face. That expression of oh, that’s good.
I imagine that’s what Serena aims for with her photography.
All art is some form of that, in one way or another.
Trying to get someone else to feel what you feel.
With cooking, I’m trying to convey the satisfaction of the knife through a mushroom, the sizzle of an onion in the pan, in each and every bite my guests take.
Travis, Graham, and Serena all come and sit down, taking in the spread.
Pasta and wild boar sauce, a farro salad, plenty of olives and antipasti, and of course, the finest wine from the property’s cellar. Part of the staff’s job is to keep the wine cellar stocked, and they’ve done an excellent job.
The string lights sparkle overhead. A warm sea breeze ferries in off the coast. Distantly, there’s the sound of waves crashing, and the indelible scent of the lemon trees scattered around the property. The air here just feels cleaner, and no doubt, it is.
“This looks great, man,” Graham says, picking up his fork and eagerly piling food onto his plate. Serena follows his lead, and once we’re all eating, things loosen up.
“Serena,” I say after everyone has taken their first bites, their first sips of wine. “Can I ask you something? About… how you grew up?”
A flicker of—what? Fear? Apprehension?—moves over her face, but she nods, reaching for her wine glass like she might need it to answer.
“I know that you were in the system,” I say, trying to be as gentle as possible. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about for a while. “But you also lived with your grandmother? That’s where you got the record player? Did you live with her before, or…?”
Serena presses her lips into a line, nods, and takes a sip of wine before clearing her throat and answering.
“Yeah—so, my parents died when I was young. My mother ran away from home when she was a teenager and was in a rough crowd for a while. She got clean when she had me, apparently. According to my health records, I didn’t… have any problems.”
“Problems?” Travis asks, before taking a bite.
“Like, babies born to addicts can sometimes be born addicted. And I wasn’t.
” Serena lets out a sigh. “For most of my childhood, I was in the system. Then I turned twelve. That’s the age when, for most kids, you’re pretty much done.
You’re not getting adopted after that. I was fifteen when my grandma found out about me.
She didn’t even know my mom was pregnant. Didn’t even know that I was?—”
Serena cuts off, her voice getting thick. Travis reaches over, puts a hand on her back, and she gives him a look I don’t quite understand—slightly upset, but not fully. Maybe she hasn’t forgiven him for dodging her all those weeks.
“Anyway,” she says forcefully, like she’s pushing herself to move past it.
“So, when my grandma found me, I went to live with her. It was… she was the best. For a while, she was so torn up about it. Apologizing to me, like it was her fault she didn’t know.
I didn’t even have to think about forgiving her. ”
“For a few years there, we did so much stuff. She gave me my grandpa’s old camera, and that’s when I got into photography. She had this huge garden with lilacs, bleeding hearts, rose bushes—she loved gardening.”
“She sounds like a cool person,” I say, heart aching for the but that must be coming.
Serena talks about her grandmother in the past tense.
For the first time, I think about how lucky I am to have so much family.
Both sets of grandparents are alive and thriving back in Omaha.
Sisters and my parents, so many cousins always asking to crash at my place when they come to the city.
What would it have been like, to be like Serena? Not just moving from place to place, but alone? As a little kid? It must have been impossibly isolating.
And it explains a lot about her. Her insistence on being useful. I can see in her, that urge to earn love. As if she would ever need to. Not with me.
Not with us.
Serena looks down at the table, eyes soft.
“She passed away one month after my high school graduation. It was the happiest day of my life, to have her there for it. I’d always thought—well, I thought I would be alone.
But she was waiting for me, crying, wrapping her arms around me when I got off the stage. ”
There’s a moment of silence as we digest that information. Then, Graham knocks his knuckles against the table, getting Serena’s attention. When she looks up at him, I can still see the remnants of their physical connection from earlier.
“Well, whatever you have from now on,” Graham says, looking at her intently, “award ceremonies, balls, anything—I’ll be there waiting for you, Serena.”
It’s a bold declaration from the guy, especially when he can’t even commit to being in the same country. But, for some reason, it doesn’t ring false.
In a way, it feels like Graham took the words right out of my own thoughts.
“Me, too,” I say, lifting my glass, winking at Serena, who hastily wipes a tear from her cheek.
“Me, too,” Travis says, and then we’re all clinking our glasses together, and Serena is laughing, and life suddenly feels so much sweeter.