28. Cassian
CASSIAN
June's head lolls against my shoulder in the elevator, her small body gone heavy with sleep. The opening ran two hours past her bedtime, adrenaline keeping her upright until we reached the car. Now she's limp, one hand still clutching the exhibition program Katheryn gave her.
"She was a champion," Amara says beside me, voice soft. "Lasted way longer than I expected."
"She wanted to see everything three times. Had opinions about which pieces should win awards."
"Did she explain her judging criteria?"
"Squids featured prominently in the methodology."
Amara's laugh echoes in the elevator. The sound wraps around my ribs, settles itself deep in my heart.
The doors open. Our floor, not just mine anymore. Amara moved in two weeks ago with fourteen boxes and June's entire rock collection. The boxes remain unpacked in the guest room. Neither of us mentions it.
I carry June to her bedroom, the one she decorated with constellation stickers and drawings of improbable animals. Amara follows, helps me navigate shoes and dress without waking her. June mumbles something about horses eating birthday cake, then goes silent.
We stand there in the doorway, watching her sleep.
"She's going to remember tonight forever," Amara says quietly.
"I kept waiting for her to get bored. She just kept asking more questions."
"She's five. Questions are her primary language." Amara leans into my side. "Your father was good with her."
"I know. Shocked me too."
"He invited us upstate next weekend. Said the horses miss having visitors."
I press a kiss to her temple. "You want to go?"
"June will implode if we don't. She's already planning her outfit."
We retreat to the living room. The city spreads below us through the windows, lights scattered like someone spilled diamonds across black velvet. Amara moves toward the kitchen, starts pulling down wine glasses.
"We're celebrating," she says when I raise an eyebrow.
"Your night. You should pick the wine."
"Then you're definitely picking. My knowledge caps out at red versus white."
I select a bottle from the collection my father gave me: Bordeaux, 1998. Amara watches me open it with an expression caught between amusement and disbelief.
"That's a car payment."
"It's Tuesday."
She shakes her head. "Rich people are insane."
"You're rich people now too. The sales from tonight alone?—"
"Don't remind me. I'm still processing that someone paid forty thousand dollars for eighteen months of me having a breakdown on canvas."
I pour two glasses, hand her one. She takes it, studies the dark liquid like it might reveal secrets.
"To Sapphire Studios," I say, raising my glass. "And to the woman who transformed a gallery space into something people will remember for years."
"To not vomiting on expensive shoes."
"Also important."
We drink. The wine tastes like summer and oak and money. Amara makes a face.
"This is wasted on me. I can't tell the difference between this and the twelve-dollar bottle from Trader Joe's."
"Blasphemy."
"I'm serious. Wine is wine."
"You're killing me."
She laughs, sets her glass down, moves closer until she's standing between my legs where I've perched against the kitchen island. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers finding the knot of my tie.
"Thank you for coming tonight."
"I wouldn't have missed it."
"I know. But still." She loosens the tie, pulls it free. "Having you there, having June there, watching Lucian actually smile at my daughter instead of looking like he wanted to escape… it meant something."
"He loves her already. Told me yesterday she's the only Griffin with any sense."
"High praise coming from him."
"Extremely." I catch her wrists, bring them to my mouth, kiss the pulse point on each one. "I'm proud of you. The work you showed tonight, the way you handled collectors and critics, the fact that you didn't actually vomit despite threatening to, all of it. You're extraordinary, Amara Campbell."
Her eyes go bright. "Stop making me cry. I just fixed my makeup."
"Then stop being so beautiful I can't help saying these things."
She kisses me to shut me up. Slow at first, almost tentative, like we haven't done this a hundred times. Then deeper, her body pressing against mine, hands sliding into my hair. I taste wine and want and six years of almost-losing-her condensed into this moment.
"Bedroom," she breathes against my mouth.
"Yes." Articulate as always around her.
We make it halfway down the hall before I press her against the wall, unable to wait, kissing her like she might disappear if I stop. She gasps, nails scraping my scalp, legs wrapping around my waist despite the dress making it difficult.
"Cassian—"
"I know. Bed. Going there now."
I carry her the rest of the way. Our bedroom door closes behind us. Amara slides down my body until her feet hit the floor, immediately reaching for my shirt buttons. I help, shrugging out of jacket and shirt while she watches with dark eyes.
"You're staring," I say.
"You're worth staring at."
My hands find the zipper of her dress. "This okay?"
"More than okay."
The dress pools at her feet. She steps out of it, stands there in black lace that makes my brain short-circuit.
I pull her back to me, skin against skin, heat bleeding between us. She tugs at my belt, gets it open, shoves pants and boxer briefs down in one impatient movement. We stumble toward the bed, all hands and mouths and the desperation that comes from wanting someone so much it physically hurts.
We collapse onto sheets I had changed this morning for exactly this possibility. Amara above me, hair falling around her face, hands braced on my chest.
"Hi," she says, slightly breathless.
"Hi yourself."
She leans down, kisses me slow and thorough, tongue tracing my bottom lip before pulling back. "I love you."
"I love you too."
"Good. Now stop talking and touch me."
I roll us over, pin her beneath me, kiss down her throat while she arches into it. My mouth finds her collarbone, the swell of her breast, her ribs. She gasps when I take a nipple between my teeth, back bowing off the bed.
"Cassian—"
"I'm touching you. Isn't that what you wanted?"
"You're being a tease."
"And you're impatient."
I continue south, kissing every inch of skin I can reach. Her stomach, the jut of her hip bone, the sensitive spot inside her thigh that makes her breath hitch. By the time I reach the black lace still covering her, she's trembling.
"Off," she manages. "Get it off."
I hook my fingers under the elastic, drag it down slowly. She lifts her hips to help, then kicks the fabric away with more force than necessary.
"Better?"
"Getting there."
I settle between her thighs, press a kiss to the inside of her knee. Then the other knee. Her hands fist in the sheets already, anticipation written in every tense line of her body.
"Stop teasing and—oh fuck."
My tongue finds her center, traces a slow line upward. Her hips jerk when I circle her clit, and I have to press down on her hipbones to keep her still. I find the rhythm that makes her thighs shake against my shoulders, alternating pressure and speed until I can feel the tremors building.
"Yes, right there, don't stop…"
I don't plan to. My hands grip her hips harder, hold her steady while I work her with tongue and lips.
I'm learning what makes her gasp versus what makes her moan, what makes her breath catch versus what makes her curse.
Filing away every reaction for future reference, building a map of her pleasure that I plan to study religiously.
Her taste floods my mouth. Salt and musk, a taste I'm already addicted to. I could stay here for hours, face buried between her legs, listening to the sounds she makes.
"Cassian, I'm… oh God, I'm close?—"
I double down, add two fingers inside her, curl them upward until I find that spot that makes her whole body go rigid.
She clenches around my fingers, thighs tightening against my ears, and then she breaks apart beautifully.
Back arching off the bed, my name falling from her lips like a prayer.
I work her through it until the waves start to subside, until she's pushing at my head with shaking hands, too sensitive to continue.
When I look up, she's staring at me with blown pupils. Her chest heaves with each breath.
"That was?—"
"Good?"
"Understatement of the century."
I kiss back up her body, settle between her legs. My cock presses against her entrance, hard enough to hurt. She reaches between us, wraps her hand around me, strokes once.
She guides me to her entrance. I push in slow, watching her face for any discomfort. But she just tilts her hips, takes me deeper, nails digging into my shoulders.
I pull out almost completely, then thrust back in harder. She gasps, legs wrapping around my waist, heels digging into my ass.
"Like that. Just like that, don't stop?—"
I set a rhythm that's probably too rough, too desperate, but she meets every thrust with her hips, takes everything I give her and demands more.
Sweat builds between us. The headboard hits the wall with each movement.
I should care about noise but can't bring myself to when she's clenching around me like this, making those sounds that drive me insane.
"Touch yourself," I manage. "Want to feel you come around me."
Her hand slides between us, finds her clit, circles it in tight movements. I watch her face, the way her eyes roll back, mouth falling open.
"Close. So close, Cassian, harder?—"
I shift the angle, drive deeper. The change does it.
She comes apart beneath me with a cry that's definitely loud enough to carry down the hall where June is sleeping, but I can't think about that right now.
Her body locks tight around me, inner walls clenching in rhythmic pulses that drag my own orgasm up from somewhere low in my spine.
I bury myself as deep as I can go, holding there while everything releases in waves, spilling inside her as her body keeps milking me, drawing out every last shudder.
We collapse in a heap of tangled limbs and ragged breathing. My weight pins her to the mattress but she doesn't push me off, just wraps her arms tighter around my back and keeps me there.
"That was…" She stops, clearly searching for adequate description.
"Yeah."
"Very articulate, Griffin."
"You annihilated my entire vocabulary. Can't be held responsible for forming coherent sentences."
She laughs, the sound vibrating through both our chests where they're pressed together.
I manage to roll sideways, immediately pulling her with me so she stays close.
She tucks herself against my chest, fits there like she was designed for this exact spot.
One of her legs hooks over mine, heel resting against my calf.
Her hair tickles my chin. I brush it back absently, press a kiss to her forehead.
"Give me ten minutes," she murmurs. "Maybe fifteen. Then I need to shower before I fall asleep."
"Stay here. I'll clean you up."
"Cassian—"
"Stay." I reach for the tissues on the nightstand, do my best to be gentle. She winces slightly but doesn't pull away.
When I'm done, I resettle beside her, pull the sheet up over both of us. She immediately curls back into my side.
"I meant what I said earlier," I murmur into her hair. "I'm proud of you. Tonight was extraordinary."
"You already told me that."
"I'm telling you again. Your work, your talent, the way you've built this career while raising June alone, it's remarkable. You're remarkable."
Her fingers trace patterns on my chest. "I couldn't have done it without you. The collaboration, the support, just knowing you were there tonight watching, it made everything better."
"I'll always be here. Watching, supporting, annoying you with excessive pride."
"Promise?"
"Absolutely."