9. AMAI #3
It wasn’t a request.
She pulled me away from the painting, away from the soft gallery lighting and the murmur of polite conversation. We moved quickly through the crowd, her fingers tight around mine, her heels clicking against the polished floor.
She led me down a narrow hallway past the restrooms, past a door marked Staff Only, into a corner where the lights didn’t quite reach. The sounds of the gallery faded to a distant hum.
The moment we were alone, she pushed me against the wall.
Her mouth found mine—hard, demanding, no hesitation.
I kissed her back.
Tasted wine and lipstick and something wild I hadn’t expected from a woman who taught literature at Loyola and went to church with my mother.
Her hands were already working on my belt.
“Alexis—”
“Shut up,” she breathed against my mouth.
She kissed me again, deeper this time, her tongue sliding against mine while her fingers fumbled with the buckle. She got it open and unzipped my pants. Her hand slipped inside and wrapped around me—firm, confident, no shyness.
I groaned into her mouth.
She pulled back just enough to look at me, her eyes half-lidded, her lips swollen.
“You’ve been looking at me all night like you want to devour me,” she whispered. “So do it.”
Something in me snapped.
I grabbed her hips and spun her around, pressing her front against the wall. She gasped—surprised, aroused—and arched her back, pushing her ass against me.
I hiked her white dress up over her hips. No resistance. She helped me, lifting the fabric, exposing smooth brown skin and white lace panties that were already damp.
I hooked my fingers in the waistband and pulled them down to her thighs.
“Amai—” Her voice was breathless, needy.
I didn’t wait.
I freed myself from my pants, positioned myself behind her, and pushed inside in one hard thrust.
She cried out—loud enough that I covered her mouth with my hand.
“Quiet,” I growled against her ear.
She nodded, her breath hot and fast against my palm.
I pulled back and thrust again. Harder this time. Her body took me perfectly—tight, wet, gripping me like she’d been made for this.
She moaned into my hand.
I fucked her against that wall like I was trying to erase something. Like I was trying to prove something. Like I was trying to burn out the image of Truth’s face when she’d signed that contract and looked at me like I would save her from all the bullshit she was drowning in.
Alexis pushed back against me, meeting every thrust, her nails scraping against the wall, her body trembling.
I moved my hand from her mouth to her throat—not squeezing, just holding, just reminding her who was in control.
“Yes,” she gasped. “God, yes?—”
I tightened my grip slightly.
She whimpered.
Her pussy clenched around me, and I knew she was close.
I reached around with my free hand, found her clit, and rubbed in tight circles while I kept driving into her.
“Amai—I’m?—”
“Come,” I ordered.
She shattered.
Her whole body went rigid, her mouth falling open in a silent scream, her walls pulsing around me so hard I almost lost it right there.
But I held on.
Kept fucking her through it, kept my hand on her throat, kept my rhythm steady and brutal until she was shaking and gasping and begging me to stop, to keep going, to never stop.
Only then did I let myself go.
I buried myself deep and came hard, my vision whiting out, my grip on her throat loosening as the orgasm ripped through me.
For a moment, we just stood there.
Her forehead pressed against the wall. My forehead pressed against the back of her neck. Both of us breathing like we’d run a marathon.
Slowly, I pulled out.
She made a small sound—half protest, half relief.
I stepped back, tucked myself away, zipped my pants, and buckled my belt with hands that weren’t quite steady.
Alexis turned around, her dress still bunched around her waist, her panties around her thighs, her hair mussed, her lipstick smeared.
She looked wrecked.
Beautiful and wrecked.
She pulled her panties up, smoothed her dress down, and ran her fingers through her hair.
Then she looked at me.
And smiled.
Not the polite, professional smile from dinner.
A real smile. Satisfied. Knowing.
“Well,” she said, her voice still breathless. “That was unexpected.”
I didn’t know what to say.
She stepped closer, straightened my collar, brushed an invisible piece of lint from my shoulder.
“You needed that,” she said softly. “Didn’t you?”
I met her eyes.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I did.”
She nodded. “Good.”
She kissed me again—softer this time, almost tender.
When she pulled back, her expression had shifted. Still warm, but more guarded.
“We should get back,” she said. “Before someone notices we’re gone.”
“Alexis—”
“It’s okay.” She touched my face. “You don’t have to explain. I know what this was.”
Did she?
Because I wasn’t sure I did.
She took my hand and led me back down the hallway, back into the light and the noise and the world where we were just two people on a date at an art gallery.
But I could still feel her on my skin.
Could still taste her on my tongue.
Could still hear the way she’d gasped my name when she came.
And I knew—with absolute certainty—that I’d just made everything infinitely more complicated.
Because Alexis wasn’t supposed to be like this.
She was supposed to be safe. Respectable. Easy.
But the woman who’d just fucked me in a dark corner of an art gallery wasn’t any of those things.
She was dangerous.
Just in a different way than Truth.
And now I had two women in my life who could destroy me.
One would carry my child.
One who’d just reminded me I was still a man with needs that had nothing to do with contracts or legacies or carefully constructed boundaries.
We walked back into the main gallery.
Someone handed Alexis a glass of champagne.
She took it, smiled, and made polite conversation with a woman in a red dress.
Like nothing had happened.
Like we hadn’t just fucked like animals thirty feet away.
I stood beside her, my hand on the small of her back, playing the role of the attentive date.
But my mind was already somewhere else.
Already calculating.
Already trying to figure out how to keep all the pieces from colliding.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out.
A text from Truth: Dr. Chen said everything looks good. Thank you again for sending her.
Simple. Grateful. Professional.
I stared at those words.
Felt Alexis’s warmth beside me.
Felt the ghost of what we’d just done still humming through my body.
And I knew—with brutal clarity—that I was fucked.
Not because I’d made a mistake.
But because I hadn’t.
Both of these women were exactly what I needed.
And I couldn’t have them both.