Chapter 29 Sable
SABLE
The apartment finally goes quiet in that fragile, hard-won way that only happens after a child has been convinced—through negotiation, bribery, and mild intimidation—that sleep is non-optional.
Roxy’s door slides shut with a soft thrum and I stand there for a second longer than necessary, listening.
No crashing.
No chanting.
No ominous humming that suggests experimental science.
Just breathing.
I exhale.
Voltar turns to me in the hall, fresh haircut catching the low light, expression soft in a way that still knocks the wind out of me even after all these years.
“She’s out,” he murmurs.
“For now,” I say. “Never say things like that too confidently. She can sense hubris.”
He smiles. A real one. Relaxed. Not the grin he used to wear like armor.
We walk back toward the kitchen together, stepping over glitter residue and the lingering aftermath of domestic chaos. The counter’s a mess. The floor’s worse. The cat peers at us from behind the couch like it’s deciding whether forgiveness is worth the risk.
I lean back against the counter and cross my arms, suddenly very aware of him. Of us. Of the way the night has settled into something slow and heavy and expectant.
He reaches for me without rushing, palms warm against my sides.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod. “I am now.”
His thumb traces a familiar line along my hip. Not possessive. Not urgent. Just… there. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence we’ve been writing for years.
“We could clean,” I offer.
He raises a brow. “We could.”
“We won’t.”
“No,” he agrees.
We don’t even say it out loud after that. There’s no need. He leans in and kisses me—unhurried, sure, the kind of kiss that comes from knowing exactly who you’re touching and why.
It’s different than it used to be.
Not lesser.
Deeper.
The bedroom feels warmer when we step inside, the city glow filtering through the window in muted colors. This room has seen us at our worst—fear, anger, grief, exhaustion—and somehow it’s also where we learned how to stay.
I kick off my shoes. He sheds his shirt. We move around each other like we’ve memorized the choreography but still enjoy the surprise of it.
“Your hair looks good,” I tell him.
He huffs. “You say that every time.”
“Because every time it’s true.”
I reach up and run my fingers through it, slow, deliberate. He closes his eyes for a second like the sensation still catches him off guard.
“Gods,” he murmurs. “You always do that like it’s dangerous.”
“It is,” I say lightly. “You married a stylist. Live with the consequences.”
His hands slide to my waist again, firmer now, pulling me closer until I can feel the steady strength of him—solid, present, here. No armor. No orders waiting.
Just us.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I answer without hesitation. There’s heat there, yes—but also reverence. Care. The kind of wanting that isn’t about proving anything anymore.
We take our time.
Clothes end up abandoned in a trail that makes no practical sense. We laugh quietly when one of us fumbles. He murmurs my name like it still means something sacred. I answer him with touches that say I see you, I choose you, I’m still here.
When we finally come together on the bed, it’s not frantic. It’s slow and certain and intensely alive. Every movement feels intentional. Every breath shared feels like a promise renewed rather than made for the first time.
I cling to him—not out of fear, not out of desperation—but because I want to. Because he’s mine and I’m his and the world hasn’t taken that from us despite its best efforts.
He braces himself above me, careful even now, eyes searching my face like he still checks for consent in every moment.
“You good?” he asks softly.
“More than,” I whisper.
That’s all he needs.
His cock presses against my entrance—hot, thick, ridged—and I gasp as he starts to push in. The stretch is familiar now, but it still makes me tremble. No matter how many times we do this, I still feel every goddamn inch of him.
“You’re perfect,” he groans, eyes glowing as he sinks deeper. “You always fit me like you were made for me.”
I arch into him, one hand gripping his arm where his scales ripple with tension. His ridged cock fills me so completely I lose sense of where he ends and I begin.
My pussy clenches around him, greedy and slick, and he shudders above me.
“Fuck—Sable—”
I lock my legs around his waist and pull him closer, gasping as he starts to move. Each thrust is slow, deep, reverent. He’s not slamming into me—he’s making love to me. Worshipping me with every inch of his body.
“I love you,” he murmurs against my throat.
“Show me,” I breathe.
He does.
His mouth finds my breasts, my collarbone, the inside of my wrist. He kisses like a man starved. Like I’m his whole universe. My hips roll to meet his every thrust and together we build a rhythm that’s more intimate than anything else we’ve ever shared.
My climax starts low, a heat curling in my belly that builds with every brush of his cock against the place that makes me see stars.
“Voltar,” I gasp, barely able to breathe. “Don’t stop—”
“I’m right here,” he growls. “Always.”
I shatter around him, trembling, crying out his name as pleasure rips through me in waves.
He follows me over the edge seconds later, thrusting deep with a broken roar as he comes inside me, pulsing thick and hot, his entire body shuddering with release.
We collapse together, breathless, skin slick with sweat and starlight.
“I’m still here,” I whisper, burying my face in his chest.
“And I’ll never let you go,” he promises, arms wrapping around me tight.
We fall asleep like that, limbs entwined, hearts pounding in tandem. Outside, the city hums.
But in here—
It’s just us.
And that’s everything.