6. Nathan Sr
NATHAN SR
OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS
I can’t get enough of Athena, not even when she follows me into a cramped bathroom of a pizzeria and crushes her mouth against mine like she’s been starving for weeks.
I’m the one who turns the lock behind us. Her laugh shivers against my lips and her hands fist in my shirt, tugging me down as though I’m the only thing tethering her to gravity. The pulse jumping in her throat is the same wild tempo as mine.
“You didn’t even order,” she whispers, breath already unsteady.
“I already know what I want.” I press her against the counter, thigh wedged between her legs, and she lets out a soft gasp that sounds like I’ve just confirmed a rumor she’s always hoped was true.
She tastes like heat and defiance and soft, reckless need.
The kiss goes dark fast. Her fingers slide under my jacket, over my chest, exploring like she finally has the freedom to memorize me.
The charity-gala formalities, the hospital hallway restraint—we burned those down three days ago. This is the wreckage.
I lift her onto the counter. The porcelain groans. She wraps her legs around my waist like she was waiting for the command, eyes glittering, mouth flushed. Her nails drag into my scalp.
“You’re insufferably pleased with yourself,” she murmurs.
“You followed me.”
“I followed you to wash my hands.”
“That’s not what your hands are doing.” I pull her sweater off, reveal bare skin glazed in goosebumps, and let the fabric drop somewhere behind us.
Her gaze flicks to the mirror. We look like sin: her perched on the counter, hair wild, lips swollen; me standing between her knees, shirt half-untucked, tie crooked, palms already mapping the warm curve of her waist.
“We look guilty,” she says.
“We are.”
“That’s unfairly hot.”
Her laugh melts into a hiss when I grip her thigh and push it wider. Denim stretches under my palm, heat radiating through the fabric. She arches, instincts betraying her before she finds words. I remove those too. The sound of her zipper being pulled down should be classified as dangerous.
“Tell me you planned this,” she whispers.
“I prayed for it.”
“Confident man.”
“I’ve had encouragement.”
Her eyes burn. Her fingers find my belt, tug it loose, and the metallic click echoes like a spark catching tinder.
We move in jerky, urgent pulls, not polished at all, just hungry.
I hook my thumb in her waistband and drag, exposing inch after inch until she’s bared for me, cheeks flushing as cool air kisses her skin.
“Nathan,” she breathes, pupils blown wide.
“I know.” I don’t tease. I push into her in one smooth stroke that wipes out whatever remained of good sense. Her back slams against the mirror, head tipping back, mouth open on a shattered sound she half-smothers against my shoulder.
She is hot and tight and fiercely alive.
I stay buried for a beat, just feeling her, feeling us, and then I start to move, long and hard, each thrust punctuated by the dull knock of porcelain against tile.
The mirror trembles behind her, the sink rattles, and the music from the dining room fades under the quick, wet rhythm of bodies colliding.
“Still worried someone might hear?” I murmur against her jaw.
Her eyes flutter shut. “Not anymore.”
“Good girl.” I catch her hands and pin them to the mirror, fingers interlaced, every muscle on edge.
She clenches down around me like she’s trying to drag me deeper, to keep me there, to fuse us.
My name spills out of her in broken double syllables, and each one tightens something metallic in my chest.
She nuzzles my neck, teeth catching skin. “Fuck, Nathan—don’t stop.”
My laugh comes out ruined. “You think I’m capable of stopping? Look at me.”
She does. That almost finishes me. Her face is flushed, hair wrecked, eyes dark, mouth swollen and wet. I can see her breasts lifting with each pant, feel the heat of her breath on my cheek, the tremor running through her thighs. It’s obscene and perfect.
“Say my name,” I order, voice scraping low.
She obeys. “Nathan.”
I slide a hand between us, find her with two fingers, and apply just enough pressure to make her jerk. Her cry ricochets off tile.
“There you are,” I say, voice white-hot. “Take it.”
She locks her ankles behind me, riding each thrust, dragging her nails over my shoulders.
Sweat beads along her hairline. I bite her shoulder, not gentle in the slightest. I want the mark there later, want to see it and remember this bathroom and the way she clenched around me like she’d never let go.
“You like this,” I growl. “Say it.”
She laughs breathlessly, eyes wild. “I like you like this.”
I lose the tenuous grip on patience. I ram into her harder, faster, sense burning away. The counter is actually shuddering. She meets every thrust with hungry little lifts of her hips, whispers that disintegrate into moans, then full, shameless cries when I catch the exact rhythm she needs.
“You’re close,” I rasp, feeling the change, the way her body starts to seize around me.
She shakes her head, lying badly. “No.”
“Liar.” I roll her clit between my fingers and she chokes on a plea, entire body going taut.
“Holy—God—that—”
“Come for me,” I order. “Right now.”
She breaks open like a snapped wire. The orgasm roars through her, heedless, unstoppable, and she buries her face in the crook of my neck to muffle the scream. Her walls clutch me, milking me relentlessly, muscles pulsing in hard waves that drag me closer than I planned.
“That’s it,” I groan, dark satisfaction coiling through me. “Give it to me.”
She’s still shaking when I pound into her, chasing my own finish with teeth clenched, forehead pressed to hers.
The heat, the wet grip of her, the hiss of breath between my teeth—it all combines, detonates.
I grind deep, burying myself to the hilt, and spill with a low, strangled sound that vibrates through both of us.
My fingers leave prints on her hips. Her nails dig crescents into my shoulders.
The whole room narrows to breath and aftershocks and the way she keeps holding on like letting go would mean falling straight through the floor.
Time spills back gradually. The faucet outside squeaks. Someone laughs, oblivious, while a guitar riff leaks through the door. Athena’s heartbeat thunders under my palm. Her skin is flushed crimson, sweat-slick and gorgeous.
She tilts her head, smiling the smug, dangerous smile that started this mess. “That was wildly unprofessional.”
“It was essential,” I say, kiss her once, slow and rough-edged. “And you’re the reason the mirror is fogged.”
Her laugh sparkles. She straightens her sweater with trembling fingers, musses her hair in an attempt to make it look less obviously ravished, then gives up and grins at her reflection. She looks satisfied, debauched, and radiant.
When we step back out, the hostess glances up and tries not to stare. Athena leans close, whispering, “They know.”
“They suspect,” I correct.
“That’s worse,” she mutters then steals a slice of my pizza, lips curving when she sees how smug I still look. “You’re a menace.”
“And you’re delicious,” I say. “Finish your bite.”
She takes a slow, insolent bite, licking sauce from her thumb without breaking eye contact. I know right then I’m done pretending this is controllable.
Athena finishes her second slice of pizza like she’s been starving all day, which might actually be true considering the last hour we’ve had.
The booth is tucked toward the back of the restaurant, the air still warm from ovens and late dinner traffic, and the two of us are sitting a little closer than necessary while she wipes grease from her fingers with a paper napkin.
Her hair is still slightly wild from the bathroom, and every time she glances up at me there’s a spark in her eyes that makes my chest tighten.
She notices me watching and raises a brow. “You look very pleased with yourself.”
“That tends to happen when good decisions are made.”
“That,” she says, leaning forward to steal a bite of my slice, “was not a good decision.”
“Your enthusiasm suggests otherwise.”
She laughs softly, then reaches for her phone when it buzzes on the table beside her plate.
The moment she sees the name on the screen, the humor fades.
Her shoulders shift slightly, and the change is subtle but impossible for me not to notice.
“Nate?” I ask.
She nods once and unlocks the phone.
From now on the name fits him better anyway.
Nathan Clarke Jr. is a name that sounds respectable. Nate sounds like exactly the kind of man who cheats on a woman like Athena.
“He wants to meet,” she says quietly.
I lean back in the booth and watch her read the message again.
“To talk,” she adds after a moment.
“And you’re considering it.”
Athena exhales slowly and sets the phone down for a second while she rubs her thumb against the edge of the table.
“We were together for a long time,” she says. “People deserve at least one conversation before everything burns down.”
She’s not wrong.
But I still don’t like it.
I nod once and reach for my beer. “You don’t need my permission.”
“I know.”
“But you’re asking anyway.”
She smiles faintly. “Old habit.”
The phone buzzes again.
Athena picks it up, and I see the moment the second message lands.
Her expression changes immediately.
The warmth drains out of her face, replaced by something colder.
“What did he say,” I ask.
She doesn’t answer right away.
Instead she turns the screen toward me.
I read the text once, then again.
You’re not going to land someone decent if you give up on me. You should make peace with the fact that men like options.
The words sit there on the screen like something rotten. For a second I don’t say anything.
Athena watches my face carefully.
“Charming,” she says under her breath.
I set the phone down on the table a little harder than necessary. Disgust sits heavy in my chest. “That’s what he thinks of you.”
She shrugs one shoulder, but it’s the kind of shrug people use when they’re trying not to show they’ve been hit somewhere sensitive. “Apparently.”
I lean forward slowly, resting my forearms on the table while I look directly at her. “You know he’s wrong.”
“Logically, yes.”
“Not logically,” I say. “Objectively.”
She studies my face. “You’re very certain about that.”
“I am.”
A quiet moment settles between us, and the noise of the restaurant fades slightly into the background.
Athena glances down at the phone again then back at me.
“You realize this situation is complicated.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“You’re his father.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re my boss.”
“Also aware.”
“And we just—”
“Yes,” I say calmly. “We did.”
Her mouth twitches despite herself. “That’s not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help.”
“You’re being extremely calm about this.”
I hold her gaze. “I’ve wanted you for years, Athena.”
The words land softly between us.
She blinks once. “You never said anything.”
“You were with my son.”
“That never stopped Nate.”
“No,” I reply quietly. “But I’m not Nate.”
That earns a small, surprised laugh.
Athena leans back in the booth and studies me like she’s seeing something new.
“So what happens now,” she asks.
I glance at the phone again, at the message still sitting there like a bad smell. Then I look back at her.
“What happens now,” I say slowly, “is that you stop letting a man like that decide your worth.”
“That’s a very noble speech.”
“It’s also true.”
She tilts her head. “And you’re offering…what exactly?”
I don’t answer immediately.
Because the truth is complicated.
Because part of me still sees the ten-year-old boy in that photograph on my desk, the one who looked up at me like I hung the moon.
Because another part of me has spent years watching Athena walk through hospital corridors and wishing I could touch her.
Being a father and being a man are colliding in ways I don’t enjoy.
But the text on that phone makes something very clear.
My son has already made his choice.
I reach across the table and gently turn the phone face down.
“Athena,” I say quietly, “you deserve better than that.”
She watches me carefully. “And you’re volunteering.”
“I am.”
Her brow lifts slightly. “That’s incredibly bold.”
“Life is short.”
“You’re quoting philosophy now.”
“I’m stating facts.”
She studies me another second, then a slow smile spreads across her face. “You realize this will cause a scandal.”
“I’m aware.”
“You could lose your position.”
“That’s unlikely.”
“You’re very confident.”
“I’m very sure of one thing.”
“And what’s that.”
I lean forward slightly. “That walking away from you again would be a mistake.”
Athena sits very still for a moment.
Then she reaches for another slice of pizza, takes a thoughtful bite, and smiles like a woman who just made a decision that might ruin both our lives.
“Well,” she says lightly, “in that case we’re in the right place at the right time.”
I’d tell her that there is no right time and place, there’s only what we can do with what’s given to us, but that would ruin the mood. I reach out to hold her hand.
When we finally leave the restaurant, the night is cool and she pauses on the sidewalk long enough to study my face with a thoughtful expression. “You’re not what I expected, Nathan Clark.”
Before I can answer, she leans forward and kisses me once more, quick and warm, and then she pulls away and walks toward her car with a small wave.
I watch her go longer than necessary. I already know this’ll be a problem, but I don’t expect what happens next.
As I get into my own car, my cell phone rings. The number isn’t saved in my contacts, but I answer anyway—it could be someone in need.
“Hello, darling.”
My expression darkens immediately. This voice belongs to Nate’s mom. “What do you want?”
She laughs breezily. “Oh, relax. Can’t a girl talk? You’ve been up to some very naughty shit, you know?”