Chapter 22 #3
I oblige, as I lower myself, sucking one into my mouth, then the other, swirling my tongue around her tight buds.
I reach between her legs again, rub my fingers through her drenched heat, then slide two fingers inside her—slow, deep, curling until I feel her walls clutch around me.
Then, I bring those fingers to my mouth.
She watches, transfixed, as I lick them clean.
Her lips part like she wants to speak, but nothing comes out. She’s too far gone already.
I crawl on the bed, gripping her thighs and spreading her wide beneath me. She’s soaked, her slickness glistening under the low lamp light. I guide the head of my cock to her entrance.
She gasps the moment I slide in. The stretch is obscene. Her pussy swallows me inch by inch, tight and hot and so fucking wet it almost breaks me then and there. I grit my teeth, holding still once I’m buried deep inside her. Her legs wrap around my waist.
“Fuck,” I groan, wrapping my hand around her throat as I start to move—slow at first, then deeper, harder. Each thrust rocks her up the bed. Her eyes roll back, and her nails claw into my arms. I drive into her with intent, watching her melt beneath me.
She wraps her limbs around me, anchoring me to her and I continue pushing into her, thick and hard, swallowed by the tightest, wettest heat I’ve ever felt.
My jaw tightens as I thrust into her mercilessly.
Every inch of me is coated, clutched. Her body pulls me deeper, her heat dragging every groan from my throat.
I squeeze her thighs, lifting her legs over my shoulders and angling my hips until I feel her pulse beneath me, right against her g-spot.
Her moans break into the air, loud and forceful. I lose myself in the sound of her juices, the slap of our skin, the way her legs begin to tremble again. Then she convulses—tightening around me like a vise—her pussy creaming my cock, coating me. It sends me straight to the edge.
I growl, low and guttural, and with a few final thrusts, I cum deep inside her pussy, my length pulsing as I fill her with my warm seed. Her walls squeeze every drop out of me, until I'm breathless and drained.
I collapse next to her, our bodies tangled and damp, chests heaving in the quiet. She settles against me, skin warm, pulse steadying beneath my hand, as she drifts off. I pull her closer and fall asleep memorizing the feel of her.
I’ve been alone by choice for six years.
I have filled my life with work, precision, service, kitchens that obey, rooms I can leave whenever I choose.
I told myself solitude was discipline. Maybe it was.
Maybe it saved me for a time. Laying here with Serena next to me, I know only that I don’t choose it anymore–not if she’s the alternative.
***
The morning begins before I am ready for it.
I leave early because the market delivery does not care who spent the night in my bed. I return just after 8:00 AM with coffee, bread, fruit, and a private satisfaction I don’t examine until I open the door and hear typing from the kitchen.
Serena is at my island in my shirt. My shirt.
Her legs are tucked beneath her on the stool, her hair is loose over one shoulder, and her laptop is open in front of her.
A cup of coffee sits near her right hand, cooling because she has forgotten it exists.
She is frowning at the screen with the complete absorption of a woman who has entered a sentence and does not intend to leave until it behaves.
She brought the laptop.
That means she planned to stay.
Not accidentally. Not because the night became late. Not because leaving became inconvenient. She brought work into my home.
I stand in the doorway longer than necessary.
She looks up. “You’re staring.”
“I am.”
“That usually requires a reason.”
“I have one.”
Her mouth curves. “Is it arrogant?”
“Probably.”
She returns to the laptop.
“Then keep it to yourself until I finish this paragraph.”
I place the market bag on the counter and start breakfast. Eggs, bread, butter, fruit, coffee refreshed before she notices the old cup has gone cold.
I work quietly, and she types between glances at the pan.
The ease of it unnerves me more than the night did.
Desire I understand. Hunger I understand.
This is different. This is her in the morning light of my kitchen, working while I cook, as if the apartment has accepted a new rhythm before either of us has agreed to it.
I set a plate beside her laptop. She looks down, then up at me.
“You made breakfast.”
“I did.”
“I was working.”
“I saw.”
“You replaced my coffee.”
“It was cold.”
She takes a sip from the fresh cup and gives me one look over the rim.
“You’re very pleased with yourself.”
“Yes.”
She smirks. “Well at least you’re honest.”
“I am many things.”
“Don’t start listing them. I need to eat.”
She takes a bite, and I wait despite myself. Her eyes close for a fraction of a second.
She opens her eyes. “Four and a half.”
I stare at her. “For breakfast?”
“For the eggs.”
“Impossible.”
“Ambitious, but not impossible.”
I lean one hand on the counter.
“You’ve become very comfortable insulting me in my own kitchen.”
She looks around the room, then back at me.
“I’m not sure this kitchen objects.”
No, I think. It does not.
She returns to her food, then to her laptop, moving between appetite and work with the same absorbed focus she brings to everything. I start the morning prep on the opposite side of the island because I have deliveries to sort and a restaurant to run, but I find myself looking up too often.
She is at my kitchen island at 8:00 AM with her laptop open and her coffee going cold because she got absorbed in a paragraph and forgot to drink it.
I built this kitchen to my exact specifications.
I built it for the work I wanted to do in it.
I pick up my knife and begin slicing herbs for the day.
I did not know, when I built it, that the best thing in it would be someone sitting at the island telling me the truth about what I put in front of her. I know it now.