Chapter Eleven #2
He undressed me, slow, kissing along my collarbone, my jaw, my mouth. I wanted to reciprocate, but every time I tried he steered it back, until I just let him.
He pressed me down onto the mattress, hands sliding up my sides, then braced himself over me, arms on either side of my head. I stared up, and he looked down, and for a second all the data points in my brain went offline.
He said, “You’re beautiful.”
I rolled my eyes, but only a little. “You’re a liar.”
He grinned. “Am I?”
“You’ve seen me naked,” I said. “You know the truth.”
He lowered his head, kissed my throat, then my shoulder, then said, “I have a weakness for men who don’t know how attractive they are.”
“I have a weakness for men who make good coffee,” I said.
He laughed, then shifted lower, mouth to my chest, licking and biting until I squirmed. He worked down my torso, hands everywhere, and when he took my cock in his mouth, I gasped.
He was good at it. Not just technically, but in the way he paid attention to every reaction: the twitch of my hips, the catch in my breath, the way I fisted the sheets when he sucked harder. He milked it, slow at first, then fast, then back to slow again, never letting me predict the pattern.
I came harder than I had in weeks, maybe months, the world going white for a second. He swallowed, then licked the head clean, then kissed back up my body, mouth gentle now, hands anchoring me to the bed.
He held me until I caught my breath, then climbed in beside me, arm across my chest, legs tangled up. He didn’t pull away, not even when his own cock pressed hard against my thigh.
I reached for it, wrapped my hand around, and stroked, slow and deliberate, the way I would if I wanted to memorize it. He groaned, low and deep, and buried his face in my hair. He came with a shudder, hot against my stomach.
I didn’t care. I liked the mess.
We lay there, not moving, for a long time. He kept his arm around me, fingers tracing circles on my chest. The city was quiet. The only sound was our breathing, slowing together.
I thought, for the briefest second, that if the world ended right now, I wouldn’t mind.
He kissed my temple and said, “You’re really something, Jude Thomas.”
I said, “So are you.”
We slept, wrapped up, the papers on the couch forgotten. In the morning, the evidence would still be there. But for once, I didn’t care about the outcome. Only the process. Only the man sleeping beside me, warm and real, and not going anywhere.
* * * *
The morning after, the penthouse was so quiet it felt like a held breath. Kenneth was already dressed, reading emails in the study with the kind of posture that said he had been up for hours. I made coffee in the kitchen, measuring out beans by weight, which was both habit and ritual at this point.
I was still in my t-shirt from the night before, plus a pair of sweatpants I was 90% sure belonged to Kenneth, but which fit me well enough. The kitchen tile was cold. I liked the shock of it under my toes.
My phone buzzed on the counter. It was early, not quite seven. Most of my messages waited until nine, or at least until someone else had opened the office. This one was from an unknown number, but the rhythm of the sentences was enough to confirm the source.
I opened it. I read it. There were only four lines. It was Carolyn. The words were clipped, weaponized, and so perfectly her that I could hear her saying them.
I stood there, thumb hovering, not typing a reply, not even pretending I would. I read it once, then again, then a third time, the way you might read an obituary for someone you’d only met at a party.
The first line: “You have made a mistake.”
The second: “You will regret it.”
The third: “He will leave you.”
The fourth, and most vicious: “Call mom.”
I set the phone down. I stared at it, waiting for the urge to do something—anything—other than just let it sit there. The urge didn’t come. Or maybe it did, but I had finally run out of energy to answer Carolyn in her own currency.
I poured a mug. I watched the coffee spiral and settle. I was aware, with a clarity that usually only came after too much cold medicine, that this was not the end of the war. It was just the next round.
Kenneth came in, scanned my face, said nothing. He picked up his own mug and sipped. The silence was not uncomfortable. He didn’t ask what was wrong, or if I was okay, or if he could fix it.
Instead, after a while, he stepped close, set his hand at the back of my neck, and held it there, thumb kneading slow circles at the base of my skull. The tension, which I had convinced myself was armor, melted before I decided to let it go. I didn’t say thank you. I didn’t need to.
He let go, kissed the corner of my mouth (soft, gone before it landed), and left for the study again.
I faced the phone, still on the counter, the last line of Carolyn’s message visible above the lock screen. I closed the message. I left the phone where it was. I poured a second cup and started annotating the invoices again.
* * * *
At the Seriphap office, the morning was all glass and cold. I had a corner desk with a view that should have made me feel important but mostly just made me want to work from home. The staff filtered in around nine.
My job, on paper, was to make sure none of the old money or the new money did anything catastrophic, but on this particular morning the only thing I cared about was not losing to Carolyn.
I’d been at the computer for an hour, rerunning the numbers on the Mercer shell, when I noticed it. A paper bag on the edge of the desk, with a takeout label folded under the staple. I checked it for evidence of a prank, and then slid it over.
Pad see ew, spring rolls, a container of that mango sticky rice I only ordered on months when my mom’s treatment schedule was going well. It was my order, down to the extra packet of chili oil I always pretended was for someone else.
No note. No name. Nothing but the food and the fact of its existence.
I stared at it for maybe two minutes. Then I picked up my phone and texted Kenneth. “You did not have to do that.”
He replied almost instantly: “I know.”