16. Luther
Luther
Idon’t know the exact moment it happened.
Maybe it was the way she whispered thank you against my mouth last week.
Maybe it was the way her eyes softened when she hummed after the opera.
Maybe it was the way she trusted me, told me she’d never been with anyone.
But I’ve fallen.
Completely.
I am not panicked by it.
I am exhilarated.
On Saturday morning, I drive across the city, the car stocked with groceries, wine, and a ridiculous amount of nervous energy. Napa is only a couple of hours away, but this feels greater than distance. This feels like crossing a line I can’t uncross. Wouldn’t want to.
I’m filled with anticipation as I pull up in front of Anouk’s building.
I am aware that this is not a fling. I am aware that this is not just a weekend. I know in my heart that what we start today is important. Sacred.
The front door opens before I can knock.
Finn fills the doorway.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, firefighter-solid, wearing a T-shirt that reads Engine 9, and an expression that’s neutral but…alert?
“Luther.”
“Finn.” I hold out my hand. He looks at it for half a second before taking it.
His grip is firm, not threatening but definitely measuring.
He steps aside and lets me into their home.
“She’s almost ready,” he informs me gruffly.
I look around—and love that I can see another part of her.
The living room is cozy, and it feels intentional. A couch layered with soft throws; pillows arranged for comfort rather than style. Books line the shelves in uneven stacks—paperbacks with cracked spines, academic texts, not decorative.
There’s a desk in the corner; the surface is cleared except for a notebook and a pen.
Order without coldness. Comfort without clutter.
This is a place designed for safety by someone who once had none and never wants to lose it again.
A sound makes me turn, and I see her.
A duffel slung over her shoulder, scarf in place. When she sees me, her face lights up. She looks so beautiful that it’s a jolt, and I wish I had something to hold onto.
“H-hi,” she says softly.
“Hi,” I reply, unable to stop smiling.
Finn watches us for a long moment, then clears his throat. “So…Napa?”
Anouk slips her hand into mine. “H-he’s j-just…protective.”
“I get it.” I brush my lips against her cheek. “I would be, too.”
Finn growls softly. “You driving?”
“Yes.”
“You drinking?”
“Finn!” Anouk protests.
“Not until we’re there. And not if she doesn’t want to.”
Good answer. I can see him clock it.
He nods once. “She doesn’t always say what she needs.”
Anouk glares at Finn. “I am right here!”
“I know.” I tug her closer to me. “I’m learning to listen better.”
That earns me another long look. It’s not hostile.
“Okay,” Finn says. “Bring her back in one piece.”
Anouk rolls her eyes.
He softens when he turns to her. “Have fun, Annie.”
She smiles—real, unguarded—and leans in to hug him. When she pulls back, he presses a kiss to the top of her head.
I watch the exchange, understanding something fundamental. They are a family, and I’ve just seen a brother of the girlfriend moment.
Girlfriend?
That thought makes me happy. Fuck yeah! Anouk Starling is my girlfriend.
When we step outside, she squeezes my hand.
“Th-thank you,” she murmurs. “For…th-that.”
“For what?”
“For letting him play big brother.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
We talk as we drive, and it’s easy. Even the silences, as she looks out of the window, are comfortable. If I’ve enjoyed a woman’s company more, I don’t remember.
Anouk can talk about everything, from Bad Bunny to Agentic AI. She’s smart, and as she gets comfortable, she doesn’t stutter at all.
She falls into a light doze as we get closer to Ridgeview Retreat, a secluded craftsman-style cabin tucked into the vineyards.
I wake her gently, feeling very much like she’s a princess from a fairytale. When she opens her eyes, I kiss her lips lightly.
Isn’t that what Prince Charming does?
I carry our bags to the cabin. It’s a beatific space.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. A stone fireplace. A private deck overlooking rolling hills that turn gold in the late afternoon light. Vineyards stretch out below us in endless green patterns.
She looks around in awe. “Wow!”
“Like it?” I ask.
Her smile blooms—soft, bright, undoing me in six different ways. “It’s beautiful.”
She wanders slowly, fingers brushing the back of the armchair, the mantel, the window frame. Like she’s memorizing the space.
I bring our bags upstairs to the loft bedroom, where the ceiling slopes and a massive window frames the valley.
The bed is big. And suddenly my heart is pounding because I want her here, in my arms.
Patience, Luther. It’s her first time.
When I find her again, she’s standing on the deck looking out at the horizon.
“The light. It’s…like honey.”
I step behind her, wrap my arms around her waist, and rest my chin on her shoulder. “Napa sunsets are famous for that.”
She leans into me, and we stand there, soaking in the view and this feeling of us, which is new.
Eventually, the air cools, and hunger sneaks up on us.
“I’ll cook,” I tell her, already moving toward the kitchen. “You can supervise.”
She laughs softly. “I am an excellent supervisor.”
The kitchen is open plan and chef-grade. It has stone counters, good knives, and a stove that begs to be used.
I roll up my sleeves and get to work, chopping shallots, slicing mushrooms, and heating stock.
Cooking has always been my way of thinking things through, and tonight, even with her, is no different. She gives me space even when she’s close.
She perches on a stool at the island, chin in her hands, watching me like I’m performing a magic trick.
As the risotto comes together—slow, patient, requiring attention—we talk. About nothing. About everything. About how she learned to love museums because they are silent, and no one expects her to speak.
“Favorite artist?” I ask.
“Joan Miró.”
I hum in acknowledgement.
“You know what they say?” she asks, eyes shining.
I grin at her enthusiasm. “What do they say?”
“That happiness is being a red dot in a Miró painting.”
I kiss her nose. She’s adorable, sexy, cute, and smart. Obviously, I’m stupidly in love. “Most people say Picasso or Monet or even Dali, not too many Miró lovers out there.”
She tilts her head. “He makes joy feel…intentional. Like he never forgot how to play.”
Who talks like this? I’ve never met a woman with this much depth. Most women I’ve been with were all business and more business, and here is someone who is a kickass data analyst, and she talks about art like she gets it, imbibes it, it’s not performance, it’s not skin deep, she truly loves it.
I know her birthday is in September, just a few months away. I own a small Miró lithograph. An original. I’ll gift it to her.
We’ll still be together then, I know it. Deeper into one another than we’re now.
I tuck the idea away like a secret I’ll unwrap later.
We eat at the dining table on the porch. She lit the candles, and it’s romantic like in a movie. The food is good—earthy, rich, comforting—and she closes her eyes on the first bite.
“This is really good.”
I grin. “High praise.”
She smiles back, relaxed, open. No walls. No armor.
After dinner, we curl up on the couch near the fireplace, a blanket pulled over our legs. She leans into me, head against my shoulder, and I thread my fingers through hers, slow and deliberate, giving her every chance to pull away.
She doesn’t.
We talk about art some more. About color. About how data, music, and paintings are all just different languages trying to explain the same things.
I listen to her and think—stupidly, sincerely—that I could do this forever: Cook for her. Learn her favorite things. Watch her come alive in safe spaces.
I’m so far gone it’s not even funny.
I lean down, kiss her slowly and sweetly under the slanting evening light. She melts into me. I lift her gently, her legs instinctively wrap around me, her breath warm against my neck.
“You sure about this, my starling?” I whisper against her ear.
“Yes.” She’s breathless.
She straddles me, and I know she can feel me through her jeans, through mine.
I’m so hard.
“I want you,” I tell her.
“I want you, too.”
She sounds eager, even as her lips tremble.
She’s nervous. She’s innocent. But she wants me. I can taste it on her breath when I lean in to kiss her, soft at first, teasing, letting her get used to the heat of my mouth before I grab her by the back of her neck and indulge myself in her taste.
Her moan is sweet and desperate, and her hips buck against me.
I pull back just enough to see her face—those big, doe eyes wide with a mix of fear and want, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from my kiss.
I cup her breasts, and she throws her head back and moans. They are soft and generous. I play with their tips, feel them harden under my fingers. She writhes against me.
“You okay, my starling?” I whisper, my voice low and rough, my hands sliding down her back to cup her ass.
She nods, but her breathing is ragged, her chest rising and falling like she’s already been ravaged. She hasn’t. Not yet.
I stand up, lifting her with me, and she lets out this tiny gasp, her legs wrapping around my waist like she’s scared I’ll drop her.
I won’t. I carry her upstairs to the bedroom.
I set her down on the bed and unbutton her jeans. She lets me, watching me all the while. I take them off. She’s beautiful. So sexy in just a t-shirt and panties.
I growl, leaning down to kiss her neck, gently kissing her scar. It’s faint, but she obviously feels its presence.
I find her lips again and bite her gently.
She gasps, her hips lifting off the bed, and I can feel how wet she is already, even through her panties.
“I’m gonna take care of you, Anouk. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”
I slide my hand up her thigh, feeling her tremble under my touch.
I cup her through her panties, rubbing slow circles against her pussy. She’s soaked, her arousal dripping through the fabric, and I can hear her breathing hitch, her hips jerking against my hand.
“Oh, God,” she whimpers, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.
I chuckle darkly, pressing my thumb harder against her clit, making her cry out. “You want more?”
She nods frantically, her body straining under me.
I hook my fingers in the waistband of her panties and pull them down and throw them aside. Then I spread her legs wide, exposing her to me.
She falls back onto the bed but rises on her elbows to see what I’m doing to her. Her curiosity is erotic.
Her pussy is glistening, her folds swollen.
“I have to taste you now,” I explain to her.
She gasps. “There?”
I lick her, slow and deliberate, tasting her.
She lets out this broken moan, her thighs clamping around my head.
I push her legs apart again, holding her down.
I dive in, fucking her with my tongue, sucking on her clit until she’s screaming, her hands clawing at the bedspread.
“Luther, I—I can’t—” she stammers, her body shaking, and I know she’s close. I slide two fingers inside her, curling them just right, and she explodes, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave, her juices coating my fingers, my face.
I pull back, licking my lips, and I smirk up at her.
“First time?”
She shakes her head, mischief in her eyes. “I’ve had an orgasm before.”
I cock an eyebrow. “But never with a man.”
“I named my vibrator James, does that count?”
I frown. “James?”
Who the fuck is that? A dozen irrational, territorial thoughts snarl through my head before she says—
“James Bond. I have a thing for Daniel Craig.”
So, here she is, her legs spread, post orgasm, my lips still wet from her, and she’s yanking my chain.
How can I not fall for her some more?
“I think I can do better than James.”
“Really?” she asks coquettishly. “Can you make me say, ‘Oh, Luther’, like all those Bond girls say, ‘Oh, James’?”
“You’ll be screaming my name by the time we’re done,” I promise her as I stand and unbuckle my belt.
Her eyes drop to my cock, thick and throbbing. She watches intently as I put on a condom.
“That is the first time I’m seeing a penis in real life,” she says suddenly.
I blink, my brain rebooting at her remark, and a laugh bursts out of me. “Never seen one before?”
She tosses her shoulder. “Well, in porn but not in real life. They are bigger on film.”
I grin. She’s playful. I love it.
“You know what they say, the camera adds a few inches.”
This makes her giggle.
Best sound in the world.
I take her t-shirt and bra off and look at her, just look at the miracle of her. I cup her breasts. She moans. She’s so responsive that it’s making me heady.
I suckle her nipples as she pulls me closer, wanting more.
I blow on a wet nipple and kiss it softly. “You like that?”
“Yes.”
I bite the nipple softly. “How about that?”
She moans loudly. “God, yes.”
I can’t control myself any longer.
It’s time. We’ve been indulging in foreplay for weeks now.
I cover her and nudge her opening. “You ready, my starling?”
She nods, her eyes wide with fear and anticipation.
I slide into her slowly, her tight little pussy gripping me like a vice.
She lets out a choked sob, her nails digging into my shoulders. I stop when I’m fully inside her, letting her adjust, and then I start to move, rocking into her, making her moan with every thrust.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” I groan, my hips snapping against hers, my cock buried deep.
Her legs wrap around me, pulling me closer.
I fuck her harder, faster, until she’s screaming my name, her pussy clenching around me like she never wants to let go.
I slam into her one last time, my release crashing over me, and I spill inside her.
I collapse on top of her, both of us panting, sweat slicking our skin.
“You were screaming my name.” I nuzzle her neck.
I hear and feel her laughter. “It seemed so important to you.”
I slip out of her, roll over, and take her with me, holding her close.
I need to take the condom off, but I don’t want to let go of her, of this feeling of two people choosing one another.
She curls against me, warm and satisfied, the valley darkening beyond the glass. I wrap my arms around her and kiss the top of her head.
She fits me perfectly, like she was meant to be here with me all along.