The sound of our bodies slapping together fills the room, mingled with moans and curses and desperate pleas. She’s close again. I feel it.
Her fingers dig into my chest.
“Don’t stop,” she begs. “I’m gonna?—”
“Come on my cock,” I command. “Let me feel you lose it.”
She does.
She screams my name, shattering, pussy clenching tight as she trembles above me. I thrust up into her, chasing my own release.
I flip her onto her back mid-orgasm, legs over my shoulders now. I fuck her hard, fast, savage. Her eyes roll back, hands clawing at the sheets.
And then I explode inside her, roaring her name, cock throbbing as I spill deep.
We collapse together, slick and panting and overwhelmed.
No words. Just us.
And the storm of everything we tried to bury.
But the moment shatters with a wail.
High-pitched. Sharp. Definitely not adult.
Nova’s breath catches. She jolts upright, dragging the blanket up with her as if it’ll shield her from what just breached our bubble.
The crying sharpens, muffled through a door but unmistakable.
I sit up slower.
“That’s Dar,” she says, voice tight.
Right.
The kid.
I knew he was here—hell, I knew last night—but now he’spresent. Real. Cracking through the fantasy we built between these sheets.
Nova swings her legs over the side of the bed, looking for clothes, flustered.
“I can help,” I offer, already grabbing my pants.
She freezes.
Looks at me like I just offered to defuse a bomb with a butterknife.
“I mean,” I add, trying to sound casual, “just... point me to whatever stops the crying.”
Her face is unreadable for a beat too long.
She says, “Just... hand me the bottle.”
I nod. Don’t ask which bottle. Just head toward the kitchen, heart thudding louder than it should.
The bottle’s already sitting on the counter—sterile, prepped, measured. The kind of precision that only comes from routine. From care. From being the only one doing the work.
I bring it back to her without a word.
