That tears the last shred of restraint. I release my chokehold grip, fist his cock viciously, piston into him so fast everything blurs. He shouts my name like a fucking prayer, spills hot across the gleaming counter, thick ropes painting white over marble.
The moment he clamps tight, milking me, I snap. Heat surges, and my vision whites out. I slam home, hold, and empty with a roar that rattles pendant lights. It feels endless—eight years’ worth of claim pouring into him.
When it finally ebbs, I sag forward, sweat dripping off my chin onto his spine. We stay fused, both shaking, heat rising off our skins into the cool suite air.
His breathing stutters, then settles into broken chuckles. “You fuck like a man making up for lost time.”
I nuzzle sweaty hair at the crown of his head, pull out slowly, hissing at the sensitivity, and watch my spend drip down the inside of his thigh. “Iammaking up for lost time.”
He pushes off the counter, legs wobbling, turns, and slumps back against the edge. His chest rises and falls—he looks destroyed in the best way. Bruises spread, bite marks leak pink, his cock softening, but still weeping.
He cups the back of my neck, pulls me into a kiss that tastes like coffee gone stale and sweet like victory all the same.
His smile is loose, satisfied, eyes blown and fond. “Coffee’s cold now.”
“Worth it,” I say, and kiss him slowly this time, tasting happiness on his tongue. “Sit. I’ll make another pot.”
He laughs, shaky but bright, and perches on a stool, still naked, dripping my cum, and completely unashamed. “Domestic again. Dangerous trend.”
I pour water, grind beans, and refuse to look at him because my knees still feel loose, and my chest too open. Behind me, he hums, fingers tapping the counter.
“Nikolaj?”
I glance over my shoulder.
He raises a brow. “You’re making enough coffee for two, right?”
I roll my eyes, shove a fresh mug across the counter, and lean in until our foreheads touch. “I’ll always make enough for two,” I say, and mean it in ways coffee will never cover.
twenty-two
Nikolaj
Theshowershould’vecalmedme down.
That’s what showers are supposed to do, aren’t they? Wash the sweat off, steam the ache out of your bones, put enough distance between skin and feeling that a man can start pretending he’s made of something sturdier than want.
It just gave me another place to memorize him. The way Vincenzo’s head tipped back under the hot water when he’s trying not to look too pleased with himself. The way his dark hair slicked off his forehead and left his face open, younger and sharper all at once.
The marks I put on him, dark against tanned skin, all over his throat and collarbones and the dip of his shoulders. Evidence of my hands, my mouth, and my absolute inability to stop once he’s in reach.
Now we’re getting dressed in the low, gold light of the suite, and I’m no calmer than I was with him under me.
Probably worse.
Earlier, he had one of his drivers collect a clean set of armor from his closet back home. Now, he’s buttoning his shirt slowly, hair still damp, mouth still swollen from me in a way that keeps dragging my eyes back to it.
He glances up once and catches me watching. A smile threatens at the corner of his mouth, gentler than the filthy ones from earlier, and that somehow makes this harder.
My chest tightens so fast and so hard that I have to look away and focus on buttoning my own cuffs, because there are only so many times in one morning I’m willing to let my heart act like a fucking teenager before I start finding it insulting.
The room smells like clean soap, coffee, and sex that’s still lingering in the sheets behind us. I pulled on clean black trousers and a shirt of my own because, at some point, reality has to reassert itself, and I’m trying to convince my body of that now with methodical, controlled movements.
Button.
Cuff.
Belt.
