As he fucked me, one hand came around my hip to toy at my aching clit. The dual sensations were almost too much to bear, and I felt myself hurtling toward an orgasm. I could sense that Stefan was close too, as he began thrusting even harder and faster, his groans mingling with my cries of pleasure that were only barely muffled by the bedspread.
“You’re mine,” he kept saying. “You’re all mine now. No one else’s. Never anyone else’s.”
“I’m yours, Stefan,” I said. “All yours.”
It was hotter than I ever could have imagined.
He stroked my clit more roughly, pinching it, and with that searing, white-hot sensation, I came hard. Gasping with the shockwaves, my body shook as Stefan slammed his cock deep into my ass one last time. I felt him come along with me, heard his groan as he filled me with his hot release. We were moaning together, our cries a symphony.
Afterward, we collapsed onto the bed, trying to catch our breath. Stefan rolled onto his back, pulling me onto his chest. Our bodies were hot, exhausted, and completely satisfied.
I knew in that moment that his claiming of me had been complete.
I was his.
Tori
Chapter 20
There was a coffee shop called Kahve Moon a few blocks away from campus that I’d taken to haunting lately; a small, warm space lovingly decorated by the Turkish couple who had owned it for years. Brass planters overflowed with succulents and tiny ferns, the floor was painted wood, and each table had a colored glass candle holder in its center.
As I looked up from my textbook, I saw Reyyan, the wife, approaching with my coffee, her long skirt swishing over the floor with every careful step. Turkish coffee was made from beans ground into a fine powder, and was dark and strong, stronger even than espresso. I loved it. By now, Reyyan knew that I preferred mine with an obscene amount of sugar and just a little milk, though the milk was a thoroughly American accompaniment. She was a master barista.
“Just as you like it,” she said, smiling as she placed the delicate cup with ornate silver handle, called akahye finjani, on the table. “Let me know when you need a refill.”
“Thank you,” I murmured over my notebook, inhaling the rich scent. “It’s perfect.”
“Need any help with your verb tenses today?” she asked.
I’d been dabbling in Turkish on the side, trying to see if I had any affinity for it. There was a course offered at UChicago that broadly covered Turkic languages, but I’d have to give up ASL next semester to fit it in. I was still on the fence.
“I’m all good for now,” I said, gesturing at the stack of books beside me. “But soon.”
Reyyan nodded and went back behind the counter, busying herself with another customer. Brewing Turkish coffee was more of a ritual than a process, gorgeous to watch, but I reminded myself I had to buckle down today and get caught up with my coursework.
Regardless of how happy I usually was to study at home, Stefan was becoming more and more of a distraction at the same time that my classes started getting more difficult. He was a sexy, gorgeous, orgasm-giving distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. I’d never pass my finals if I didn’t find a new place to camp out and hit the books.
I knew I had an open invitation to rejoin my study group whenever I wanted, and of course Harper Memorial was always open to me, but after everything that had happened at the club with my girlfriends, and the new distance I’d established between myself and Gavin, I wasn’t as obsessive about spending all my free time with my classmates as I’d initially been. We were friendly at school and texted often, but I had told them that I’d found a new home base off campus. Sometimes my hippie friend Diane would meet me there, but mostly I was solo.
With Kahve Moon, I’d found the perfect place to study. Hot, fresh, super-strong coffee that was within walking distance of campus, a quiet and cozy atmosphere, and friendly owners who were more than happy to speak to me in Turkish and correct my grammar when I got confused. There was nothing like total immersion to help get the hang of a new language, and I started spending practically every afternoon there, chatting with Reyyan and Kadir in Turkish and drinking as much caffeine as my body could handle. It was my home away from home.
Flipping to a fresh page in my notebook, I started copying questions from the study guide in my psycholinguistics text. I was so caught up that I didn’t even notice that someone was standing right next to my textbook-strewn table until she cleared her throat.
Distracted and confused, I looked up and tried to figure out if I knew this woman. “Can I help you?” I asked.
She was tall and lovely to look at in that remote, otherworldly way. Her eyes were wide-set, her hair was a waterfall of black, and she had gorgeously bushy brows.
“Sorry to bother you,” she said, dropping into the seat across from me.
I looked around the café. There were plenty of empty tables.
“Have we…met?” I asked, tugging a book out from underneath her Vuitton hand bag.
Though I didn’t think I knew her, she looked vaguely familiar—the kind of Eastern European gorgeous that was KZM’s hallmark. And her accent seemed to jive with that suspicion.
She was dressed expensively. Her designer coat was draped across the back of her chair, her snug black sweater looked to be cashmere, and her heels were black and extremely high.
“No. But I know your husband well. Stefan, yes?”
