“Mm.” I stretched out, turning toward him.
The blanket pooled around my waist as I sat up. A takeout bag sat on the coffee table, its contents half-eaten — cheese friescongealing under a sheen of grease, a burger wrapper crumpled beside it. Cross had already demolished his portion, judging by the state of it all.
I reached for a cold fry, popping it into my mouth. It was stiff, the cheese hardened, but I didn’t care. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since… forever. Or at least six hours ago.
Cross’s fingers trailed down my spine, sending a shiver through me despite the warmth of the blanket. “You good?” he asked, voice low.
I nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. Just hungry.” I popped another fry in my mouth and turned to face him, tucking my legs beneath me. The TV cast forever-changing blue light across his bare chest, highlighting the ink scribbled on skin — lyrics, symbols, a few faces I didn’t recognize. A quote by Oscar Wilde.We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
“I think I want to take a shower and then have you fuck me on the balcony.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What happened to ‘no p in v’ unless a camera is rolling?”
“Oh, it will be rolling. You have a phone, don’t you?”
His fingers found my hair again, twisting a strand around his knuckle. “It’s gonna be super shaky.”
“Won’t go on OnlyFans,” I said, reaching for another fry. “That’s gonna be for you.”
His lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. “For me, huh?” He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. “You gonna let me fuck you raw, then? What was the song... No rubber — no one would touch her? Something by G-Eazy.”
“Maybe,” I whispered, turning my head to catch his lips with mine. The kiss was slow, deep, the taste of salt and grease lingering between us. His hand slid up my thigh, fingers teasing the edge of my dress.
“Shower first,” he murmured against my mouth, pulling back just enough to stand. He offered me his hand and pulled me up from the couch. The blanket fell away, landing on the ground at my feet, and I followed him through the penthouse.
The bathroom was the color of a glacier; marble patterns were everywhere — on the walls, the floor, even the counters — and there was a tall window that overlooked the nearby rooftops. The shower was in the middle of the room with no separation — no glass walls — nothing, and I had to admit I had never seen anything like it in my life. The water temperature was controlled via a panel in the wall. This thing clearly wasn’t in my tax bracket.
“Well, that seems awfully impractical for shower sex,” I commented, tilting my head back to look at the brass shower head embedded in the ceiling.
“Tell me about it,” he said, turning on the water with a few swipes in the panel. “A massive oversight on my part.”
The water came on with a quiet hiss as Cross adjusted the temperature. He turned to me, hands already reaching for the hem of my dress. I lifted my arms, letting him pull it over my head.
“Turn around,” he murmured.
I did, presenting my back to him. His hands slid up my spine, fingers pressing into the knots of tension there before he unclasped my bra. The straps slid down my arms, and I let it fall, the cool air of the bathroom making my skin go in goosebumps.
Cross stepped closer, his chest pressing against my back, one hand sliding around to cup my breast while the other traced the curve of my ass. His breath was hot against my ear. “You’re fucking perfect,” he said, voice low. “Every inch of you.”
Here we go again. I would’ve never admitted out loud how his words made me feel, but theydidmake me feel a particular way.
I arched into his touch, my ass pressing against something that was growing increasingly harder. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” I murmured, reaching back to tangle my fingers in his hair.
He chuckled — I felt his chest move against my back. “I believe that saying goes differently.”
“Not with me,” I said, grinding my ass against his crotch.
He let out a muffled groan, then stepped back and slapped my ass. “Go. Take your shower. I’ll make you coffee.”
The sting of his palm lingered as I stepped under the rainfall shower head, hot water sluicing over my skin. The steam wrapped around me, almost too thick to breathe through. I tilted my head back, letting the water soak my hair, my fingers tracing the path his hands had just taken.
The bathroom door closed with a soft thud at the same time as I reached for the shampoo, which meant he’d lingered there, watching me.
I smirked to myself as I squeezed the creamy shampoo in my palm. It smelled like him — like sweet argan and musk.
It didn’t take me too long to wash. I was out in less than ten minutes, drying myself off in a crimson towel that I left in the hamper — not bothering myself with it as I walked out.
The only sound in the penthouse was the whir of the espresso machine. Cross stood in the kitchen, his back to me, the muscles shifting under his skin as he moved. The counter was already set with two mugs, a carton of half-and-half, and a bowl of sugar cubes. He didn’t turn around when I walked in, but his voice cut through the silence.
