Page 172 of The Encore’s Crown

Kiri

The first night back, we nearly destroy my Porsche before I even make it off Natalia’s block.

She slips into the passenger seat in a long coat and ankle boots, cheeks pink from the cold, a small bag clutched in one hand. She drops it into the footwell, pulls the door shut, and I reach for the ignition.

“Is this what you meant?” she asks casually.

My hand pauses over the button. I turn toward her. Her mouth curves as she loosens the belt of her coat and pulls it open just enough to show me the short black satin nightdress underneath. Thin straps. Bare thighs. Nothing remotely practical for Seattle after midnight. Exactly what I asked for. Any attempt at thought leaves my head.

“Nat.”

“What?” she says, innocence dripping off her tongue. “I followed your instructions.”

I don’t start the car. I reach across the console, catch her around the waist, and drag her into my lap, leaving the coat abandoned on the passenger seat. Her laugh disappears beneath my mouth. I kiss her hard enough to erase the time apart between us. Her hands dive into my hair. Mine pull her closer, both of us breathing like we spent the entire month running back to this.

She knocks her knee against the gearshift while trying to settle over me.

“Really?” she mutters against my lips. “You spent so much money on a car with no room?”

“I didn’t consider you straddling me during the test drive.”

“Amateur.”

What I leave out is that I never had to consider it before. I date, I fuck, but I don’t bring women home, and I sure as hell don’t let them into my car. No one gets close enough for me to worry about whether they’ll fit on my lap in my Porsche.

She orders me to move my seat back as far as it will go, muttering about men with stupid priorities, then wedges herself between me and the steering wheel. The moment she's pressed against me, every joke disappears. My hands find her beneath the black satin, hers already fumbling between us to free me from my jeans, both of us too desperate to bother pretending we can slow down.

When I’m finally inside her again, we gasp into each other's mouths.

It feels like taking my first full breath in a month. Like I’ve spent the last month surviving on empty lungs and only realize it when she gives me air. At first, neither of us moves. Her forehead presses to mine, our mouths barely apart, both of us shaking from the force of finally being this close again.

Then the need takes over. There’s nothing gentle about it. It isn’t even want anymore, it’s something more basic, all-consuming, our bodies trying to erase every night we spent apart. Her hands lock around my shoulders while mine grip her hips, holding her against me in the narrow space as though I can make up for a month in a few brutal minutes. Every sound she makes has me wondering how far it carries through expensive German glass.

I don’t care.

For the first time in a month, she’s truly all over me. Nothing could make me drive away yet. When we finally separate enough to breathe, she looks around the cramped interior and pushes her hair out of her face.

“What a stupid car.”

I look at the fogged glass, the reclined seat, and the fingerprints smeared across the window. Then I kiss her again.

“Worth every zero.”

When we get to my apartment, we do much worse.

Every time we touch, it feels like pure instinct wakes between our bodies, something starving and older than both of us. We collide against the front door before it even closes. Stumble down the hallway. Fall onto the couch we never make it past. Eventually we collapse into my bed once we finally remember I own one. When we finally run out of steam, we lie tangled together, staring at the ceiling, and the craziest thought I’ve ever had slips out of my mouth.

“I could die inside you and consider it a successful life.”

Her mouth drops open.

“Oh my God. Don’t talk about dying. I mean, sure, you’re ancient, but not actively decomposing.”

I pin her beneath me for that.

I thought I knew everything there was to know about sex. I’ve been doing this too long to still believe anyone could surprise me. I’ve heard Ronan spend entire drives describing some woman from years ago who tasted like catnip to him, or cocaine, or whatever drug he swore he’d never touch again because nothing good should feel that addictive. I understood the general idea. I’ve had fun. I’ve wanted women. I’ve gone back for more.

Nothing has ever felt like this.