I always fucking have been.
“You still standing, Coach?” she asks, voice silk and sin.
“Barely.”
She backs onto the bed, slow and deliberate, pulling me down with her. I crawl over her, settle between her thighs, and when our lips meet again, it’s a new kind of hunger. Filthy. Worshipful. Personal. I grip her jaw, kiss her until her moans melt into mine.
And then I’m inside her again.
No rush. No crate of beer threatening to collapse under us.
Just our bed, our bodies, our wedding night—and the way she says my name like it was always meant for her lips.
And maybe it was.
We spend the rest of the weekend with my cock buried inside of her. It is a chaotic twist of her waking me up as she takes me deep in her throat, to her using her veil and my tie to secure me to the headboard.
Fuck, sex with Stella is never boring.
We’re packing up. Checkout is in an hour. She’s doing the final sweep, checking for anything we might’ve missed.
I’m out on the balcony, letting the sound of the waves steady me. The scent of salt and blooming flowers lingers in the breeze—sharp, soft, and alive.
There’s a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye.
And then I see her.
Stella.
Wearing red.
Not just any red.Myred. Deep merlot. Dark as sin. Rich as blood. The kind of color that looks custom-poured for her skin. The red I kissed as I made my way up her feet. The red I saw wrapped around my cock as she gripped me tight.
The bra is barely there—delicate sheer lace, no padding, just enough structure to tease at what’s underneath. The cups dip low, scalloped edges framing her curves like artwork. Thinstraps disappear over her shoulders, and in the center, between the swell of her breasts, is a tiny silver D for D’Angelo.
A detail she chose for me—before she ever knew the weight of what I gave up for her.
The panties match. Cut high, all lace, and temptation, satin side straps dipping into the curve of her hips. There’s a garter belt, too—the same dark red, cinched at her waist like a ribbon waiting to be undone. Four slim straps trail down her thighs, clipped to sheer thigh-highs with the faintest shimmer.
Like she’s gift-wrapped just for me. And she is.
Hair down. Lips soft. Eyes hungry.
Every inch of her saysmine.
She steps onto the patio like she owns it. Every movement dares me to sin, and I’ve never been good at saying no.
The sunlight catches her skin—warm, glowing, and sinful. But it’s the red that kills me, a lace set so sheer it borders on cruel.
She doesn’t walk. She stalks. Hips swaying, shoulders back, gaze locked on mine like a hunter eyeing her prey. She drags one finger up her side, along the lace, like she’s showing me what I can’t touch. Not yet.
“Hi, Coach,” she purrs—voice syrup-sweet and dangerous.
I lean back in the patio chair, legs spread, pretending I’m relaxed. Pretending I’m not about to explode from how goddamn good she looks in that color, with that mouth.
“You like?” she teases, turning in a slow circle. The lace pulls tight over her ass, and she knowsexactlywhat she’s doing. “Had it made just for tonight. Just for you.”
She struts to me. Stops between my knees. Then, slowly—deliberately—she lifts one sexy black heel and sets it right in my lap, just enough pressure to make a point.
