She smiles against the kiss, then pulls back just long enough to twist the lock on the door and draw the blinds closed.
We’re barely two steps into the showroom before her lips are on mine again.
“Cameras, Coach,” she murmurs against my mouth.
“Yeah,” I rasp, “and we can watch it again later.”
I press her back into a row of display coffins, my hand finding the curve of her thigh and sliding higher under her pencil skirt.
“Donovan,” she warns, breathless. “I am not having sex on some grandma’s casket.”
A slow smirk curves my mouth. “Good thing these are just for display.”
I drop to my knees in front of her, hands sliding up the backs of her legs. I push her skirt up inch by inch until the fabric is bunched at her waist. My palms skim along the lace band at her hips before I nudge her legs apart—wider—until I have all of her in front of me.
The heat hits first, even through the thin barrier of her panties. I lean in and drag my tongue up the soaked fabric, tasting her through it. She gasps, the sound jagged and addictive. I do it again, slower, pressing harder this time so the wet lace clings to my tongue before I hook my finger under the edge and push it aside.
One long lick from her entrance to her clit, and she’s already swaying, knees threatening to give. I grip her thighs to steady her, my mouth sealing over her as I work her with deep, relentless strokes. Her hips roll against my face, chasing the friction.
When I’ve had my fill—for now—I rise in one fluid move, kissing her hard, letting her taste herself on my tongue. My hands close around her waist, turning her, guiding her forward until her palms rest on polished mahogany.
I press in behind her, one hand steadying her while the other frees my belt. My fingers wrap around myself, the heat of my own arousal slick in my grip. I drag the head through her slickfolds, smearing pre-cum across her clit before stroking myself once… twice… slow, controlled pulls that make my breath hitch.
I line up, pushing in—not a hard shove, but a deep, deliberate drive that makes her fingers curl against the coffin’s smooth edge. I don’t stop until I’m seated to the hilt, her tight heat gripping me in a way that steals my air.
“You’re mine, Star,” I murmur, my lips brushing her ear.
I set a rhythm that’s unhurried but consuming—every stroke purposeful, every inch claimed. My chest presses against her back, my hand sliding up to close gently but firmly around her throat, holding her right there in my space.
Her moan vibrates against my palm, and my control frays. My hips slam forward, sharp, fast, pulling ragged sounds from her throat. I keep her pinned and take her harder, chasing the raw edge where I can feel her start to unravel around me.
She’s close—I can feel it in the way she clutches at me, the way her body grips and trembles. When she breaks, it’s with a sharp cry, her pussy milking my cock in tight, rhythmic pulses that drag me under with her.
“Fuck, Star,” I breathe against her skin, spilling into her in long, shuddering thrusts. My forehead falls to her shoulder, and for a few seconds, neither of us moves—not because we can’t, but because letting go feels impossible.
The red light catches me mid-turn, my blinker ticking. My left hand grips the wheel, and my right rests on Stella’s thigh. She’s staring out the window, probably watching the sunset melt into the mountains. I should be enjoying the view too, but all I can think about is the way she felt in my arms earlier—the taste of her still on my tongue. Two weeks apart, and the first thing I did was press her against a row of caskets like a starving man. She didn’t even hesitate, just gave herself to me like she always does. I’m not sure if I was trying to make her feel wanted or prove something to myself. Maybe both.
Sometimes it feels like maybe she’s pulling away. Maybe living in different states is starting to wear on her. It was selfish to chase this coaching job while she stayed here, but it’s the kind of opportunity that could put me on a college sideline—maybe even the pros one day. Still, sometimes I wonder if I should have just come home and helped her through losing her parents.
I blow past Agave & Iron without thinking until Stella’s voice cuts in. “Donovan, where are you going? You passed it.”
I give her thigh a squeeze. “Guess my autopilot was heading home.” I U-turn, earning a small shake of her head as she pulls out her phone. I hope the whole dinner doesn’t feel like this.
The valet stand glows gold in the evening light. A kid steps forward, grinning. “Yo! Mr. D, it’s been ages.”
It takes me a second, then I see it. “Asher Crawford.” We shake hands, pull into a quick hug. “I thought you were playing college ball?”
“I am. Just transferring to Huntsville. Starting position. Coach says I’ve got a real shot at the draft next year.”
Pride swells in my chest. “That’s incredible, Asher. Put in the work, and you’ll get there.” I slip him a hundred and my card. “Call me if you need anything. Now I’ve got to take my gorgeous wife to dinner.”
Inside, the hostess—Maddie—greets us with that polished smile Stella’s always liked. “Your usual table?” she asks.
Our table sits tucked in the back, draped in black linen, the kind of spot that makes the rest of the restaurant fade. Stella settles in across from me, candlelight flickering over her face. She picks up the menu, even though she never changes her order.
It’s always been that way. On our third date, I’d scraped together extra allowance to bring her here again. She’d laughed when I asked if she knew what she wanted.I’ve known since the first time you brought me here,she’d said, brushing hair out ofher face.If I like something, I stick with it.Back then, I told her,If you hate it, we’ll order something else. You never have to worry about wasting money. Every penny’s worth it if it means I’m here with you.
Tonight, she orders the ribeye, medium rare, with mashed red potatoes and lemon garlic asparagus. And I’m still the guy who thinks the best thing on this menu is sitting right in front of me.
