The orgasm curls low in my stomach. My back arches, head rearing, my release building to a fever pitch. Eyesrolling, mind wiped blank, I fall over the edge, world shattering while I convulse around him, screaming his name, my body ripping apart from the pleasure.
He lets out a raw, primal roar as he follows, shuddering inside me, filling me, holding me tight.
Like he’ll never let me go.
30
PACK A BAG (NATE)
We come apart in a tangle, her body clenching, my shout bouncing off the gym walls. For a beat we stay as we are. Her back to my chest, me still inside her, both of us shaking.
She melts. I ease us down and settle her on the mat. She’s limp beneath me now, cheek to the vinyl, skin damp and flushed. I gather her in and murmur steady nonsense until her breathing evens.
She looks wrecked and beautiful.
Her lashes flutter. “I should…take a shower.”
I cup the back of her neck and bring her eyes to mine. “If I want you showered, I’ll put you there myself. Right now I want you here. Breathe.”
A tiny pause. She nods, voice barely there. “Okay.”
I reach for the T-shirt I’d left here earlier, soft from a hundred washes, and pull it over her head. “Wear this.” It swallows her, leaving her bare legs streaked and shaking. Perfect. “I want my come dripping down those pretty thighs.”
Her gaze goes wide, but she doesn’t argue.
“Open.” I guide her knees apart and press a slow finger to her, slick with us. “Keep it in for me,” I murmur, pushing my come back where I want it. She shivers and holds on to my wrist, breathing hard.
I grab a towel from the rack, kneeling between her knees to wipe her down, enough so she’s not uncomfortable. She whimpers at the gentleness, her stare glassy.
“There.” I brush a kiss to her temple, then stand, tugging her up with me. “Kitchen. You need food.”
She leans into me, boneless, letting me guide her down the hall. For a moment, neither of us speaks. This feeling, her trusting me, soft and pliant in my arms, is everything I’ve been missing.
“Sit.” I tap the stool at the counter. She settles, my T-shirt skimming her thighs, still wrecked and soft around the edges. I grab what I need from the fridge and pantry.
“Southern or Italian?”
She tips her head. “Can you do both?”
“Creole meets Calabrian. Watch.”
Olive oil blooms in the pan. I sweat down onion, celery, and bell pepper with a little pancetta, then stir in Calabrian chile and a hit of smoked paprika. Arborio goes next, toasting till it clicks against the spoon. White wine hisses. Stock ladles in, one by one. Shrimp wait on a plate with salt, pepper, and a dusting of cayenne.
On the back burner, zucchini flowers get a quick cornmeal dredge—my dad’s trick—then I slide them into the air fryer, flip halfway, and pull them crisp and gold. She watches everything, sipping her water.
“Zucchini flowers in December?”
“Off-season score—my produce guy had a crate flown in from Mexico this morning.”
“That’s…very sophisticated for a bachelor,” she teases.
I shower the blossoms with lemon and flaky salt, then look up at her, mouth hitching. “Do I look like a bachelor to you?”
Color climbs her cheeks. “This is an Antonio thing, isn’t it? He used to spoil us rotten with his nonna’s recipes.”
“Guilty.” I swirl in another ladle of stock, slip in the shrimp, and finish with parsley and the barest kiss of butter. “He always said food is love. Guess it stuck.”
She goes quiet, studying me. Then, ”Hey, guess what. I’ve got some exciting things going on.”
