I thrust in hard then, no warning, burying to the hilt in one brutal stroke. She's tight, hot, walls clenching around me like a vise, sucking me deep.
"Fuck," I groan, forehead to hers, holding still to savor the stretch, the way she pulses around every inch. Wet heat envelops me, her arousal dripping down my balls. I pull out slowly, almost all the way, watching her pussy lips grip my shaft, reluctant to letgo, then slam back in, hips meeting with a wet slap. She screams as her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my ass.
The rhythm builds fast, relentless. I fuck her against the counter, steel rattling with each thrust, her breasts bouncing, nipples scraping my chest. Slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, mingled with her moans—oh, fuck, yes, harder—and my grunts. I angle deep, grinding against her clit with every drive, feeling her climb again, faster this time, the edge sharpening. Her walls flutter, milking me, and she's there, right fucking there, body tensing, cries peaking. "Come for me," I rasp, teeth on her shoulder, biting down as I pound harder, faster, the head of my cock battering her cervix. "Now, Lila. Milk my cock."
She shatters. Her pussy clamps down, spasming in waves, juices squirting around me, soaking my thighs as she convulses with her head thrown back, eyes rolling. The sight, the feel—tight, wet, pulsing—tips me over. I thrust deep one last time, burying myself as I come, hot spurts flooding her, pulse after pulse until I'm spent, grinding through the aftershocks.
We stay locked, breaths mingling, sweat-slick skin sliding. But I'm not done. The fire's banked, not out. I pull out slowly, her pussy gaping, cum leaking out in thick white trails down her thighs. She whimpers at the loss, but I spin her around, bending her over the counter, ass up, breasts pressed to the cool steel. "Again," I say and slap her ass cheek, watching it jiggle, pinken. She moans, pushing back, and I kneel once more, spreading her ass cheeks, tongue diving into her dripping folds from behind.
Lick. Suck. Relentless again. I eat her out like a starving man, tongue plunging into her cum-filled pussy, tasting us mixed—salty, creamy, filthy. My nose buried in her ass, inhaling her musk, one thumb circling her tight rear entrance, pressing just the tip in. She bucks, crying out, climbing fast under the assault.But I stop at the edge, standing to rub my hardening cock along her crack, teasing both holes. "Beg for it," I demand, and she does, voice breaking, "Fuck my pussy, Matteo. Please, fill me up."
I oblige, slamming in from behind, fucking her prone, one hand fisting her hair, pulling her head back to arch her spine. The angle's deeper, hitting new spots, her ass rippling with each thrust. I reach around, fingers on her clit, rubbing hard circles, building her mercilessly. She's sobbing now, pleasure-pain, edge after edge denied until she's a mess. "Come," I growl, pinching her clit, and she explodes again, walls crushing me, dragging my second orgasm from me in hot, endless ropes.
We collapse against the counter, her body limp under mine, but I lift her, carrying her to the prep table, laying her out like an offering, legs spread wide. I eat her once more, slow this time, savoring the mess we've made, tongue delving deep, sucking her clit until she's writhing, begging. Edge. Deny. Repeat. Until finally, I mount her there, fucking slow and deep, drawing it out, her nails in my back, my mouth on hers, tasting everything. When she comes the third time, I'm right there, pouring into her, sealing us in sweat and cum and five years of want and absence.
The bakery quiets around us, heaters humming, the world outside forgotten. She's mine. Again.
She is still shaking when I slide off her. For a breath she stays, cheek to my shoulder. Then her palms flatten on my chest and shove. Heat drains. The air turns thin. “Don’t.” Her voice is raw. She reaches for the word like it can scrub this clean. “This was a mistake.”
I taste her name and swallow it. “It wasn’t.”
Her eyes cut me once, then away. She gathers herself in quick, furious movements—dress pulled wrong side out, zipper catching, hair twisted into a knot that won’t hold. When I reach for the zipper, she flinches like my fingers are a flame.
“Don’t,” she says again, softer. The softness hurts more.
The room is all small sounds. The tick of the old clock. Rain starting on the fire escape. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. I feel that more than the shove.
“Forget it,” she says. “It never happened.”
It happened everywhere. On my skin. In the bruised print of my hands at her hips. I could tell her that. I don’t. I let her have the lie.
She opens the door. The hallway light bleeds across my feet. Cold comes in. She doesn’t look back.
The latch catches. Silence folds up around me.
I lick my lips and there she is—salt, heat, a little wine, the edge of her bite. My jaw locks until my skull aches.
I watch the door like it might open. It doesn’t. So I decide for both of us.
I can’t walk away now.
12
MATTEO
The Next Afternoon, Hart’s Bakery
I return to the bakery the next afternoon with a reason that appears to be work. The sign on the door readsPrep and Maintenance, 2:30 to 3:00. Closed for thirty minutes. That suits me. An empty room explains a ladder and a man who is doing maintenance.
Two small domes sit in my pocket, matte white, the size of a sugar cookie. They are cameras that read motion and low light, not vanity mirrors. A third rides in a box carried by a man who looks like an overworked electrician. He is Petro in a different hat.
The street holds a steady rhythm, the flag on the square hanging heavily. Trucks nose through slush. A girl in a letterman jacket carries a trumpet case. I check the corners before I push the door. I tell Petro to wait outside. Bells sing once. Heat and soap move over my face. The cold outside feels like a mistake.
Lila stands behind the counter with a towel over her shoulder, hands buried in soap and water up to her elbows. Her hairis falling into her face as she scrubs at a stain that is clearly winning.That could be me, I think. Persistent, slightly tragic, determined to come clean. Maria is nowhere in sight.
The minute she sees me, she freezes, hand midair, soap dripping like punctuation. Her eyes are a full cocktail, a mix of disbelief, irritation, and a splash of maternal fury. The kind that could thaw ice. She studies me for half a heartbeat, then gestures toward the back hall.
“If you’re here about the handyman,” she says, “he left ten minutes ago.”
