Her words dissolve into a cry as her orgasm crashes over her, waves of pleasure ripping through her, her body shaking uncontrollably. I growl, my control snapping, and I pound into her relentlessly, my own release building, unstoppable.
“Cum with me,” I demand, my voice hoarse, “let go, Sage.”
She screams my name as I thrust deep one last time, my cock pulsing inside her, my seed spilling hot and heavy. We collapse together, breathless, hearts pounding, the world narrowing to the feel of our bodies still joined, the heat of our skin, the taste of each other on our lips.
For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of our ragged breathing, the air heavy with the scent of sex and sweat. Then, slowly, I pull out, my eyes searching hers, and she reaches up, cupping my face, her thumb brushing my lips.
“Insane,” she whispers, a small smile playing on her lips, “but maybe not so bad.”
Then she breaks the kiss — sudden, like surfacing from deep water. The absence hits hard, leaving my pulse hammering and my thoughts scrambling to catch up. Regret flickers through me, raw and unwelcome, but I force my hands still, afraid if I reach for her again I won’t stop. “Stop,” she whispers, chest heaving. “We have to stop.”
I freeze, hands still braced on either side of her. The silence between us feels heavy, uneven. The scent of garlic and heat hangs thick in the air.
She slides off the counter, legs unsteady, and turns away. Her voice shakes. “I need to—uh—check the food.”
I nod, grabbing the towel from her hand, wrapping it tight around my waist like armor. My pulse is still erratic. My chest burns.
I need something to hold onto, so I grab my phone off the counter. The glow of the screen feels grounding, mechanical — something I can control.
Neither of us speaks. Not for a long time.
The silence is a living thing — stretching, pulsing, thick enough to choke on. I scroll through my phone without seeing the screen, pretending to read messages that aren’t there. Across the counter, Sage stacks dishes with the kind of focus people fake when they’re avoiding looking at anything real.
Her hair’s a mess. My pulse still hasn’t settled. Every time she moves, the air between us hums — charged and awkward, like the kitchen remembers what just happened even if we’re both pretending it didn’t.
I clear my throat, trying to sound normal. “You burned the onions.”
She freezes mid-motion, a plate in her hand. “Thanks for the update.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Noted.”
Her tone could cut glass. She turns back to the sink, scrubbing too hard, shoulders rigid. The sound of water hissing fills the space. I stare at her back — at the tension carved into every line of her posture — and part of me wants to apologize. The other part wants to drag her against me again.
Neither option feels safe.
I settle for the coward’s move: distraction. I unlock my phone, thumb hovering over my messages — but the notification that flashes at the top of the screen isn’t a text. It’s an email alert.Property Management: Penthouse Repairs — New Estimate 4–6 Weeks.
“Damn it.”
Sage glances over her shoulder. “What?”
I hold the phone out, jaw tight. “They pushed the repair timeline again.”
Her eyes flick to the screen. “Four to six weeks?” She blinks, stunned. “That’s?—”
“—a long time,” I finish for her.
We just stand there, the words hanging between us like a live wire. Four to six weeks. Of this. Of her kitchen. Of pretending I don’t notice how she tastes. The thought hits low and hard.
Before either of us can say anything else, another alert buzzes — same subject line. A second message, timestamped minutes later. Sage’s phone vibrates on the counter too. She picks it up, frowning. Our eyes meet at the same time as we read the identical line.Follow-up required: signatures needed from both tenants in person.
Both. Tenants.
Her gaze lifts slowly. “They putmyname on it?”
“Apparently.” My voice comes out lower than I mean it to. “Guess that makes us official.”
