Withdraw.
And then I’m at the edge and can’t hold back anymore.
“Together,” I say. “Cum with me. Cum now.”
She does.
We shatter at the same moment, her walls clenching around my cock as I empty myself into the condom with a groan that feels torn from my chest.
The pleasure is intense enough to blur my vision, and I collapse on top of her, my hips stuttering.
Afterward, I swivel off her and deal with the condom, then return to the bed and collapse beside her. She immediately rolls into me, pressing her face against my shoulder.
The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable.It’s the quiet of two people who don’t need words to fill space.
“Do you ever actually sleep here?” she asks eventually. “Or do you just work until you pass out?”
“Here specifically?” I glance around my bedroom. “Not well. Not often. I sleep better at your place.”
She tilts her head up to look at me. “Really?”
“Really.” I brush hair back from her face. “You’ve recalibrated something. I don’t know what. But my insomnia’s improved thirty percent since we started this.”
“You measured it?” she asks incredulously.
“I’m a data-driven person.”
She laughs. “You’re ridiculous.” She pauses. “Do you really sleep better at my place?”
“No,” I lie. “Your bed is too small. Your radiator clangs. Your upstairs neighbor has a very active nightlife.”
She giggles and cuddles closer, pressing her head against my chest. “Silly.”
We fall asleep tangled together in sheets that have never held two people before. My last thought before unconsciousness isn’t about work or threats or the next crisis to manage.
It’s about her.
I wake before dawn.Gray light filters through the windows. Bree is still asleep, curled on her side and facing me. Her hair is a mess. There’s a mark on her collarbone where my mouth got carried away. As usual.
I slip out of bed and pull on some sweats, then pad downstairs to the kitchen. Thessaly isn’t here yet. It’s too early. The espresso machine is simple enough to operate, so I set to work.
When Bree appears in the doorway twenty minutes later, wearing my shirt again with her legs bare, I have two cups of something vaguely resembling coffee waiting on the table.
“You made coffee?” She looks adorably skeptical.
“An attempt at coffee,” I reply. “Success is not guaranteed.”
She takes a sip and winces. “This is awful.”
“I know.”
But she drinks it anyway. We sit at the massive dining table, watching the sun rise over Manhattan.
At 8 AM, I hear the front door open. Quillan must have let Thessaly in through the main elevator vestibule. Not to be confused with the direct elevator to the penthouse, which no one uses but me.
She appears in the kitchen doorway and takes in the scene with a single raised eyebrow. Me in sweats. Bree in my shirt. Coffee cups on the table.
“Good morning, Mr. Rossi.” Her voice is utterly neutral. “Should I prepare breakfast, or will you be leaving soon?”
