"I want you." Her voice breaks. "All of you."
I push in. Slow. Inch by inch. Her heat envelops me, tight and perfect. She moans, walls clenching around my shaft. I fill her completely, buried to the hilt.
We move. I thrust deep, deliberate. Pull back, then drive in again. Her hips rise to meet me. Skin slaps skin. Sweat slicks our bodies.
"Faster," she breathes.
I oblige. Pound into her. My balls tighten. Her nails dig into my back, drawing sharp lines of pleasure-pain.
She comes first. Cries out, body shuddering. Her pussy milks me, rhythmic squeezes that shatter my control.
I follow. Spill inside her, hot jets pulsing. Ecstasy blanks my mind.
We collapse, tangled. I stay buried in her warmth, softening slowly.
"I love you," I murmur against her neck. Possessive certainty floods me. She's mine to protect, to cherish.
"I love you too." Her words seal it. We're committed now. Changed. Bound by this night, this promise.
The candles burn low. We drift, wrapped in each other, ready to face whatever comes.
Morning light filters through the curtains, pale and unforgiving. I wake with Ivy tangled against me, her breath warm on my shoulder. For a moment, everything is perfect.
Then my phone rings.
I reach for it carefully, trying not to wake her. Three missed calls from Mayor Elsie. A text from Maya that just saysKitchen. Now.
Ivy stirs. Opens one eye.
"What is it?"
"Don't know yet."
I slide out of bed, pull on yesterday's jeans. Ivy sits up, sheet pooling at her waist. The sight of her, bare and rumpled in my bed, hits me somewhere deep.
"Come down when you're ready," I say. "Something's happening."
The bistro kitchen smells like coffee and tension. Maya's at the counter with a stack of manila envelopes, her face grim.
"These came by courier. Six in the morning. All addressed to you."
I rip open the first one.
Legal letterhead. Dense paragraphs of jargon. My eyes catch on key phrases:formal purchase offer,adjacent parcels,expedited closing timeline.
"What does it say?" Ivy appears in the doorway, dressed now, hair still loose.
"He's filed offers on every property that borders the bistro." I flip through the other envelopes. Same letters. Different names. Farmer Hank. The Chens. Old Mrs. Rivera who runs the apple orchard. "All dated yesterday. All contingent on the rezoning petition passing."
Maya crosses her arms. "So he's boxing you in. If enough neighbors sell, the bistro becomes an island surrounded by development."
"And if the bistro's the only holdout, my property value tanks because who wants to run a farm-to-table restaurant next to a strip mall parking lot?" The strategy is elegant. Ruthless. "He doesn't need to buy me out. He just needs to make staying impossible."
Ivy takes the letters from my hands. Reads them with that careful, methodical focus she brings to seed catalogues and soil reports.
"The offers are good," she says quietly. "Really good. Above market rate. Guaranteed closing costs covered. Relocation assistance."
"You sound like you're considering them."
