She’s getting close. Her hand is moving faster now, and I speed up too, moaning as my hand slicks down my length. My hips are thrusting into my fist now, fucking my hand as if I’m fucking her, as if I’m the cock she’s sliding in and out of her pussy, and I clench the glass in my other hand tightly, tossing back the last of the vodka as I feel my orgasm approaching along with hers.
The moment she throws her head back, her hips and back arching off of the bed as she starts to come, I’m right there with her. The sight of her coming sets me off past the point of no return, and I grind out her name in a ragged groan as cum spurts from my tip against the window, painting the glass the way I want to paint her face, her skin, the inside of her tight pussy.
“Mara…fuck—” I suck in a breath, panting as spurt after spurt erupts from my cock, my knees nearly buckling with the force of it. I let go of my length to brace myself against the glass, staring at her as she shudders and goes limp, my cock still twitching and jerking as my cum smears across the window.
I can’t remember the last time I came so hard. It felt so fucking good. The release was intoxicating, so pleasurable that I want to do it again, and I can only imagine how it would feel to be there with her, to have her under my hands and mouth and body.
I need more. I needher.
I watch as she turns off the light, my body still craving more of the pleasure, but I force myself to ignore my still half-hard cock.That’s enough for tonight,I tell myself, reaching for my clothes as I go to find something to clean up with.
There will be more—more pleasure, more of her.
This is only the beginning for Mara and I.
7
MARA
Monday evening, the Thai food arrives on my doorstep.
I hear the buzzer go off as I’m scrolling through emails on my laptop, and I frown, wondering who it could be. I didn’t invite anyone over, and for once I’d planned to eat something frozen from my freezer instead of ordering out.
But when I open my door, there’s a bag outside, the usual white bag from my favorite takeout spot. At first I think the delivery guy must have left it at the wrong house, but when I look closer at the receipt stapled to it, my pulse speeds up.
It’s Thai beef salad, tom kha gai soup with shrimp, and mango sticky rice. My exact order from the place three blocks over, the one I get when I'm too tired to cook and too lazy to venture out into the Manhattan chaos.
Except I didn't order it tonight.
I pick up the bag slowly, checking for a note, anything that might explain how it got here. Nothing. Just the familiar white containers with their cardboard lids, still warm, the smell of basil and chili making my stomach growl despite the unease crawling up my spine.
It must be a mistake. It was delivered to the wrong apartment. The delivery guy mixed up the orders, and somewhere in this building, someone else is wondering where their dinner is. It's the only explanation that makes sense.
Someone else must have ordered exactly what I get every time. It’s not that strange of an order.
Right?
I peer more closely into the bag, and see the small clear container with the extra lime wedges I always order.
Thatcan’tbe a coincidence.
With my heart suddenly beating rabbit-fast in my chest, I look sharply up and down the hallway and then quickly retreat into my apartment, flipping every lock the moment I close the door. I set the bag down on my kitchen counter like a live grenade, staring at it as I try to convince myself this is normal. Maybe Claire ordered it because of the long hours we've been putting in at the gallery. Maybe Annie got on an app and ordered it to my apartment, some kind of care package now that she's feeling better.
But even as I try to explain it away, the excuses feel thin. Annie would know my favorite food order, but would she know exactly the place inManhattanthat I order from? There’s actually a closer Thai place, but I don’t like it as much. And I don’t recall ever telling Claire my order, although maybe I got it for lunch before and forgot.
I eat the food anyway, because I'm starving and because throwing away perfectly good takeout feels wasteful—and also because acknowledging that something is wrong means dealing with it. I'm not ready to deal with it.
It has to be a coincidence. That’s all it is. No one is watching me or stalking me or fixating on me. That’s true-crime shit, the kind of thing that happens to other people and in fiction. My life isn’t that dramatic.
I’m just keyed up because of the lingering memory of Alexander, and jumping at shadows. It was just a mistake. I’m eating someone else’s dinner.
By the time I fall asleep with the television on, some documentary about Renaissance art that I'm not really watching, I’ve almost convinced myself that’s true.
Then, on Thursday, the book arrives at the gallery.
Claire brings it to my office, her eyes wide with excitement. The package is wrapped in brown paper, tied with string, old-fashioned and elegant. Inside is a first edition of a biography about Caravaggio, deliciously old, the pages crackling when I open them and smelling of old ink.
I know without looking anything up about it that t's worth thousands. Tens of thousands, maybe, depending on its condition and where it came from, and if it can be authenticated.
