“God, yes, more!”
I urge him deeper, harder, my voice breaking when I tell him not to stop. The words are reckless the second they leave my mouth, but I mean them anyway.
Pleasure builds in uneven waves, tangled with fear and a grim sort of satisfaction. I am using this. I know I am. And the fact that it gives me even a sliver of control sends another jolt through me.
Our pleasure builds together until finally, with a last powerful thrust, he pulls out of me and spills onto my belly.It’s not gentle or pretty. It leaves me shaking, breathless, clinging to him as the room slowly comes back into focus.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
I should be furious. I should regret this. Instead, my first coherent thought is how dangerous it is that I already want more.
SEVEN
Ridge
Café au Lait Tradition:Chicory coffee, served with steamed milk, became a staple when coffee supplies ran low during the Civil War, making it an enduring part of New Orleans culture.
Sweat saturates my skin,a thin sheen catching the dim light spilling in from the hall as I pull myself upright and reach for my clothes on the floor.
The room is still warm, thick with the aftermath of something that should not have happened. I am aware of her watching me from the bed, silent, unmoving. I don’t look back. I don’t need to. That awareness alone is enough.
This was not about connection. It was about release. About a line she pushed, and I let her before I shut it down.
I drag on my boxers, the rough fabric grounding me, anchoring me back in the present. Whatever just happened does not change the situation. She is still here for a reason, and I am still in control.
Control, I understand. Uncertainty is something she just introduced, and now I’m pissed I lost my head for a moment.
“You can sleep without the restraints,” I say, keeping my voice flat. Transactional. “Until you give me a reason not to trust you.”
She says nothing. There’s no argument, no agreement. Just quiet. Her silence follows me to the door.
I pull my shirt over my head and catch the faint trace of her on my skin. I take a step toward the door and force myself not to turn around. Distance matters. It always does.
“There are towels, shampoo, and soap in the bathroom,” I add, already moving. The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds final, even to my own ears.
In my bedroom, the quiet presses in. The walls are thick here, built to contain sound, built for situations like this. I know she is secure. Her door locks automatically, and the single window is reinforced.
The house is doing what it was designed to do. The problem is that tonight, I let the complication in.
I sit on the edge of the bed and let the weight of it settle into my bones. Exhaustion comes easily. Sleep will not.
As I drop onto the sheets, the frame creaks under my weight, the mattress thin and unforgiving. This bed is nothing like the goose-down, pillow-top indulgence I’m accustomed to at my penthouse in Algiers Point.
But it will do.
The release I felt back there with her was a momentary relief, like cracking open a valve on a pressure tank. But it’s gone now, leaving a hollow calm, something closer to numbness.
Tomorrow is already waiting. Family, questions, andthe betrayals multiplying since my father’s death: none of them are going anywhere.
Right now, exhaustion wins.
I lie back and lace my hands behind my head and stare at the ceiling until the dark blurs at the edges, my body finally still.
Light leaks through the blinds.I blink against it, disoriented, fragments of a dream or a memory clinging just out of reach.
My jaw aches. My shoulders are tight. Nothing feels settled.
I rub my face and force myself fully awake.
