"Beg if you want to come,"I command, pinching the nub lightly.
And she does. This time, there’s no mistaking what she wants from me. That she wants me."Please... let me... I need..."
The words spill out, her denial shattering as her pussy flutters around me.
My strokes in the shower match the rhythm, hand twisting at the head, thumb pressing into the sensitive underside. The pressure builds, unrelenting, my abs tightening as I chase the peak.
In the fantasy, she shatters first, walls milking my cock in spasms, her cry echoing off the alley walls. I follow, slamming home one last time, spilling deep inside her, hot jets filling her up, marking her as mine in this twisted dream.
Reality crashes back as I come, ropes of cum splattering the shower tiles, washed away instantly by the relentless water. My knees buckle slightly, one hand bracing the wall as aftershocks ripple through me.
The hot spray beats on my back, soothing the ache, but the guilt lingers—a familiar companion.
I rinse off, turning the water cooler to shock the haze away. Stepping out, I towel dry roughly, avoiding my reflection in the fogged mirror.
Amber is real. Not some figment to fuel my demons. Yet, as I slide into bed, the sheets cool against my skin, I wonder if our paths crossing again will blur the line between what I want and what I can allow myself to have.
7
AMBER
Istir awake around two in the afternoon with my throat burning.
I fumble for the glass on my nightstand, drain it, then stumble to the sink for another. The water tastes like metal and relief. I drink until the ache eases, then stand there with both hands braced on the counter, letting the memories catch up to me.
Last night stacks itself in my head, one moment on top of the other. The alley. Giovanni’s voice. The way my pulse wouldn’t slow down even after I got home.
I feel stupid for how much space it’s taking up.
Ashamed, too. Not of what happened exactly, but of how my body reacted. Of how part of me leaned into the danger instead of away from it. That part scares me more than Giovanni ever could.
I touch the bracelet on my wrist. Coral beads. Amber beads. Solid. Real.
Men like him are dangerous, I remind myself. Men with power don’t come with warning labels. They come with consequences.
I leave the kitchen and pad back into my bedroom, sunlight leaking in around the edges of the blinds. My phone is face-down on the bed where I dropped it sometime before dawn. I flip it over and check the screen.
Nothing.
No missed calls. No texts from Rose.
My chest tightens.
I tell myself Rose might be asleep. Or sick. Or ignoring her phone on purpose because that’s what she does when she doesn’t want to think about things.
The lie doesn’t stick.
I shower, scrubbing myself harder than necessary, as if I can rinse off the night. Giovanni’s voice still echoes in my head, calm and dangerous and too certain. When I step out, my skin is pink and warm, my hair dripping down my back.
I dress slowly. Jeans. A clean T-shirt. Old, comfortable clothes that let me feel like myself.
The apartment feels too quiet. It always does during the day. It’s the place I used to share with my family, and it feels too big now. Lonely. The silence presses in on me, thick and heavy, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the distant noise of the city outside.
I should sell it. Or rent it out. That would be the smart thing to do.
I can’t.
Every room is full of memories I don’t know how to box up. Of laughter that still echoes if I let myself listen too closely.
