My scream choked on the thong still in my mouth. My pussy stretched wide to take him, my walls clenching around every inch like I’d been waiting for this.
Because I had.
He fed me more, inch by devastating inch, until I felt him in my stomach. My hands clawed at the edge of the table. My body seized around him.
“Fuck,” he groaned, gripping my ass and slamming into me again. “Tight as ever. Still sweet. Still mine.”
His hips punched into me, hard and filthy, every thrust pushing the table into the wall. Paint jars rattled behind me. My nipple slipped free, and he caught it between his teeth mid-stroke, his tongue circling until I sobbed.
My legs wrapped around his waist. He leaned in, kissed me with his fingers still wet from my pussy, then yanked the thong from my mouth and tossed it behind him.
He growled when he felt how deep he was. When my pussy clenched again. When I begged.
“Say it,” he demanded, slamming into me so hard my eyes rolled. “Say this pussy still mine.”
“It’s yours,” I moaned. “God, it’s yours. Just fuck me?—”
He did. Viciously. Like he was pulling memories out of me one stroke at a time. Our bodies slick with sweat, his name falling from my mouth over and over.
When I came again, it wasn’t a whisper—it was a war cry. My walls spasming, gushing around him, soaking us both.
He didn’t stop. He chased his own release. Groaned like a man breaking open. And when he came, he drove so deep I felt his whole body tremble against mine.
We stayed locked together like that. Shaking. Breathing each other in.
Then—slowly—he pulled out and lowered me to the floor, holding me upright like he always did. Like I was something to care for even after the ruin.
My dress was crooked. My thighs glistened. I couldn’t walk straight if I tried.
He leaned down, pressed a kiss to my pulse, and whispered, “You’re coming home with me.”
I didn’t argue. My body had already made the decision. I was his again—and I wasn’t done burning yet.
8
The second I stepped into that dim hallway, I knew I’d already lost whatever edge I thought I had. Sanaa didn’t flinch. Didn’t second-guess. She let me have her—and I fucking did. Took her like I’d been dying of thirst and she was the only thing that could touch it.
Because she was.
Now she was beside me, silent. That kind of silence that always came when her mind was loud. I knew it well. It used to come right before she’d say something that split me wide open.
We made it to my place in under ten minutes. Second floor walk-up. Two bedrooms—though one was more of a graveyard for paperwork, a weight bench I barely touched, and a pair of dusty dumbbells that hadn’t seen movement in months. The living room was clean, stripped-down. Dark leather couch. Grey walls. A single photo of my grandmother framed above the entryway table. She used to call Sanaa my good thing.
The second I locked the door behind us, Sanaa turned, eyes scanning the space like it still held something of her. Maybe it did.
“You still collect them?” she asked, nodding toward the shelf above the TV.
I followed her eyes to the row of vintage firefighter helmets. Twelve now. Each one gleaming. The first—hers—was a battered black leather lid with a cracked brim and the number 19 burned into the front shield. She found it in some antique shop on Butler Street. Told me I needed a hobby that didn’t involve cheap bourbon and sleepless nights.
“Yeah,” I said, voice low. “Still do.”
Her smile came slow and soft, like it was tugged from some old memory. And for a breath, just one, I felt steady again.
But I didn’t let that last. I crossed the room, curled my hand around her wrist, and tugged her gently toward the hallway—toward my bedroom.
The bed was king-sized, platformed low to the ground with deep black sheets pulled tight. I liked the weight of it. The size. Like it could hold the worst of me. Like it could hold her.
Clothes came off quick—hers first, then mine. She stripped with no hesitation, no shame. And I drank her in like she was made just to tempt the strongest parts of me.
