Noah kneels between my legs, his hands press against my thighs, spreading them wider, holding me open, and he watches—fucking watches—as everything he just gave me starts leaking out of me onto the sheets.
“Jesus fuck—” My voice breaks.
He stares at the mess and actually looks proud of it, catching a drop with his thumb before dragging it slowly back up over my hole.
I jolt.
“Your hole is so open and pulsing, Mien,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb over where I’m leaking. I make a desperate noise, and he finally meets my eyes again. “I did that.”
I groan, dragging an arm over my eyes, humiliated by how badly I’m still throbbing, how much I want to be filled again. “Stop.”
“Why?” he asks, teasing. “You said I was perfect. You said I could do whatever I wanted.”
“That was before you decided to be evil.”
He hums and brushes another trail of cum back over my hole, sinking two fingers inside and feeling the way I clench and my hips rock up without me meaning to.
I reach up and pull him down, crashing our mouths together in a rough kiss. He moans into it, hips jerking forward while that thick cock chubs up again.
But then he stops and pulls back. “We should go clean up.”
My mouth falls open. “You little shit—”
He laughs—genuine, flushed, and still too fucking close to perfect—then he leans forward to kiss my temple and gets off the bed.
I drop my head back against the mattress and groan, reaching for him. “Get back here.”
But Noah’s already walking toward the en suite with that wicked smirk on his face. “Let’s go clean up, Mien. You have to be up early tomorrow.”
I want to hate it, but I don’t. Because Noah Adams just took his first step into power, and he took it inside me.
Noah
Arandommid-afternoonsunburstspills gold and soft across the pond, dappling the far bank in broken patterns I can’t quite capture, no matter how many times I turn the camera. I snap a few shots of reeds swaying in the breeze, how the light flickers off the water, and when I pause to check the preview, I notice my hands are steady. Not shaking the way they used to.
The quiet here is a cocoon—just birdsong, chilly Autumn wind through the grass, the steady, distant hum of the highway. All of it makes the pond feel impossibly far from everything I left behind. Far from the pool. Far from Milan. Far from the noise and the sharp edges of the past week.
I let my camera hang from my neck, tuck my hands into the pockets of Damien’s hoodie, and drop down onto the patch of flattened grass where he always sits. I can almost hear him; the way he used to tease me about taking too many photos, the wayhe’d let me boss him around if it meant I’d smile for even a second.
I glance at the trail that curves around the far side of the water and catch myself thinking about the last time I was here. How I convinced him to sit for portraits during golden hour, his laughter echoing off the water, how close we came to kissing before nerves and history tangled everything up. It feels like a memory from another life. Back then, I wanted things I couldn’t name, and now… I have them. Not perfectly or always easy, but it’s real.
I lift the camera and take a few shots of the water, adjusting the aperture until the light settles the way I want it, until the image in the viewfinder matches the calm I’m trying to capture and keep. Photography has always been like this for me. A way to translate the chaos in my head into something I can control. I take another shot, then another, before lowering the camera and leaning back, hugging Damien’s hoodie to my chest.
I bury my face in it and close my eyes, letting myself exist in this moment without guilt. Without apology. I’m happy. Quietly, stubbornly happy, and that feels similar to a small miracle after everything.
I let myself breathe. For once, the ache in my chest is turning into something soft.
I don’t realize someone’s coming until the grass crackles behind me, a soft step that stops too close. I tense automatically, back stiffening as I turn. For half a heartbeat, my chest goes cold—until I see the shock of red curls and the pale, worried face I haven’t seen in days.
Adrian stands there, hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders hunched, dark circles under his eyes. I can’t help the anger that flashes through me. Of all the people to find me out here, it had to be him.
I push myself up slowly, keeping a little distance between us.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, more hostile than I meant it to be, but I can’t help it.
He flinches, rubbing at his arm, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder. “I—I wanted to talk to you. Please. Just… Can I explain?”
I want to tell him to leave and let me have this bit of peace. But Killian’s words echo back—let him talk, hear him out, don’t jump to conclusions.Damien told me the same:If he fucked up, he’ll say so. If he’s scared, help him. I breathe out slowly, wrestling the anger down, making room for the confusion and pain beneath.
