“If you won’t stay behind then I’ll have to fuck you until you can’t walk,” I whisper, grinding in deep with rough, slow, vicious thrusts.
“God, please try. Bet you can’t.”
We fuck like there’s no light in the sky, like the moon’s coming down and the moon’s real pissed, like fucking’s the only choice in the face of probably being dead. She rides me as I spank her ass, shove my fingers in her mouth, wrap my hand around her throat. I fill her deep, moaning as I ride the edge of bliss, building her to breaking and holding herright thereas her legs twitch and stretch, only to start over again. She’s a beautiful mess, skin sheened and shiny, body trembling with strain. Closer then, closer, I fuck her from behind, fuck her slapping and spanking, and pulling her hair, I stroke her clit and make her suck her juices from my dick, until she’s begging me to end the suffering, begging me to end her, to break her, and what other choice do I have, time doesn’t stop, there’s always a clock somewhere.
I break between her legs. She shatters in my arms. I moan her name and she moans mine as we tangle, spent, gasping, dizzy with how good it felt and bleak with the comedown, knowing there’s not much time left. I tug her close in my arms. I tell her I love her again like I should’ve a hundred times before now.
“Let me ask you something,” she whispers in the dimness. The sun’s starting to set.
“You can ask, you know.”
“I like to prepare you.” She clings to me tightly. “Have you ever thought about kids?”
I laugh, unable to help myself. She slaps my arm playfully.
“With you? Absolutely. But not before.”
“You want a family with me?”
“I want to fill you with so many kids you can’t imagine getting away from me.”
She groans, shaking her head. “That’s fucked up.”
“Good. I want to trap you, baby.”
“We’re a little bit past that.”
“I don’t care.”
“Alright.” She looks up, peeking from behind her hair. “Tell you what. Here’s a little incentive. If we come home tonight, you can fuck me until I’m pregnant.”
I breathe the smell of her sweat and sigh. “Baby, I was always going to do that.”
“Sicko.”
“You like it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I feel her smiling against my chest. “Unfortunately, I do.”
There’s only ever so much time. That’s how it works, and eventually, our time runs out.
We get out of bed together and pull on clothes.
She’s in red. Glorious, bloody red, the kind of dress that tells the world to fuck off but also begs it to keep staring. It shows her back, some of her chest, and I’m sure I’m going to have to do some very bad violence tonight purely to keep my rivals from looking at my wife with impure thoughts.
I put on a black suit, like always.
“Ready?” she asks, slipping her hand through my arm.
CHAPTER 33
GABE
Paris is a world of extremes. There are the ugly slums filled with ancient buildings crumbling under the weight of their own decay; the rich townhouses lining wide promenades with lovely blossoming trees in the springtime; and the old sectors of the city where history is still alive in intricate structures with beautiful detailing work around their lintels and aged paneling throughout their interiors.
It’s this last kind of place we park out front of and sit in silence for a long moment. We’re in the third arrondissement, in the Le Marais neighborhood, where dozens of old mansions are scattered all over. This particular one looks like many of the others: sandstone exterior, massive windows, three stories tall. Except I notice the cameras, the bars, the men in black suits standing out front talking quietly into earpieces, clearly armed and dangerous. Snipers on the roof and across the street, and more soldiers in unmarked vans left discreetly near the curb.
“Last chance,” I tell Nika, taking her hand tightly and squeezing. “There’s no reason for you to risk yourself in there.”
