“Okay.” She didn’t move. “Then what does Philadelphia mean to you?”
I thought about it honestly, the way she was asking for. “It means figuring it out,” I said. “Montana’s not going anywhere. The work I do, I can run it from anywhere with a secure line and a truck. Philadelphia’s not the obstacle you’re framing it as.” I looked at her. “You’re asking if I’m in. I’m in.”
Something in her face shifted—not relief exactly, something quieter.
“You’re very certain for a man who met me five days ago,” she said.
“Four days. And I was certain by day two, which I’m aware doesn’t help my case.”
She laughed—genuine, wide open—and reached across the table and covered my hand with hers, once, and then went back to her coffee.
“Okay,” she said. “Good.”
We did the dishes together, which was not something I’d planned, but she stood at the sink and I dried and she talked about the foundation she wanted to build—not the abstract version, but the specific one, the one she’d apparently been constructing in her head the whole drive north. Hospitality workforce programs. Using the Grant name and the platform not as a liability but as a door into an industry she knew from the inside. Scholarships, mentorships, paths into hotel management for people who didn’t have a father who owned the hotels.
“It uses what I actually know,” she said, handing me a plate. “I’ve been in these rooms my whole life. I know how the industry runs. I know the people at the top. I just never had a reason to use any of it for anything that mattered.”
“You have one now.”
She stopped. Looked at me. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.”
She handed me the last mug, and when I reached for it her fingers stayed around it a beat longer than necessary. I set the mug down and pulled her in and her hands came up around the back of my neck and her mouth was already there, warm and sure, tasting like coffee.
She pulled back first. Her eyes were open and on mine.
Then she took a step back toward the bedroom doorway and looked at me over her shoulder.
I set the dish towel down.
THE MORNING LIGHT THROUGHthe bedroom window was pale and exact and she was already sitting on the edge of the bed by the time I got there, the flannel off, watching me close thedistance with the patience of someone who had made a decision and was done waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
“Off,” she said, nodding at my thermal.
I pulled it over my head. Her hands went flat to my chest—taking inventory, not asking—and I let her look for a moment, then took her wrists and brought them above her head and pressed her back onto the bed.
She made a sound that wasn’t a protest.
“My turn,” I said.
That first night she’d set the pace from the moment we walked through the door—her voice, her hands, her instructions—and I’d followed every one. This was different. I knew what I wanted and I intended to take my time getting there.
I got her jeans off first, then her underwear, and when I settled between her thighs she was already wet for me. I ran two fingers through her slick pussy and she made a sound that went straight down my spine.
“Rafe—”
“I know what you need.”
I got her shirt off and tossed it. Her tits were bare and I took a moment to look at her—really look, all of her spread out on my bed in the pale morning light, flushed and breathing hard and already wanting—before I dropped my head and took one nipple into my mouth.
Her back came off the bed.
“Oh—God, that—” Her hands were in my hair, not directing, just holding on. “Please.”
I worked her slowly, mouth at her nipples, fingers sliding through her wet heat, until she was rocking her hips against my hand and pulling at my hair with real intent. Her clit was swollen and slick and every time my thumb grazed it she made a short, sharp sound that she clearly couldn’t control.
“You have a beautiful pussy,” I said against her breast. “I’ve been thinking about getting my mouth on it again since the moment I woke up.”
“Then—” She pulled at my hair. “Stop making me wait for it.”
