He kisses me then, slow and deliberate, his thumbs brushing the tears off my cheeks. His mouth is soft but insistent, and the taste of him—cigarette smoke, coffee, maybe the ghost of lemon from my granita—makes me forget, for a second, that anything bad has ever happened. I kiss him back, slow at first, then faster, letting myself lean into his body, letting the shirt ride up my thighs as I press against him. I feel safe, and wild, and more myself than I’ve ever been.
He pulls back, just enough so we can see each other.
“I love you, Kent Robinson,” I say, voice shaky but true.
He smiles, and for once, it’s not a smirk or a mask or anything but pure, raw joy.
“I love you too, Mary Kate Ashton,” he says. “Always. In every city, every life. Even if you drive me completely insane.”
We laugh, together, the sound tangled with the street noise and the last, lingering notes of the bell.
The linen shirt slides off one shoulder as he pulls me closer, his hand slipping up under the hem to grip the soft skin at my waist. The city glows gold below us. For a moment, it’s just me and him and the whole world, breathing in sync.
He leans down and whispers in my ear: “I have something for you.”
My heart flips, nervous and greedy all at once.
“What is it?” I ask, half a smile on my lips.
He grins, wicked, and kisses my neck, slow and lingering. “A graduation present, even if you don’t walk. You’ve been so good to me, all year. Massaging my—” he pauses, leans in, “—testicular stone problem. But I’ve never repaid the favor. I think it’s my turn.”
I laugh, the sound half-nervous, half-thrilled. “You want to give me a massage?”
“I want to worship you,” he says, and the words go straight to my core.
I shiver, but not from cold. The shirt is suddenly tight over my nipples, the air cool on my skin. I look at him, and the hunger is back, bright as ever.
He picks me up, one arm behind my knees, the other around my shoulders, and carries me inside. I squeal, but not loud; the sound is more a gasp, a flutter in my throat. The door swings shut behind us, the city vanishing into a rectangle of blue beyond the glass. The room smells like fresh linens, wet marble, and a hint of sex from the last time we made love on this very bed.
He sets me down on the mattress, careful, almost reverent. The shirt rides up, exposing my thighs and the curve of my ass, and I let it. I want him to look. I want to be beautiful for him.
He kneels at the edge of the bed, takes both my feet in his hands, and starts with my calves. His hands are huge, the knuckles rough, but his touch is impossibly gentle. He kneads the muscle, working up to the backs of my knees, then higher, to my quads and the tops of my thighs. The linen bunches at my waist, the hem caught at my hips. His thumbs dig in, and every time he hits a knot, I gasp.
“Is this okay?” he asks, but he knows the answer.
“Yes,” I say. “God, yes.”
He smiles, then moves higher. His hands slide under the shirt, up the backs of my thighs, then over my ass, kneading the flesh, thumbs working in circles. I writhe a little, pressing my hips into the mattress, loving the way it makes me feel exposed, owned.
He keeps going, up to my lower back, then my shoulders, my neck. He makes me roll over, and I do, the shirt falling open at my chest. My giant tits spill out, nipples hard and pink in the cool air, and he doesn’t hide his appreciation. He rubs my shoulders, my collarbone, then brushes his fingers over my breasts, teasing, tracing, until I’m panting.
“Do you want more, my dirty little girl?” he says, voice low.
I nod, unable to speak.
He reaches into the drawer by the bed, pulls out a bottle of oil. The sight of it sends a jolt through my stomach.
He slicks my breasts with the oil, working it in, his fingers gliding over the skin, massaging deeper, pinching my nipples until I moan. Then he moves lower, one hand cupping my pussy through the shirt, the other still on my chest.
“Spread your legs,” he commands, and I do, the shirt bunched up around my waist, my cunt already wet and aching.
He strokes me, gentle at first, then harder, his fingers parting my folds, circling my clit until I’m squirming. The sensation is overwhelming—his touch, the oil, the knowledge that he’s watching every reaction. I reach for his wrist, needing to anchor myself, and he lets me, but never stops.
“You’re beautiful, baby,” he rasps, blue eyes alive. “So fucking gorgeous with your sloppy cunt and big tits. You were made to beDaddy’s little fuckdoll, to use and abuse as much as I want. Are you ready to get fucked now?”
I’m already mindless with need and unable to reply. In fact, I hardly notice Kent reaching for a velvet pouch by the bed, and when he opens it, I see the toy: a black silicone cock, thick and long and curved in a way that makes my cunt spasm just from the sight. He shows it to me, eyes gleaming, then slicks it with oil and presses it to my entrance.
“Ready?” he asks. “I got this from a sex shop in the red light district. Let’s see how much you like Italian cock.”
