"Dinner," he says.
Maya closes her laptop and crosses to the counter. Without looking, she reaches for him. Their fingers interlace for three seconds before she picks up the plate. I watch the plate. The hand. The three seconds.
Maya brings the plate to the couch and sits between me and the arm, her feet landing in my lap like she owns the space.
"The story's done," she says between bites.
"Good?" I ask.
"Good." She looks at me, then at Dante, her eyes steady and her face still flushed from the deadline. "It's the best thing I've ever written."
Dante joins us at the couch and leans over to kiss her temple.
"It is," he says. "I read the last draft. It's extraordinary."
Maya points her fork at him. "You're biased."
"I'm accurate."
"You're both," I say.
Maya smiles, full enough that the room seems to move around it.
The kitchen light stays on behind us. Somewhere in Milan, Serena is probably planning a menu. Somewhere far away from this room, in a federal facility, David Ashford is serving the rest of a sentence that will outlast all of us.
The penthouse is quiet.
Maya
The bedroom is dark except for the lamp.
The gray sheets are tangled around my thighs, the California king stretches beneath us, and the original wool blanket sits folded at the foot of the bed. It migrated from the couch to the bed years ago and never left.
They're here. Both of them. Dante in front of me. Cole behind me. The warmth of two men in a bed that was bought to hold three people and has held us through everything.
Dante reaches for me first, his hand sliding along my hip with that controlled patience he uses when he wants me to feel every inch he takes. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls me across the sheets, careful now in the same hands that know exactly how to leave marks when I ask him to use his teeth.
Tonight, his mouth is warm. Patient.
"Come here," he says, low.
"I'm right here."
His fingers tighten on my hip. "Closer."
His mouth finds mine, and his hand slides from my hip to the curve of my ass, pressing me against him. Against my thigh, he hardens. The barbells pierced through his cock drag beneath the fabric, ridges unmistakable even through cloth, and four years later my thighs tighten before I can help it.
Cole rolls toward us until his chest fits against my back and his mouth finds my shoulder. His hand slides down my arm, over my hip, then under the hem of my shirt, palm flattening against my stomach and holding there.
Cole has touched me a thousand times, but his fingers still slow at every place that makes me react.
"You two started without me," he says against my skin.
"You were slow," Dante says.
Cole's mouth curves against my shoulder. "I was savoring."
"You were on your phone."
