Page 37 of Bad Men's Good Girl

She tastes like salt and sweet juices and desperation, and I can’t get enough. Can’t stop. Every hitch of her breath, every broken gasp drives me higher.

When she comes, it’s with my name tearing from her lips and my fingers buried inside her, curling just right. I lap at her through it, drawing out every tremor until she’s boneless beneath me, chest heaving.

But she's not content to just lie there—she's hungry in a way that steals all coherent thought. Before I can even catch my breath, before the aftershocks of her last orgasm have fully faded, she's twisting us over with shocking strength. The sofa cushions shift under our weight as she settles astride me, thighs bracketing my hips, her palms flat against my chest as she rises up.

Christ, her eyes—wide and dark as spilled ink at midnight, pin me in place like she's casting some ancient spell. There's not an ounce of hesitation in her, no playful teasing—just that unflinching intensity as she sinks onto me in one liquid, devastating movement that steals every last breath from my body. Her muscles clench tight as she takes me in completely, and for one suspended moment the entire fucking universe collapses down to this—the exquisite sensation of her enveloping heat, the sweat-slick press of her thighs against mine, the way her lower lip catches between her teeth as she adjusts to the stretch.

The world goes blinding white behind my eyelids, synapses firing wildly as every coherent thought disintegrates. Nothing exists beyond the dizzying rightness of her surrounding me, claiming me. Not the creak of the sofa beneath us. Not the distant hum of Roman traffic twelve floors below. Just her—her breath hitching above me, her fingers digging into my shoulders, the molten heat between her thighs where we’re joined. It’s all-consuming, obliterating—like she’s carved out a piece of the sun itself and pressed it between our bodies.

Then she begins to move, and every synapse in my body erupts into static. My thoughts dissolve into primal sensation,reduced to the maddening friction of her body on mine, the slick heat between us, the shuddering sounds she makes with each desperate roll of her hips.

She moves like she’s spent lifetimes waiting for this moment—like she’s memorized me long before ever touching me. Starts agonizingly slow, teasing, letting every inch of me sink deeper before withdrawing with deliberate, sensual strokes. My fingers dig bruises into the curve of her hips just to keep myself grounded. Her rhythm is methodical at first, maddeningly controlled, hinting at something wilder bubbling just beneath—but then, ah, then patience fractures.

Her control splinters, breaths ragged and broken, as she surges against me with reckless abandon. No hesitation now, no sweet torment—just hunger, raw and demanding. Her nails score possessive lines down my stomach, marking me as hers in the only way that matters, and I can’t help the groan that claws from my throat, rough and unraveled.

I grip her tighter, fingers pressed into the soft swell of her thighs, guiding but never steering. No—this is her command. Every snap of her hips casts a flickering shadow against the Roman skyline behind her. I whisper a declaration amidst our passionate movements:mine.Mine in the way her body trembles when I thrust up to meet her, mine in the ragged hitch of her voice when her control slips, mine in the way she crashes against me like she’ll never get enough.

And God, I hope she doesn’t.

The pristine sprawl of Rome stretches behind her like a Renaissance painting smeared by motion, centuries-old monuments reduced to mere background noise as my world narrows to her—the flutter of her lashes when pleasure crests again, the way her teeth sink into that plush lower lip when I shift beneath her, the delicious clench of her body around mine as she shudders through another climax. This time I letgo completely, fingers bruising into the lush curves of her hips as I surge up to meet her one last time, following her over that trembling edge with a groan that resonates deeper than the Roman catacombs beneath our feet possibly could.

She collapses on top of me bonelessly, her skin slick with sweat and sticking to mine. Chests heaving, hearts pounding—neither of us moves, neither of us speaks. Words would cheapen this moment. She—Christ, she’s the only tangible thing anchoring me to earth right now. The way her breath hitches against my collarbone, the lazy stroke of her fingertips along my ribs, the erratic staccato of her pulse where my lips press against her throat—she’s ruin and resurrection all assembled into one devastatingly beautiful woman.

And I’m utterly, irrevocably lost to it.

23

BALEIGH

The smell of Amos is everywhere—cedar, espresso, and the salt of his skin. It clings to my hair and coats my lungs, a heavy, heady reminder of the time we spent together, like I was the only solid ground in a shifting world. I should feel whole. I should feel like the protagonist of the best kind of story, the one where the girl finds herself under the Tuscan sun and falls into the arms of someone who sees her shadows and loves them anyway.

Instead, my chest feels like it’s being cinched tight by piano wire.

Every time I close my eyes and feel the memory of Amos’s hands, the image of Max flickers behind my lids. Max, with his quiet intensity and the way he challenges the very foundation of who I thought I was. He offered me a different kind of spark—one that felt like a bridge to a version of myself I never dared to dream of. My heart shouldn't have enough room for this. It’s a muscle the size of a fist, yet it’s stretching, tearing, trying to accommodate two entirely different futures at the same time.

I pace the narrow length of the terrace—the scene of our earlier crime—the cool terracotta tiles biting into my bare soles.The Roman skyline is a jagged silhouette of domes and ruins, ancient and indifferent to my mess. I’m a program assistant from North Carolina who couldn’t decide on a porch swing color six months ago, and now I’m standing in the wreckage of my own indecision.

If I choose Amos, I lose the sharp, intellectual fire Max lights in me. If I choose Max, I lose the steady, soulful earth of Amos. And the worst part—the part that makes me want to scream into the humid air—is that they’ve started talking to each other. They aren't fighting. They aren't posturing. They’re beinggood men, and that makes the guilt twice as caustic.

I'm going to ruin this. I’m going to be the reason this peace shatters. I came here to say yes to life, but I didn't realize that saying yes to one thing eventually means saying a devastating no to another. I can just feel the ticking of the summer clock in my pulse. Every sunset is a deadline I’m not ready to meet. I love them both, and that realization doesn't feel like a gift; it feels like a sentence.

The knockon my door isn’t the sharp, frantic rap of a man demanding answers. It’s two distinct thuds—one heavy and deliberate, the other light and rhythmic.

When I pull the heavy oak door open, Max and Amos are standing in the dim hallway of the villa. They aren't glaring. There’s no territorial posturing, no puffed chests or clenched jaws. Max leans against the stone doorframe, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, while Amos keeps his hands shoved deep into his pockets, a soft, weary smile tugging at his mouth.

"Don't worry, we aren't here to make you choose," Max says. His voice is a somber rumble, devoid of the academic authority he uses in the lecture hall. It’s just steady. "We saw you pacingthe terrace from the courtyard. You look like you’re carrying the weight of the Vatican on your shoulders."

"I... I don't know how to do this," I stammer, stepping back to let them in. The air in the room suddenly feels too thin. "I’m making a mess of everything. I’m hurting both of you."

Amos shakes his head, walking over to the window but keeping a respectful distance. "You aren't hurting us, Baleigh. We’re grown men. We’ve had a lot of time to talk—properly talk—while you were upstairs agonizing."

I look from Amos’s relaxed posture to Max’s calm gaze. Back home, a situation like this would have ended in a shouting match at a tailgate or a cold shoulder at Sunday service. People clung to what was hers or theirs. But here, in this ancient, beautiful chaos, they’re looking at me with nothing but patience.

"We know what this is," Max adds. "This isn't a competition we’re trying to win. We both care about you. That doesn't vanish just because the situation is complicated."

"But it shouldn't be this way," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I should have an answer."

"Why?" Amos asks, his eyes bright and sincere. "Because someone in North Carolina told you there’s only one right path? Baleigh, look where we are. Nothing about this summer follows the rules. Don't force a resolution just because you’re afraid of the silence."