Page 55

I push her underwear aside.

Slide in with no warning, no lead-in—just the bare scrape of breath between us.

She’s wet.

Hot.

Tight like she wants to punish me for making her want this.

I move hard.

She grips the edge of the counter as though it’s the only thing keeping her from breaking.

It’s not gentle.It’s not slow.

It’s skin, heat, and the sound she makes when I don’t stop.

She pulls me closer with her legs.Tells me what she wants with the arch of her back, the scratch of her nails, the sound she makes when I hit the right spot.

I catch her mouth again.Swallow the sound.

When she comes—tight and pulsing around me—her eyes stay open.

Locked on mine.

And I know she’s memorizing everything.

So she can use it later.

I finish with a groan, buried deep.Hands braced on the counter like the room’s tilting.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then she exhales.

And says, “So… about that sandwich.”

28

Marlowe

The sandwich is ridiculous.

Brioche.Imported mustard.Cheese with a name I can’t pronounce and don’t care to learn.He didn’t make it.Obviously.But he handed it to me like he had, which might be worse.Like feeding the zoo exhibit and pretending it counts as enrichment.

Still, I eat it.Slowly.With the kind of eye contact that makes men think twice.

His posture says courtroom.Eyes say autopsy.

He leans on the doorframe like he’s waiting for me to say thank you, sorry, or maybe choke.When I don’t, he hands me a towel.

“Shower’s through there.”

“You joining?”

His mouth twitches.Not a smile—an acknowledgment.Like he hadn’t decided yet and now I’ve made the choice for him.

The water’s already on.Hot.Luxurious.The kind of pressure you don’t earn, you inherit.The bathroom’s stone and glass, no curtain, no privacy.Not that I was expecting any.There’s still blood under my nails.A streak on my shoulder.Probably not mine.