Page 32 of Knight
I can feel my orgasm building—a pressure at the base of my spine, a tightening in my balls. I don't want it to end. But I can't stop. My thrusts become erratic, losing their rhythm, my hips snapping forward with a desperate urgency. My fingers work her clit faster, rubbing that slick nub with frantic circles, desperate to bring her with me.
She's close. I can feel it in the way her pussy clenches around me, in the way her thighs shake, in the high, keening sound that escapes her throat. I slam into her one final time and explode.
The orgasm rips through me like a detonation—my cock pulsing inside her, filling her with jet after jet of hot cum. I groan through clenched teeth, my whole body shaking with the force of it, my hand still gripping her hair, my fingers still working her clit. I fuck through my orgasm, thrusting weakly as I empty myself into her, my cum flooding her pussy, spilling out around my cock, dripping down her thighs.
She feels it—the hot semen filling her—and her whole body goes rigid. I hear her gasp, a sharp intake of breath, and then she's telling me, her voice broken and ragged, that she can feel it, feel the heat of my cum inside her, feel it spreading through her, and it's sending a bolt of pleasure through her body, a peak of euphoria she's never known before. Her words dissolve into moans, into incoherent sounds of pleasure, as her orgasm crashes over her.
Her legs are trembling—visibly shaking as her orgasm peaks. Her pussy clenches around me in waves, milking every last drop from my cock, spasming and clenching and pulling medeeper. Her back arches, her hands claw at the couch cushions, and a scream tears from her throat, muffled by the fabric but still loud enough to fill the room. I can feel the wetness between us—her cum and mine mixing, dripping, pooling on the leather beneath us.
Her orgasm seems to go on forever, wave after wave of pleasure rolling through her body. I hold myself inside her, letting her ride it out, feeling each spasm, each tremor, each gasp. Finally, slowly, her body begins to relax. Her legs stop shaking. Her breathing evens out, still ragged but no longer desperate. I collapse beside her, my cock slipping free, and we both lie there on the couch—panting, sweating, wrecked.
The jazz still plays softly from the speakers. The city lights still glitter through the floor-to-ceiling windows. But none of it matters. Nothing exists outside this moment. Outside her.
My hand finds hers. Our fingers intertwine. Her small hand fits perfectly in mine, her palm still damp with sweat, her fingers curling around mine with a gentleness that seems impossible after what we just shared. Neither of us speaks. There's nothing to say.
Afterward. Silence.
The penthouse holds its breath around us. She's lying against my chest with her hair spilling across my skin and her fingers tracing absent patterns over my ribs. My arm is wrapped around her waist like I'm afraid she'll dissolve if I let go.
The office was different. After the office she pulled her clothes on and saidthis doesn't change anythingand I let her believe it because I needed to believe it too.
She doesn't say it this time - she doesn’t say anything.
She gets up. Pulls her shirt over her head. Steps into her jeans. I watch every movement — the deliberate way she gathers her hair, the way her hands shake once before she steadies them.
At the elevator she turns. Her bag is on her shoulder. Her sneakers are on. She looks at me standing in my living room wearing nothing but sweatpants and the wreckage of every rule I built to keep her exactly here — at arm's length, under control, a transaction I could walk away from.
She doesn't speak. Her silence says everything.
The elevator doors close and she's gone.
I stand in the penthouse that smelled like nothing three hours ago and breathe in cocoa butter and citrus and clean cotton and something underneath all of it that is just her.
The arrangement is a fiction.
I know it. She knows it.
Neither of us is ready to say what comes next.
6
nova
The Other World
The Room Full of Dangerous Men
He didn't tell me where we were going.
He saiddinnerthe way someone saysTuesday— flat, ordinary, a word designed to keep me from asking follow-up questions. I was already in his car before I realized we'd passedevery restaurant in the city and were climbing into hills I didn't know existed on this side of the river.
The Rivas estate sits behind iron gates that open without Romeo slowing down. A guard nods as we pass. Another one watches from a stone guardhouse with a posture I recognize — the same coiled readiness I've seen in bouncers before a fight, except this man has a holster visible beneath his jacket and the kind of face that has never once been required to smile.
The house is massive. Stone and glass and old money soaked into every surface. The driveway alone is longer than my block on Delancey. Romeo parks between a matte black SUV and a sedan that costs more than I will earn in five years of six-hour shifts and I sit in the passenger seat for three seconds longer than I should, counting the security cameras I can see from this angle.
Four. There are four just on the front of the building.
"You good?" Romeo asks, already opening his door.
