He licked his lips, then wiped the corner of his mouth again, like he'd just finished something far less sinful.
I stared at him for a moment. Still catching my breath. Still heavy with the aftershocks of what he'd just done. But more than that—overwhelmed by the way he looked at me now. Like I was the one who should be flushed and flustered and proud.
I leaned forward slowly, curling a hand around the back of his neck.
"Come here," I murmured.
He let me pull him up gently from the floor, and I kissed him—deep, slow, with that molten kind of gratitude that tastes like surrender. He melted into it, warm and pliant, body draped across mine for a moment, his breath syncing with mine in uneven exhales.
But not for long.
I shifted him backward, guiding him down onto the couch, one hand on the small of his back, the other on his cheek. He landed with a soft grunt and a smile, arms falling loose over the cushions. Before he could say anything smart, I crawled over him—pressing him down, caging him gently between my body and the couch's velvet.
His thighs opened for me without needing to be told. His eyes darkened.
I hovered just above him, one palm braced beside his head, the other trailing down his chest through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. He looked good like this—hair messy, lips swollen, pupils blown wide beneath the flicker of streetlamp light slicing through the window.
"Let me return the favor," I whispered against his jaw.
He swallowed, but didn't speak.
Didn't have to.
I kissed along his neck, slow and purposeful, tasting salt and skin and satisfaction. His fingers dug into my shirt, not to push me away but to pull me closer. I smiled into the curve of his throat.
"You're always so loud when you're in charge," I teased.
He chuckled breathlessly. "And you're always so smug when you're about to ruin me."
I moved lower, kissed the hollow at the base of his throat, then the center of his chest.
"Not ruin," I said. "Worship."
My hand found the waistband of his boxers, teasing just under the hem as I settled between his legs, mouth working its way lower in soft, slow trails. Reed squirmed beneath me, one leg shifting over my hip, breath catching.
"You're killing me," he groaned.
"Not yet."
My hand slipped beneath the fabric, fingers curling around him—hot, hard, already so ready for me. He gasped, hips twitching, and I looked up at him as I began to stroke him slowly, keeping my pace maddeningly light.
His back arched when my mouth met his skin again—just below the waistband. He gripped the back of my neck, and I let him. Let him feel how gentle I could be. How patient. How thorough.
And then I took him into my mouth.
Reed's breathing was already unraveling. His fingers twisted in the fabric of the couch, the tendons in his neck strained just slightly, jaw slack with pleasure. Every time I sank lower around him, every flick of my tongue or curl of my fingers, he trembled—each moan growing less composed, more desperate.
He was close. I could feel it in the tension of his hips, the way he bit his bottom lip like he was trying to hold something back but didn't really want to.
I let my mouth slip off of him with a slow, deliberate drag. My hand stayed curled around his length, stroking just enough to keep him dizzy.
But when I felt him start to buck his hips again—seconds away from tipping over the edge—I stopped.
He gasped, wide-eyed, breath catching in his throat.
I looked up at him.
"Not yet," I said, quiet but certain.
His voice cracked somewhere between protest and disbelief. "You can't—"
"I can," I whispered, pressing a kiss just below his navel. "And I want to feel you lose it somewhere better."
I let go of him, finally, and rose to my knees, kissing my way up his body—slow, reverent. He was flushed and breathless, chest heaving, eyes searching mine like he wasn't sure whether to curse me or beg.
He didn't have to choose. I kissed him, slow and deep, swallowing his frustration, softening it into something warmer. My hands slipped under his shirt, fingers gliding along his waist, his ribs, until I pulled the fabric up and over his head in one clean movement.
God, he was beautiful like this. Limbs loose, mouth kiss-bitten, wanting.
I reached over to the side table, pulled my wallet free, and slipped the condom out from between the bills.
Reed watched me—silent now, but still breathing hard, eyes fixed to the way my fingers worked with practiced ease.
He didn't say anything as I slid off my pants the rest of the way, rolled the condom on, and leaned over him again. His hands rose instinctively to touch my sides, grounding himself.
I kissed him once. Then again, slower.
And as I positioned myself, I let my forehead rest against his, brushing our noses together.
"You ready?" I asked, just above a whisper.
He nodded, lips parted, breath hot against my cheek. "Yeah. Just—just don't stop this time."
I smiled against his skin. "Wouldn't dream of it."
And then I pressed into him—slow, steady, with a breath caught between restraint and surrender. His mouth opened, a soft sound escaping him as I slid deeper, my hands cupping the backs of his thighs, guiding him, holding him open for me.
We moved like that—slow, unhurried, every inch a conversation of its own.
And with every motion, every breath, I gave him what words couldn't.
Mine.
All of it.
Him.
He was so warm around me. Tight, trembling, welcoming in that way that undid me every time.
I stayed still for a breath. Maybe two. Let him adjust. Let the moment settle into our bones. His hands slid up my arms, then around my neck, and his legs hooked gently around my waist like he didn't want me going anywhere.
As if I ever could.
I started slow.
Drawing back just enough to feel the friction, then pushing back in with steady pressure, watching the way his lips parted, the soft curse that slipped out, the way his hands clutched me tighter. His back arched into me with each thrust, his body greedy for more, for closeness, for everything I wasn't saying.
"Rowan…" he breathed, barely audible, like a confession.
I leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. "I've got you."
My rhythm built gradually—each roll of my hips deeper, firmer, chasing the place inside him that made his whole body shake when I found it. He was clinging to me now, arms looped around my shoulders, one hand buried in my hair. His breath hitched every time I moved, and I could feel him trying not to fall apart too soon.
But I was falling already.
The restraint I prided myself on started slipping, melting beneath the way he felt, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing keeping him here. My pace quickened, the sound of skin against skin growing louder, the couch creaking beneath us as we moved together. His moans grew rougher, more desperate, the sounds catching at the edges like he didn't know whether to sob or kiss me.
I held his face as I drove into him—thumb brushing his cheek, forehead resting against his, trying to hold it all in, trying to remember how to breathe.
But Reed didn't let me hold back.
"Harder," he gasped, eyes glossy, half-lidded.
And I gave it to him.
Thrust after thrust, I lost whatever was left of my composure, chasing the sound of his voice, the feeling of his hands clawing at my back, the way he whispered my name like it meant something more than just identification.
His legs tightened around my hips, urging me deeper, and I gave it to him with everything I had.
I was no longer fucking him.
I was inside him like I belonged there.
He pressed his forehead to mine, and for a moment, there was nothing but breath and motion and the sound of two people trying not to disappear.
"I'm close," he panted.
I kissed him—deep, desperate, messy.
"Come for me," I said, voice hoarse. "I want to feel it."
And he did.
With a broken moan and a full-body shiver, he came between us, painting both our stomachs, his muscles clenching around me so hard I nearly lost it right there.
But I held on. Just long enough.
Long enough to press my mouth to his throat, thrust twice more, and fall apart inside him with a low, guttural sound I didn't recognize as mine.
We stayed tangled like that for a while—chests heaving, sweat cooling, limbs refusing to let go.
His fingers traced slow circles across my spine. My hand cupped the back of his head. No words.
There didn't need to be any.
Not right now.
Eventually, the silence between us changed. It wasn't heavy anymore—just full. The kind of quiet that settles after something real. My heartbeat was still slowing, pulse echoing faintly in my ears, but Reed's had evened out beneath me, his arms now loose around my neck, his breaths deeper. Calmer.
I pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder. Then another, just below his collarbone. "I'm going to pull out," I whispered, brushing the damp hair off his forehead.
He made a sound—half sigh, half hum of acknowledgment—but didn't speak. Just let his legs slip open a bit more, giving me room, trusting me completely.
I moved carefully, slowly easing out of him, one hand on his thigh to steady him, the other guiding myself as I withdrew. He winced slightly, more from sensitivity than pain, and I rubbed his hip gently in apology.
The condom was still intact. I took care of it quickly, tying it off, wrapping it in tissue from the table nearby, then carrying it to the bin in the bathroom with quiet steps. No ceremony. Just something done right.
When I returned, he was still lying there—bare, flushed, messy in the most beautiful way, eyes blinking slowly as he tracked me.
I didn't speak. Just grabbed the warm washcloth I'd run under the tap, knelt between his legs, and began to clean him with careful, precise strokes. Over his stomach first, where he'd spilled between us. Then further down, between his thighs, taking my time, never rough.
He watched me the whole time—eyes soft, mouth parted but silent.
"You always do that," he murmured when I rinsed the cloth.
"Do what?"
"Treat me like I'm made of something breakable… even after you've already proved I'm not."
I looked up, cloth paused in my hand. "Because you matter," I said simply. "And because softness shouldn't be rare."
He looked away for a second, blinking like that answer had caught him off guard.
When I finished, I leaned in and kissed the inside of his knee, just a brief press of lips before I rose and grabbed a T-shirt—mine—and slid it gently over his head.
He smiled as it draped over him, too big and familiar.
"Now you're dressing me too?" he teased, voice raspy with sleep.
"I'm making sure you don't get cold," I said, pulling a blanket over his legs and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Even you deserve basic decency."
"Even me, huh?" His fingers caught my wrist as I pulled away. "Come back down here."
I slid onto the couch beside him again. He rolled into me instinctively, head on my chest, legs tangled with mine. My arm curled around his shoulders, hand resting against his back.
His breathing slowed.
Mine matched.
I wasn't thinking about Sandro.
Not about threats. Not about strategy.
Just this.
Just him.
And the sound of Reed falling asleep against me like he hadn't just taken me apart and handed the pieces back with a smile.
I must have dozed off with him in my arms.
The weight of Reed curled against my chest, his breath soft and even, the faint sound of traffic far below… It lulled me. Maybe for ten minutes. Maybe for longer. Time had stopped mattering the moment he pressed his lips to my skin and made the world small again.
My phone buzzed once.
Then again.
I didn't want to move. Didn't want to break this.
But the third buzz jolted me—sharp, deliberate. Not a casual message. Not something that could wait.
Carefully, I reached over to grab the phone off the coffee table without disturbing Reed.
The screen lit up.
Margo:Get to the office now. Don't ask questions. Just come. It's urgent.
My stomach dipped.
Not a call. Not a voice. Just text. Which meant she didn't want anything recorded.
I slipped my arm out from beneath Reed, doing my best not to wake him, but the shift in pressure stirred him anyway. He blinked slowly, hair a mess, eyes unfocused and half-dreaming.
"Hey…" His voice was rough, barely there. "What happened?"
"Nothing bad," I lied, running a hand gently through his hair. "Just… something came up at the office. Margo needs me to drop by. Won't take long."
His brows furrowed. "Now? It's still dark."
"I know." I cupped his cheek. "You don't have to get up. Stay warm, alright?"
He reached out, curled his fingers around the edge of my shirt, holding it like he didn't want to let go.
"Just… come back, okay?"
"I promise," I whispered. "I'll be back before you even notice I'm gone."
I leaned down, kissed his forehead, then stood and moved through the motions like a ghost. A quick shower to wash off sleep and sweat, the heat not doing much to calm the unease beginning to crawl across the back of my neck.
I dressed fast. Efficient.
Before heading out, I paused at the edge of the room.
Reed had curled back into the couch, the oversized T-shirt hitched high on one hip, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, his face pressed into it like he was trying to hold onto the warmth I left behind.
He looked so peaceful. So unaware.
And I hated that the quiet was about to end.
I left with the weight of that image burned into me.
I didn't know then that this was the last moment of calm.
That the silence was already shattering.
The car ride was quiet.
No shuffle playlist. No traffic noise. Just the hum of tires against wet asphalt and my own thoughts grinding into the silence. Something about Margo's message had left a taste in my mouth that wouldn't go away. Urgency, yes. But not panic. It was… too composed. Too careful.
I parked three blocks away and walked the rest. Habit. Instinct. Or maybe a preemptive itch crawling up my spine.
The office lights were on.
Not the warm glow we usually left on overnight—but full, clinical brightness. The kind that made everything feel like a crime scene even when no one had died.
Yet.
Margo met me at the front door.
She was already standing there, arms folded, lips pressed into a line too flat to be neutral. She didn't speak as I approached. She didn't even move.
She just opened the door and let me step into the cold.
My footsteps echoed off tile and polished steel. No casual banter from Daniel. No background hum of monitors from Rado's corner. Just a void. A vacuum of something unspoken sitting too loud between the walls.
"What happened?" I asked, scanning the room.
Silence.
"Margo," I said, sharper now. "What happened?"
She didn't look at me. Not directly.
That's when my stomach dropped. Cold. Immediate.
"I need you to sit down," she said quietly.
"No," I replied, ice creeping into my voice. "Say it."
She finally met my eyes—and it was the way she looked at me that told me everything before her mouth even moved.
"He's dead, Rowan."
The words didn't hit like a punch.
They hit like stillness.
The kind that comes after something falls off a building and just… stops existing.
My brain didn't compute it at first. It echoed like a bad transmission.
Dead?
"When?"
She didn't answer right away.
I stepped closer. "When?"
Margo blinked once. "About four hours before you met Sandro at the opera."
The timeline rearranged itself in my mind like bones breaking into place.
Four hours.
Four hours before Sandro stared me in the face and smiled. Before he threatened me. Before he pointed a rifle at my head and talked about Emiliano in the past tense like it was some casual slip. Like he knew I didn't know.
Because he did.
He knew I didn't know.
And he watched.
My breath stilled. Everything clicked into place in dead silence.
The sniper wasn't just leverage—it was permission. He wasn't bluffing. He thought I was already alone. Thought the leash had already been cut. That I was exposed and stupid and sentimental enough not to see it.
He was right.
For about four hours, I operated under the illusion that Emiliano would be the shield behind me.
And Sandro let me.
He stood on that stage and watched me bluff my way through a play I didn't realize had already ended.
I sat down slowly, like gravity had finally noticed me again.
My hands rested on my knees. Still. Not clenched. Just... there.
Margo didn't speak. Neither did I. There was nothing left to say that wouldn't hollow the silence further.
Emiliano was dead.
And had been—while I stood under a spotlight with a rifle aimed at my skull, bluffing through a conversation I didn't know was already a eulogy.
I thought I'd been holding pieces. I thought I had time.
But the truth settled in with a cold precision: There's no one left above me now.
No leash. No shield. No soft warnings. Just me, standing in the open, while every man I thought I could outplay already knows I'm alone.
I'm not protected. Not backed. Not safe.
And Sandro knew.
He let me walk into that opera house thinking I still had the weight of Emiliano behind me, just to watch me posture. Just to see how long I'd keep playing a game he'd already won.
And now?
Now the board wasn't flipped.
It was burning.
And I was still sitting on it.