CHAPTER 7
971 Words
Michael arrived the next day.
He texted me the moment he got home, while I was still at work, and relief hit me so sharply I had to sit down.
I missed him.
God, I missed him.
“What do you want for dinner?” he asked.
I knew exactly what I wanted.
“You. With a side of fries and ice cream.”
He sent a laughing emoji.
“I’m going to cook you a nice dinner… and then I’m going to have you for dessert.”
My whole body pulsed.
After everything — the fear, the dreams, the demon — I needed this release like oxygen.
The workday dragged painfully. Nothing left for me to do; they were just giving me meaningless tasks to justify keeping me in the building.
At 6 PM I put on my jacket and headed outside—
And froze.
Michael was standing in front of my office building.
Waiting for me.
I ran into his arms. He lifted me easily, laughing, his breath warm against my cheek.
“I didn’t want my girl falling on ice again,” he murmured. “From now on, I’m picking you up and driving you every day.”
I didn’t answer.
I kissed him.
Hard.
His lips were cold from the winter air, but his tongue was warm. That contrast… devastating.
I wasn’t sure we’d make it through dinner.
But when he opened his apartment door—
The smell hit me.
Warm spices.
A home-cooked meal.
Wine breathing in glasses on the table.
He had done all this for me.
I devoured every bite, every sip, and every lingering look he gave me across the table. There was kindness in his eyes — yes — but tonight there was also a quiet promise of something darker.
After dinner, I helped him clean up, though my hands were shaking with anticipation.
And then he grabbed my hand.
Pulled me softly toward the bedroom.
He kissed me as he undressed me, slow at first, then hungrier. His mouth on my neck, his breath on my skin, his fingers tracing my waist —
“I want to take a shower with you,” he whispered.
I let him lead me.
Clothes falling away like petals.
Inside the bathroom, the fog of steam wrapped around us. He turned on the water and let the showerhead glide over my skin — warm, gentle, teasing. One hand poured water down my curves; the other massaged my hips, my thighs, my waist…
By the time he placed the showerhead back and angled it toward the wall to create a curtain of falling water, my whole body trembled.
He pressed me against the tiles, kissing me deep and slow until I felt like I was unraveling.
His erection brushed between my legs and I whimpered.
I wanted him so badly it was almost painful.
His fingers slid between my thighs —
he felt exactly how ready I was.
“Mmm,” he murmured into my neck.
My knees weakened.
No more teasing.
No more waiting.
No more torture.
When he tried to slip a finger inside me, I caught his wrist.
Pressed myself against him.
Whispered, desperate:
“Please…”
That was enough.
He gripped my thighs, lifted me, and entered me in one deep thrust that broke a sound out of me I didn’t know I could make.
The shock of heat, the water cascading over us, his hands holding me up, his body driving into mine — everything collided at once. He moaned too, thrusting hard and fast, the tension of days exploding between us.
Just a few more thrusts and he came — loud, trembling.
But for me, it was only the beginning.
We moved to the bedroom, still dripping water, still breathless.
I came out first, drying my hair.
He followed with the towel low on his hips.
There is something sinful about a man with only a towel on.
Something primal.
I bit my lip watching him.
I dropped my towel onto a chair and walked toward him, stood on my toes, kissed him slow — almost reverent.
My hand slid down his stomach.
He hardened instantly.
He growled, biting my lower lip.
I undid his towel, dropped to my knees, and let my mouth take over.
He moaned my name — and it lit something in me.
I wanted to torture him back for making me wait all those nights.
The more he moaned, the wetter I became.
When he couldn’t take it anymore, he grabbed my hair gently but firmly, pulled me up, threw me on the bed, and entered me again — slow, deep, claiming every inch of me.
My body arched.
My legs wrapped around him.
My breath shattered into fragments.
He stretched my arms above my head, kissed me until I tasted his breath, then trailed down - my throat, my breasts, my stomach, until his mouth found me between my legs.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, clenching his hair, rolling my hips into his tongue. The pleasure cresting inside me was white-hot, relentless.
When I came — hard, trembling — he entered me again, riding out my orgasm with frantic thrusts that tipped him over the edge too.
He came, collapsing on me, both of us shaking.
We stayed like that — tangled, intertwined, breathing the same uneven breath.
He dragged his thumb over my lower lip, then kissed me again — slow and soft, like he was savoring me.
I didn’t want to go home.
I wanted to stay right there.
In his arms.
In his warmth.
In something that felt almost like safety.
And then — like a cold knife —guilt sliced through me.
Because I knew the truth.
There weren’t two of us in that bed.
There were three.
- Writer
