mierdüc

the black crochet dress you’ve chosen does little to hide the artwork blooming across your ribs and side —cherry blossoms trailing delicate branches upward, deep crimson hibiscus flowers anchoring the bottom of the piece. the dress pattern plays a delicate game of reveal and conceal, the geometric cutouts creating shadows across your skin.

the tattoo had been your first act of self-reclamation after your mother’s scandal, something beautiful that was entirely yours, that your mother would hate, that marked you as different from the corporate princess she'd tried to shape. you had it done to remind yourself that you were alive, that you could feel the sharp teeth of a needle as you grew lightheaded on the table. your head had rocked onto your extended arm, eyes fluttering as your artist played your favorite songs.

though you were the middle child and constantly overlooked, the media honed in on you in the moments when the story broke. you were quiet and so they thought you were weak. you weren’t, but you thought maybe it would be easier if you possessed less hardship and gathered more time for dreaming.

you’re turned away, but you feel her studying you as the conference leaders drone on about the team events and itinerary for the next three days, her eyes tracing the pink petals visible through the dress's intricate pattern work. the way she looks at it—analytical, appreciative, maybe even possessive—makes heat curl in your stomach. it dissipates as your name is called and everyone’s wide, capitalistic vision tunnels straight onto you.

you hear your mother in your head, a soft venomous ring. really? a tattoo? this dress? jesus. you look like some common street rat. maybe she resented you so much because you looked the most like her.

someone’s soft laugh follows you through the crowd, warm as sunshine, as you retreat in on yourself. in the distance, someone remarks on what a beautiful day it is, what a pleasure it is to be here. you do everything to not look at her. so, you look back at the bonsai tree in the middle of the hotel lobby.

✧

of course, there's dinner. it takes place on a boat, a large gleaming yacht with an extended diving board where one can sit and pretend to be princess diana. you watch it with a distant expression, the night encroaching onto the day and chilling you.

your silk shawl—soft and golden, still carrying that hint of cinnamon and smoke that was uniquely hers—slips against your bare shoulders as the sea breeze picks up. from the yacht's upper deck, the coastline glitters like scattered diamonds, but all you can focus on is the weight of familiar fabric against your skin. you'd told yourself you wouldn't bring it, wouldn't wear anything of hers to the summit. yet here you are, wrapped in her ghost—like you're twenty-three again. but she had been your whole world back then and she still was your whole world now.

you press a hand to your head, your rings flashing like car headlights in a rearview mirror. the crystal tumbler in your hand catches the dying light.

seven years. seven years of building yourself into someone new, someone who could stand at these heights without feeling like an imposter. someone who could look ambessa medarda in the eye as an equal.

you feel her presence before you see her—in a way that both feels oppressive and comforting. the weight had always been comforting, had always been grounding when you felt like a frantic unraveled girl. you used to curl into her, when you slept together, with every part of yourself digging into her strength as if it would make it easier to weather the realities of life. you think of the summer you spent working underneath her, the way you used to lie so transparently so that you could escape to her family’s haunt in the countryside. you had pulled sheet after sheet from the lurking furniture as if you were loosing ghosts.

when you turn, she's standing at the far end of the deck, backlit by the sunset. still devastating in every meaning of the word, still wearing power like a second skin. her eyes catch on the shawl, and something flickers across her face: recognition, possession, regret. you can't bear to name it.

"the joie rosé was always your favorite for sunset." her voice carries across the space between you, rich and dangerous. "some things don't change."

you’re an animal in your basest form and with this comes the concept of being trained, so your body relaxes slightly at her voice. she takes the movement as an invitation to move closer, to settle tenderly next you. you wonder if she still finds you beautiful or if that disappears when you grow older, losing more of the innocence between ages.

you take another sip, letting the bitter-sweet wine coat your tongue. "some things do." the crystal catches the light again as you lower it. like discovering the woman who taught me to read quarterly reports was systematically destroying my mother's company, you think.

"your mother destroyed herself." her voice is hard, unflinching. she was never one to beat around the bush. ambessa's heels click against the deck as she moves even closer, two measured steps. "i merely ensured the evidence found its way to the right hands."

“is that all you have to say to me?” you ask quietly and her face tightens. “you ruined my life.”

“i only pushed you forward,” she argues and you have to look away from her face, because she is so pleading. “you were the best of your family, you know this. what you’ve done—transforming your mother’s legacy in the way that you have—no one else could’ve taken it on.”

“it was only a slap in the face,” you say. she settles back, her hand falling to twitch awkwardly at her side.

“that wasn’t the intention at all,” she answers. “i never intended to hurt you, darling.”

darling. the word hangs between you like smoke. your hands clench around the crystal, wondering how many times she practiced that casual cruelty in the mirror. how many times she's used it to devastating effect on other women who dared to love her too much.

“i used to love when you call me that,” you tell her. “you were it for me. then and now.”

you go inside.

✧

seven years ago.

9 am sharp, you stand before that same desk like a supplicant, throat tight with words that don’t fully belong to you.

she's reading something on her tablet, making you wait. a classic power play, though you'd learned to find it endearing. the morning sun catches on her rings as she scrolls—including the jade band you'd brought her from that weekend in singapore. your matching one feels like it's burning your skin.

you study her in this deep sunlight. you think of how she once seemed surprised that you found her so beautiful. it had been right after a moment of surrender, your bare legs settled across her lap and the city scene reflecting back soft blinks of pink and blue. you'd kissed her wide shoulder, nosed at her neck until she lowered her mouth so that you could suckle at it. you had been sex-softened and slip-mouthed and without thinking you let your thoughts reveal themselves.

sometimes, i find you so beautiful that i have to bite down on something or i'll scream. i can't bite you because if i get your blood in my mouth, i'll never be the same again.

it was scripture that belonged in the deep recesses of your journal, the one hidden in the drawer of the bedside table. the one you hoped she'd one day read, if only to understand your endless affection. it wouldn't be a breach of privacy at that moment; it would only be that gap finally closed. your love would no longer be lost in translation.

she'd tugged on your hair—silvery-pink then—and smiled indulgently. you think far too much of me. the words had been spoken carelessly, but you'd wanted to cry. of course you did. she'd been the only one to pierce through your hardened shell, who'd looked past the rhinestone nape piercing that glittered in the light and had decided what mattered was the grey matter in your head.

yeah, you'd said.

"if this is about the stewart portfolio, i've already—" she looks up, words dying as she registers your expression. "close the door."

singapore fades away. you do. the soft click feels like a gunshot. you sway a little. you feel sickly.

"i can't do this anymore." the words, despite it all, come out steady, rehearsed. you'd practiced them in your bathroom mirror for an hour, watching yourself become a stranger. "the internship, us, any of it."

ambessa sets down her tablet with deliberate care. you recognize the gesture; it's what she does when she's buying time to think, to strategize. you've learned all her tells over these past months, cataloged each micro-expression like precious metal.

"sit." her voice is neutral, controlled. when you don't move, something flashes in her eyes. "please."

that 'please' nearly breaks you. ambessa medarda doesn't say please to anyone. except she does, in the dark, when you're tangled in her sheets and her composure is finally, beautifully fractured. you almost let out a whimper as you raise a ringed hand to your head, then lower it.

you usually excelled at being mean. it was easy to be mad at the others: at your cruel mother, your passive father, your hybrid sisters. your bloodline was a war zone; it was a learned thing to fight for territory, to make others stay down. but the sludge, the vicious nature of your genes struggled to rise against the fortress that was the woman before you.

"i'm not a child," you say, gripping the back of the visitor's chair instead of sitting. your knuckles whiten against the leather. "i won't be a liability to you."

"is that what you think you are?" she rises, movements liquid as a predator's. the height difference between you feels electric—you in your sensible intern heels, her in the louboutins you'd watched her put on this morning, sitting on the edge of her bed. "a liability?"

"the board—"

"the board serves at my pleasure." she rounds the desk, close enough that you catch the lingering notes of her perfume—amber and smoke and something uniquely her. "try again. do not lie to me."

your lips part, but no sound comes out. she's too close. she's always been too close, from that first meeting when she'd looked at your resume and seen something worth cultivating. worth ruining.

"your mother came to see you last night."

it's not a question. you flinch anyway.

"maddie saw her leaving your building." ambessa's hand rises, hovers near your cheek without touching. "what did she say to you?"

everything. nothing. threats wrapped in maternal concern. the photos spread across your coffee table like evidence of a crime.

think of your future. think of your reputation. you're playing with fire, darling, and she'll let you burn. the way her face mottled with rage as you claimed indifference. i will bury her alive. she isn't that powerful.

"it doesn't matter." you step back, away from her hand, her heat, her gravity. "she's right. this was always going to end."

"look at me."

you can't. if you do, you'll shatter. or worse, you'll beg. please don't let me go. please choose me. please prove her wrong. please protect me.

"[name], look at me."

you look at the miniature bonsai tree on her desk, stretching bravely into the air. right next to it is an art print—two stars humanized into two women wrapped around each other. you'd painted that.

"very well." her voice turns clinical, distant. "hr will process your resignation this afternoon. take the day to clear your desk."

you turn to leave, legs somehow still working. her voice stops you at the door.

"cowardice doesn't suit you."

you don't look back. can't bear to see if she's watching you walk away or already returned to her tablet, to the empire that will always matter more than a summer's indiscretion with an intern who dared to want too much.

the ring stays on your finger until you reach the elevator. you rip it off, throw it. pick it up. it will then move to a chain around your neck, where it will rest for the next few years, tucked beneath choppy blouses and delicately inked skin, a constant reminder of what happens when you destroy yourself in the midst of your best years.

outside the building, you finally bite down. the flesh of your tongue splits, but it's only your own blood in your mouth. from above, ambessa watches you shake on the sidewalk. this is her final flesh and blood memory of you for the time being: white teeth covered in blood as you cover your face with one hand, and hug yourself with the other. your tears are a pale, foamy pink by the time they roll to the end of your face.

now.

dinner is an exquisite torture. you're seated across from her because of course you are, the universe has always had a particularly chafing sense of humor. the candlelight catches in her necklaces as she gestures, commanding attention from the venture capitalists flanking her. you watch her hands move and remember how they felt on your skin, in your hair, gentling you through board presentations and bedroom vulnerabilities alike.

you were it for me.

you take a large gulp of water, followed by a rather ambitious swallow of your aperol spritz. the bitter aftertaste slimes down your throat, and your head swings down briefly as you try valiantly not to throw up.

your mother taught you to wear perfume at pressure points: behind the ears, inside the wrists, behind the knees. places where the heat of your body makes the scent bloom. you wonder if ambessa can smell her own scent on the shawl still draped around your shoulders, if she remembers teaching you about different kinds of pressure points entirely.

the wine keeps flowing. your leg twitches and knocks into the knobby knee of another guest. you apologize to her, anxiety slurring your words, which the woman takes as an invitation to strike up a conversation. you're too aware of ambessa, of the way she cuts her food into precise bites, how she tilts her head when listening, the exact angle of her wrist as she lifts her glass. your skin feels too tight like you're twenty-three again and desperate for her approval.

you try to feign interest in whatever this other woman is saying. your hand shakes as you reach for your drink again, sloshing wildly. you feel unstable, must seem like it too. you press a hand back toward your nape piercing, bearing down as if the gem will strike bone and send a reverberating, placating chime through your body.

your mother's voice slices through your thoughts. so obvious. so needy.

you excuse yourself before dessert, fleeing to your hotel room like a spooked deer. the dress suddenly feels too revealing, the pattern work exposing too much of your rabbit-quick pulse, your trembling hands, your cherry blossom vulnerability. you stumble upon your exit, almost taking a crystal vase down with you. you cover your mouth in embarrassment, apologizing to the waitstaff who already have a lip curled at your exposed body. you tuck your fingers together subconsciously, hoping that the interlaced limbs will better hide the minimalistic stars inked across them.

you've left your clutch, but you only remember this when you shudder into your room. you practically break the door down, nails scrabbling across the smooth face of the keycard which you'd slipped into the half cup of your cherry red lace bra.

your hotel suite feels too small after the dinner, skin electric with unspent energy. you've already paced the length of it a dozen times, kicked off your heels, poured and abandoned two glasses of wine. the shawl—the fucking shawl—lies across the bed where you dropped it, a splash of accusatory gold against white sheets.

seven years of carefully constructed composure, undone by one conversation. one look. one confession.

your mother's voice slices through your thoughts: shameful. always wanting more than you deserve.

you're halfway through your second minibar whiskey when the knock comes. it startles a soft curse from your lips. it's too late for housekeeping, too early for the morning's briefings. but you know, with bone-deep certainty, who it is. you don't need to ask. your body already knows, leaning toward the door like a flower tracking the sun.

through the window, the water is riotous and the yacht bobs fearfully. you let out a bleak little laugh at the thought of everyone inside being flung to and fro, like a snow globe shaken by a child's hand. eventually, you find it inside of you to move, to reach out a manicured hand and bend the door handle with perfect pressure.

but when you open it, the hallway is empty. your clutch sits perfectly centered on the threshold, its gold clasp gleaming under the hotel's lights. beside it, cut with military precision, lies a piece of cake. it’s a thick slice, mulberry-colored and dripping cream all over its porcelain plate. a fork is set gently behind its high back, and a note is tucked in between its side and the winking body of your clutch.

you bend and crouch as you read. the paper is thick with the spray of cinnamon, but you are unsure of if it is your imagination or an honest moment occurring. ‘you missed the end of things,’ she’s written, ‘but i know you always liked odd, sweet things. this is a plum cake with a hint of dark chocolate.’

you’re not sure what makes you cry again, if it’s the sweetness of the action or the idea that the two of you still think of one another even at the most inappropriate of times.

✧

you wake early.

the world appears as rocky as you feel. your head pulses with its own malignant rhythm—an endless crashing of waves upon jagged shore. you breathe in and out, attempting to strengthen yourself as you roll out of bed.

sleep had come in fits and starts, punctuated by dreams of silk-smooth hands and cinnamon-scented paper. your body had been so warm when you awoke in the middle of the night that you thought you'd spent the night in an invisible flame. it was only the heat turned up far too high.

the empty plate from last night's plum cake sits quietly on your nightstand, fork placed loosely across its filling-stained surface. you rove your tongue around your back molars, hoping there is still something sweet left to soothe you.

the summit's first breakfast is at seven, but you're in the hotel's breakfast room by six-fifteen, seeking refuge in routine. you're in your favorite cotton shorts and sleep-soft tee, wrapped in that chunky cardigan you bought yourself after your first successful quarter as ceo. your hair is clipped up messily, letting the silver of your nape piercing catch the morning light. dark glasses hide the evidence of a mostly sleepless night. you're barely faking it, but that's alright. you go home in two days anyway.

the conference room they've chosen is all gleaming surfaces and sharp angles, still peaceful before the day begins in earnest. you claim a corner table, ipad propped up as you lose yourself in quarterly projections and marketing plans. you collect advertisement ideas en masse, your screen a wall of brutally bright pinks and oranges. your team has said something about a tropical feel. you hope they can work with this.

your coffee has gone lukewarm, cream-pale and mostly forgotten as you scribble in your journal, trying to turn feelings into something manageable, something that can be analyzed and solved like a business problem.

eventually, you forgo writing about business ideals and let your handwriting laze, drifting childishly as you begin to drain yourself of her.

i had a dream that i was a young girl, mangled and bloody in the middle of the road. we'd been in a car crash, the two of us. i could smell the pop of melting rubber but my body was strawberry-sweet, maybe even bubblegum. i thought of looking up the meaning when i woke up but i already knew all of its twisted symbolism. i miss her. i miss my age of innocence, when i thought we would last forever.

the room slowly fills with the quiet murmur of people who make more money before breakfast than most see in a month. you recognize most of them from your mother's parties, from board meetings where you sat too straight and spoke too softly. you never had the energy to be loud and self-important. if they couldn't hear you unless you were shouting, then they didn't want to hear you at all.

they're all crisp suits and perfect hair, faces arranged in expressions of polite interest as they negotiate over coffee and croissants. you think of the robin's-egg blue day dress on the side of your bed, the one you'd laid out last evening and then slept on. you think of it all wrinkled and bedraggled, and decide that your cardigan will do just fine for today.

you shut your journal with a flick of your wrist and smile just as politely when you make eye contact with the woman from last night, the one whose knee you'd accidentally knocked around. you hadn't really looked at her during the commotion at dinner but now, as she smiles back a bit more genuinely than the rest, you recognize that gap-toothed smile. maddie nolan. ambessa's long-time executive assistant. she'd moved up now, headed off legal.

"rather casual for a summit, wouldn't you say?" the comment comes from somewhere behind you, just loud enough to be intentional. you don't bother turning around, though it snaps you fully out of your emotional haze.

you squeeze your eyes shut, try to think of other things.

"actually," ambessa's voice cuts through the murmur neatly, "her relatability—even in terms of dress—is exactly how she turned her mother's failing empire into one of our most innovative partners." you look up to find her watching you with that familiar intensity, the one that used to make you feel stripped unbearably bare. "the ability to remain authentic while others play at perfection; it's a rare gift in our world."

you don't have to turn to know she's staring down whoever made the comment. your body recognizes her presence before your brain does, a response you never quite managed to unlearn. you reach a hand back to press down on your nape piercing but find her hand there instead. it's warm and large and sweeping. you squeeze your eyes shut once more.

when you finally look at her properly, she's examining you with the same careful attention she once used to evaluate employee reviews. she lifts her hand off of your neck, plays with a few wisps of baby hair before ceasing her touch altogether. with her, it was so easy to forget that there were other people in the room.

"you're here early," she says, sliding into the seat across from you. you try not to stare at her lips, try not to remember how they used to feel crushed against your skin.

"couldn't sleep," you admit, because she'd know if you lied. she always knows. "thought i might as well get some work done."

she gestures at your journal. "thinking hard?"

"i was. mostly about cake," you quip, taking a sip of your cold coffee. "i'm not sure what i did to deserve midnight dessert delivery."

"you left before the end." her eyes track over your face, lingering on what you're sure are obvious signs of a sleepless night. "i've never known you to leave things unfinished. plus, i know—you like to snack in the evenings. even though it's not good for you."

you catch the slip and smother a smile. in your head, this is a perfect moment. it's similar to the way it was before. you hum in agreement, take another sip of heat-dead coffee. her words carry weight, heavy with history. you adjust your sunglasses, grateful for the barrier they provide.

"maybe i'm learning to pace myself."

"are you?" she reaches for your coffee cup, fingers brushing yours as she takes it. you watch her walk to the coffee station and return with a fresh cup—perfectly pale, exactly how you like it. "the early morning work session suggests otherwise."

you accept the coffee, trying not to think about how she still remembers exactly how you prepare it. "some things are worth losing sleep over," you say, and you pretend you're talking about work.

she looks at you knowingly, and you peer at her intensely through your glasses. she has more grey along her temples, but with most of it braided back into a spectacular bun, it's only the lines by her eyes that remind you of her inevitable aging. you want her to live forever.

"i was surprised to hear of you taking over. i thought—i mean as i said before, this was ideal, but i thought the reins would be handed to your older sister."

"i did too," you say quietly. "i wanted to open up my own architecture firm."

"like your father," ambessa says. you smile sadly, and she follows the dip of your mouth.

"yes, exactly. but my mother decided to punish me because of our… involvement. so, i ended up here."

"you're good at it."

the statement is said carefully, and you stiffen.

"i hate it," you get out.

"i know," she says, and it's a whisper.

there's a clear of a throat and the two of you look up to see maddie hovering, her smile not unkind. her energy is urgent, and ambessa seems to remember herself.

"duty calls," she says, and her voice holds that same devastating gentleness from her note. "but i'd like to see you later. we could do lunch?"

you know what it means if you say yes.

you say yes.

ambessa's face breaks into a full smile, and you look away. she walks to the front of the room, dove-gray jumpsuit displaying the muscled plane of her back.

"good morning, everyone." her voice carries that same command it held last night, but there's something else there too. you sit back, wrap yourself up in your sweater. she looks at you, three seconds too long. you raise your sunglasses to the top of your head, let them nest in your hair as you reveal your gaze, eyes wide like the moon. "shall we begin?"

✧

lunch is at a little place on the strip that’s clearly meant for those who romanticize small islands like this without engaging with the realities of what it means to live here full-time.

the restaurant is a compilation of tightly tiled ceilings and honey-gold light, the kind of place that doesn't put prices on the menu though the ingredients suggest a rather high cost. your dress—lilac and slightly stained by ocean water at the hem—floats around you as you follow the maître d' to a corner table trying not to fidget with your hair. you'd let it air dry after your shower, and now it’s loose in a particular manner that makes you feel younger than you'd like.

ambessa is already there, of course. her champagne-colored mock neck shirt is crisp against her dark skin, and you notice she's wearing the garnet earrings you gave her for her birthday in that last year. the sight of them makes your chest tight.

"you look lovely," she says as you sit, and her voice has that particular warmth that always makes you feel seen. known.

“thank you,” you say, your tone measured. you find a glass of something fizzing and grapefruit pink just up to your right.

“it’s passionfruit. i figured you would like to try it.”

your face crumples briefly, your eyes rimmed with tears like clear eyeliner. you blink them away, snapping your napkin out of its folds and into the air so that you have a moment to blink them away as the fabric hides your face. you tuck it over your lap, your collar bones straining like tectonic plates you clench your jaw. you smooth your dress, hyperaware of how the fabric clings and flows.

"i wasn't sure about the dress, but it's too hot for anything else."

"it suits you." her eyes linger on your bare shoulders before she takes a sip of water. "i'm sure you've been melting. the heat's been brutal back home."

you often forget that you live in the same area for at least a quarter of the year. you tried as hard as you could to live in your second home, a kind flat tucked away in the desert of australia. it was cool and sometimes yielded the largest spiders you had ever seen, but it was worth it because it was your own and unlinked from the chain of your corporate responsibilities.

"the brownstone stays pretty cool, actually. all that old stone. i live in one of those neighborhoods where they want to preserve its historical integrity. even the library is called something quaint and vintage like…oh, right. the lempicka library. after the painter." you realize your mistake when her hand stills on her glass.

"lempicka?" there's something careful in her voice. "in ochre heights?"

you close your eyes briefly. you can see colors dancing anxiously across the darkness.

"yes."

"i'm on yew lake avenue." the words hang between you. "three blocks from the promenade."

"i know," you say quietly. "i've seen you sometimes, early mornings. you still run the same route."

ambessa sets her glass down with deliberate precision. "seven years," she says, "and we've been what, ten minutes apart?"

"i moved there two years ago. i’m never there long enough to be truly bothered anyway." you study the menu without reading it. "plus, it was a welcome move. after the engagement."

"engagement?" now she's the one who looks startled. "i hadn't heard—"

"we broke it off. it was quiet. we both wanted it that way." you finally meet her eyes. "she was kind. patient. but she knew i was still—" you stop, reach for your water.

“[name],” she begins and you swallow.

“it’s alright. it’s worse when people begin to pity me.”

the waiter appears, and you're grateful for the interruption. the world is still considerably bright outside and the glow of the glass makes the inside seem more shadowed. you look away, let your menu dangle uselessly from your hand as you watch a bird swoop into the ocean. you wonder if it’s feeding or just overly warm. maybe it’s as irrational as you feel.

ambessa orders for both of you with that easy authority she's always had, and you don't even mind because she still remembers exactly what you like.

"still what?" she asks when you're alone again.

“hmm?” you say, looking away from the sea.

“you said you were still…?”

you trace a drop of condensation down your water glass. "in love with someone else."

the silence stretches between you, thick with possibility. outside, a breeze catches an awning and makes it snap. your dress ripples against your skin as another couple skirts around the two of you. you watch the woman drape an arm over the man’s, her body twisted like rope as she laughs at someone he says.

"i see you too, you know," ambessa says finally. "saturday mornings at that little café on montague. you always get the same thing – almond croissant, oat milk latte. you sit by the window and write in your journal.”

you look back at her, and your mouth slacks with surprise. she leans over, closes it, and lingers on your bottom lip before settling back in her seat.

your breath catches. "why didn't you ever—"

"what would i have said?" her hand moves back across the table, stops just short of yours. "'i'm sorry i let your mother manipulate us apart'? 'i'm sorry i didn't protect you in the way that you were quietly asking for'?"

"she told me she'd ruin you." the words tumble out, seven years too late. "said she had evidence of misconduct and inappropriate behavior. she would have made sure you never worked again. yes, i was twenty-three but you were in your forties then, almost fifty. the world would’ve torn you apart."

ambessa's laugh is sharp. "oh, sweetheart. i had enough dirt on her to bury her ten times over. she knew that. nothing she could’ve pulled would have stopped her from falling."

"then why—"

"because she knew you'd believe her. that you'd do anything to protect me." her fingers finally bridge the gap, brushing against yours. "my brave, foolish baby."

the touch sends electricity up your arm. you think about running into each other at neighborhood spots all these years, both of you pretending not to see. all that wasted time. all the tears you shed on the plane ride back to your other home, that other place so unblemished and devoid of her.

"i'm not that woman anymore," you say, but you turn your hand palm up under hers.

"no," she agrees, tracing your lifeline with her thumb. "you're so much more."

the waiter returns with wine, and you both pull back slightly. but something has shifted, settled. outside, the world moves in its eternal rhythm, but here in this golden afternoon light, time feels suspended.

"tell me about the architecture firm," she says, and you look up sharply. "the one you still want to open."

"there’s no use getting stuck on a dead dream," you tell her.

"it doesn’t have to die, sweetheart" she takes another sip of wine, and you watch her throat move. "i have some contacts in sustainable development. if you're interested."

you feel something crack open in your chest, warm and aching. "i'd like that," you say softly.

you lean forward, let your dress pool forward so that she can see down the front, see the small-as-sin wolf-head tattoo right between your breasts.

“would you like to take a walk?” you ask.

her smile was always your fool’s gold.

✧

of course, the walk leads back to her hotel room.

as it always is, the beginning is awkward. you were never good at just falling into bed with people, but at least you were sleeping with someone you love. at first, you’re unsure of how to move. you keep thinking, so hard that your limbs are sluggish and stilted. but ambessa keeps pushing, begins to open you up.

carefully, she maneuvers you so that you walk backward until your knees jerk against the edge of the bed. one of her hands is wrapped around the base of your neck, while the other angles your face until your lips slot together perfectly. almost immediately, her tongue snacks inside of your mouth.

you let out a moan at the pressure, your body softening as she claims it. you stumble a bit and fall backward, but ambessa doesn’t let go. you want to laugh at the way she keeps gripping you, at the way she crawls on top of you and is practically eating you alive. but you don’t because the situation isn’t that funny, and you more than understand her desperation.

you break the kiss with a wet gasp, then drag her back in. she sits up slightly, hands sliding underneath your thighs so that she can drag you up onto the raised platform of her elevated thighs. her hands find a grip on the sheets beside your hand, and she groans utterly as you grope at her chest through the thin fabric of her top.

you kiss for a while, and you know she’s indulging you because this makes you sweet and more docile than usual. like clockwork, your legs widen and fall to the side and she moves into the open space. you can feel the ripple of her strong body as she presses further forward.

gently, she lifts a hand and brings it down to cup your cunt through your panties. you don’t register when she lifts your dress, only the rough pads of her fingers against the pearl of your clit. she rubs and flicks it, using the strip of cotton to cultivate perfect friction.

you pull away from her mouth, your own open slightly as you throw your head back and work down into her palm. you rock your hips, that electric warmth steadily rising until you begin to tremble. you work your hips faster and for a moment she lets you, her eyes roving over your undulating body with a vicious hunger.

you whimper, reaching down with both hands to hold her hand still as you grind in tight, minute circles. idly, she tugs down the straps of your dress so that your tits spill out. they gleam in the sun that streams in from her suite window, bouncing softly as you fuck yourself on whatever you can get.

she knows you, and you know you, so you both understand that if you cum now she can still tear you apart a second, third time. but sometimes, ambessa finds it more fun to be unkind.

with a sigh, ambessa easily frees herself from your grasp and pulls her hand away. you lift yourself on your elbows, brow furrowing as she gets off of the bed completely.

“wha—”

the question cuts off as she grabs your ankles securely and pulls. you slide like water until your ass is more in her hands than on the mattress. she’s on the floor on her knees, eyes low and dark. she moves like smoke, body rising sensually as she pushes your legs open wider than were before. your thighs burn.

she doesn’t bother pulling your panties off, just tucks two fingers around the middle of them only to yank until they rip clean in two. she brushes the scraps away, leaning down to watch your pussy spasm and weep. again, she brings two fingers together to drag through your drooling folds, her mouth twitching in amusement as she spreads you apart and hears you gasp.

the inside of you is so pink, like a glass of lychee billini—wet like one too. your arousal oozes and drips over her hand and she pulls back to suck the taste of you from her fingers, dipping them far back until she gags. she laps at every trace, even under her perfectly square nails.

ambessa shifts, leaning back on her heels. impatiently, she waves at you so that you’re paying attention. your cunt is so hungry, it almost hurts.

“you’re ceo now, right?”

your eyes narrow in confusion. slowly, you nod. she smiles, all teeth.

“right. so, you know what to do.” she sits now, lazily plucking at her hard nipples. “sell yourself.”

it’s like there’s no air in your chest. you put your legs down, and she crawls forward to knock them apart.

“no. i didn’t say cover up. i said sell yourself. convince me to put my mouth on your pretty, pink pussy. convince me that you need me.”

you shiver, feeling a heady rush start to spindle through you. you flex, thighs rippling as you brace your body. you set yourself up, feet on the floor and still in your tall, black heels. you slide your dress off, your body completely exposed. that’s step one because the body exposed and twisted is the heart exposed and twisted. ambessa, without a doubt, can already tell what you want.

with a harsh breath, you slide a finger in. you want to get right to it, puncture that heat, and finger the wound until you wet yourself with the release.

“mmm,” you groan, tilting your head back so that your throat is bared. ambessa watches the slide of your thin, diamond necklace.

you work yourself open, inserting a second finger so that you can scissor open your walls. your cunt is gummy and sticky with desire, threatening to consume your digits like an act of self-cannibalization. you’re reminded of the days when you were self-destructive, albeit in a lesser way.

you weren’t anywhere near irreparably destructive, but you were a bit off. a bit angry and frustrated and starved. you used to plunder your body, fuck into yourself with an open desperation. now, you do the same until your breath is hitching and your body is writhing over the three fingers gouging somewhere deep and dark inside of you.

you let out a little sob, your voice dipping up and down as you rut against your wrist. the sounds of your self-pleasure are slick and almost fleshy, made louder by an increased speed. the entire time, ambessa watches you with a barely open mouth. the sun is setting, so the room is soaked in an orange so dark it almost looks ruby red. it splashes over her brown skin and warms her to an intolerable degree.

she looks so hungry and you can’t explain the way that undoes you. with a wail, you cum—your other hand coming to your assistance as it rubs your clit in hard, perfect circles. this streamlines your orgasm, magnifies it until both of your hands slide off of you with a wet ‘schleck’ to leave you jerking through the high, legs clamping shut as you moan.

there’s only a brief second of reprieve, of silence, before ambessa is on you. she surges forward, prying your legs open and pressing your torso back on the bed.

“brilliant pitch,” she murmurs before sealing her mouth over your swollen clit.

you arch with a silent cry, and she simply adjusts you so that your legs fall over her thick shoulders. again and again, she laps at you. you glance down with great effort to see her, taking in how she’s fully clothed and on her knees in between your thighs. your stomach flutters at the sight, mind working over the thought of her being so impatient to taste you that she couldn’t be bothered to get naked first.

ambessa’s calloused hands hold your hips as you begin to ride her face, clit catching on her nose. you place a hand on her head, nails digging harshly into her scalp. she moans at the pain, inserting her tongue deeper inside of you. you gush over her tongue in response, and she laughs—mean and expectant.

she flattens her tongue so she can drag it up and down your cunt, moving with an apt precision. you feel like a champagne tower, body fizzing and spilling over with pleasure. your eyes flutter closed, your mind succumbing to that all-encompassing darkness. behind your eyelids is a mural of hot pink, orange, gold. you reach out to it, press down on the acceleration so that you can crash straight into its open arms. all of your blood is flowing south, pooling in your stomach and the fat folds of your cunt.

“‘m gonna cum,” you whisper. you tell her over and over, a cry building in the back of your throat. “‘m gonna cum, bessa. please. please don’t stop.”

ambessa hums in agreement, pushing your thighs back so that you feel a new stretch as she presses your pussy into a tight slit. it’s like a money slot and her mouth is the coin.

“ambessa,” you moan. you drag out the end of her name, throat working as you swallow.

she grazes your clit with her teeth, dragging one of your pussy lips out with her teeth. she lets it fall back, enjoying the wet plop as it settles. it only takes a couple more bites, a little more suction and pull for you to finally implode. you spray all of her and she welcomes it, hanging her mouth open so that she can drink her fill.

you’re unsure if you’re making noise or not, but you feel numb in the best way.

“unh, unh, unhhh,” you whine. “fuck. oh, fuck.”

ambessa tips you further back and frees a hand to pull one of your ass cheeks to the side. she watches that hole pulse too, watches as it talks to her.

she rises and leaves you trembling on the sheets as she pulls her top over her head. you make an animal sound as you watch her tits push over the top of her violet, lace bra. she moves you to the middle of the bed, bends over you, and drags a nipple between her teeth.

your pussy pulses, dribbles without an ounce of shame. there’s no time for shame when you’re this carnivorous. your body is always speaking to her. you just want her to understand.

you think of the dream you had—of the car crush and your twisted, bubblegum body. you think of how real it all felt, how you were so aware of her watching you melt on the pavement. you look at her now, see how she watches you.

she’d probably lick you right off of the road.

© hcneymooners.

⚚ wife tag: @s-4pphics