You have learned to read Andy well through the past weeks: the way he stands at a window, how he crosses the flagstone kitchen after lunch, the angle of his body when he sits at the enormous marble island, elbows planted, hands steepled. Today, there is nothing predatory in his posture—no sharpness, no smirk—but a kind of diffident calculation, as though he’s rehearsing a script only halfway written. Still, you leave him to reveal whatever it is he’s thinking about for when he decides to bring it out and present it to you. He remains contemplative all morning.

You are rinsing your plates after lunch, and you’re considering taking the walk down to the lake, when Andy finally says, “Wait.” The word lands with no urgency or demand, it is simply a marker before what he wants to come next.

When you turn, he is already moving toward the glass-fronted cabinet near the pantry—a section you have seen but never opened, because you’ve lived off simple meals through the early parts of the day—bread, figs, cheeses. And for the rest of your meals, at some point a private chef descends either to cook dinner or drop off dishes for the week, and occasionally Andy will drive you to one of the lakeshore trattorias and order for you in his fluent, unshowy Italian.

Andy returns to your side with an old, battered notebook in hand. He sets the notebook on the counter with both hands, a careful act. You recognize the reverence in his fingers, feel the slight uptick of gravity in the room.

It’s a spiral-bound thing, the kind you’d expect to find in a grandmother’s kitchen drawer—edges dog-eared, pages stained with rings and flour-dust, a dozen tabs made of masking tape and ancient Post-its. The front cover says, in an elaborate, feminine hand: FAMILY RECIPES.

You dry your hands before reaching for the precious tome. You flip through the pages, careful, running your thumb along the edge the way you might with old money or ancient letters. Most of the recipes are written in faded, looping script, others in blocky, penciled all-caps. There are short, cryptic notes in the margins—“add more lemon if not fresh,” “marinate overnight or don’t bother”—and the effect is of something not curated for show, but built up over years of trial and error.

You glance up at Andy, who is watching you with a studied nonchalance, as if he might bolt if you laugh at this offering.

You run your hand down the page, feeling the indentations of the pen, the grit of flour caught in the spiral’s seam. “Did you ever make these? Or is this… was this your mom’s?”

“It was hers. We made most everything in there at some point together.” He shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. You imagine the blocky script then has to be his additions and annotations. “I thought it might be good to have a few things from home here. For the future.”

The word future lands heavy between you, but not unwelcome. He edges closer, almost bashful, as if worried that presenting this piece of his past is a violation, or an imposition, or worse, a vulnerability. You can hardly believe how tentative this moment is between the two of you, how precious and telling.

“Which do you like?” you ask, voice softer than you intend, but Andy doesn’t seem to mind. He leans in and flips to a page marked with a yellowing Post-it, the ink here a mix of bold and delicate: LEMON CHICKEN. There is a doodle of a chicken in the margin, and a note in a younger hand: “good for impressing guests.”

Andy’s finger rests there, but he doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he moves behind you, arms coming to rest on either side of the notebook, bracketing you in. His chin finds your shoulder. “We could try this one,” he says, after a moment. Another beat, and then, “It’s more complicated than it looks.” His mouth is close to your ear, but the games are absent; this is not a seduction, but something closer to an ask. You realize it is important to him, more than he will admit.

Your turn your head slightly so you can meet each others’ eyes. “For tonight?”

You see the exact second he wants to say, No, not tonight, but he’s set this gambit in motion, and a mafia boss won’t blink. “Tonight’s good if you’re up for it,” he says, as though it isn’t the most loaded suggestion possible.

You are up for it. And it’s the first of what becomes the everyday ritual of cooking something out of the family recipe book for dinner together.

The first day you attempt the lemon chicken, you are both so hyper-focused on the recipe that you forget to set the table, and end up eating off the kitchen island straight out of the pans.

The next night you try the thyme and basil roast pork, and the next after that, a tortellini in brodo that requires two hours of simmering and a phone call to Ugo for advice about the right kind of herbs to gather from the garden.

By the end of the week, you are inviting dinner guests—first just a pair, then a trickle, then somehow, the momentum of the lake and the villa and the rumor of a young American couple in residence brings neighbors out of the woodwork. There’s a widow from the slope above, her British accent perfection and her opinions more so, and the retired engineer with his grandchild, and eventually, a small parade of acquaintances who rotate through with bottles of local wine and offers to swap garden produce. The first time, you’re nervous, certain one or another of them will see through you and Andy, but the rhythm of food and small talk smooths everything while also seeming to stitch the two of you closer together.

If there’s one spot on the estate of this Italian villa that you love more than any other, it is, without question, the terrace that features a fine outdoor dining table intended for small gatherings of friends or family, nestled under a lush, vine-covered pergola looking directly over the lake. Now that it’s coming into late October, the evening temperatures of autumn are crisp enough that everyone is in sweaters, and there are heat lamps, but with the warmth precautions, it’s still pleasant enough to eat outside in the stunning setting. The space is illuminated by a stunning chandelier glass chandelier, augmented with strings of white lights threaded through the vines. It’s been the most enchanting place to host your new friends with your new husband in this new life that feels endlessly surreal.

The dinner table is big enough for twelve, but tonight it’s just eight. There is a bowl of lemons at the center, bright as orbs stolen from a still-life painting, and the smell of the lake is so clean and sharp you can taste it even through the heady wafts of roast chicken and white wine. Andy pours for everyone, moving around the table with a host’s grace that no one at the table would clock as anything but camaraderie, except you who knows that he’s a ruthless mafia boss back home, but even you question who he is now that you’ve seen so many new elements of him that exist here.

Tonight, the table is loud with stories and laughter. The gathering includes the widow, Sarah, with her foxlike charm and acid tongue; the engineer, Paolo, his wife, and their college-aged grandson, who is mortified by everything; and a pair from lower on the hillside, a married couple who bring a kind of Mediterranean tennis-pro energy despite clearly hating sports. There are also two empty seats for “a last-minute add-on,” as Andy puts it, and when they arrive, it’s a surprise: Sarah’s daughter, home from Rome, and her boyfriend, a Spaniard who teaches at the university.

You’ve come to relish hosting the rotating circle strangers-turned-friends you’re quickly building, but you’re still adjusting to the tradition of an Italian dinner party, which is as much about the relentless, cascading waves of conversation, as it is about the food. Here, no one is allowed to be quiet for long.

You’re impressed at the ease with which Andy navigates all pockets of conversation across the table, how deftly he manages the pivots from politics, to soccer, to the village gossip. It seems impossible, but he makes it look like he’s always lived here, always belonged.

You play the part too, trading stories, laughing into the night. When Sarah asks, point-blank and with the confidence of the terminally curious, “So. You two—how did this happen?” she makes a little waggle of her empty glass at your newly minted wedding bands. “You’re newlyweds, and you said it was a quick engagement, but what got you to that altar? How did you and Andy meet? You never told us the whole of that story.”

The table hushes, expectant. You’ve become aware how much you’ve inherited Andy’s ability to evade and deflect, to answer with a truth that is not entirely true.

Andy’s head cocks. He’s winding up for a deadpan lie or a polite deflection, but you’re quicker tonight, emboldened by the wine and the waves of collective cheer.

“Oh, it’s nothing as romantic as it looks.” You set your fork down, lean an elbow on the table, and say, “He extorted me. Threatened to ruin my life if I didn’t say yes.”

There’s a beat of silence, then the neighbors laugh—first a burst from the widow, then the rest, the sound rolling in like the waves lapping up against the property of the villa. “Honestly, I’m trapped. A prisoner of the fearsome Andy Barber.”

The joke lands, the table erupts in laughter, but Andy is not among them. His mouth approximates a smile, sure, but there’s a sudden, unmistakable torque to his jaw that tells you he in no way appreciates your antics. Nobody else catches it, and then Paolo is recounting his own disastrous engagement story for the benefit of his grandson and the young Spaniard, who are, against all odds, enraptured. But you see the way Andy’s hand curls around his wine stem, the white of his thumb gone bloodless, and you feel the new coil of tension slither under the table straight from where he sits at the head of the table to where you sit on the other end.

When you excuse yourself to fetch dessert from the kitchen inside, Andy follows. He is so casual about it—“let me help,” because he always does as you two host these evenings—that no one at the table thinks twice. But when you pass from the spill of terrace light into the dimness of the patio leading up to the villa, you feel the change in pressure, the sharp coiled energy in the silence. You can feel every motion of Andy stalking behind you, every footstep measured, the gravity of his attention drawing up the length of your spine.

You step into the kitchen and turn to face him, but he’s already seized your wrist, pinning you to the cool marble counter with so little force it’s almost nothing, but you both know the implication. His eyes are dark, unblinking.

“Don’t do that again,” Andy says, voice only just above a whisper. “Don’t ever joke about me owning you.”

You stare at him, momentarily stunned by the vehemence, but you hardly miss a beat, and the words, “But you do, don’t you?” tumble out of your mouth.

You say it like a dare, but Andy steps even closer, eliminating the gap until your hip is pressed flat to the lip of the counter. “I would burn down everything you’ve ever loved before I let you make a cheap joke of this,” he says, but his hand is shaking, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. “Don’t do that again.” His grip tightens, a flash of heat, then he releases you. He turns away, breath ragged. You haven’t seen him so intensely worked up in months. You forgot this part of him existed.

You stay where you are, hand braced on the marble, as Andy looms back to his full height. You feel something flare at your core—that traitorous twist of desire when he’s like this, a spike of outrage that he’s resorted to it, the seams of both threading together tight as wire.

You tilt your chin up to meet his gaze, your pulse steadying into a challenge of its own. “It was only meant to be clever banter,” you say, careful to keep your voice low and even, but letting him hear the needle in it. “No one believed it.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Andy’s eyes bore into you, reading for signs of retreat or remorse. When he finds neither, he finally inhales—slow, deliberate, calming himself by increments.

“I know what you were doing,” he says. Because you know as well as he does that jokes are always a vector for the truth. “But I mean it. Don’t.”

He’s still a gracious, charming host the rest of the evening, but you see that it’s subdued, less warm.

The moment you’ve called out the last of your goodnights from the front steps as your guests wander home, Andy turns, looks at you with those hard, steel blue eyes, and goes inside without a word.

Now it’s you following him into the kitchen, because the clean up from these dinners with friends has become part of the closing ritual that you two share, as well, but when you step up next to Andy at the sink, he growls, “Leave it and go upstairs.”

You don’t bother to argue, to offer some response meant to salve either of you and smooth things over. Instead, you pivot with a clipped, “Fine,” and leave him. You don’t bother flipping on lights as you reach the master. You stand there in the dark, hearing your own heart thumping, feeling every inch of your skin alive and restless, your body trying to decide if it is angry or simply keyed up by the aftershock of that confrontation.

You pace the bedroom, back and forth, and finally drop onto the edge of the bed, arms crossed hard over your chest. For endless minutes, you’re just locked there in the moon-shadow, staring out over the black sweep of the lake, counting seconds. You’re waiting to hear Andy’s footsteps, the sound of him coming up to finish what he started, to demand a further reckoning.

When Andy finally comes upstairs, you’re ready for him. He enters without a word—just a sweep of dark eyes, a tightening of his mouth as he closes the door behind him, the quiet slide of the latch declaring this space sealed from the rest of the world. You don’t let him get two steps in before you say, “It’s not going to be anything like it is here when we go back to Boston, is it?”

He stops. The shadows cut the sharp lines of his bearded jaw, and for a second you wonder if he’ll lie—if he’ll even bother with a performance for your benefit or simply bulldoze past the question. Instead, he stands there, hands in his pockets, and weighs you like a problem.

“No,” he says. “It won’t.”

You push up from the bed and take a few steps forward. “Why?”

He stalks the edge of the bedroom, not coming closer, his hands still jammed in his pockets. His voice is quieter, but it vibrates at a pitch meant for you alone. “Because,” Andy says, each syllable landing deliberate, “a honeymoon is a liminal space, a fairytale. It isn’t real.”

You know what he means, but you want to punish him for the admission, want to see how far he’ll go in spelling it out. You cross your arms tighter, say nothing, hold the silence until he continues. He’s right, but this hurts because you wanted it to be more than temporary.

“This,” he gestures vaguely—at your body, at the lake, at the high, old bones of the house, and the air quivering between you—“is a retreat. It’s not the world. It’s not sustainable. I borrowed this time for us. But it can’t last.” You watch him, still and wary.

“Why can’t you fucking want us?” Andy asks.

You want to scream because somehow you’ve unraveled everything right back to the start in the space of mere hours. You don’t scream, but you do choke on a frustrating sob when you say, “Because you demanded it. I would have chosen you if you’d been kind instead of cruel, but you never even gave me a choice.”

You say that last part too loud, but you want him to hear the garble and the pain in it, that you want him to finally react as a person, not as an institution or a fortress. Andy holds very still.

“Don’t you see?” he says, and he’s close enough now that you can see the quiver in his left hand. Then his hands curl, not into fists, but into something worse—into the shape of wanting to touch you. He comes closer, walking with a kind of exhausted inevitability, and you can tell he’s been fighting with the words since before he came up the stairs. “If I didn’t take you, you would have run.”

You surge forward and raise your hand to slap him, but he catches your wrist before you can strike. You try to shake out of his hold, but he doesn’t let you.

“You don’t know that,” you argue. “You never even let me make the call.”

Andy doesn’t flinch, but his grip changes, less capture and more containment. Andy’s breaths are ugly and uneven. “I wasn’t going to risk it. I couldn’t.”

Your pulse is skittering under his thumb where it grips your wrist. You wish you could say the feelings are all anger, but the emotions are thick with something raw and unkillable that’s lived under your skin since the first week you met, all the more terrible and breathtaking now that whatever’s between you has evolved and expanded deeply here in Italy. You close your eyes, just for a second, because the only thing worse than being seen by Andy is seeing the want on his face.

He yanks your body tight to his, foreheads nearly colliding. You feel the way his whole being is trembling, probably close to shattering, you in the fallout zone. “You don’t understand,” Andy says, and you hear the ferocity in his conviction.

“Then make me,” you bite back.

You are thrust backward, the world contracting to the violence of his mouth on yours, then down the column of your neck, his tongue ferocious and wild. There is nothing careful in the way Andy drags you toward the bed, your body crashing against the mattress, his grip so absolute you know you’ll wear the ghost of his fingers for days. He tears at your clothes—not undressing you, but stripping you, rough and elemental—and pins your wrists above your head, his weight a pact that you are not leaving, not now, not ever.

He fucks you with a savagery you haven’t seen in him since the earliest days, when everything between you was a war, and then an addiction, and then a war again. There is no foreplay because your bodies remember every password, every escalation, and Andy knows yours by heart. He forces you open, mouths your skin so hard you arch up in shock, pleasure already a cry from your throat. He bites at your mouth, your jaw, the line of your neck.

He forces a knee between your legs, spreads you wide, and fucks into you in a single, savage thrust so deep your vision whites out for a second. There’s only the impact of Andy’s hips crashing into you, the push and force of hands you could never mistake for gentle. You are flipped as if you weigh nothing, your face pressed to the mattress, your body pinned in a way that is—should be—danger, but now reads as his. Because his cock finds you wet, spread, so ready you want to scream with the humiliation of it, and when he plunges in, you do scream, muffled by fists knotted in the bedding. He fucks you with a violence that lights up every nerve ending in your body, stroking so deep it feels like he’s remaking you, each thrust a seismic reminder that you are his, that you have always been his, that even now, especially now, you want it. You want it more than you want to win.

He is relentless. He takes you from behind so hard you nearly lose your bearings, his hands bruising your hips, his cock battering a rhythm into you with no mercy, no space for anything but the friction and fullness. He grunts into your shoulder, each sound a confirmation that the only thing he wants is more—more from you, more inside you, more of everything you have to give.

When you come, it’s not a climax so much as a collapse, a convulsion that tears something loose, but Andy doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through it, not letting up, as if your pleasure is a thing to be drained. You sob, raw, and he covers your mouth with his—biting, licking, silencing the sharpness with his tongue. He flips you again, manhandling you onto your back, and hooks your knees over his elbows, spreading you so wide you can barely breathe. His cock pistons in you, deeper, until you are gasping, keening, until you are reduced to the rawest version of yourself, nothing left but sensation, the feel of him, the violence of his wanting you.

He is not gentle, not even a little, and you don’t want gentle. You want to be consumed, and Andy obliges—he fucks you until your body is shaking, until the tears spill down your face, until your voice is hoarse from the pleading, the yes, the please, the more that you can’t help falling from your lips. He does not stop. Not until you are truly broken open, legs trembling, cunt so raw and used you think you will never get the ache out of your bones.

He circles back to your mouth, forces his tongue inside, kisses you with the same ferocity as he fucks you. He bites your lower lip until you taste blood, and then licks it away, tongue soft as an apology, but you know it is not one. You have been wrecked in the span of a few minutes, but it’s clear he’s not done.

He is going to fuck you until you don’t remember your own name.

He crawls up over your body, grabbing your jaw with his big hand and shoving the wet head of his cock between your lips, not waiting for an invitation. The first taste is salt and skin, your juices and his precum, the burn of him so deep on your tongue you gag, but Andy does not relent. He drives his cock into your throat, one hand fisting in your hair to keep you exactly where he needs you, the other bracing against the wall as he looms over you, and all you can do is take it. If you try to twist away, he holds you tighter. If you choke, he says, “Good girl,” and pushes in further. Your vision blurs with new tears as he fucks your face, the thick, hot shaft of him relentless, your mouth ruined already from the earlier kisses and now wrecked by the invasion.

You want to hate him for it, you’re sure you do, but you are gone, reduced to this animal need to please and to be conquered, to see how far he’ll push you and whether you’ll break. You need to be ruined by him, made anew, fucked out of even the memory of the anger that brought you here. You try to breathe through your nose but he’s too deep for too long, and when he finally lets go, you gasp so hard your lungs ache.

Andy groans as he fists himself furiously and then comes across your face, and shifts so he can shoot the rest of his load over your chest. When he finally releases your head, you collapse backward on the bed, breath heaving, spit and come and tears streaking your face. Andy towers over you, his own chest heaving in time with yours.

You feel the collapsing hush of the bedroom as Andy composes himself, standing at the edge of the mattress, his features still marred by the wet brilliance of anger and longing both. Your legs are spread, trembling, and you hate how much you love the weightless aftermath of being used until your head empties out, until there’s no room for doubt, only this: this knowing, this rawness, like a secret you must never confess.

You don’t flinch as he reaches for your chin, thumb smearing his come from the corner of your mouth and dragging it slow across your cheek, tracing his claim into the skin. It’s humiliating, and it’s the only thing that quells the shaking inside you.

He leans down, bracing his hands on either side of your head, and you see the play of war and reverence in his face—still caught between violence and awe. Then he kisses you, you, deep, with a hunger that seems bottomless, the heat of his tongue against your teeth and the salt-blind taste of your own tears and the ache he’s left in every muscle. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, more bite than balm, but it binds you to him in ways words never could. You can taste the iron resolve in it, the promise of obliteration and devotion entwined. He doesn’t say “I love you” — and you don’t want him to. Not like this, not ever. All the same, you know the truth of it down to your marrow.

Andy injects his cursed, talented fingers into your cunt, tormenting you with the mess of your ruin, again, knuckles grazing your clit and making you buck up on reflex because you are so tender and slick all movement is pain-laced pleasure, so much more intense than usual. He probes two fingers inside, pressing deep and curling to stroke that perfect, devastating spot. “You’re dripping, cunt still gripping for me,” he murmurs with a strange reverence, as if confirming a suspicion about the physics of your body. He works his fingers in and out with increasing speed, and the obscene wet sound of it is so raw you want to die. “You take every inch of me,” he says, not as a question, but as the ending to an equation. “You’re made for me.”

He moves with a deliberate roughness, fucking you with his hand, thumb never leaving your clit, and in seconds you’re strung out and shuddering again, unable to stop. You wail into the darkness, no longer caring if it sounds like anger, or keening, or the wound of wanting. Andy doubles down, unrelenting, until your body spasms and you break yet another time for him, this time so wrung out you black the edges of your own consciousness, every muscle clamped and helpless to resist.

After, you lie there, wrecked, every limb trembling and dead, your breathing wild and uneven. Andy finally draws away from you, leaving, and you can’t pinpoint to where since you can hardly sustain your own functionality.

Andy’s presence is gone for less than a minute, but the void is so total it makes your ears ring. When he returns, he is silent. He carries a hand towel in one hand, and in the other, a damp cloth. You lie there, still splayed and shaking, and let him clean you—face, chin, the slick mess over your breasts. He is methodical, almost gentle, the movements so unlike the violence that came before you want to claw at him for the contradiction. You’d planned to meet his eyes, maybe spit a retort or something wounding to break the spell, but the look on his face is so devastating, so utterly intent on you, that you can only stare back and let him do what he will.

He wipes his hands and sets the towel aside. Then leans back, surveying you. He should be satisfied, should be spent, but you feel the air thicken again—the promise of more, of escalation. Without further warning, Andy slides his hands under your shoulder and thigh and flips you face-down to the mattress, your body a ragdoll in his grip. You are so dazed you don’t even register the force of it, the way he wrests your upper half down to the pillows while yanking your hips up with his other hand. You wind up face down, arms crushed beneath your chest, your ass arched in the air and on display, vulnerable and wide open.

You whimper, not even sure if it’s resistance or anticipation, and try to close your legs, but Andy just presses your knees wider, immobilizing you with a ruthlessness that’s almost tender.

He presses your chest to the mattress with one palm, weight pinning you flat, the other hand palming your ass, squeezing, kneading, as if cataloguing every inch of you before making a decision. You can’t see him, but you feel the heat of his breath ghost over your skin, and then—his tongue, hot and slick, working a slow, punishing stripe from your cunt to the rosebud of your asshole. You buck, shocked at the invasion, but Andy’s grip on your hip is iron.

The first lick is speculative, as if Andy is testing the edge of your reaction, what you have left in you tonight, but when your hips jerk and you press back, he doubles down, dragging his tongue in slow, obscene circles around your rim, then spearing it in with a precision that leaves you keening into the bedding. He holds you wide, open, and feasts on you, his tongue circling and plunging, working you in both places with obscene, relentless pressure. It is too much, and not enough, and you cannot believe you are so needy that when he works his thumb inside your ass, you nearly come from just that.

He fucks you with his tongue and his fingers and then both, alternating, escalating, until your thighs are slick and the sheets beneath them are soaked, and you have lost the thread of yourself entirely. There is no air, no sound but your own voice breaking, the wet slick of his mouth and the way your body trembles and begs for more. You arch, you plead, you scream into the mattress, devoured, mindless, reduced to a surface of nerves and a single quaking need. It is worse—better—when he spits on your asshole, massaging it with two wet fingers before working them in, stretching, filling, never ceasing his licking and sucking at your clit.

You sob, humiliated and mind-shattered, when Andy’s fingers press deeper, opening you; you arch and shudder, every part of you stinging, burning, exquisitely ruined. He pushes three fingers into your cunt, then adds a second into your ass, the double invasion so intense it makes you come almost instantly, the orgasm breaking through you like a blackout. You can’t move, can’t even process the pleasure—just take it, and take it, every aftershock.

Andy finishes you, and himself, in a blur of escalation and satisfaction, then, without ceremony, lifts you from the wreckage of the sheets—one arm under your knees, the other braced at your back. You’re so limp he might as well be carrying a sack of flour. He deposits you so achingly gently onto the still cool and untouched side f te bed, then climbs in beside you. He wraps both arms around you, winding you tight into his chest, flushed naked skin next to his flushed naked skin. You don’t fight him. In fact, you’re still so strung out that you cling to him, so spent it takes you a minute to realize he’s murmuring something—a string of words, low and urgent, nearly inaudible above the static in your ears.

You scrabble for a reply, but your own pulse is so loud it drowns out everything; your only coherent thought is the feel of his hand in your hair, the rough sweetness of it, an anchor to reality.

You drift toward sleep. Andy holds you so tightly you can’t tell if your ribs ache from the aftershocks or from the pressure of his arms. His breath comes in a slow, deliberate cadence, each inhale a claim, each exhale an ironclad reassurance.

He never releases you. Even as your breathing slows, even as your mind empties out, he keeps you pinned to him, chest to chest, as unwilling to let you drift in sleep as he is this marriage. You can’t move. You don’t want to. There’s nothing left in you that isn’t claimed, nothing untouched by Andy’s insistence. Even your bones feel different.

Andy presses a solemn kiss to your forehead, and the weight of it is so grave, so final, that for a moment you are sure you will never be released.

You try to stay awake, to hold on to something—anger, maybe, or identity—but it dissolves, every thought leaching out of you until only Andy’s grip remains, steady and absolute.

You wake at dawn with your thigh thrown over his hip, his hand still buried in your hair. The room is cold, but your body is kept warmed by his. He still has you locked, but the violence is gone, replaced by a solemn stillness that feels almost, but not quite, like peace. You move to extricate yourself, but he anticipates the

As the waves of everything that transpired the night before roll over you, battering your memory, your throat aches, and your eyes burn, and softly you start to cry.

The last time you were held like this was years ago, childhood, your mother tucking you in on the worst night of your life. The same hush, the same grave quiet, as if by clutching close she could keep the world from breaking you. Some animal core in you recognizes the shape of this hold, the way it’s designed not just to possess but to comfort, to render you safe against your will.

You hate him for it. You hate him in a way that loops back on itself and becomes something else entirely. You hate that he’s devastatingly handsome, that he’s capable, that he’s clever and so good at loving you—yes, loving, you are not a fool. You hate that he can make you want him even after he’s destroyed you, that he can ruin your body for anyone else and then hold you like you are a thing to be treasured.

Andy wakes exactly when you need him to, which is to say, when you are at your worst, about to break down. His arms shift; his breath changes. You sense him resurface and look at you, then the thumb at your cheek, rough but oddly tender, and he wipes away a tear.

“Don’t cry,” he soothes, and you lean into his touch for one brief last moment.

When you push to roll away, Andy lets you go. You shift to the other side of the mattress, heft your legs over the side, and pull yourself out of bed. “I want to go back,” you say, voice sanded raw. You don’t say back to where—you both already know.

Andy props himself on an elbow, gaze unreadable. “Good,” he says. “I already arranged it.” His tone is flat, businesslike. “But not until the end of the week.”

You blink, waiting for the justification, and he gives it without you having to ask. “We’re expected for dinner at Paolo’s tomorrow, brunch at Sarah’s on Thursday, and we owe our neighbors a few more nightly dinners, so they don’t think anything’s awry.”

“You just expect me to play house with you until you let us leave?”

“That’s exactly what I expect of you. The charming newlyweds who’ve welcomed so many new friends to their home wouldn’t leave without inviting everyone over for a farewell-for-now dinner.”

It takes everything in you not to stamp your foot. “You’re unbelievably infuriating.”

You don’t wait for Andy to respond, biting down the taste of an argument you know he won’t let you win. You dress in whatever shirt is closest, clambering into soft pants and hissing at the burn between your legs as you do. You stalk through the villa and out onto the upper terrace. The sun is not fully over the mountains, and wind off the lake stings your face, cooling the sweat and salt and tears you haven’t yet washed off.

You pace the perimeter path above the water for an hour before you realize you haven’t brought anything with you—no phone, no shoes, not even the scarf you’ve worn every morning for weeks. It doesn’t matter. You don’t need anything but the sensation of your feet striking the cold flagstones, don’t need anything but the air to burn out the memory of last night and everything that led to it.

You re-enter the villa through the kitchen, hoping for empty space, but Andy’s already there, leaning over the marble island, hunched in concentration as he prepares your preferred morning drink right alongside his. He doesn’t look up right away, only when he’s poured your cup and slides it across the counter to you.

You take it, despite yourself, and let the liquid sooth the rawness in your throat.

“Chef’s been notified to resume evening meals,” he says without any undercurrent. “I told her to stock us up for the week, until we leave. If there’s anything you want, just let me know.”

“I’d like to have no plans,” you say, and the words come out so blunt it surprises even you. “No social obligations. No guests. No performances.”

Andy shakes his head. “You already know that’s not up for negotiation.”

“I won’t share a room with you here anymore.”

Andy takes a beat, then nods. “Fine,” he says, and you can feel the shift in him—the hard retraction of self.

You did not expect him to agree to that. And certainly not so easily.

So you quickly add, “I don’t want to share a room when we get back to Boston, either.”

Andy scoffs, and his eyes narrow. “No deal. We both own that this honeymoon has been a suspension of real life, so separate rooms will do us both good to recalibrate. But when we get back to Boston, you are my wife. My wife, not my guest. We start our real life then.”

You wonder if Andy’s version of real is something you will even recognize, let alone want.

You set your mug down with care, fingers curling around the handle as if to anchor yourself. Andy watches, lips pressed thin, and you can see he's expecting a counter or a protest. Instead, you say, “I don’t know if why you never believed me or never understood, but I said it in the beginning, I said it last night, and I still mean it now: you never should have forced me into you bed or to accept your proposal. You keep making these choices for us, and you keep assuming I would have run if you hadn’t forced it.” You wait for him to look at you, to meet your eyes, and when he does, you let out a breath that tastes like iron. “But that night—the first night—if you’d asked, really asked, I would have chosen you. No threat, no blackmail, no war. I would have said yes.”

You say this, and your hands shake around the mug, but you don’t look away. Andy doesn’t either. The stillness is absolute—so sharp you hear the tremor in your pulse, the old house humming with the tension of two people who want, and are ruined, and will not concede.

You really would have said yes to that first night and undoubtedly so much more.

You didn't know he was this—the depth and breadth of so much good, so much bad, so much ugly—but part of you had wanted him and assumed he'd never seriously entertain your as an option.

He’d taken you so seriously you never saw him coming.

A fairytale honeymoon had been the curse, not the breaking of a spell, and the next chapter awaiting you in Boston? You truly didn’t know where you would land, how it would mold and carve itself, especially now that you knew what had existed here with him in Lake Como, both of you transformed, and now seemingly all of it lost.

This is how I feel posting this chapter. I've questioned going back on it all week, but ... I think the fact that I'm so conflicted means it was what needed to happen. I'm not second-guessing the longterm plot, I only feel bad about how it hits in this moment right now.

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To say that Andy is annoyed would be a damn understatement. He knew coming into this meeting with Dean was off to a rough start the moment he saw him smiling at a damn phone. And not just a simple smile, on no. It was that kind of smile that means he recently got laid. Of course it doesn’t end there, not if he is giggling like some stupid school girl.

Andy is too old for this bullshit, and his dick hasn’t gotten wet in a really long time. Not since after the divorce. The idea of a relationship sounds repulsive. But being able to smell a woman that is aroused, and feeling her delicate legs wrap around his waist, tightening as she reaches orgasm. The warmth of her cunt wrapped around him as he spills into her.

“Goddammit,” he groans, sitting down quickly. It’s been so long for him that just thinking about wet skin and his cum is making him hard.

Dean hides his phone into his lap, and looks up at Andy guiltily. Just like a small child. He’s a damn adult. “Yes, so we’re going over the Rogers V Carter case.”

“I thought I told you about phones in our meeting,” Andy growls. It isn’t necessarily Dean’s fault. He’s just a bit pissy that the man is clearly in the beginning of a relationship and currently residing in the sex is amazing and nonstop phase. Andy is currently in his bitter angry and need to fuck a woman stupid phase.

“Well,” he stutters, and looks back down to his lap. A grin pulls up his mouth, and Andy can only imagine what the younger man is discussing. Phone sex most likely. Maybe some teasing photos. Jealousy is an annoying emotion. “We, uh, I mean, you weren’t in here. And I was discussing this case with, no.”

Andy’s brow cocks up. Discussing a case does not make someone this fidgety. So clearly he’s lying. “Has what’s-her-face sent the notes for the day?” Dean looks at him confused, “The office manager.”

“Oh, you mean, Filly,” Dean wishes Andy would stop doing that with his brow. It’s unnerving how it quickly pops up. A question without words is not normal. “Well, th-that’s what I call her. M-my, no,” he shakes his head. “No, just Filly. She calls me a young buck, it’s kinda our thing.”

“Isn’t this trial next week?”

“Yup.”

“The notes?” Whatever woman that Dean has on his steady rotation must be good for him. The young man is acting dense as all get out.

“Oh, right,” he fumbles. “Just — I’ll send her a message,” clearing his throat, he sends you a quick message, and reaches for the projector. “It won’t take her long, she's very fast — efficient,” he nearly shouts at Andy. “I’ll, umm, put my phone away now.”

“Okay, so our time slot is,” Andy freezes. His eyes immediately stare unblinking at the screen. He has no idea what possessed you to send this photo, but you look glorious. Spread and bent into a pretzel. Not fully naked, but giving just enough away.

“Oh god,” Dean panics, clicking the remote, and each photo gets more and more explicit. “No. Nononononono,” you’re not completely alone in these photos. Hands pin you down, and spread you out. And that infuriating dummy is clicking through the photos too fast.

“Was that just a dick?” Yes, it was. It had you spread wide open. These are the most explicit photos he has ever seen, and he can’t even take the time to enjoy them. Not to mention his cock is fully hard, and he’s a grown professional man looking at porn with his partner while at work. Fuck he’s hard.

“Nope. Not a dick. Sir, I’m trying real hard…”

“Don’t use the word hard right now,” Andy growls, and Dean looks over to him. He is hardly even blinking. His eyes are trained on the screen in front of him, and his knuckles turn white with how hard he’s gripping the table.

“Are — are you getting hard?”

“No, inappropriate question.”

“Given the circumstance,” he shrugs, and looks back at the screen. A series of photos show up back to back. Fingers gathering the cum in your pussy. Fingers dripping the cum into your mouth. And that bastard sitting across from Andy, smiling as he puts his cock into your mouth while you clean it. “No!”

“What the actual fuck?”

“Sir, I can explain. She, uh…”

“Dean!” You burst into the meeting room. “I sent the wrong files. Oh god,” you stare horrified. The last photo of the group. Dean’s thick veiny cock shoved into your cheek while cum drips down your chin. “I can…I gotta go,” there is nothing else going through your head besides getting out of here.

Embarrassment doesn’t even begin to cover how humiliated you feel. Andy Barber saw yours and Dean’s homemade porn. Thankfully it wasn’t videos, but all the stylized photos that he had to make. He asked for the files. Of course he meant the case files. Not your fucking pussy!

“Sir, I can explain.”

“How do you explain that you’re fucking the office manager?”

Dean narrows his eyes as he tries to think, “I got nothing,” there’s no point. He’s fucked you, been fucking you, and he will continue to fuck you. It’s not that serious. You use him as a dildo at this point. And he obliges every single time.

“Is she a good lay?”

“What?” His voice squeaks looking at Andy.

“I’m asking…how she rides.”

“Did — did you just ask what I think you asked?”

Andy smirks. This couldn’t be more perfect. “I just saw your girlfriend’s cunt filled with your cum. Saw your fingers inside of her, dripping with said cum, and then letting her clean off those fingers and your cock. Asking how she rides is mild. I could ask how she tastes. How her cunt feels when she has you in a vice grip. Or I could even ask if she could handle two cocks.”

“Oh, well. Umm…can I get back with you?”

“See that you do,” Dean nods as he stands up. “Oh, and Dean? Make sure she understands. I’d hate to have to find a new office manager.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.”

——

“And what exactly do you want me to do?” You whisper scream at Dean. He cornered you. Stopped you right before you left work, and could pretend that this didn’t happen. Just how much had Andy seen? The man was still freshly divorced, and he probably thinks you were trying to come onto him.

You weren’t.

You’re not opposed to it. But you have convinced yourself that your odd morbid curiosity of wondering what everyone’s genitalia looks like is just some weird quirk. You didn’t actually desire to see Andy naked.

Unless he wanted to. There’s no way you would fight that man off.

”YOU SENT ME PICTURES OF YOU NAKED WHILE I WAS IN A WORK MEETING!” Dean looks frantic. You’re trying to be oblivious, and he’s making it impossible to. This is why you never should have agreed to him taking photos. And just when you were in the mood to start filming.

Dean is an incredible lay, but it’s purely just sex. No strings attached of course.

You shrug, trying to play it cool, “How many did he see?”

“All of them.”

“All of them?” You recall some were just Dean spreading you open before his incredible tongue started to spear into you.

“All. Of. Them.”

“Well, good thing it's the weekend. Come Monday this will all be a dream,” you try to leave. You are suffocating in this small space. Dean will come over tonight, and you will have your way with him until Sunday morning. That’s the arrangement. That’s how you like it. That’s all you want.

But instead of getting to leave and playing dumb, Dean grabs your arm, “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy. He’s Andy fucking Barrber. The damn district attorney.”

“Well, this is more of a you problem because you’re the one that showed the photos, and my face isn’t in the photos,” he cocks an eyebrow up at you. “Shit,” Dean has been lowering your walls too much. Sex is fun and healthy, and being playful and kinky with sex is fine. Your face is a new addition to the photos. “So what is the play?”

“You’re not going to like Andy’s suggestion.”

“Ugh,” there will be meetings. This will take too much of your extra time trying to make up for bad office behavior. “What, some classes?”

“You’re going to have to keep an open mind.”

“I am not doing some retreat.”

“Remember when we were having fun with my dick and a hot pink dildo?”

“Di Laurentis, I need to eat before you get me horny,” you remember. Dean is just as experimental as you. But you’re still at the office, and you would rather he get to Andy’s suggestion on your reprimanding.

“How do you feel about two at once?” Your eyes open wide as you gawk at him. “It sounds crazy.”

“It sounds fucking insane. No, thank you.”

“Andy’s persuasive,” you didn’t care. This is treading into territory that you had no business in being in. “Either two at once, or…I’m going to have to get you to clean out your desk.”

“Are you serious?” He nods. Andy did want to play. With him being newly divorced he doesn’t need anything serious either. You have wondered. There’ve been times he’s walked through that door wearing a magnificent peacoat, and you immediately want to get on your knees. Andy is more your speed. Dean is fun. But he’s lacking something you really need. But having both? It would fulfill every fantasy.

“You have been curious about double penetration, and double vaginal…,” you cover his mouth with your hands. You’re still at work. He didn’t need to mention this. He pulls your hand away from his mouth, and offers a very oddly satisfying smirk. “You did want me to find a third.”

Well well well. He does listen, “Good boy,” Dean gives a sickeningly sweet smile as he preens. “No one can know”

“Of course not.”

“And we’ll need insurances.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I want it filmed,” Dean gulps. He’s been begging on his knees, literally for this. “We have to protect ourselves.”

“Of course.”

“Are you ready?” He nods eagerly. Sweet boy. “Okay. You know the rules. Now, let me get some food and hydrate. You explain to Andy the rules. And Dean? Anything goes.”

“Yes, ma’am. Anything,” he is such a good boy.

——

“Who is this video for?” Andy asks, taking his belt off. You point to the chair over in the corner. Marriage is not in the future, but you will pretend that he’s your husband, and Dean is your boy toy. For now.

“Us,” you simply respond. Your voice is already hitting a different pitch. Andy tilts his head watching the younger man feast on your cunt. “You weren’t supposed to see those photos.”

“I wasn’t?” You shake your head no, and run your fingers through Dean’s golden locks. This man’s tongue is a work of art. “He comes inside you?”

“You can, too.”

“What protection do you have?”

“Are you clean?” He holds up his test results. “I have an IUD,” Andy clears his throat, and adjusts his pants. He might have questioned just how sexy watching another man fuck into a woman is, but he is immensely enjoying himself. You’d already shown him yours and Dean’s current results. Healthy sex is important.

“So how is this going to go,” his mouth falls open as you lean back. Dean’s hands have traveled up your stomach. Deft fingers tweak at your nipples, and his tongue...my god, his tongue alone could destroy you. “He’s…enthusiastic.”

“You have no idea,” your body starts to undulate with his ministrations. You don’t even care about the man with an uncomfortable looking bulge in the corner. All you care about is your wildest dreams starting to come true. “After I come on his tongue, you decide.”

“You sure about that?”

“Oh, Mr. Barber,” you coo. “I’ve always wanted someone to control me. Tell me what to do,” he gulps again. Laurie was probably very vanilla in the bed, but this man, this man is very open. “As long as we all get to come.”

“Both of us in your cunt?”

“Whatever you want.”

“What if I want for Dean to clean you up with his tongue?” You look down at Dean, and he looks so pretty staring up at you from between your thighs. He smiles before sucking your bundle of nerves, and you stare up at the ceiling, mewling out his name, “Very enthusiastic.”

Andy stalks towards the two of you. He isn’t going to wait for Dean to ride you through your undoing. You’ll have plenty of time for that. Right now, he is starving to be inside you. Leaning forward, he gives Dean a little swat to his naked ass, “Thanks for making her messy. Now move,” Dean leans back on his calves and pouts up at Andy.

Your body is pliant enough that the older man tosses you up the bed with no resistance. He practically rips his clothes off before he’s crawling onto the bed, and ripping your legs apart, “I’m not gentle.”

“And I’m not breakable,” it takes him two seconds before he is splitting you in half. One harsh and swift thrust, and he feeds your cunt full of him. You squeak at the feeling. The two of these men couldn’t be more different. Both sizable cocks, but wherever Andy lacks in length, Dean makes up for it. While Dean may have a beautifully long cock, Andy has the girth of the gods.

“Aww, she couldn’t take it all,” you sit up, looking between the two of you. Just where the two of you meet, he has you split wider than you ever have been before. And there are about three more inches to go. The base of his cock is too large. “Dean, quit your pouting, and spit on it. She needs help.”

Andy has both your legs in his hands, and he has you so sprawled out, you can hardly move. Hearing him command Dean to spit on you, and that angel sits up and listens does something to you. Dean lets a trail of his saliva drip down on Andy’s cock, and your boss pounds forward. Making your cunt swallow him balls deep, and you whimper.

“Is — is she okay?” Dean asks, looking up at Andy. Completely in a submissive state, now you get to enjoy yourself and go into your own sub mind.

“Oh, she’s fine. Aren’t you, Filly?” He doesn’t give you time to respond, only rockets in and out of you. He wasn’t lying, he is far from gentle. His thrusts are harsh. Snapping into you with so much force, your eyes roll into the back of your head, and words evade you. It’s only pure moans of pleasure.

“Hear that?” Dean gazes up at Andy before returning to look at him owning your body, “She loves it rough. She has wanted someone to destroy her, and we’re…we’re both going to own this messy little cunt. You think she can handle it?”

There is something so demeaning, and yet delicious about the two of them talking like you’re not there. Like you’re not seeing stars from his thunderous movements. Like you are nothing more than a plaything to them. God, this is what you’ve wanted. To get out of your brain, and go dumb. It’s what you’ve deserved. Life has been hellish since…

“Fuck you feel so damn good. Dean, you’ve been holding out on me,” Dean rejoices in the fact that he’s been getting to delight in your body. Dean may not fuck you like he owns you, always. But he satisfies an itch you never knew you had. You didn’t get to explore fantasies with your ex. It was the standard positions. Never bringing in toys. Never the dirty talk. Always feeling slightly unsatisfied.

“Oh, there she goes,” he chuckles, slapping your face lightly. “You still here, sweetheart,” barely. It’s all about the feeling of freedom, and right now you’re flying. He stuffs his thumb in your mouth, waiting for you to suck on the appendage before moving your head to look up at him.

You meet his gaze, loving the feel of his heated breath fanning across your face, “I’m going to roll us over, so you can straddle me, okay?” You nod dumbly. “And then that angel on the floor is going to come behind you, and he’s going to coat his cock in lube,” yes. Yesyesyesyesyes. You nod, mumbling around him. “And then he’s slowly going to push inside of your cunt, okay?” You nod again.

“Do you remember your safe word?”

“Appull,” you slur, and Andy beams at you. You’d never noticed how pretty the constellations of freckles that splay across his cheeks are.

“Good girl. Even when you’re just a dumb cockslut, ready for two cocks in this tight cunt, you’re still so smart, huh?” You preen at his praise. Sighing with happiness, and he drops to the bed, taking you with me. He never even leaves your warmth.

“Go on. Start riding daddy. Dean, grab that lube, we don’t want to hurt her, do we?”

“No. We don’t hurt her,” while Dean fiddles around with the bottle of lube, you grind over Andy. Arms firmly on his chest. He is all man. Hairy in all the right ways. And he feels so fucking good.

So good. So good. So good.

It’s a mantra in your head. Every bounce on him. So good.

Dean fists his cock as he positions himself, and Andy pulls you down to his chest. He centers your face to look directly at his eyes, “Don’t look away,” he growls. You gasp as the pressure of Dean’s cock pushes past your entrance. “Eyes on me. What’s my name?”

“Daddy?”

“Good girl. How does it feel?”

“It hurts,” more of a sting really. Not enough to want this to stop. You have never felt so full in your life. “Daddy!”

“You know the rules. You want us to stop, say the word,” you can’t. You’re too curious to know what it would feel like to have them both inside of you. To know that they want to do this again and again. To let your walls come down, and to fully immerse yourself into the beautiful soundless nothingness of euphoria. You shake your head no. “Fuck. She’s tight.”

Dean breathes heavily on your back. He slides all the way home, and his forehead collapses on your shoulder. “Fuck me!” Andy nearly screams. “Goddamn, this is heaven,” Dean gives your shoulder a nibble. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Get used to it.”

You don’t ever want to get used to this. This truly is heaven. This is everything. Your body molds to them perfectly. This is…it just is. It’s powerful even in this submissive state. You press onto Andy’s chest, and you lift yourself up. You need his body to anchor you, and you ride them. They don’t even move, and you’re able to fuck them both simultaneously. Taking all of your pleasure, and somehow they get something out of it too.

“Such a filthy girl. Got you dripping all over us. Go on,” unprompted, Dean spanks your ass, and you ride harder. Letting yourself drop onto them, fusing the three of you together in this weird ass triangle that you’re obsessed with.

“Fuck me,” Dean breathes onto your back, and you go harder. Harder. Tits bouncing in Andy’s face that he just can’t stand not to grab, and suck on them. Going back and forth between the two while he smiles up at you with so much awe. “God, you feel so fucking good. Take it. Take all of it, Filly.”

That’s just what you want. All of it. Dean looks over to the camera smiling. Out of his head, and enjoying the show, “You look like such a fucking slut. You are a slut.”

“Our slut,” Andy groans, and grips tight to your hips. “Only our slut, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah! I’m your slut.”

“Every weekend,” well… “Work is going to be so hard. I won’t be able to think of anything but the way you feel wrapped around us.”

“I’m your dumb slut!” Your leg starts quivering, and your movements get quicker. Harder. Faster. Deeper. “I’m gonna…”

“We can tell,” Dean struggles to get out. “You’ve got us locked in so tight. You feel so good. So fucking good,” the praises! Another thing you never got. They cherish you. It’s just sex, but at this moment, you’re their very reason for breathing.

“Come on, baby, let go. Let go; we’re right behind you,” as much as you don’t want this to end, it’s almost too much. Everything is heightened, and tears spring to your eyes with how good it feels. You could have had this. You could have had someone that adores you so much that they’re begging for your release just so they can orgasm.

You intake a short breath, and everything explodes. Screams and trembles release just as you do. You can’t see. Can’t breathe. Can’t fathom what is happening. But you do feel Dean and Andy fuck you through your orgasm, and don’t stop until ropes of their hot sticky cum struggles to find a place to land with how much you’re stuffed full.

Immediately they begin to leak out of you. “Dean?” Andy huffs out. “I need you to pull out,” he looks at his boss oddly. “Then you’re going to spread her open, and lick us out of her cunt. Don’t swallow.”

Dean almost sounds pained as he exits your body, and Andy expertly turns you to the side. Getting to his knees, he runs his cocks through your lips. He grazes his messy cock, covered in their spend on your pillowy pout, while Dean gently licks through your swollen pussy. Every whimper out of your lips has him going softer. More gentle. Taking care of you in a way you never have dreamed of.

He truly is a god with his mouth. His hands press onto the side of your gaping cunt as he widens you, and he licks a stripe right up the middle. “Good boy, get her all cleaned up. Now come here,” Andy says before leaning back. “Drip it into her mouth,” Dean smiles before leaning over. Tongue hanging out, he lets the filth drip slowly past your lips, and you reach up to him. Fuck this.

You pull his mouth onto yours, and you suck on his tongue like you were born to do so. Swallowing every ounce of their cum as if it’s a life force. “Two little cum sluts,” Andy chuckles, and slowly grips his cock. “God this weekend is going to go by too fast. I’m going to enjoy you two.”

You fall back onto the bed, gasping for air. “I need you out by Sunday morning.”

“No, I need you to be sore on Monday.”

“Then you better fuck me until Sunday morning.”

Andy looks to Dean confused. A silence passes between them, and he looks at you, hoping to be told what to do. He sighs, “Her husband has to drop her kid off.”

“Husband?”

“Estranged, and about to be ex husband,” you look at him angrily. “Let me bask in post sex bliss before you piss me off.”

“I didn’t know…”

“Married only in the legal sense. I don't want a relationship. I want to have fun, and enjoy sex finally. Dean, will you stop the camera, and lock it in the vault? Andy, I take this very seriously so my douchebag of a husband has no reason to seek full custody. Now, while he’s doing that, start dry humping me, until you get hard. You owe me another orgasm. We’re not having this conversation again.”

“Okay. Nothing serious,” you give him a nod. “But…”

“Don’t.”

“I’m good with kids,” little fucker. Now is not the time for this discussion. Now is the time for orgasms, cum, and sweaty skin.

“Andy! Just make me come!”

He rolls his eyes before settling over you. “Fine,” he is supposed to want just sex. But after tonight? He wants it all. You. Dean. And a family. This is why he can’t spend too much time alone. He gets in his head. Gets lonely. Then gets attached.

“Andy, roll your body on me. And don’t make me command you to do anything for the rest of the weekend.”

“As you wish,” there’s time later. Time to get you on the right page. Dean already is. It could work. It will work.

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