She wakes to warmth—the kind of deep, bone-melting warmth that comes from sleeping wrapped around someone who fits. And something else. Something familiar. Something that makes her breath catch before her eyes even open.
Dante's still inside her. Still hard. Still there, a slow pulse of heat that reaches all the way up into her stomach. She feels him shift, a wet slide against her inner thigh, and realizes he's been in her ass—and now he's not. Now he's pushing forward, forward, and the heat changes, stretches, opens her somewhere new, and she gasps because it's like waking up twice.
"Mmm." The sound escapes her before she can shape it into words.
"Shh. Keep sleeping." His voice is gravel and honey against her ear, his chest pressed solid against her back. "I've got you."
She feels him bottom out inside her pussy, feels the fullness settle, feels his arms tighten around her waist. His hands find her breasts—God, his hands are so big, so warm, cupping her like she's something precious—and his thumbs start moving. Slow circles on her nipples. Lazy. Deliberate. Like he has nowhere to be and nothing to do except feel her wake up around him.
Anya moans, her head falling back against his shoulder. Her hair slides over his arm, black silk against his tattooed skin. "What time is it?"
"Doesn't matter." He rolls her nipple between thumb and forefinger, a gentle pinch that sends electricity straight down her spine. "It's our day."
Our day. She likes the sound of that. She stretches, arching her back, pushing her chest into his hands, and feels him sink deeper. A shudder runs through her. "Mmm. Best friends' day?"
His laugh is low, rough, a vibration she feels against her shoulder blades. "Best friends' day. All day."
He shifts his hips, just a fraction, and the movement drags his cock along her inner walls in a way that makes her toes curl. She feels full. Heavy. Wanted. And she is. She knows he wants her—he's so good at showing her, with his hands and his mouth and the way he looks at her like she's the only person in the world. That's what best friends do. They make you feel seen.
"Dante?"
"Moya."
"Can we stay here all day?" Her voice is sleepy, hopeful, pressed into the curve of his neck. "Just like this?"
His answer is a slow, rolling thrust that steals her breath. And then another. And another. A rhythm so steady, so patient, it feels like a promise. "We can do whatever you want." He pinches her nipple, harder this time, and she gasps. "Whatever you need. Just tell me."
She doesn't need to tell him. He already knows. He always knows.
Anya closes her eyes and lets herself float, lets herself feel—the leather of the chair beneath her thighs, the heat of his skin against her back, the slow, relentless push and pull of him inside her. His left hand slides down her stomach, fingers spreading, pressing, feeling where they're joined. She feels his fingers there, feels the slick heat, feels the way her body opens for him like it was made to.
"You feel that?" His voice is barely a whisper, right against her ear. "How wet you are for me?"
"Mhm." She can't form real words. Her brain is melting.
"That's because we're close. Best friends who take care of each other." He kisses her shoulder, soft, almost reverent. "And I take very good care of you, don't I?"
"The best." Her voice cracks. "You're the best, Dante."
She means it. She means it so much it aches. He's the best friend she's ever had. He gives her everything—clothes, a place to stay, his time, his attention. He holds her when she's tired. He touches her when she needs to feel connected. He never judges her for being too much or too loud or too bubbly. He just… lets her be herself. And that's the rarest gift in the world.
His hips pick up the pace, just slightly. A little deeper. A little harder. The chair creaks beneath them, a steady, rhythmic sound that matches the slap of his thighs against hers. She gasps, gripping his forearm, her nails pressing into his skin.
He doesn't stop.
He rocks her through the morning, through the slow golden light that creeps through the windows, through the distant sound of traffic far below. He fucks her in the chair, then carries her to the kitchen, sits her on the counter, and fucks her there while she drinks orange juice from the carton, laughing because it dribbles down her chin and he licks it off. He fucks her against the fridge, her breasts pressed to the cold stainless steel, her nipples hard against the metal, his hand tangled in her hair, pulling gently, just enough to make her arch her back.
And through it all, he never stops touching her nipples. Pinching, rolling, pulling, circling. Like they're his favorite thing in the world. And maybe they are. She doesn't question it. She doesn't question any of it. This is just how Dante shows affection. With his hands. With his body. With every inch of him pressed against every inch of her.
"Best friends take care of each other," he murmurs, lifting her onto the dining table, clearing a space with one sweep of his arm. A vase topples, shatters on the floor. Neither of them looks. He's already inside her again, this time in her ass, and she moans, loud, her head falling back, her hands finding the edge of the table for balance.
"Dante—"
"I know, moya. I know." He thrusts deep, holds, lets her feel the stretch, the fullness, the way she's so completely full of him. "You take me so well. Every time. Like you were made for me."
She was. She must have been. Why else would it feel this right?
He fucks her on the table until she's trembling, until her legs are shaking, until she's forgotten her own name. Then he pulls out, flips her onto her back, and pushes into her pussy again, one smooth motion, and she sobs with relief because she needs to feel him everywhere.
His hands never leave her breasts. He pinches her nipples, hard, twisting, and she cries out, but she doesn't tell him to stop. She doesn't want him to stop. This is how he loves her. This is how he shows her she's his. And she loves being his best friend. She loves being his.
The afternoon bleeds into evening. They move from room to room—the bedroom, the hallway, the bathroom where he fucks her in the shower, water streaming over both of them, his cock sliding slick and perfect inside her. She's lost count of how many times she's come. She's lost count of how many times he's filled her. She just knows she's happy. She's so happy she could float.
And he's still hard. He's always hard for her.
They end up back on the leather chair as the sun sets, the room painted in shades of amber and rose. She's curled in his lap, facing him now, her legs wrapped around his waist, his cock buried deep inside her pussy. Their foreheads are pressed together. Their breath mingles. His hands cup her ass, spreading her cheeks, keeping her open for him, and his thumbs press against the rim of her asshole, circling, stretching, making her gasp.
"Again?" Her voice is hoarse, raw from moaning.
"Again." He kisses her, slow and deep, and she tastes herself on his lips. "Always again."
He rocks into her, and she rocks with him, their bodies moving in perfect sync. His hands find her nipples again—always her nipples—and he pinches, pulls, rolls, until she's whimpering into his mouth.
"You like this, moya?" He breaks the kiss, his voice barely above a whisper. "You like when I take care of you?"
"Yes." She nods, desperate. "Yes, Dante. Please. Please."
"Please what?"
"Please never stop."
His smile is slow, dark, beautiful. "I won't."
He fucks her in the chair as the sky turns purple, then black. He fucks her until she's nothing but sensation, nothing but heat, nothing but the feeling of being filled, stretched, claimed. He fucks her until she's limp and boneless and still desperate for more.
And when she finally collapses against his chest, her cheek pressed to his heartbeat, her body slick with sweat and cum, he holds her. Strokes her hair. Kisses her forehead.
"Best friends," he whispers, "take care of each other."
She smiles, her eyes fluttering closed. "The best," she murmurs. "We're the best."
She believes it. Every word. Every breath. Every inch of him inside her.
And he holds her, hard and full and patient, ready to start again the moment she wakes.
She doesn't stir when he lifts her from the chair. Her head lolls against his shoulder, her breath warm and even against his neck, completely surrendered to sleep. Dante carries her through the dim apartment, past the shattered vase still scattered across the dining room floor, past the wet footprints from the shower that have dried into faint ghosts on the marble. He lays her down on the bed, her dark hair fanning across the white sheets, her body limp and open, her legs still slightly apart from being wrapped around him for so long.
He stands at the edge of the bed, watching her sleep. The city lights paint stripes across her skin through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Her nipples are still hard, peaked from hours of his attention, her thighs slick with the evidence of the day. She looks like something he conjured from his own ribcage. Something that belongs only to him.
He doesn't wake her.
He crawls over her, settling between her legs, and pushes into her pussy in one smooth motion. She doesn't stir. Her body accepts him automatically, still loose and ready from the hours of fucking. He bottoms out, holds there, watching her face for any sign of consciousness. Nothing. Just her soft lips parted, her chest rising and falling in the rhythm of deep sleep.
He begins to move.
Hard. Brutal. His hips slam against hers, the bed frame pounding against the wall, the headboard cracking against the plaster. He folds her in half, pressing her knees to her chest, driving into her so deep he feels her cervix against the tip of his cock. She whimpers in her sleep, a small sound, but she doesn't wake. Her body jerks with each thrust, her breasts bouncing, her nipples brushing against her own collarbone with the movement.
He grips her breasts. Hard. His fingers dig into the soft flesh, squeezing, kneading, pulling her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, twisting until her skin flushes red. He pinches harder, watches her brow furrow slightly in her sleep, a faint crease between her eyes. She doesn't wake. She just takes it. Takes him.
"You're mine, moya." His voice is low, almost a growl. "Even in your dreams, you're mine."
He pulls out of her pussy, slick and wet, and lines himself up with her ass. He doesn't go slow. He pushes in all at once, burying himself to the hilt, and she moans—a soft, unconscious sound that makes his cock throb. He fucks her ass hard and fast, each thrust punishing, the slap of skin filling the room. Her body rocks forward with every impact, her hair tangling on the pillow, her fingers twitching but not grasping.
He fucks her like he's punishing her. Like he's claiming every inch of her that hasn't already been claimed. He fucks her until sweat drips from his forehead onto her stomach, until his thighs burn, until the bed frame has shifted six inches from the wall. And through it all, she sleeps. Trusting. Oblivious. His.
He comes inside her ass with a guttural groan, his hips pressed tight against her, his fingers still pulling at her nipples. He stays there, buried deep, feeling his cock pulse inside her, feeling her body clench around him in reflex. He breathes, slow and deep, and watches her sleep.
She shifts slightly, a small movement, and her eyes flutter open.
"Dante?" Her voice is thick with sleep, scratchy from hours of moaning. She blinks, disoriented, and feels him inside her. A slow smile spreads across her face. "Did you stay inside me all night?"
"All night." He lies easily, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "Couldn't let you go, moya."
She giggles, that bubbly, effortless sound that makes his chest tighten. "You're so sweet."
He reaches for his phone on the nightstand. The screen glows, and he pulls up a video file. His thumb hovers over the play button. "I want to show you something."
"What is it?" She tries to sit up, but he keeps her pinned, his cock still deep inside her. She settles back against the pillows, curious but not alarmed.
"Proof." His voice is soft, almost tender. "Proof of how much I love you."
He presses play.
The video fills the screen. Her body, limp and sleeping, spread open on the bed. Him between her legs, pounding into her. His hands gripping her breasts, twisting her nipples. Her face, slack and unaware, mouth slightly open. The bed slamming against the wall. The wet sound of him fucking her. His voice—low, possessive—whispering words she can't make out.
She watches.
Her eyes widen, then soften. Her lips part. A tear slips down her cheek.
"Dante..." Her voice breaks. "You—you filmed us?"
"I filmed you." He sets the phone aside, cradles her face in his hands. "I filmed you because I never want to forget how beautiful you are. How perfect. How completely mine."
She cries. Happy tears. They stream down her face, and she laughs through them, a wet, joyful sound. "You love me that much?"
"More." He kisses her forehead, her nose, her lips. "More than you'll ever know, moya."
She brings his hand to her breast, pressing his palm against her heart. "Touch me," she whispers. "Please. I want to feel you."
He cups her breast, his thumb finding her nipple, circling gently. She sighs, her body relaxing into him, the video forgotten, the brutality of the night dissolved into this moment of tenderness. She peppers kisses across his face—his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth—each one soft and deliberate, a declaration of her own.
"You're my best friend in the whole world," she murmurs against his skin. "And I'm so lucky. So, so lucky."
He holds her, his cock still inside her, his hand on her breast, her lips on his face. The city glitters beyond the windows. The bed is a wreck. The vase is shattered somewhere in the other room. And she believes, with every fiber of her being, that this is how best friends show they care.
He fucks her again, slow this time, gentle, his hips rocking in a lazy rhythm. She wraps her legs around him, holds him close, and watches his face. His eyes are dark, fixed on hers, and she sees something there that she can't name. Possession. Hunger. Devotion. She doesn't recognize it for what it is. She just knows it makes her feel warm.
"Cuddle me," she whispers, her voice drowsy again. "Cuddle me until I fall asleep."
He smiles, and there's something terrifying in it that she doesn't see. "Of course, moya."
He pulls out, rolls onto his back, and pulls her on top of him. She settles against his chest, her cheek over his heart, her body small and soft against his. His hand finds her ass, cupping the cheek, spreading it slightly so his fingers can trace the rim of her asshole, still slick with him. She sighs, content, and closes her eyes.
"Best friends," she whispers, "take care of each other."
"The best," he repeats, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "We're the best."
Her breathing slows. Deepens. She's asleep within minutes, safe in his arms, convinced she's loved in the purest way a person can be loved.
He watches her sleep, his fingers still circling her asshole, and he doesn't close his eyes at all.