She blinked awake to find him still watching her, his grey eyes catching the last of the firelight like coins at the bottom of a well, and the memory of what he'd said came back in pieces. Stay here. With me. Not a question when he'd said it. Not a suggestion. Just those three words, low and certain, delivered while she'd been half-asleep on his leather sofa, her cheek pressed against the cushion, the city glittering beyond the glass. She'd thought she'd dreamt it. But his eyes haven't moved from her face, and the weight of those words settles into her chest now like a stone dropped into still water.
"You were serious," she said, her voice still rough with sleep, and it wasn't a question even as it came out like one.
He didn't look away. Didn't blink. "I don't say things I don't mean."
Her bare legs shifted against the leather, the fabric of her dress riding higher as she pushed herself upright, the cherry-printed G-string pulling taut across her hips as she sat up properly, blinking the sleep from her eyes. The thin cotton of her dress did nothing to hide the shape of her—it never did—and the cool air of the penthouse kissed her nipples through the fabric, hardening them into visible peaks against the floral print. She didn't notice. She never noticed. She was too busy beaming at him, too busy letting his words soak in like sunlight.
"For real? Like, for real real? I can stay here? Actually stay here?"
"The guest room is yours." His voice was steady, unhurried, that low rumble that made her feel like she was being wrapped in something warm. "For as long as you want it."
She made a sound—something between a gasp and a squeak—and then she was on her feet, the leather creaking behind her as she launched upright, her bare soles pressing into the cool hardwood as she started jumping. Up and down. Up and down. Her breasts bounced beneath her dress, the thin fabric catching the firelight with every lift and fall, her ass cheeks clapping together under the hem as gravity tugged at her with each landing. Her hair flew around her face, black strands catching the light like threads of ink, and she was laughing—actually laughing—because this was the best news she'd gotten in months, maybe years, and she couldn't keep it inside her body if she tried.
"Oh my god oh my god oh my god—" She was breathless. "This is so amazing—I can't believe—Dante, you're the best—"
She didn't think. That was the thing about Anya—she never thought before she moved. Feelings hit her body first, and her body acted before her brain could catch up and tell her to be careful. So when the excitement peaked, when it crested like a wave inside her chest, she launched herself at him.
Her legs wrapped around his waist, her thighs squeezing his hips as she landed in his lap, her arms looping around his neck, her face inches from his. She was beaming. Beaming. Her smile so wide her cheeks ached, her hazel eyes bright and wet and full of the kind of joy that didn't know how to be anything but honest.
His hands caught her—instinct, maybe, or something faster—his palms settling against the curve of her ass as she settled against him, her weight pressing down onto his thighs, the thin fabric of her dress riding up to expose the cherry-printed G-string completely. She didn't notice. She was too busy bouncing slightly in his lap, her arms tightening around his neck, her forehead resting against his.
"Thank you," she breathed. "Thank you thank you thank you."
His hands hadn't moved. They were still cupping her ass cheeks, his fingers spread wide, the heat of his palms seeping through the thin lace of her thong like a brand. She felt it—vaguely, distantly—but she didn't register what it meant. She was too happy. Too full. Too busy being held by her best friend in the whole world.
His thumbs pressed inward, and his fingers spread her ass cheeks apart.
Just slightly. Just enough for the cherry-print fabric to pull taut between them, for the cool air to kiss the skin that had been hidden a moment before. She felt the stretch of it—the subtle tug of her body opening to his hands—and she barely noticed. She thought he was just adjusting his grip. Thought he was just trying to hold her steady while she bounced and squirmed in his lap like an overexcited puppy.
"Dante," she said, pulling back just enough to look at his face, her hands sliding from his neck to cup his jaw, his stubble rough against her palms. "You're like, actually the best person I've ever met. Do you know that?"
His grey eyes were dark. Unreadable. The firelight flickered across his face, catching the hard line of his jaw, the shadow beneath his cheekbones, the几乎没有-noticeable tension in the muscle at his temple. He didn't say anything. He just looked at her—looked at her like she was something he was memorizing, like he was counting every freckle, every eyelash, every heartbeat visible in the pulse at her throat.
She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek.
Warm. Soft. Innocent.
"You're my best friend," she said against his skin, her voice muffled by the kiss, her breath warm against his jaw. "I'm so glad I met you. Like, actually. I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I'm not gonna question it."
She pulled back, her smile still radiant, her eyes still bright, completely unaware of the way his fingers had tightened on her ass. Completely unaware of the way his breathing had changed—slower, deeper, more deliberate. Completely unaware of the way his cock had hardened beneath her thighs, pressing against the curve of her ass through his charcoal trousers, a fact that she couldn't feel because of the angle, because of the layers, because of the thousand small mercies that kept her innocent a little longer.
She kissed his other cheek. "Best. Friend. Ever."
Then she hugged him again, her face burying into the crook of his neck, her arms squeezing tight, her body pressing flush against his chest. Her breasts flattened against him, her nipples two hard points pressing through her dress into the fabric of his shirt, and she didn't notice. Didn't notice the way his chest had gone rigid. Didn't notice the way his hands had stopped moving. Didn't notice the way his breath had caught in his throat and stayed there.
"I'm gonna make you so proud of me," she murmured into his neck. "You'll see. I'm gonna be the best roommate ever. I'll cook for you—well, I can't really cook, but I can learn! I'll learn to cook for you. And I'll keep the place clean, and I won't be annoying, and—"
"Anya."
His voice was rough. Lower than usual. It cut through her rambling like a blade through thread.
She pulled back, her brow furrowing. "Yeah?"
He didn't say anything for a long moment. His grey eyes searched her face—looking for something, she didn't know what—and his hands were still on her ass, still gripping, still spread, and she was still sitting in his lap, her dress bunched around her hips, her cherry-printed thong on full display, and she had no idea. No idea at all.
"Nothing," he said finally. "I just wanted to say your name."
She grinned. "Weirdo."
"Probably."
She laughed, bright and unguarded, and leaned in to press another kiss to his cheek. "My weirdo. I claim you. You're mine now. Best friend forever. No takebacks."
His hands tightened on her ass. Just for a second. Just enough for her to feel the pressure, the grip, the way his fingers dug into her flesh like he was holding himself back from something.
She didn't notice.
She was too busy tucking her head under his chin, too busy settling into his chest like she belonged there, her legs still wrapped around his waist, her body soft and trusting against his, completely unaware that the man holding her had stopped breathing the moment she'd kissed his cheek.
"I'm so happy," she whispered, her voice small and genuine, vibrating against his collarbone. "I didn't know I could be this happy."
His jaw tightened. His hands trembled—barely, almost imperceptibly—against the curve of her ass, and for a long moment, he didn't move, didn't speak, didn't do anything but hold her, his pulse hammering against his ribs, his cock aching against the seam of his trousers, his whole body a wound spring wound tighter than it had ever been.
And she just hugged him.
Innocent. Happy. His.
She had no idea.
She hugged him tighter. Her arms wrapped around his neck and squeezed, her body pressing flush against his chest, and something in her chest cracked open—warm and bright and overflowing. She was crying. She hadn't even noticed when it started, but there were tears on her cheeks now, hot and stupid and perfect, and she couldn't stop them. Didn't want to.
"I get to live with you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I get to wake up every day and see your face and make you coffee and—" She choked on a sob, laughing through it, pressing her forehead harder into his neck. "I'm sorry. I'm being so weird. I'm crying on you. This is so embarrassing."
His hands tightened on her ass. Harder this time. His fingers dug into her flesh, spreading her cheeks apart with a pressure that should have registered—should have made her pause, should have made her wonder—but she was too busy crying, too busy laughing, too busy pressing kiss after kiss to whatever part of his face she could reach. His jaw. His cheek. The corner of his mouth. Each one quick and warm and utterly innocent.
"Thank you," she said between kisses. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."
His breathing had changed. She could feel it—the rise and fall of his chest, slower now, deeper, more deliberate—but she didn't read it. Didn't recognize the tension in his shoulders, the way his whole body had gone still except for his hands, which were gripping her like she was something he was trying not to break.
She pulled back just enough to look at his face, her eyes wet, her smile wobbly. "I'm so happy, Dante. Like, actually. I didn't know—I didn't know I could feel like this. Like everything's gonna be okay. Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."
His grey eyes were dark. Unreadable. The firelight caught the hard planes of his face, the shadow beneath his cheekbones, the almost-invisible pulse ticking in his jaw. He didn't say anything. He just looked at her—looked at her like she was something he was memorizing, like he was counting every tear, every eyelash, every shaky breath.
And then his hands shifted.
He released her ass—slowly, deliberately, his fingers loosening one by one—and then his palms were on her waist, warm and broad, guiding her. Turning her. Spinning her around in his lap so that her back pressed against his chest, her legs still draped over his thighs, her dress still bunched around her hips, the cherry-printed thong still on full display.
She laughed, confused but happy. "What are you doing?"
His arms wrapped around her from behind. His chest pressed against her back, solid and warm, and his chin came to rest on her shoulder, his stubble brushing against her skin. "Just holding you," he said, his voice low, rough, vibrating through her spine.
She melted. Completely. Instantly. Her head fell back against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed, a sigh escaping her lips. "You're so cuddly. I didn't know you were a cuddler. This is the best day ever."
His arms tightened around her. His hands came to rest on her stomach, his fingers splayed wide, his thumbs tracing lazy circles through the thin fabric of her dress. She didn't notice the way his touch lingered. Didn't notice the way his hands drifted higher, inch by inch, slow and patient and deliberate.
Her tears had slowed, but she was still crying—quiet, happy tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, tracking down her cheeks and dripping onto his hands. "I'm sorry," she whispered, laughing at herself. "I don't know why I'm still crying. I'm just—I'm just really happy."
"I know," he said, his voice a low rumble against her ear. "I can feel it."
His hands kept moving. Higher. Slower. His thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts, featherlight, barely there—and she didn't notice. Didn't register it. She was too busy basking in the warmth of his chest, the safety of his arms, the steady rhythm of his breathing against her back.
His palms cupped her breasts.
Fully. Completely. His fingers wrapped around the soft curves, her nipples pressing against the center of his palms through the thin fabric of her dress, and she didn't—
She didn't notice.
"You're so warm," she murmured, snuggling deeper into his chest. "I could fall asleep like this."
His thumbs found her nipples. Circled them. Once. Twice.
"That tickles," she said, giggling, squirming slightly in his lap. She didn't pull away. Didn't push his hands off. She just laughed, light and unguarded, and let her head loll to the side, exposing the long line of her throat.
His fingers squeezed. Gently. Experimentally. Palming her breasts like he was testing their weight, their warmth, their give. And she—
She thought he was just being affectionate.
She thought this was normal. That friends did this. That Dante was just being sweet, holding her close, touching her in a way that meant nothing more than comfort and care and I've got you.
"You're so good to me," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I don't know how I got so lucky."
His thumbs pressed down on her nipples. Rolled them. Pinched them—just enough pressure to make her breath catch, just enough to make her body react before her brain could catch up.
She gasped. Soft. Quick. More surprise than anything else.
And then she giggled.
"Okay, that really tickles." She squirmed again, but she didn't pull away. Didn't move his hands. She just laughed, bright and careless, and tilted her head back to look at him upside down, her eyes still wet, her smile still radiant. "Are you trying to give me a massage? Is this a thing you do? Because I'm not mad about it."
He didn't answer. His grey eyes were fixed on her face, watching her the way a man watches a flame—mesmerized, hungry, aware that if he got too close, he'd burn.
She kissed his chin. Messy. Sloppy. Full of love.
"My best friend," she said, grinning. "My weird, quiet, cuddly best friend."
His hands didn't stop. His thumbs kept circling, kept pressing, kept rolling her nipples between his fingers like he was learning the shape of them, the texture, the way they hardened under his touch. She felt it—distantly, vaguely—but she didn't understand it. Didn't recognize the heat building in her chest, the way her breathing had quickened, the way her body was responding to his touch without her permission.
She thought she was just happy.
She thought the flush on her cheeks was from crying. The tightness in her chest was from emotion. The quickening of her pulse was from the sheer overwhelming joy of being held by someone who cared about her.
She had no idea.
No idea that his cock was aching against her lower back, hard and desperate, separated from her skin by nothing but the thin fabric of her dress and his trousers. No idea that his jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. No idea that every innocent laugh, every trusting sigh, every soft I love you she didn't say but radiated was driving him slowly, maddeningly insane.
She just snuggled deeper into his chest, her hands coming up to rest on his arms, her fingers tracing lazy patterns through the fabric of his sleeves. "I'm gonna make you breakfast tomorrow," she said, her voice drowsy, content. "Pancakes. With the little faces. You know, chocolate chips for the eyes and a banana slice for the smile."
His fingers pinched her nipples again. Harder. A sharp, deliberate pressure that made her back arch slightly, her breath stutter, her lips part.
She didn't notice.
"Or maybe waffles," she continued, her voice steady, unbothered. "I'm better at waffles. Less flipping involved."
He squeezed her breasts. Full-handed. His palms pressed them together, pushing them up, his thumbs still working her nipples in slow, torturous circles. She felt the pressure—felt the way her body yielded to his hands, the way her breath hitched again—but she didn't connect it. Didn't wonder why her best friend was groping her in his lap, didn't question the heat of his palms through the thin fabric of her dress.
She just kept talking.
"Do you like bacon? Everybody likes bacon. I'll get bacon. And orange juice. Do you have a juicer? I can juice oranges. That's a skill I have. It's not impressive, but it's honest work."
His head dipped. His lips brushed the curve of her ear, his breath hot against her skin. She shivered—a full-body tremor that she wrote off as a chill, as the temperature of the room, as anything but the truth.
"Anya."
Her name. Low. Rough. Almost a growl.
"Yeah?" She turned her head, her nose brushing against his cheek, her lips a hair's breadth from his. "What's up?"
He didn't answer. His hands were still on her breasts, still squeezing, still pinching, still worshipping in a way she couldn't recognize. His grey eyes were dark, molten, fixed on her lips like he was deciding something.
She smiled. Soft. Trusting. Completely unaware.
"You're my favorite person," she said. "I hope you know that."
She kissed his cheek. Quick. Light. Then nestled back into his chest, her body softening against his, her breathing evening out as the tears finally stopped.
His hands didn't leave her breasts. Didn't stop their slow, deliberate exploration. His thumbs kept circling, kept pressing, kept rolling her nipples until they were hard peaks beneath her dress, visible through the thin fabric, two evidence of a desire she didn't recognize.
She fell asleep like that.
In his lap. In his arms. His hands on her body, her trust absolute, her oblivion complete.
And Dante held her through it all, his grey eyes fixed on the city lights beyond the window, his jaw tight, his cock aching, his whole body a wound spring wound so tight he could feel the tremor in his bones.
She had no idea.