The light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows was soft and golden, morning painting the apartment in shades of honey and glass. Anya stirred, her cheek pressed against something warm and solid—Dante's chest, she realized, the slow rhythm of his heartbeat under her ear like a lullaby she never wanted to end. Her fingers curled against the fabric of his shirt, and she breathed in deep, that sharp cologne of his mixed with something warmer underneath, something that was just him. She felt his arm around her waist, heavy and possessive even in sleep, and she smiled against his chest, her toes curling with pure, unfiltered happiness.
She tilted her head up, her hair spilling across his arm, and found his grey eyes already open, watching her with that quiet intensity that made her stomach do a little flip. "Good morning," she whispered, her voice scratchy and warm. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Not much," he said, his voice low, rough like gravel. "Watching you was more interesting."
She giggled, the sound bright in the silent room. "You're so weird. But sweet. Weird and sweet." She stretched, her back arching, the thin fabric of her floral dress pulling taut across her chest. She didn't notice the way his gaze dropped, the way his jaw tightened. She was too busy rubbing her eye and thinking about coffee. "I'm hungry. Do you have pancakes? I feel like pancakes. Or maybe those little pastries from that place on—"
"Anya."
"What?"
"Nothing." His thumb traced a circle on her hip, and she shivered, but she didn't know why. She just smiled at him, her heart full, and pushed herself up.
Her dress was a wrinkled mess, the hem riding up her thighs. She tugged at it absently, then decided it was pointless. She was already nearly naked under it anyway. She reached behind her back, fingers finding the zipper, and pulled it down. The dress fell away from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a puddle of floral cotton.
She stood there, barefoot, wearing nothing but the cherry-print G-string she'd bought yesterday, the little red fruits bright against her skin. Her nipples were already hard from the morning air, visible and unashamed, and she stretched again, her arms over her head, her back curving, feeling the freedom of being unclothed. She didn't think about how she looked. She didn't think about the way the small thong barely covered anything, the thin string riding high between her cheeks. She just felt warm, happy, at home.
Behind her, she heard him shift on the leather sofa. The creak of the cushions. A breath drawn slower than before.
"What?" she said, turning to face him, her hands on her hips. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
He was still sitting, one arm draped across the back of the sofa, his tie loosened, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His grey eyes moved over her like he was memorizing every inch, and his hands were very still on his thighs. "You're not wearing clothes," he said.
She looked down at herself, then back at him, grinning. "Yeah, I took off the dress. It's all wrinkly now. I need to change." She started toward the hallway where her shopping bags were scattered, her hips swaying with each step, the thong's thin string cutting across her skin with each movement.
"Anya."
She stopped, turned. "Hm?"
"You're not allowed to wear clothes in this apartment anymore."
She blinked. Then she laughed, a bright, surprised sound that filled the room. "What? That's so silly. Why?"
He didn't smile. "Because I said so."
She tilted her head, her long black hair spilling over one shoulder. "You're being weird again. Is this like a 'no shoes in the house' thing but for clothes? Because I don't think that works the same way."
"It works exactly that way." He stood, slow, unhurried, his tall frame unfolding from the leather. He walked toward her, and for a moment, she felt something—a small flutter, a tightening in her chest. But then he stopped a foot away, and she looked up at him, her eyes bright, waiting.
"Fine," she said, laughing again. "No clothes. But you have to be naked too. That's only fair."
Something flickered in his eyes, dark and deep. "Deal."
She giggled, bouncing on her heels, and then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her bare body against his clothed one. Her breasts flattened against his chest, her nipples brushing against the fine wool of his suit. She felt the warmth of him through the fabric, the solid strength of his arms as they came around her, and she sighed, content, burying her face in his neck.
"You're my best friend," she murmured against his skin. "You know that, right?"
His arms tightened around her, one hand sliding down her back, settling on the curve of her ass. She didn't think anything of it. He was always touchy. She liked it. Made her feel safe.
"I know," he said, his voice low, almost a growl.
His hand gripped her ass cheek, his fingers spreading wide, and she hummed happily, shifting her weight. Then his other hand joined, both of them cupping her, squeezing, and she felt a strange pressure as his thumbs pressed outward, parting her cheeks through the thin fabric. The G-string tugged, the string digging into her, and she felt something cool against her skin—the air, hitting a place that was usually hidden.
"Dante," she giggled, "what are you doing?"
"Nothing." His voice was rough, tight. "Just holding you."
She felt his fingers knead the flesh, spreading her further, and she felt a strange stretch deep in her ass, a gaping sensation as her cheeks were pulled apart. She didn't understand what was happening, but it didn't hurt—it was just strange, intimate in a way she didn't know how to name. She laughed against his neck, her breath warm on his skin.
"You're so weird," she said. "But I love you. You know that, right? Like, best friend love. Forever."
His hands stilled. For a moment, he didn't move, didn't breathe. Then his grip tightened, almost painfully, and he pulled her closer, crushing her against him. She felt something hard press against her belly through his pants, but she didn't register it—she was too busy nuzzling his neck, her eyes closed, a smile on her lips.
"I love you too," he said, the words thick, strained. "More than you know."
She pulled back, her hands sliding to his cheeks, cupping his face. His grey eyes were dark, almost black, and his jaw was tight under her palms. "You okay? You look like you're in pain."
"I'm fine."
"You sure? Did you sleep funny? Your neck?"
"Anya." He said her name like it hurt him to say it. "I'm fine."
"Okay." She kissed his cheek, quick and bright. "I'm gonna go take a shower. You think about pancakes. I want the ones with the little blueberries inside. And whipped cream. Lots of whipped cream."
She turned, her body swaying as she walked toward the bathroom, her bare ass still marked with the faint red lines from where his fingers had pressed into the skin. She didn't notice. She didn't notice the way his hands hung at his sides, clenched into fists. She didn't notice the way his chest rose and fell, fast and uneven. She was already thinking about hot water, about how good it would feel, about how lucky she was to have a best friend like him.
Behind her, Dante stood still, his eyes fixed on the sway of her hips, the shadow between her cheeks, the way the thin string of the thong disappeared into her. His cock was a steel rod inside his pants, aching, leaking, and he had to close his eyes, had to breathe through it.
She was oblivious. She was his. And she had no idea.
The bathroom door clicked shut, and he heard the water start, the soft hiss of the shower, and her voice—she was humming, a pop song she'd heard on the radio. Happy. Carefree. Naked and beautiful and completely unaware that she had just stood in front of him, let him spread her ass, and called him her best friend.
He pressed the heel of his hand against his cock, hard enough to hurt, and counted to ten.
She was worth the wait.
But God, the waiting was going to kill him.
He loosened his tie, pulled it off, and followed the sound of her humming to the kitchen. He'd make her pancakes. He'd watch her eat them, her nipples hard and visible across the counter, her thong the only thing between him and every single one of his darkest dreams.
And he'd wait.
The bathroom was already fogging up, steam curling around the mirror as she stepped under the spray. She left the door wide open—why wouldn't she? This was Dante. He'd seen her in less. Well, not really, but he'd seen her in a thong, and that was basically the same thing, right?
"Dante!" she called out, her voice bouncing off the tile. "Are you really making pancakes? Because if you're just saying that to make me happy and then I come out and there's nothing, I'm going to be so disappointed. Like, genuinely crushed. I might cry."
She heard his footsteps, slow and heavy, crossing the hardwood. He appeared in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the light from the living room. He'd taken off his jacket, his tie hanging loose around his neck, his white shirt untucked and unbuttoned at the collar.
"I'm making pancakes." His voice was low, a little rough. "Blueberry. With whipped cream."
"You're the best." She beamed, even though he probably couldn't see her face through the steam and the glass. "Like, the actual best. Do you know that? Do I tell you enough?"
She soaped her arms, her hands sliding over wet skin, the water drumming against her shoulders. She felt good. Light. Happy. This was exactly what she needed—a hot shower, a best friend who made her pancakes, a whole day ahead of her with nothing to do but be with him.
"You tell me," he said, his voice tight, "about twice an hour."
"Good. I mean it every time." She tilted her head back, letting the water run through her hair, the weight of it pulling against her scalp. "You know what I was thinking? We should do something today. Like, something fun. Not just sitting around. We could go to that little farmer's market I saw downtown—they have those strawberry things you like, the ones with the chocolate inside? Or we could go see a movie. Or—"
She heard something. A sound. Fabric shifting. She opened her eyes and turned her head.
Dante was standing at the edge of the shower curtain, his hand wrapped around the edge of the fabric. His grey eyes were fixed on her through the fogged glass, unreadable, dark.
"What?" she asked, laughing. "Do you need something?"
He didn't answer. He just pulled the curtain back, slow, the metal rings scraping along the rod, and suddenly there was nothing between them but steam and the sound of the water.
She blinked at him, water dripping down her face, her hair plastered to her cheeks. He was looking at her—all of her—and this was Dante, and Dante was her best friend, and best friends did weird stuff sometimes.
"Are you gonna watch me shower?" she asked, grinning. "That's not of weird, you know."
"I know."
She laughed, reaching up to wipe the water from her eyes. "You're so strange. I love it. I love you. You know that, right?"
He didn't answer. He just stood there, his hands at his sides, his chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths. His eyes traveled down her body—her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the way the water ran between them, dripping off her nipples in steady droplets. She watched him watching her, and she didn't look away. She didn't cover herself. Why would she? This was Dante.
"You're staring," she said, her voice light, teasing.
Something shifted in his face. A muscle in his jaw twitched. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
"I am"
So she laughed again, shaking her head, sending water flying from her hair.
"Good. You're handsome, you know. For an old guy."
He almost smiled. Almost. The corner of his mouth twitched, and that was enough for her—she'd gotten a reaction, and that was a win.
She turned around, reaching for the shampoo, her back to him. She felt his gaze on her skin, heavy and hot, tracing the curve of her spine, the swell of her ass, the way the water slid down the cleft between her cheeks. She didn't think about it. She just lathered her hair, humming that same pop song, her hips swaying slightly as she worked the shampoo into a lather.
"You know," she said, her voice muffled by the water, "if you wanted to join me, you could. There's plenty of room."
She said it without thinking. It was just a thing you said to your best friend, right? Like offering them the last slice of pizza. It didn't mean anything.
Behind her, she heard him inhale. Sharp and deep.
"Anya."
"What?" She turned her head, peeking over her shoulder, her hands still tangled in her wet hair. Water ran down her face, her body, pooling at her feet. "I'm serious. It's a big shower. I won't look if you're shy." She giggled. "But you're not shy, are you? You're like the least shy person I know."
He stepped closer. One step. Then another. The tiles were wet under his shoes, but he didn't seem to care. He stopped at the edge of the spray, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough that a few drops of water landed on his shirt.
"You don't know what you're asking," he said, his voice low, rough, almost a growl.
She turned around fully, facing him, letting the water hit her back. She looked up at him, her eyes bright, her lips curved into a smile. "I'm asking if you want to shower with me. It's not that complicated, Dante. We're friends. Friends shower together sometimes. It's a thing."
"It's not a thing."
"It could be a thing." She reached out, her wet hand catching his. His fingers were warm, rough, and she felt a jolt pass through her—static, probably, from the dry air. "Come on. Just this once. It'll be fun."
He looked down at her hand wrapped around his. Then he looked up, into her eyes, and she saw something there that made her breath catch—something dark and deep and hungry, a flame that burned behind his grey irises.
She didn't understand it. But she wasn't afraid of it.
She tugged his hand. "Come on. Before the water gets cold."
He didn't move for a long, long moment. Then he pulled his hand free, and she felt a pang of disappointment—but then he reached for his shirt, unbuttoning it with quick, deliberate movements, shrugging it off his broad shoulders. She watched, her eyes widening slightly, as he revealed the tattoos that covered his arms and chest—black ink, intricate patterns, names and symbols she didn't recognize. She'd seen hints of them before, when his sleeves rode up, but this was different. This was all of him.
"Whoa," she breathed. "You're like... a work of art."
He didn't answer. He just kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned his pants, and stepped out of them. His thighs were thick, muscular, covered in more ink. And then there was his cock—hard, straining against his boxers, a shape that made her blink, made her stomach tighten in a way she didn't know how to name.
"Oh," she said, her voice small. "You're... um..."
She looked up at his face, and he was watching her, his eyes burning, waiting for her to say something. To run. To look away. To understand.
She didn't understand. But she smiled, because this was Dante, and she trusted him.
"You're really going to join me." It wasn't a question. It was a statement, warm and bright. "This is going to be so fun."
She stepped back, making room for him under the spray, and he followed her in, the water hitting his body, darkening his hair, running down the lines of his tattoos. He was so much bigger than her in the confined space of the shower, his body blocking the light, casting her in shadow. She looked up at him, water streaming down her face, and she felt small and safe and happy.
"See?" she said, reaching for the soap. "This is nice. This is exactly what I needed."
She lathered her hands and reached for his chest, spreading the soap across his skin, tracing the lines of ink with her fingers. He stood still, his hands at his sides, his breathing heavy, as she worked the soap into his shoulders, his arms, the hard planes of his stomach. She didn't notice the way his cock twitched, straining against his boxers. She didn't notice the way his hands trembled, wanting to reach for her. She was too busy humming, too busy enjoying the feeling of taking care of him.
"You're so tense," she said, pressing her thumbs into the muscles of his shoulders. "You need to relax. You work too hard. All that business stuff. You need more fun in your life."
"I have fun," he said, his voice strained.
"When? When was the last time you did something just for you?"
He looked down at her, water dripping from his hair, and she saw something soften in his eyes. "Now."
She grinned. "Good. See? I'm good for you. I make you have fun." She patted his chest, leaving a soapy handprint. "Okay, turn around. I need to do your back."
He turned, slow, and she pressed her soapy hands against his broad back, working the foam into his skin. She felt his muscles shift under her palms, felt the heat of him, the solid strength of his body. She pressed closer, her breasts against his back, her nipples brushing against his skin, and she felt him stiffen, felt a tremor run through him.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Fine." The word was almost a growl.
"You keep saying that. I'm starting to think you're not actually fine." She laughed, her breath warm against his shoulder blade. "But okay. I believe you."
She rinsed the soap off him, watching the water run in rivulets down his back, following the lines of his tattoos. Then she turned him around, her hands on his hips, and looked up at him, her eyes bright.
"See? That wasn't weird at all. It was just... nice."
He looked down at her, water streaming over his face, his grey eyes dark and unreadable. His hands came up, slow, and cupped her cheeks, tilting her face up. She blinked at him, surprised, but she didn't pull away. His thumbs traced her cheekbones, wiping away water, and she felt a flutter in her chest, a warmth spreading through her.
"You're beautiful," he said, his voice low, raw. "Do you know that?"
She laughed, a little breathless. "I mean, I think so. But it's nice to hear."
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
She felt her cheeks flush, warm under his hands. "Dante..."
"I mean it."
She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to do with the weight of his words, the intensity in his eyes, the way his hands trembled against her skin. So she did what she always did when she didn't understand something—she smiled, bright and warm, and reached up to squeeze his wrists.
"You're sweet," she said. "My big, scary, tattooed best friend is a secret softie. I knew it."
She pulled away, reaching for the shampoo again, and started washing her hair. She didn't see the way his hands dropped to his sides, the way his jaw tightened, the way he closed his eyes and breathed through the ache in his chest.
She was oblivious. She was his. And she had no idea.
She stepped out of the shower, water streaming down her thighs, and grabbed a towel from the rack. The air was cool against her wet skin, and she shivered, grinning. "That was perfect. I feel like a new person."
Dante followed her out, his boxers clinging to his hips, dark hair plastered to his forehead. His grey eyes tracked her movements—the way she wrapped the towel around herself, the way it barely covered the curve of her ass. He said nothing, just reached for another towel and dried his arms, slow, deliberate.
"You need a towel?" she asked, already pulling hers off to dry her hair. The towel fell away, leaving her completely naked, and she didn't think twice about it. "Here, let me help you with your back."
She grabbed the towel and stepped behind him, pressing it against his broad shoulders. He stiffened at her touch, his muscles locking under her hands. She rubbed in circles, humming, completely unaware of the way his breath caught, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.
"You're so tense," she said, her voice muffled by the towel. "You need to relax more. All that stress is bad for you."
"I'll try," he said, his voice low, strained.
She finished drying his back and moved around to face him, the towel hanging loosely from one hand. "Okay, your turn to help me." She held out her arms, still damp. "But be gentle. I'm delicate." She laughed, bright and easy.
He took the towel from her, his fingers brushing against hers, and she felt a flutter in her chest—but she didn't name it. She just closed her eyes as he ran the towel over her shoulders, her arms, the slope of her breasts. She didn't notice the way his hands lingered, the way his knuckles brushed against her nipples, making them tighten in the cool air. She just sighed, content, like a cat being pet.
"That's nice," she murmured. "You're good at this."
He didn't answer. He dried her stomach, her hips, the tops of her thighs. She spread her legs slightly, giving him access, and he pressed the towel between her legs, drying the crease where her thigh met her body. She didn't open her eyes. She just let him take care of her.
"Okay," she said, after a long moment, opening her eyes and stepping back. "Now I need to put on my thong. The one with the cherries." She beamed at him. "I love that one. It's so cute."
She padded out of the bathroom, naked, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the marble floor. He followed her, his grey eyes fixed on the sway of her hips, the bounce of her ass as she walked. She didn't look back. She just stretched her arms over her head, her breasts lifting, and yawned.
"Where did I leave it?" she asked, scanning the living room. The shopping bags were still scattered across the floor, tissue paper everywhere. She bent over, her ass in the air, and sorted through the pile. "Aha!"
She held up the cherry thong, a tiny scrap of red fabric with little white cherries embroidered along the waistband. The strings were thin, barely an inch wide at the front, and the back was nothing but a thin line of fabric. She turned it over in her hands, admiring it. "So cute. I'm going to wear it right now."
She stepped into it, pulling it up her thighs. But the fabric bunched, catching on her damp skin. She tugged, frustrated, and the thong twisted sideways. "Ugh. Stupid wet skin."
Dante stepped closer, his presence filling the space behind her. "Let me help."
She turned, surprised, but then she smiled. "Okay. Friends help friends with thongs." She laughed, holding the fabric out to him. "Here. You pull it up. I'll hold still."
She turned around, facing away from him, and bent slightly at the waist, her hands on her knees. Her ass was bare, the cherry thong dangling from her fingers. "Go ahead. Don't be shy."
He stepped behind her, his body radiating heat. His hands came to her hips, his fingers brushing against her skin, and she felt a shiver run through her—but she thought it was just the cold air. He took the thong from her hands, his knuckles grazing her lower back, and she felt the fabric slide up her thighs, slow, deliberate.
"There's a lot of fabric," she said, her voice light. "Make sure it's straight."
His hands moved the fabric up, over her hips, and then—she felt his fingers press into her ass cheeks, spreading them slightly to pull the thong into place. The thin line of fabric settled between her cheeks, and she felt the waistband snap gently against her skin. She straightened up, feeling the thong settle into place.
"Perfect!" she said, turning around. "Thanks, Dante. You're a pro."
She looked down at herself—the tiny red triangle barely covering her mound, the thin string that disappeared between her cheeks. She felt sexy, confident. She did a little spin, her breasts bouncing, and she caught him watching her, his grey eyes dark and unreadable.
"What?" she asked, grinning. "Do I look good?"
"You look perfect."
She felt a warmth spread through her, but she didn't examine it. She just laughed, clapping her hands together. "Okay! I'm ready for breakfast. Let's make pancakes. You promised you'd teach me."
She bounced on her heels, the cherry thong shifting against her skin, and started toward the kitchen. Her breasts bounced with each step, her nipples hard and visible, and she didn't think twice about it. She was naked except for the thong, and it felt natural, right.
"Wait," Dante said, his voice low. "I thought I told you. No clothes in the apartment."
She turned, her eyes wide. "What?"
"No clothes," he repeated, stepping closer. "You agreed. Earlier."
She blinked, thinking back. The shower. The cuddling. The way he'd said it, half-serious, half-joking. She hadn't really believed him. But now, looking at his face, she saw that he meant it. And she didn't care—she was already mostly naked anyway.
"You're so silly," she said, laughing. "Fine. No clothes."
She reached down and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the cherry thong, pulling it down her legs. She stepped out of it, completely naked, and tossed it onto the sofa. "There. Happy?"
She stood in front of him, her arms wide, a playful grin on her face. Her black hair tumbled down her back, her hazel eyes bright, her full breasts and the curve of her hips completely exposed. She felt free, wild, happy.
His gaze moved over her body, slow, hungry. She didn't notice. She just thought he was looking at her, the way friends do.
"Okay," she said, turning and striding toward the kitchen. "Pancakes. I'm starving."
She opened his refrigerator, bending over to look inside, her ass in the air. She found eggs, milk, butter, and a container of blueberries. "Yes! Look at all this. You're so prepared."
She straightened up, holding the ingredients, and set them on the counter. She grabbed a mixing bowl from the cabinet, then paused, looking around. "Where's the pancake mix?"
"We'll make them from scratch," he said, coming up behind her. His voice was close, his chest brushing against her back. "I'll show you."
She shivered at his proximity, but she didn't pull away. She just looked over her shoulder, grinning. "Ooh, fancy. Show me everything."
He reached around her, his arm brushing against her side, and pulled a bag of flour from the pantry. She leaned into his chest, letting him guide her, and she felt his body behind her, solid and warm. She didn't think about the fact that she was naked, that her ass was pressed against his hips. She just thought: this is nice. I'm learning to cook with my best friend.
He walked her through the recipe, his voice low and patient. She measured flour, sugar, baking powder—spilling a little on the counter, laughing at herself. He stood beside her, his hand occasionally guiding hers, his chest brushing against her shoulder. Every touch felt natural, friendly.
"Okay," she said, whisking the batter. "Blueberries go in last, right?"
"Right."
She dropped a handful into the bowl, stirring gently. "They look so pretty in there. Like little jewels."
She poured the batter onto the heated griddle, making three perfect circles. The batter sizzled, bubbles forming on the surface. She watched, fascinated, her hands gripping the counter.
"Now we wait," she said, bouncing on her heels. "This is the hard part."
She turned to face him, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. She looked up at him, her eyes bright. "While we wait, I want a hug. A proper one."
She stepped into his arms, pressing her naked body against his fully clothed one. He was still in his boxers, but he'd pulled on a pair of sweatpants at some point, the soft fabric warm against her skin. She wrapped her arms around his waist, her cheek resting against his chest, and she sighed, content.
"You're so warm," she murmured. "I could stay here forever."
She felt his arms come around her, his hands settling on her lower back. Then they moved lower, over her hips, and then—his hands cupped her ass cheeks, his fingers spreading them apart. She felt the cool air against her asshole, felt it open as he pulled her cheeks apart, exposing her fully. She didn't flinch. She just pressed closer into him, her nipples brushing against his chest, and she let out a happy sigh.
"Mmm," she hummed. "This is nice."
He held her like that, his hands gripping her ass, his fingers spreading her apart. She felt his fingers brush against the sensitive skin of her perineum, felt the slight stretch as he pulled her open wider. She had no idea what he was doing. She just thought he was holding her tight, the way friends do.
"You feel so good," he said, his voice a low rumble against her ear.
"You too," she said, squeezing his waist. "You're so big and soft at the same time."
She stayed in his arms, her ass exposed, his hands working her cheeks apart. She didn't notice the way his breathing quickened, the way his thumbs pressed into the crease of her ass, the way his fingers kneaded the flesh. She just closed her eyes and let herself be held.
The pancakes started to bubble on the griddle, the edges turning golden. She heard the sizzle and pulled back, his hands falling away from her ass. "Oh! The pancakes are ready for flipping!"
She turned, completely oblivious to the fact that her asshole was still red and stretched from his hands, and grabbed the spatula. She flipped the pancakes with a triumphant "Yes!", then turned back to him, beaming. "Look, I did it!"
He watched her, his grey eyes burning. She didn't see it. She just pulled him into another quick hug, her body pressing against his, then bounced away to check the other side.
They finished the pancakes together—a tall stack, golden and studded with blueberries. She drizzled whipped cream on top, making a little swirl, then added more blueberries in a smiley face. "Perfect. This is the best breakfast ever."
She hopped onto a barstool at the counter, completely naked, her legs spread slightly as she sat. The cherry thong was still on the sofa, forgotten. She took a bite of her pancake, closing her eyes, humming in pleasure.
"Dante," she said, her mouth full, "you have to try this. It's amazing."
He sat down across from her, his gaze fixed on the way her nipples grazed the edge of the counter, the way she sat without shame, the way she looked at him with pure, unguarded joy. He didn't look at the pancakes. He didn't need to.
"I taught you well," he said, his voice low.
"You're the best teacher," she said, taking another bite. "And the best friend. I don't know what I did to deserve you."
She reached across the counter, her fingers finding his, and squeezed. He squeezed back, his grip tight, almost possessive. She didn't notice the change in pressure. She just smiled, her heart full, and went back to her pancakes.
The morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting shadows across the marble floor. She sat there, naked and happy, the whipped cream melting on her pancakes, the city sprawling below her. And behind her, his grey eyes tracked every movement, every breath, every beat of her pulse, waiting for the moment she would finally see what she was too blind to understand.