The plates sat empty between them, smears of egg yolk and crumbs the only evidence of the breakfast she'd insisted on cooking—scrambled eggs slightly burned, toast slightly cold, but she'd beamed at him across the counter like she'd served a Michelin-star meal. Dante had eaten every bite without complaint, his grey eyes tracking her as she chattered about the movie she wanted to watch later, something animated, something with talking animals that she'd already seen six times.
"That was so good," she said, pushing back from the counter, stretching her arms above her head until her spine cracked. Her dress rode up, the hem grazing the tops of her thighs, and she caught him looking. She grinned. "What? I'm celebrating. Best friend breakfast."
Before he could respond, she was already moving—launching herself at him, her arms wrapping around his neck, her body pressing full against his chest. Her warmth seeped through his shirt. "Thank you," she murmured against his shoulder. "For everything. For being you."
His hands found her immediately. Not her waist. Not her back. Her ass. Both palms flat against the curve of her cheeks through the thin cotton of her dress, and then he squeezed, fingers digging in, spreading her apart. She felt the stretch, the cool air against her asshole through the fabric as he pulled her cheeks wide, and she just giggled, nuzzling closer into his neck.
"You're so silly," she said, completely content, her voice muffled against his skin. She didn't pull away. Didn't tense. Just hugged him tighter, her legs brushing against his thighs, her breasts pressing flat to his chest.
He held her like that for a long moment, his hands still spreading her, his thumbs tracing the seam of her ass through the dress. She hummed happily. "You're my favorite person, you know that?"
His grip tightened. Just slightly. She felt it, the pressure, the way his fingers kneaded into her flesh, and she wiggled her hips a little, adjusting her weight against him. "I'm gonna show you what I bought," she said, pulling back just enough to look at his face, her hazel eyes bright. Her dress was twisted now, riding up her thighs, the outline of her cherry thong visible through the fabric if anyone were paying attention. She wasn't. "Come on."
She slid down from his lap, grabbing his hand, tugging him toward the pile of shopping bags still scattered near the sofa. Her fingers laced through his, warm and small, and she swung their joined hands as she walked, chattering about the jeans she'd found, the crop top that was so soft, the shoes that were absolutely ridiculous but she had to have them.
Dante let himself be pulled, his thumb stroking across her knuckles as she dug through tissue paper with her free hand. She was animated now, holding up a pair of low-rise jeans with rips across both knees and a waist so low it barely seemed legal. "These," she said, pressing them to her front. "What do you think?"
"Put them on," he said. His voice was low, unhurried, the same tone he used to give orders to men who flinched when he spoke. She didn't notice. She just beamed, already shimmying out of her dress, dropping it to the floor without a second thought. Standing in nothing but her cherry thong and the smile she wore like armor, she stepped into the jeans.
They hugged her hips, riding low, the waistband settling below her navel. She turned, showing him the back, the way the denim curved over her ass, the top of her thong visible above the waistline. "Good?" she asked, twisting to look over her shoulder at him.
His grey eyes moved down her body. Then back up. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
She took that as approval and grabbed the crop top—sheer white mesh, practically translucent, with thin straps and a neckline that plunged to her sternum. She pulled it over her head, tugging it down, and the fabric did nothing. Her nipples were visible immediately, dark and hard against the mesh, her breasts full and heavy beneath the see-through material. She turned to face him fully, her hands on her hips. "Okay, now I'm ready."
She grabbed his hand again, lacing their fingers together, and pulled him toward the door. "Let's go get my stuff."
He didn't question where they were going. Didn't tell her that his men had already cleared her building, that her landlord had been paid triple what the lease was worth, that her neighbors had been politely but firmly encouraged to forget they'd ever seen her. He just let her lead him to the elevator, her fingers warm in his, her body swaying with each step, the sheer crop top doing nothing to hide the bounce of her breasts.
The car was black, sleek, low to the ground, with tinted windows that made the world outside look like a dream. She slid into the passenger seat without waiting for him to open the door, her bare legs whispering against the leather, and immediately started fiddling with the radio, scrolling through stations until she found something pop and upbeat. She sang along, off-key and unashamed, her hand finding his across the center console as she navigated the drive. She held his hand the entire ride. Because that's what friends did.
Her apartment was small, cluttered, filled with the chaos of a life lived without caution. Shoes kicked off by the door. A half-empty mug on the coffee table. Photos taped to the fridge—her and friends, her and a golden retriever she'd met at a park once, a blurry selfie of her laughing at something off-camera. She moved through the rooms with purpose, pulling clothes from closets, shoving them into trash bags, chattering the whole time about nothing—the neighbor's cat, the leaky faucet she'd never reported, the time she'd accidentally locked herself out in pajamas.
Dante stood in the doorway of her bedroom, watching her move. She bent over to grab something from under the bed, her jeans riding lower, the cherry thong visible in full, her ass cheeks curving out from the low waistband. She didn't notice him notice. She just straightened, holding up a stuffed bunny with one floppy ear. "Oh my god, I forgot about Mr. Wiggles. He has to come."
She tucked the bunny into the bag and kept moving.
The moving truck arrived within the hour—men in dark coats who loaded her belongings without a word, who didn't meet her eyes when she thanked them, who disappeared like smoke into the afternoon sunlight. She didn't think about why they moved so fast, why they handled her boxes like they were carrying something sacred. She just bounced on her heels, excited, counting her bags as they disappeared into the truck.
Back at the penthouse, her things were already gone from the living room. She wandered toward the bedroom, pushing open the door, and stopped. Her clothes filled the closet, hanging beside his. Her makeup sat on the vanity. Her stuffed bunny was propped against the pillows on the bed—his bed, their bed now, she supposed, though she didn't think about it that way. She just smiled, feeling something warm settle in her chest.
She peeled off the crop top first, letting it drop to the floor. Then the jeans, shimmying out of them, stepping free. The cherry thong remained, a thin strip of fabric between her cheeks, and she stood there, naked except for it, looking at the closet where her dresses hung beside his suits.
"Dante," she called, not turning around. "Look. Our stuff is together."
She heard his footsteps behind her. Felt his presence fill the doorway. She didn't turn. Didn't cover herself. Because this was comfortable. This was him.
"It's like we're roommates," she said, laughing, finally twisting to look at him over her bare shoulder. "Best friend roommates."
His grey eyes moved down her spine, past the curve of her lower back, settling on the cherry thong. He said nothing. He didn't need to. He just crossed the room, his hand finding the small of her back, his palm warm against her skin. "We should watch that movie you wanted."
Her face lit up. "Yes! Okay, give me two seconds. I just—" She tugged the thong down, stepping out of it, leaving it on the floor. Naked now. Completely, entirely naked, standing in the middle of his bedroom like it was the most natural thing in the world. She grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed, wrapping it around herself, and bounded past him toward the living room. "I'm picking the snacks."
He watched her go. Her bare ass disappearing around the corner. The soft sound of her feet padding across the hardwood. Her voice, muffled from the other room, singing along to whatever song was still stuck in her head.
By the time he reached the living room, she was already on the couch, the blanket draped over her, her legs tucked beneath her. She'd found a bag of popcorn somewhere and was shaking it one-handed, scattering kernels across the cushion. "Hurry," she said, patting the spot beside her. "It's starting."
He sat. She immediately leaned into him, her body warm against his side, the blanket pooling around her waist. She was still naked beneath it, her skin soft where it pressed against his arm, her legs tangling with his as she got comfortable. She smelled like vanilla and something floral, some lotion she'd put on that morning, and she burrowed into his side like she'd been doing it her whole life.
The movie started—bright colors, talking animals, a plot she'd described to him in detail over breakfast. She narrated through the opening scene anyway, pointing at the screen, explaining the jokes before they landed. Her voice was happy, light, the sound of someone utterly at peace.
His hand found her bare waist beneath the blanket. She didn't react. Didn't stiffen. Just kept talking, her eyes on the screen, her body relaxed against him. His fingers traced up, over her ribs, finding the curve of her breast. Still she didn't react. She just shifted slightly, adjusting her weight, letting his hand settle where it was.
His thumb found her nipple. Soft at first, grazing across the peak. It hardened immediately, responding before her brain caught up, and she hummed contentedly, not pulling away, not looking down, not registering that his hand was on her breast like it belonged there. "This part is so funny," she said, pointing at the screen. "Watch."
He watched. Her nipple between his fingers. The way it grew taut under his touch. The way she didn't notice, or noticed and found it normal, comfortable, just another way he showed affection.
He squeezed. Gently. Then harder. Rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tugging, pulling, stretching the sensitive peak until her breath hitched, just slightly, just for a second, before she kept talking—"Oh, I love this song"—oblivious to the fact that his fingers were working her breast like he owned it.
She kept talking through the movie. Commenting. Laughing. Leaning into him. Her nipple stayed hard between his fingers, and he played with it the entire scene, rolling, pinching, pulling, alternating between soft circles and sharp tugs that made her body twitch without her mind catching up. She'd shift against him, her thighs pressing together, and he'd watch her face—still fixed on the screen, still smiling, still utterly unaware that he was touching her like a lover.
She loved that he was so comfortable with her. That he could touch her like this. That their friendship was so close, so intimate, that he could play with her nipple while she watched a cartoon about a singing sloth and neither of them thought it was strange.
"Dante," she said, not looking away from the screen, "can you pass the popcorn?"
He reached for the bag with his free hand. His other hand stayed on her, his fingers still working her nipple, pinching harder now, pulling the sensitive bud until it ached. She took the popcorn, shoving a handful into her mouth, her body pressing closer to his as she chewed.
The scene on screen shifted. A chase. Something silly. She laughed, her chest shaking against his hand, her nipple still caught between his fingers, and he pulled, hard, a sharp tug that made her gasp—but she was already laughing at the screen, already pointing, already turning to look at him with bright eyes. "Did you see that? He fell in the cake!"
He saw. He saw everything. The flush creeping across her chest. The way her breath came slightly faster. The way she pressed her thighs together beneath the blanket. She didn't know why her body was responding. Didn't connect his fingers on her nipple to the heat spreading through her belly. She just knew she felt good, comfortable, safe, loved.
She tipped her head back against his shoulder, her neck bared, her eyes half-closed, watching the movie through heavy lids. "This is nice," she murmured. "This is really nice."
His fingers kept moving. Rolling. Pinching. Pulling. Her nipple was swollen now, sensitive from the constant stimulation, and she shifted against him, a small sound escaping her throat—not quite a moan, not quite a sigh, just a breath that caught somewhere in the middle. She didn't notice she'd made it.
"Best friends," she said, her voice soft, dreamy, her eyes drifting shut for longer than a blink. "Best friends forever."
His other hand found her other breast beneath the blanket. His thumb and forefinger found her other nipple. He twisted both, hard, simultaneously, a sharp pull that made her back arch, her mouth falling open, a soft gasp escaping before she could stop it. Her eyes fluttered open, confused for a moment, then she looked at the screen and laughed. "Oh, that's the best part."
She settled back against him, her body warm and pliant, her nipples aching between his fingers. She didn't ask him to stop. Didn't think to ask. Because this was Dante. This was her best friend. This was comfortable.
And if her body was responding in ways she didn't fully understand, she was too happy, too content, too safe in his arms to question it.
She just kept watching the movie.
She kept watching the movie.
Talking animals did something silly on screen—a raccoon stealing something, a sloth moving in slow motion—and she laughed, her body shaking against his hand, her nipple still pinched between his fingers. He twisted. Pulled. She shifted, pressing her thighs together, a warmth spreading through her belly that she didn't think about, didn't name, just let sit there like a comfortable blanket.
"Best part coming up," she said, reaching for more popcorn. "She sings this song and it's so cute."
His other hand moved. Slid down her stomach, over the soft curve of her belly, past the waistband of the blanket pooled around her hips. She didn't react. Didn't stiffen. Didn't even look down. She just kept chewing, eyes fixed on the screen, as his fingers traced lower, finding the slick heat between her thighs.
She was wet.
She hadn't noticed. Her body had responded without her permission, without her awareness, and when his fingers slid through the wetness, parting her, she just hummed contentedly, shifting her hips to get more comfortable. "This song is so good," she said, humming along, as his middle finger pressed against her entrance.
He pushed in.
One finger, sliding deep, sinking into her warmth without resistance. She gasped softly, her body jolting, but her eyes stayed on the screen, and she laughed—"Oh, she's so funny"—as if the gasp had been part of her reaction to the movie. She didn't look down. Didn't ask what he was doing. She just let her thighs fall open a little wider, making room for his hand, because this was comfortable, this was Dante, and she loved being close to him.
"You like the movie?" he asked, his voice low, steady, as his finger curled inside her.
"I love it," she breathed, pressing back against his hand. "I knew you'd like it."
A second finger joined the first.
She felt the stretch, the fullness, her body clenching around him instinctively, and she shifted, pressing her hips down against his hand, chasing something she didn't understand. Her breath came faster, her chest rising and falling, her nipple still trapped between his thumb and forefinger, pinched hard, pulled taut.
"Dante," she said, her voice dreamy, "your hands are so warm."
She didn't know why her body was responding this way. Didn't connect the fingers in her pussy to the heat pooling in her belly, the wetness coating his hand, the way her thighs trembled as he pushed deeper. She just knew she felt good. Safe. Loved. Her best friend was touching her in the most intimate way possible, and she was watching a cartoon about a singing sloth, completely oblivious, completely trusting, completely happy.
He added a third finger.
She gasped, her back arching, her mouth falling open. The stretch was sudden, intense, a fullness that made her eyes flutter, but she focused on the screen, on the bright colors, on the joke she'd seen a dozen times before. "This is my favorite line," she managed, her voice breathless, as he began to move his fingers inside her—pumping, thrusting, fucking her open with a rhythm that matched the throb between her legs.
She kept talking.
Describing the scene. Pointing at the screen. Laughing at jokes that barely registered through the haze of pleasure building in her core. Her hips rocked against his hand, her body moving on its own, seeking more, and he gave it to her—harder, deeper, his fingers pounding into her pussy with a force that made the blanket shift, that made her breath catch mid-sentence.
"And then—" she started, then stopped, a moan escaping her lips before she could catch it. She blinked, confused, then laughed. "Sorry. I got distracted."
She didn't know what distracted her. Didn't look down. Didn't see his forearm moving, his hand buried between her thighs, his fingers sliding in and out of her wet, swollen cunt. She just settled back against him, her body trembling, her nipple aching from the constant pinch, and kept watching the movie.
"You can keep going," she said, patting his arm. "This is really comfortable."
His fingers drove into her harder. Three fingers, thick and demanding, stretching her open, filling her completely. The wet sound of his hand moving inside her filled the room beneath the movie's soundtrack—a soft, obscene squelch that she didn't register, didn't recognize, just absorbed as part of the ambient noise.
Her thighs began to shake.
Something was building inside her, a pressure she didn't understand, a tension coiling low in her belly. She pressed her hips down against his hand, chasing it, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that she disguised as laughter at the screen. "Oh," she breathed, "I love this part."
He pinched her nipple harder. Twisted. Pulled until the sensitive peak burned.
The pain and pleasure blurred together, and she moaned—a low, throaty sound that slipped out before she could stop it. She didn't know why she made that sound. Didn't connect it to his fingers inside her, his hand on her breast, the relentless rhythm of his palm against her clit. She just felt good. So good. And she trusted him completely.
"Dante," she whispered, her voice trembling, "I think I need to—"
She didn't finish the sentence. Her body clenched around his fingers, a wave of pleasure crashing through her, her back arching, her mouth opening in a silent cry. She came on his hand, her pussy gripping his fingers, pulsing, flooding, and she kept her eyes on the screen, her face soft and happy, as if she'd just laughed at a particularly good joke.
"That was a really good scene," she said, her voice dreamy, as her body relaxed against him, spent and satisfied. She didn't know why she felt so good. Didn't know that his fingers were still inside her, that her cum was coating his hand, that he was watching her with a hunger that burned through the dim light of the living room.
She just snuggled closer, her cheek against his chest, her hand finding his free one, interlacing their fingers.
"Best friends forever," she murmured, her eyes drifting shut.
His fingers stayed inside her, still, waiting, as her breathing slowed and her body went limp against his. She was asleep within seconds, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips, her nipple still hard beneath his thumb, his hand still buried between her thighs, holding her full of him even in sleep.
The movie played on. Bright colors flickered across her face. The singing sloth reached the chorus.
And Dante watched her sleep, his grey eyes fixed on her peaceful expression, his fingers still pressed deep inside her warmth, waiting for her to wake up so he could start again.
She woke slowly, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she stretched against the warmth of his body. Something was different—a fullness between her thighs, a pressure she'd forgotten about. She blinked, the movie still playing on the screen in the other room, a faint glow spilling through the doorway. Her body felt heavy, satisfied in a way she couldn't name, and when she shifted, his fingers slid out of her with a wet sound that made her breath catch.
"Mmm," she murmured, turning her head to look up at him. His grey eyes were already on her, dark and patient, his hand glistening in the dim light. She watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, his tongue sliding along them, tasting her, and a warm flutter went through her chest. He was so sweet. He wanted to taste her. She didn't know why that made her happy, but it did.
"You taste good," he said, his voice low and rough, and she giggled, pressing her face against his chest.
"Silly," she said. "You're silly." She nestled closer, her body bare against his, her breasts pressing into his side. She felt so comfortable, so safe. "I'm really tired, Dante. Can we go to bed?"
"Of course," he said, and his hand found hers, interlacing their fingers.
She sat up, the blanket pooling in her lap, and looked down at herself. She was completely naked—her breasts bare, her nipples hard in the cool air, her thighs still slick and warm. She didn't think to cover herself. This was Dante. He'd seen her naked all day. She stood, taking his hand, and tugged him toward the bedroom, her bare feet padding across the cold floor. She heard him rise behind her, heard the soft rustle of his clothes, but she didn't look back.
The bedroom was dark, the curtains drawn, the king-size bed a white island in the shadows. She let go of his hand and climbed onto the bed, lying on her side, her hair spilling across the pillow. She turned to watch him, a sleepy smile on her face, as he unbuttoned his shirt. The fabric fell open, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the dark ink of his tattoos curving over his muscles. She'd seen them before—the elaborate patterns, the Russian script she couldn't read—but she never tired of looking. He was so beautiful, she thought. Her best friend.
"Your tattoos are so pretty," she said, her voice dreamy.
He stepped out of his trousers, leaving just his black boxers, and she noticed the way they strained at the front, a thick bulge pressed against the fabric. She didn't think about it. She just patted the space beside her. "Come cuddle me."
He lay down behind her, his body curving around hers, his chest warm against her back. She felt his arm slide around her waist, pulling her close, and she sighed contentedly. Then she felt something else—something hard and warm pressing against her ass, slipping between her cheeks, resting against her hole. She thought it was his leg, or maybe his hip bone. It was hard and insistent, but it didn't hurt. It just felt right.
"This is nice," she whispered, wiggling back against him. The hardness pressed deeper, settling between her ass cheeks, and she felt the faint pulse of it against her skin. She didn't know what it was. She didn't care. She was with Dante.
His hand found her breast, his fingers finding her nipple, and he pinched hard.
She gasped, her body jolting, but then she relaxed, a soft moan escaping her lips. "Mmm, that feels good."
"Yeah?" His voice was a low rumble against her ear.
"Yeah." She covered his hand with hers, pressing his fingers harder against her nipple. "I love when you touch me like this. It's so comforting."
He pinched harder, twisted, pulled. The sensation was sharp and sweet, a burn that spread through her chest, and she arched her back, pressing her ass back against the hardness between her cheeks. She didn't know why her body responded this way. She just knew it felt good. Safe. Loved.
"Do you like that?" he asked, his voice thick.
"I love it," she breathed, her eyes fluttering closed. "You're so good to me, Dante."
His fingers worked her nipples, pulling and twisting, rolling the sensitive peaks between his thumb and forefinger. Each pinch sent a jolt through her, a wave of warmth that pooled low in her belly, and she pressed her thighs together, feeling the slick wetness between them. She didn't understand why she was so wet. She just knew she felt alive, electric, her body humming under his hands.
The hardness between her cheeks shifted, sliding against her asshole, the tip pressing against the tight ring of muscle. She felt the pressure, the insistent push, but it didn't go inside. It just rested there, warm and heavy, a constant reminder that he was close, that he was with her, that he loved her.
"Dante," she murmured, her voice sleepy, "you're so warm."
"So are you." His hand left her breast for a moment, sliding down her stomach, his fingers finding her thigh. He gripped her ass cheek, squeezing, spreading, and the hardness between her cheeks pressed deeper, the tip nudging against her hole. She didn't flinch. She just sighed, melting into him.
"I'm so lucky to have you," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "You're the best friend I've ever had."
His hand returned to her breast, pinching her nipple again, harder this time, and she gasped, her body arching. The pressure between her cheeks grew, the hardness pressing against her asshole, and she felt her body opening, relaxing, welcoming the sensation she didn't understand.
"Best friends forever," he said, his voice low and dark, and she nodded, her cheek rubbing against the pillow.
"Forever," she echoed.
She lay there, naked in his arms, his hand on her breast, his cock pressed against her ass, and she felt nothing but pure, uncomplicated happiness. She didn't think about what he was doing. She didn't question why he touched her this way. She just accepted it, the way she accepted the sun rising and the city lights beyond the window—as a natural part of her world.
Her breathing slowed, her body relaxing completely, and she felt herself drifting toward sleep. His fingers continued to play with her nipples, pulling and twisting, the pain and pleasure blending into a steady hum that carried her toward dreams. The hardness between her cheeks throbbed against her, a steady pulse she felt in her bones, but she didn't think about it. She just smiled, her lips curving against her own arm, and let the darkness take her.
She was safe. She was loved. She was with Dante.
That was all that mattered.
"Dante," she whispered, her voice thick with sleep and contentment. She lifted her hand and covered his, pressing his fingers deeper into her sensitive nipple. The sharp pinch sent a jolt through her, and she smiled, her lips curving against the pillow. "Thank you. For everything. For being my friend. For... for making me feel so safe." Her words tumbled out, soft and sincere, the gratitude swelling in her chest like a warm balloon. "I've never had a friend like you. Someone who just... gets me. Who lets me be myself. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, you know that?"
He chuckled, the sound low and rough against her ear, his breath hot on her neck. "Of course, moya." His hand left her breast for a moment, sliding down her side, over her hip, and then his fingers found her ass cheek. He squeezed, kneading the flesh, and she sighed happily, wiggling back against him. The hardness between her cheeks shifted, and she felt his fingers spread her apart, the cool air brushing against her hole. She didn't think about it. She just melted into the sensation, her body relaxing completely.
"I mean it," she continued, her voice dreamy. "You've done so much for me. The card, the apartment, letting me stay here. I don't know how I'll ever repay you." She turned her head slightly, trying to look at him over her shoulder, but the angle was awkward. "I want to do something nice for you. Maybe I can cook you dinner? I'm not very good, but I can try. Or—"
She stopped, her breath catching as something pressed against her, something thick and blunt nudging at her entrance. She felt a stretch, a pressure that was new and yet familiar, and then—in one hard, sudden thrust—he pushed inside her.
Her body jolted, her eyes flying open. A deep, full sensation flooded her, a warmth that spread from her core to her fingertips. She felt so full, so completely filled, and she let out a long, shuddering sigh. "Mmm," she murmured, her voice muffled against the pillow. "That feels... nice." She didn't question what it was. She didn't think about the hardness inside her, the way it stretched her, the way it pulsed. It was Dante. He was being close to her. That was all that mattered.
"Yeah?" His voice was thick, strained, but she didn't notice the shift in his tone.
"Yeah," she breathed, her eyes fluttering closed. "You're so good at... at cuddling. I feel so safe." She yawned, her body relaxing around him, accepting the fullness without question. "Anyway, I was thinking—maybe tomorrow we could go to that little bakery I told you about? The one with the strawberry danishes? I really want you to try them. They're so good, Dante. Like, life-changing good." She giggled, oblivious to the way his hips began to move, pulling back and thrusting into her again, slow and deep.
"Anything you want," he said, his voice a low growl against her ear.
"And then maybe we could go for a walk in the park? The one with the fountain? I saw it from your window, and it looks so pretty. We could hold hands and feed the ducks. Do you think the ducks are still there? It's getting cold, so maybe they migrated. But it's still nice to walk, right?" She chattered on, her voice light and carefree, as his thrusts grew harder, faster.
Each stroke pushed deeper inside her, filling her completely, and she felt the rhythm of it, the steady pulse of his body against hers. She arched her back slightly, pressing her ass back against him, and a moan slipped from her lips. "Mmm, that feels good. You're so warm, Dante. I love cuddling with you."
His hand found her breast again, pinching her nipple hard, twisting, pulling. The pain and pleasure blended together, and she gasped, her fingers gripping the sheets. "Yes," she breathed, "right there. Don't stop."
He didn't stop. His thrusts quickened, his cock sliding in and out of her with a wet sound that she didn't register, a sound she attributed to their bodies shifting on the sheets. She felt the pressure building inside her, a knot tightening low in her belly, but she didn't understand it. She just felt good. So good.
"And you know what else I was thinking?" she said, her voice breathless but still cheerful. "We should get matching pajamas. Like, really silly ones. With cats on them. Or maybe those onesie things with the feet? I saw them online and they looked so comfy. I bet you'd look adorable in one." She laughed, the sound light and bubbly, even as his pace became punishing, even as his grip on her hip tightened to the point of bruising.
"Adorable," he repeated, the word dark and amused.
"Super adorable. You'd be the most handsome man in a cat onesie I've ever seen." She gasped as he thrust particularly deep, her body shuddering. "Oh, right there. That's—that's really nice. You're really good at this, Dante. Cuddling, I mean. You're the best cuddler."
His breathing was ragged now, his chest heaving against her back, his sweat slicking her skin. She felt the intensity of his movements, the desperation in his thrusts, but she interpreted it as enthusiasm. He was really getting into the cuddle. That was sweet.
"I'm so lucky," she whispered, her voice cracking as the knot in her belly tightened. "So, so lucky to have you."
He grunted, a sound that was almost a growl, and his hand left her hip, sliding down to her clit. His fingers found her, pressing and circling, and she cried out, her body convulsing. "Dante—!"
"Shh," he murmured, his voice strained. "Let go, moya. Let go for me."
She didn't know what he meant, but her body obeyed anyway, the knot snapping, a wave of pleasure crashing through her. She clenched around him, her thighs trembling, her vision going white for a moment. She heard herself moan, long and low, and she felt him thrust once more, twice, and then a warmth flooded inside her, hot and thick, filling her completely.
She sighed, her body going limp, her eyes heavy. "Mmm," she said, her voice slurred with exhaustion. "That was... really nice. We should cuddle like this more often."
He didn't answer, but his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, his spent body pressed against hers. She felt the stickiness between her thighs, the wetness pooling on the sheets, but she didn't think about it. She snuggled deeper into his embrace, her cheek pressed against the pillow, a contented smile on her lips.
"I love you, Dante," she said, the words slipping out unbidden, soft and sleepy. "You're my best friend in the whole world."
His arms tightened around her, and she felt his lips press against her hair. "I love you too, moya," he said, his voice low and rough, a promise wrapped in a growl.
She smiled, her eyes closing, her breathing slowing. She was safe. She was loved. She was with Dante.
That was all that mattered.