The study smelled like him—old paper, leather, something metallic she couldn't name. Anya padded barefoot across the dark wood floor, her floral dress swishing around her thighs, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the sway of her breasts or the dark peaks of her nipples. She found him at the big mahogany desk, a single lamp casting a hot yellow circle over the open ledger, the brass pen in his hand catching the light. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and the tattoos snaked up his forearms—black ink against pale skin, patterns she'd traced with her fingertips a hundred times without ever asking what they meant. Beside the ledger, a black pistol sat like a paperweight, and she didn't pause or wonder. She just saw her best friend.
"Dante." Her voice came out soft and happy, and she crossed the last few steps without thinking, hiking her dress up her thighs, and climbed onto his lap. Her bare skin settled over the rough wool of his trousers, her knees on either side of his hips, and the moment his hands found her ass cheeks she let out a long, slow breath. His palms were warm and familiar, cupping her, squeezing, his fingers digging into the soft flesh the way he always did when they hugged. She pressed her chest against his, her nipples dragging across the starched white of his shirt, and she didn't notice the way his grip tightened, the way his thumbs hooked and pulled her cheeks apart.
And then the tears came.
They welled up from somewhere deep, spilling hot and fast down her cheeks before she could stop them. Her bottom lip trembled, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, her shoulders shaking with a choked sob that tore through the quiet study. "Dante," she whispered, her voice cracking, the word wet and broken against his skin. "I thought... I thought you didn't want to be my friend anymore."
His hands stilled on her ass. For a long, terrible moment, he didn't move—didn't breathe—and the silence stretched like a knife's edge. She felt him tense beneath her, the coiled stillness that meant he was processing, that his mind was moving through a hundred calculations she couldn't begin to understand.
"Why would you think that?" His voice was low, rough, a growl that vibrated against her chest. "Why would you ever think that, malyshka?"
"B-because..." She hiccupped, snot running down her lip, and she wiped at it inelegantly with the back of her hand. "You haven't cuddled me. In three days. You've been so busy, and you barely t-touch me anymore, and I thought maybe you were tired of me, or I did something wrong, or—" Another sob cut her off, and she pressed closer, her fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. "I need you, Dante. I need my best friend."
His hands moved. Slowly at first, then with a grip that made her gasp. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her ass, kneading, squeezing, pulling her cheeks apart until she felt the cool air of the study kiss her most private place. He spread her wide, his thumbs hooking the thin straps of her thong, tugging them aside until the fabric cut into her hips, and a shiver ran down her spine.
"You didn't do anything wrong." His mouth was close to her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "I've been working. Taking care of things. But I'm never too busy for you."
She sniffled, her tears slowing as his hands worked her flesh, spreading her open, making her feel so exposed and so loved all at once. "Really?"
"Really." He squeezed harder, his fingers pressing deep into her cheeks, and she felt herself gape open against the air—her asshole exposed, stretched, bare. "You're my best friend. You're not going anywhere."
A tremulous smile broke through her tears. "I knew it. I knew you still loved me." She pressed a wet kiss to his jaw, tasting salt and the faint musk of his cologne. "I'm sorry I got emotional. I just—I missed you so much."
He didn't answer with words. Instead, his hands shifted from her ass to her hips, gripping her hard enough to bruise. He lifted her, just slightly, positioning her over the thick length of him she could feel straining beneath his trousers. And then he pushed.
She felt him first at her entrance—the blunt head of his cock pressing against her wetness, sliding through her folds. And then he was inside her, sinking into her pussy in one long, slow, devastatingly complete motion. She gasped, clutching his shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as he filled her entirely, his hips flush against hers, buried to the hilt.
"Oh," she breathed, her eyes fluttering closed. "Oh, Dante."
He held there. Completely still. Deep inside her. His fingers found her ass cheeks again, gripping, spreading, leaving her gaping against his thighs. She could feel every inch of him, the way he stretched her, the perfect fit of their bodies together. It was the most connected she had ever felt to anyone.
"There," he murmured against her hair. "That's better."
She nodded, a happy sob escaping her lips. "Yeah. That's better."
He started to move. Slow at first, a deep grinding rhythm that had her gripping his shoulders for support. But his eyes weren't on her. They were on the ledger. He picked up the brass pen, his fingers curling around it, and began to write.
She watched him, mesmerized, as he continued to fuck her like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand moved across the page, scratching out signatures and notes, while his hips rocked up into her in a steady, relentless rhythm. He was working. He was doing his important, dangerous work, and she was in his lap, keeping him company, keeping him warm.
That's what best friends did. They supported each other.
"You're so smart," she whispered, pressing her lips to his temple. "I don't understand any of this stuff, but you do. You're so good at everything."
He grunted, his hips slamming up into her harder, faster. The brass pen never stopped moving.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her cheek on the top of his head, letting him use her body however he needed. She was his comfort. His happy place. She bounced on his lap, her breasts jiggling with every thrust, her nipples dragging across the starched fabric of his shirt.
His hand left the ledger and found her breast. He palmed it, squeezing the soft mound through her dress, before his fingers found her nipple. He rolled it, hard, between his thumb and forefinger. A sharp jolt of pleasure-pain shot through her. She gasped, arching into his touch.
"Dante," she whimpered.
He pinched harder. Pulled. Twisted. The fabric of her dress bit into her sensitive skin, and she cried out, but it wasn't pain—not really. It was attention. It was affection. It was him telling her she was his.
"You like that?" His voice was a low rasp against her ear.
"Yes," she breathed. "I love it. I love when you touch me."
He pinched her other nipple, harder, and she jolted in his lap, her pussy clenching around his cock. He grunted, his rhythm stuttering for just a moment before he found it again, fucking her through the sensation.
She lifted her head, her vision blurry with the last of her tears. She pressed her lips to his jaw, rough with stubble. Then his cheek. Then the corner of his mouth. "Thank you," she whispered against his skin. "For being my friend. For not giving up on me."
He turned his head and caught her mouth with his. His lips were firm, demanding, and he kissed her hard, his tongue sliding past her teeth, tasting her. She melted into him, her fingers threading through his slicked-back hair. This was it. This was where she belonged.
Without warning, he pulled his cock out of her. She whimpered at the sudden emptiness, the loss of the fullness that had filled her so completely. But before she could protest, his hand was there, at her lower back, pressing down. A thick, wet finger pushed against her back entrance, circling the tight ring of muscle.
"Oh," she gasped, her eyes wide.
And then he pushed inside her asshole.
She cried out, her body tensing at the strange, invasive feeling. But he didn't stop. He pushed deeper, his finger sliding into her tight heat, and she felt herself clench around him. "Dante, what—"
"Shh," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."
A second finger joined the first, stretching her, scissoring inside her open. She gasped, gripping his shoulders, her forehead resting against his. It felt so full. So intimate. So wrong and so right at the same time.
But this was Dante. He would never hurt her. He was showing her he loved her. This was his way of saying he was sorry for being busy, for not giving her the attention she needed.
"I love you," she whispered, her voice shaking. "You're the best friend a girl could ever ask for."
He fucked her ass with his fingers, his other hand gripping her hip, his cock hard and wet against her thigh. He drove her toward a peak she didn't understand, her body moving without her permission, a desperate moan spilling from her lips. "Dante, I'm—something's happening—"
"Let it happen," he growled. "Let go for me."
And she did. The orgasm crashed through her, sudden and violent, her body convulsing in his lap, her ass clenching around his fingers, her pussy dripping onto his trousers. She cried out his name, her nails raking down his back, and he held her through it, his fingers still buried deep inside her, still stretching her open.
When she came back to herself, she was limp in his arms, a boneless weight against his chest. Her cheek rested on his shoulder, her breath coming in ragged little pants. She could feel his cock still hard against her thigh, could feel his fingers still inside her asshole, but she was too spent to move.
He was still writing. The brass pen scratched across the page, the sound steady and unhurried. She watched his hand move, watched the dark ink flow from the nib, and smiled.
He was so dedicated. So focused. And he'd carved out this time just for her.
She pressed a soft kiss to his neck, right over the edge of a tattoo. "I knew you still wanted me," she murmured, her eyes fluttering closed. "I knew it."
His fingers curled inside her asshole, spreading her wider, and she sighed in contented bliss.
She was home.
She snuggled deeper into him, her body molding against his chest as he remained buried inside her. The fullness was a comfort, a warmth that spread through her belly and up into her heart. She felt him shift beneath her, the leather of his chair creaking as he adjusted his weight, and she sighed, her eyes fluttering closed.
"You're so warm," she murmured against his neck, her lips brushing the ink of a tattoo she couldn't see but could feel—raised lines of black work that told stories she'd never thought to ask about. "I could stay here forever."
His hand left the ledger and found her hip, his thumb tracing a slow circle against her skin. He didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. His touch was enough. His presence was enough. She felt his chest rise and fall beneath her cheek, steady and strong, and she let herself drift, her mind going soft and fuzzy at the edges.
The brass pen scratched across the page. The lamp hummed its low electric song. And she was here, in his lap, on his cock, exactly where she belonged.
"Dante?" she whispered, her voice thick with sleep.
"Mm."
"I'm really glad I met you." She pressed a kiss to his jaw, soft and slow. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
His hand tightened on her hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. She felt his cock twitch inside her, a deep, reflexive pulse, and she smiled against his skin. Even asleep, she affected him. Even still, she was his comfort.
She let her eyes close fully, her breathing evening out, her body going slack in his arms. The world narrowed to the sound of his heartbeat beneath her ear, the weight of his hand on her hip, the gentle fullness of him inside her. She was safe. She was loved. She was home.
The last thing she heard before sleep took her was the scratch of the pen, steady and unhurried, and the low, rhythmic creak of the leather chair as he worked around her.
---
She didn't know how long she slept. Time had stopped meaning anything when she was with him. Minutes or hours—it didn't matter. All that mattered was waking up to the same warmth, the same fullness, the same steady rhythm of his hand moving across the page.
She stirred, her cheek rubbing against the fabric of his shirt. A soft sound escaped her lips, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, as she became aware of her body again. Her pussy was slick and wet around him, her thighs sticky with the evidence of how long he'd been inside her. His cock was still hard, still buried deep, and she felt a flutter of warmth in her belly at the thought of him waiting for her, staying inside her even as she slept.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," she murmured, her voice raspy with sleep. She lifted her head, blinking up at him. His face was half in shadow, half in the warm glow of the desk lamp, and his grey eyes were fixed on her with that intensity that made her feel like the only person in the world.
"Did you sleep well?" His voice was low, rough, like he'd been holding something back.
"Mmhm." She stretched, arching her back, her breasts pressing against his chest. The movement made his cock shift inside her, and she gasped softly, her eyes widening. "Oh. I forgot you were still—" She giggled, a breathless, happy sound. "I mean, I didn't forget, I just—" She blushed, pressing her face into his neck. "You know what I mean."
His hand slid up her back, his fingers tracing her spine. "I know."
She felt him shift beneath her, his hips rolling in a slow, lazy circle, and she moaned, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "Dante," she breathed. "You're still working?"
"Always working." But his voice was distracted, his attention no longer on the ledger. His hand left her back and found her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple through the thin fabric of her dress. The fabric was damp with sweat and arousal, clinging to her skin, and the friction made her gasp.
"You're so dedicated," she whispered, her voice full of wonder. "You're doing all this important stuff, and I'm just—sitting here." She laughed, a soft, self-deprecating sound. "I'm not doing anything."
"You're doing everything."
She didn't understand what he meant, but the way he said it made her heart swell. She lifted her head, looking at him, really looking at him—the sharp line of his jaw, the dark stubble shadowing his cheeks, the way his grey eyes seemed to glow in the dim light. He was so beautiful. So powerful. And he was hers.
She leaned in and kissed him, soft and slow, her lips parting against his. He kissed her back, his hand sliding into her hair, his fingers tangling in the long black strands. The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against hers, and she melted into him, her body going soft and pliant in his lap.
When they broke apart, she was breathless, her cheeks flushed. "I love you," she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "I know I say it a lot, but I do. I really, really do."
His jaw tightened. Something flickered in his eyes, dark and hungry and almost painful. He didn't say it back. He never did. But he didn't have to. She felt it in the way he held her, in the way he fucked her, in the way he looked at her like she was the only real thing in a world of shadows.
He pulled his cock out of her, slow and deliberate, and she whimpered at the emptiness. But before she could complain, he was lifting her, turning her, positioning her on his lap so she was facing him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her pussy pressed against his cock.
"Dante—"
He pushed into her in one smooth motion, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out, her head falling back, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He was so deep. So full. She felt him in her throat, in her chest, in every cell of her body.
"There," he growled, his hands gripping her hips. "That's where you belong."
She nodded, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, Dante. Right here. Always right here."
He started to move, his hips rocking up into her in a slow, steady rhythm. His hands found her ass, gripping the soft curves, spreading her cheeks wide. She felt the cool air on her asshole, felt it gape open under his fingers, and she shivered, a wave of pleasure-pain washing through her.
His left hand stayed on her ass, holding her open, while his right hand reached for the brass pen. He picked it up, dipped it in the inkwell, and returned to his ledger, his handwriting steady and unhurried even as he fucked her.
She watched him, mesmerized. The muscles in his forearm flexed as he wrote, the veins standing out against his skin. His jaw was set, his eyes focused on the page, and he moved inside her with the same precision, the same control, that he brought to everything else.
"You're amazing," she breathed, her voice full of awe. "You're doing two things at once. I can barely do one."
He grunted, his hips slamming up into her harder. The pen never stopped moving.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her forehead against his. She could feel his breath on her lips, could see the sweat beading on his brow. He was working so hard. He was giving her everything, even when he had a million other things to do.
"I wish I could help you," she whispered. "I wish I could do something to make your life easier."
His hand left the ledger and found her breast. He squeezed it, hard, his fingers digging into the soft mound. "You already do," he said, his voice a low rasp. "You have no idea what you do to me."
She didn't understand, but she didn't need to. She just needed to be here, in his lap, on his cock, while he worked. That was enough. That was everything.
He pinched her nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, and she gasped, her body arching into his touch. "Dante—"
"Quiet," he murmured. "Let me work."
She bit her lip, trying to stifle the sounds that wanted to escape. But every time he thrust up into her, every time his fingers twisted her nipple, a little moan slipped out. She pressed her face into his neck, her breath hot against his skin, and let him use her, let him take what he needed.
His fingers left her nipple and found her clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive nub. She gasped, her hips bucking against his hand. "Dante, I'm—I'm close—"
"Not yet." His voice was calm, controlled. "Not until I say."
She whimpered, her nails raking down his back. "Please—"
"I said not yet."
He slowed his rhythm, his hips moving in long, lazy strokes that drove her crazy. His fingers on her clit stilled, resting there, a promise of pleasure she couldn't have. She squirmed in his lap, desperate for more, but he held her still, his hand on her hip, his grip unyielding.
"Dante, please," she begged, her voice breaking. "I need—"
"I know what you need." He dipped his head, his lips brushing her ear. "You need to be patient. You need to wait for me."
She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I'll wait. I'll wait for you. I'll always wait for you."
He kissed her, soft and deep, and she melted into him, her body trembling with the effort of holding back. He held her there, on the edge, for what felt like hours, his cock moving inside her in a slow, torturous rhythm, his fingers teasing her clit without letting her fall.
And then, finally, he spoke. "Now."
She shattered, her orgasm crashing through her like a wave, her body convulsing in his lap. She cried out his name, her voice raw and desperate, and he held her through it, his hips still moving, still fucking her through the aftershocks.
When she came back to herself, she was limp in his arms, her cheek resting on his shoulder. She could feel his cock still hard inside her, could feel his fingers still on her clit, but she was too spent to move.
He was still writing. The brass pen scratched across the page, steady and unhurried.
She pressed a kiss to his neck, her eyes fluttering closed. "I love you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I love you so much."
His hand found her hair, stroking the long black strands. He didn't say it back. But she felt it in the way he held her, in the way he stayed inside her, in the way he worked around her, never letting her go.
She was his. And he was hers.
She snuggled deeper into him, her body molding against his chest, and let sleep take her again, the sound of the pen and the rhythm of his heartbeat carrying her into a dreamless dark.