She stirs in the warm cave of his embrace, her cheek pressed to his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her ear. There's a fullness between her thighs—a familiar, comfortable pressure. Dante's still inside her. She blinks slowly, waking to the sensation of him buried deep, and feels his left hand cupping her ass cheek, fingers spread wide, holding her open. The cool air of the office kisses the place his fingers keep exposed, and she sighs, content. Her best friend. Always showing her he cares.
She shifts, and his cock shifts with her, still hard, still deep. A sleepy smile spreads across her face. "Mmm. You're still working?" she mumbles against his shirt, her voice thick with sleep, her lips brushing the fabric.
The brass pen stops. The scratch of ink on paper—gone.
She feels his right hand move, reaching for something on the desk. His chest rises and falls beneath her cheek, steady, but she notices the way his fingers pause before they close around his phone. He lifts it. Reads the screen.
And his hips go still.
Not the usual stillness—not the patient, waiting stillness of a man who owns the room and knows it. This is different. Rigid. The kind of stillness that feels like holding breath.
She's never felt this stillness from him before.
"Dante?" She lifts her head, her hair spilling across his arm, her hazel eyes finding his face. His jaw is tight. The phone screen casts a pale glow across his features, and she sees something flicker there—a shadow she doesn't recognize. "Dante? What's wrong?"
He doesn't answer right away. He sets the phone face-down on the ledger, the click of it against the wood loud in the quiet room. Then his right hand finds her hip, his fingers digging in hard enough to make her gasp softly. Hard enough to bruise.
"Nothing you need to worry about, moya." His voice is low, smooth, the same voice he always uses. But his cock stays motionless inside her, and she feels the lie in the stillness. The lie in the way he doesn't move.
She blinks up at him. Her best friend. He's stressed about something. That's all. Work stuff. He always has work stuff—he's always on that phone, always reading messages, always looking serious. But he's here with her. He chose to stay here with her, even while working.
That's what friends do. They stay.
She relaxes again, settling her weight back against his chest, her legs draped over the arm of the leather chair. The warmth of him surrounds her. The fullness of him inside her. She's happy. She's comfortable. She's exactly where she wants to be.
"Okay," she whispers, her voice soft and trusting. "I just—you seemed—"
"I'm fine." His hand leaves her hip, sliding up her side, his fingers tracing her ribs through her thin skin. "You're awake now."
The words are not a question.
She feels the shift in him—a change she can't name but can feel. His hand reaches up, finds her breast, his thumb brushing across her nipple. The touch is deliberate. Slow. He circles the sensitive peak, and she breathes in sharply, her body responding before her mind catches up.
"Dante—"
"Shh." His thumb presses down, rolling the hard nub between his fingers, and a jolt of pleasure shoots through her. "Let me take care of you."
She smiles. He's always so sweet. Always finding ways to show he cares. She nods, her cheek rubbing against his shirt, and lets her eyes flutter closed.
His fingers tighten on her nipple. Pinches. Hard.
She gasps—a sharp, quick sound that turns into a soft moan. Her toes curl. His touch is firm, confident, the kind of touch that knows exactly what it's doing. He rolls the sensitive peak between his thumb and forefinger, harder and harder, and she feels the ache spread through her chest, warm and liquid.
"That feels nice," she murmurs, her voice dreamy. "You always know how to make me feel good."
He doesn't answer with words. He pinches harder.
She moans again, her hips shifting, grinding back against him. His cock is still inside her, still hard, still waiting. She can feel every inch of him, the heat of him, the thickness. She feels full. Safe. Loved.
His hand leaves her nipple, slides down her side, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist, her hip, until he finds the cheek he's been holding open. His fingers spread her wider, and she feels the cool air kiss the place he exposes—her asshole gaping, stretched, vulnerable.
She doesn't think anything of it. He's always touching her this way. Always spreading her open, holding her wide. It's how he shows affection. She knows that now.
His fingers press against the stretched rim of her asshole, and she feels him shift beneath her, adjusting his angle. She feels the head of his cock slide out of her pussy, slick and warm, trailing wetness across her inner thigh. She feels him line up—and push.
The pressure is sudden, intense. She gasps, her body tensing as he pushes into her ass, the stretch burning in a way that's familiar now, a way she's learned to accept. He pushes deeper, and deeper, and she feels herself opening for him, taking him, the fullness different from before but just as welcome.
"Oh—" Her breath catches. Her fingers curl into his shirt. "Dante—"
"I've got you." His voice is low, rough, his hand still spreading her ass cheek wide, his fingers pressing into the stretched rim of her hole. He pushes deeper, his hips meeting her ass, and she feels him seated fully inside her, buried to the hilt.
She exhales slowly, her body relaxing around him. It's okay. He's her best friend. This is how he shows affection. She's comfortable with him. She trusts him.
He starts to move.
Slow at first—deep, grinding thrusts that push her forward in his lap, her breasts pressing against his chest, her hair brushing his arm. She feels every inch of him sliding in and out of her ass, the friction hot and overwhelming. His hand leaves her ass cheek, finds her other nipple, pinches hard.
She moans, loud, the sound filling the quiet office. Her hands find his shoulders, gripping him as he fucks her, his pace steady and relentless. The leather chair groans beneath them, the rhythm of his thrusts punctuated by her soft cries.
"You're so good to me," she whispers, her voice lost in the sound of their bodies coming together. "You always take care of me."
His grip on her nipple tightens, harder and harder and harder. He pinches until the pleasure edges toward pain, and she whimpers, her body arching into his touch. He doesn't let go. He holds her, pinches her, fucks her, his cock driving into her ass with a wet, rhythmic sound that fills the room.
She doesn't notice the way his other hand clenches into a fist on the desk. She doesn't see the phone, face-down, the screen still dark. She doesn't feel the coiled tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw is tight, the way his thrusts grow harder, faster, more urgent—as if he's trying to outrun something. As if he's trying to bury himself so deep inside her that nothing else can reach him.
She doesn't see any of it.
She's just happy. She's with her best friend, and he's showing her affection the way he always does, and she feels wanted, and loved, and safe.
"Dante—" She moans his name, her head falling back, her hair cascading down her spine. "I love you."
His thrusts stutter—a pause so brief she almost misses it. Then he drives into her harder, his hand leaving her nipple, his palm slapping against the desk, his body slamming into hers with a force that makes the chair scrape across the floor.
"Say it again." His voice is a growl, rough and raw, his breath hot against her neck.
She smiles, her eyes hazy, her body trembling with each powerful thrust. "I love you. You're my best friend. I love you so much."
He fucks her harder. Harder and harder and harder. His hand finds her hip, his fingers digging into her skin hard enough to leave marks, and he pounds into her ass with a desperation she doesn't recognize. She doesn't notice. She's too lost in the feeling of him, the warmth of him, the way he fills her completely.
His hand slides down, finds where their bodies join, his fingers pressing against the stretched rim of her asshole. He presses down, his fingers spreading her wider, and she feels the pressure intensify—the fullness, the stretch, the way he's opening her completely.
She hears her own moan, distant and raw. Her hand reaches up, her fingers finding his neck, tracing the tattoos that curl up his throat. He leans down, catches her mouth with his, kisses her hard and deep, his tongue sliding against hers.
She kisses him back, sweet and trusting, her hips grinding against him as he fucks her. Her asshole clenches around his cock with each thrust, and she feels the heat building low in her belly, a familiar warmth spreading through her.
She's happy.
She's so happy.
His hand leaves her ass, his fingers finding her nipple again, pinching harder. Harder. Harder. She whimpers into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his hips slamming into her, his cock driving deep, deeper, deepest—
And he holds there, buried inside her, his body trembling, his breath hot against her lips.
She feels him pulse inside her. Feels the warmth of him filling her. Feels him, all of him, and she holds him close, her arms wrapped around his neck, her face pressed into the curve of his shoulder.
"I love you," she whispers again, her voice soft and sleepy.
His chest heaves. His hand finds her hair, fingers threading through the long black strands. He holds her, his dick still buried deep inside her ass, his body still pressed tight against hers. He doesn't say it back. He never does.
She doesn't wait for him to.
She closes her eyes, her body warm and satisfied, and lets herself drift. The room is quiet except for their breathing. The lamp casts its narrow cone of light across the polished wood, and the phone sits face-down on the ledger, forgotten.
She doesn't notice the way his arms tighten around her. She doesn't feel the way he holds her like she might disappear. She doesn't see the look in his eyes—dark, hungry, desperate—as he stares at the phone, his jaw tight, his mind already somewhere else.
She doesn't notice.
She's happy.
And as long as she's happy, nothing else matters.
His hand finds her ass cheek again, spreading her open even wider, his fingers pressing deep into the crease. She sighs, content, adjusting her position to let him hold her the way he wants. The cool air kisses her gaping hole, the place where their bodies are still joined, and she feels the faint trickle of his cum trailing down her thigh.
"Best friends," she murmurs, her voice sleepy, her hand finding his chest.
He doesn't answer. His arms tighten around her.
Outside the window, the city hums with life. Inside the office, there's only them—the quiet, the warmth, the sticky press of skin on skin. He holds her, his lips pressing to her hair, his hand still cupping her ass, his fingers still spreading her wide.
And in her sleep-hazed happiness, she doesn't feel the way he's gone still again. Doesn't feel the tension coiling through his body. Doesn't see the way his eyes fix on the phone, dark and cold, the predator in him sharpening his focus.
She's oblivious.
And she's happy.