Robin’s mouth moved from the small of her back, following the wet, amber trail of bourbon. The taste was fire and oak and her skin, salt beneath the burn. He reached the curve of her right buttock and his tongue pressed flat against the warm, smooth skin, licking a slow, deliberate path.

April’s breath hitched. Her fingers twisted in the sheets. “Robin.”

It was half a gasp, half a plea. He didn’t answer with words. He answered by spreading her open with his thumbs, exposing her completely to the dim light and his gaze. He saw the slick evidence of her arousal, glistening. He leaned in and blew a soft, warm breath across her.

She shuddered, a full-body tremor that started at her shoulders and ended with her toes curling. “Please.”

He replaced his breath with his mouth. Not his tongue, not yet. Just the press of his lips against her, a kiss so intimate it stole the air from her lungs. He felt her hips try to push back, seeking more, but he held her still. His control was absolute, a quiet force. He kissed her there again, slower, letting her feel the shape of his mouth.

Only then did he taste her properly. His tongue, broad and flat, swept through her folds, gathering her wetness. The flavor was musky, sweet, entirely April. He groaned against her, the vibration making her cry out. He did it again, slower, savoring it, mapping her with a devotion that felt like penance and worship fused into one.

“I can’t,” she whimpered, but her body arched, offering more. “I can’t think.”

He slid one finger inside her. She was so hot, so tight, clenching around him instantly. He kept his mouth on her, his tongue circling her clit as his finger worked in and out, a slow, deep piston. He added a second finger, stretching her gently, feeling her body give way and accept him. The wet sound of his fingers moving in her filled the quiet room, obscene and perfect.

Her breathing was ragged now, coming in sharp gasps that broke into moans. She was pushing back against his hand, meeting every thrust, her control unraveling. He curled his fingers inside her, finding that spot that made her jolt and cry out his name like a prayer. He focused there, relentless, while his tongue kept its steady, circling pressure.

Her climax built not as a wave but as a quake, starting deep inside where his fingers moved and radiating outward. She shook, her back bowing, a broken, sobbing sound tearing from her throat as she came. He didn’t stop. He gentled his touch but didn’t stop, drawing the pleasure out until she was limp and trembling, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.

He finally pulled his fingers from her, glistening. He brought them to his own mouth, never breaking eye contact with her over his shoulder, and sucked them clean. Her big, dark eyes were glazed, watching him.

She moved then, turning with a fluid grace that belied her boneless state. She pushed him onto his back and straddled his hips. His cock lay thick and hard against his stomach, flushed and leaking. She looked at it, then at his face. She didn’t kiss him. She leaned down and took him into her mouth in one slow, deep glide.

Robin’s head slammed back against the pillows. Her mouth was hot, wet, perfect. She didn’t bob up and down. She took him deep and held him there, her throat working around the head, then pulled back until just the tip remained between her lips. Her tongue swirled. She repeated the motion, agonizingly slow, a deep-throated massage that had his hands fisting in her hair.

She looked up at him, her lips stretched around his girth, and moaned. The vibration traveled straight up his spine. “April,” he choked out.

She increased the pace, but only slightly. She was making love to his cock with her mouth, savoring every inch, every pulse. She cupped his balls, rolling them gently in her palm as she sucked. Her other hand stroked the base of him in time with her mouth. She was everywhere, all sensation, focused completely on him. Spit dripped from her lips, slicking his length. The sound was filthy. He was lost in it.

When he was trembling on the edge, she pulled off with a wet pop. She rose above him, guiding him to her entrance. She sank onto him in one excruciatingly slow, continuous motion, taking him all, until he was buried to the hilt inside her. They both froze, joined completely, breathing each other’s air.

She began to move. A slow, rolling grind of her hips that made him see stars. He gripped her thighs, feeling the muscles work. This wasn’t frantic. This was a claim. Her eyes never left his. The pace built gradually, a deep, rhythmic fucking that went on and on. He flipped her onto her back. He drove into her, again and again, the headboard tapping a steady beat against the wall. An hour could have passed. Two. Time dissolved into sweat-slick skin, tangled sheets, and the endless, perfect friction of their bodies seeking and finding each other, over and over, until there was nothing left but the truth of it.

The sheets still smelled like her. A week later, in the sterile quiet of his Miami mansion, Robin could still catch it—vanilla and salt and sex. He stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of water in his hand, watching the Atlantic chew at the shore. April was back at her college in Ohio for a mid-term review. The space she’d occupied for seven days felt cavernous, hollowed out.

His phone vibrated on the marble countertop. Not a text. A call. The screen read: Lyle Garner, Esq.

Robin answered. “Lyle.”

“Robin. We need to talk about the custody modification filing.” Lyle’s voice was all business, a dry rustle of legal pads. “Paula’s counsel has submitted a supplemental brief. It cites ‘instability’ and ‘the introduction of a new, transient romantic partner into the minor’s potential environment.’ They’re specifically naming April Sterling.”

Robin’s grip tightened on the glass. “What does that mean?”

“It means she’s leveraging your new relationship to argue for sole physical and legal custody of Julian. The argument is you’re distracted. That this… young woman is a priority over your son.”

A cold, sharp fury cut through the morning haze. “That’s bullshit.”

“It’s persuasive bullshit, Robin. The court looks at patterns. Your very public post with her, the rapid cohabitation during her break—”

“She was here for a week, Lyle. A week.”

“Which is all the time it takes. I need you to tell me, unequivocally, what this relationship is. Is it serious?”

Robin looked out at the empty beach. He saw April on the terrace in the silver bikini, laughing. He felt her shaking apart beneath his mouth. He heard her whisper, “Yours,” in the dark. “Yes,” he said, the word leaving him like a stone dropping. “It’s serious.”

Lyle was silent for a long moment. “Then she’s a factor. And Paula is using her as a crowbar. She’s asking for full custody, Robin. No visitation without supervision.”

The glass shattered in the sink. Robin didn’t remember throwing it. “Put her on the phone.”

“Robin, don’t. This is exactly the kind of reaction—”

“Now, Lyle.” His voice was low, a guitar string wound too tight. “Conference her in. Or I’ll call her myself.”

There was a sigh, a click, a series of tones. Then a different silence, colder and more familiar. Paula’s silence.

“Paula.”

“Robin.” Her voice was a closed door.

“Full custody? Are you out of your mind?”

“I’m protecting our son. Your life is a circus. Now you have a teenage side attraction living in it.”

“Her name is April. And she’s not an attraction.” The defensiveness roared up in him, hot and familiar. “You can’t just use her to punish me. You can’t use Julian to punish me.”

“This isn’t about punishment,” she said, but the ice in her tone was punitive, glacial. “It’s about stability. You provide none. You never did. You’re busy playing house with a child.”

The insult landed, but beneath it, Robin heard something else. A rehearsed cadence. A strategic needle. He leaned against the cold marble, the fight draining suddenly, replaced by a chilling clarity. “What do you want, Paula?”

“I want what’s best for Julian.”

“No.” He shook his head, though she couldn’t see. “You want something else. You always do. The increased support wasn’t enough? The house in Malibu? What is it this time? You want me to fund the gallery? To publicly endorse your new boyfriend’s startup?”

Her breath hitched, just slightly, on the other end of the line. It was the tell. The tiny crack in her resolve.

“This is about Julian,” she repeated, but the conviction had wavered.

And he saw it. The whole, ugly chessboard. She wasn’t just taking Julian away. She was using the threat of taking Julian away to get something else. His money. His influence. His silence. The realization was a clean, brutal slap. “You’re using him,” Robin whispered, the fury gone, replaced by a disgust so profound it made him nauseous. “You’re using our son as a bargaining chip.”

“How dare you—”

“I have the emails, Paula.” The lie came to him fully formed, smooth and deadly. “From you to your lawyer. The ones outlining the quid pro quo. The ones where you explicitly say the custody push is leverage for the revised financial settlement. You think I didn’t have my people dig? You think I’m still the drunk fool you left?”

The silence on the line was absolute. He could hear her breathing now, shallow and quick.

“You’re bluffing,” she said, but the fear was there, a thin wire in her voice.

“File for full custody,” Robin said, his voice quiet and final. “See what happens. I’ll expose every secret you’ve paid to keep buried. The rehab. The embezzlement from your father’s trust. The real reason your first gallery closed. The court will see exactly what kind of stability you offer.”

She didn’t speak. The threat hung between them, a live wire. He had her. For the first time since she’d walked out, he had the upper hand, and it tasted like ashes.

“Drop it, Paula,” he said. “Or I burn it all down. With you inside.”

He ended the call. The silence of the mansion rushed back in. He stared at his reflection in the dark television screen—a man who had just threatened the mother of his child. A man who felt no victory, only a hollow, grinding shame. He needed an anchor. He needed something real, something that wasn’t a transaction or a weapon.

He needed April.

Two hours later, he was on his private jet. Three hours after that, a car dropped him off on the manicured quad of her small liberal arts college in Ohio. Students milled about, backpacks slung over their shoulders, laughing. He felt a hundred years old.

He found her outside the library, sitting on a low stone wall, a textbook open on her lap. She wore a simple gray sweatshirt and jeans, her hair in a messy bun. She looked up, saw him, and her big, dark eyes widened in genuine shock. The textbook slid from her lap.

“Robin?”

He walked to her, the distance feeling like a mile. He stopped in front of her, the spring grass bright and green under his shoes. He had no smooth line, no practiced charm. The words came out raw and plain.

“Move in with me.”

April blinked. Her lips parted. She looked around, as if checking for hidden cameras. “What?”

“The mansion. In Miami. Move in. Permanently.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I know you have school. You can transfer. Or commute. I’ll make it work. I’ll… I’ll buy a place closer. Whatever you need.”

She stood up slowly, her face unreadable. “Why?”

Because I’m empty without you. Because I just blackmailed my ex-wife. Because you’re the only thing in my life that isn’t a deal or a lie. He couldn’t say any of it. “Because I want you there,” he said, the truth a stripped wire. “With me.”

She studied his face. She saw the weariness, the desperation he couldn’t hide. She saw the man, not the star. A long moment passed, filled with the distant sound of a campus bell.

“Okay,” she said softly.

Just that. No conditions. No drama. Okay.

Robin felt something in his chest unlock, a tension he’d carried for weeks finally snapping. He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. They stood together on the sun-drenched quad, a famous man and a teenage girl, holding on as if the world were trying to pull them apart.