The gray light through the balcony door was soft, diffused, the kind of morning that felt like it belonged to no one yet. Marcus blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting, and the first thing he registered was the warmth against his chest—Sofia's breath, slow and even, her lips parted just slightly against his skin. Her fingers were still resting on the scar, slack now in sleep, but there, like she had kept her promise even while unconscious.
He didn't move. Didn't want to. Her leg was hooked over his thigh, her body pressed along the length of him, and he could feel every point of contact—her breast soft against his ribs, the curve of her hip under his hand, the fine tremble of her eyelid as she dreamed. Her face was turned toward him, unguarded in a way he hadn't seen before, the mischief smoothed out, the teasing quiet. She looked younger like this. Softer. Like the woman who had taken his cock in her mouth before takeoff and the woman who had kissed his scar and promised to stay were the same person, and he was the only one who got to see both.
The city hummed beyond the balcony door, muffled and distant, the sound of a Sunday morning that didn't know they existed. He lay there and let himself feel the shape of the day ahead—the last full day before the flight, before LA, before meeting her mother. His stomach tightened at the thought, a low flutter of nerves he couldn't quite name. He had agreed to it last night, had said okay with her mouth on his and her promise still warm in his chest, but the morning light had a way of making things real.
Her hand moved. Just a twitch, her fingers flexing against his scar, and then her eyes opened slowly, like she was surfacing from deep water. They found his immediately, and she smiled without moving her head, that soft smile that reached her eyes and made his chest ache.
"Hey," she said, her voice rough with sleep, a gravelly warmth that settled low in his gut.
"Hey yourself."
She stretched against him, a long slow roll of her spine, her leg tightening where it hooked over his thigh. "How long have you been awake?"
"Not long." A lie. Maybe twenty minutes. But he didn't want her to know he'd been watching her, that he'd been cataloging the way her lashes lay against her cheek and the tiny mole just below her collarbone that he hadn't noticed last night.
"Liar," she said, but it was soft, fond, and she pressed a kiss to his chest before lifting her head to look at him properly. Her hair was a mess, loose strands sticking to her cheek, and he reached up without thinking to brush them away. She closed her eyes at the touch, leaning into his palm like a cat.
"What do you want to do today?" she asked, her voice still rough, and her hand traced the scar once, a question in the touch.
He let his hand fall from her face, resting on the curve of her hip. "I don't know. I hadn't thought that far ahead."
"Liar again." She propped herself up on one elbow, the sheet falling away to bare her breasts, and she didn't bother covering herself. "You've been lying there for twenty minutes thinking. I could feel you thinking. Your heartbeat changes."
He laughed, a short breath of surprise. "You can feel my heartbeat?"
"I was sleeping on your chest, Marcus. Yes." She traced a line down his sternum with her fingertip. "It sped up when you looked at my mouth. Slowed down when you looked at my eyes. Sped up again when you thought about today."
He looked at her, really looked, and felt the truth of what she was saying settle into him. She had been paying attention. Even in sleep, she had been paying attention. "I was thinking about your mother," he said, and the words came out before he could stop them.
Her hand stilled on his chest. "My mother."
"Meeting her. Tomorrow." He swallowed. "I said I'd do it. I want to do it. I just—" He stopped, searched for the right words, and came up empty. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be. For that. I don't know what version of me shows up."
She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers resuming their slow trace along his scar. "The version that called his cousin and left a voicemail saying he was choosing me," she said finally. "The version that bought a ticket to a city he's never been to for a woman he met four days ago. That version."
"What if that's not enough?"
"It's more than anyone's ever done." Her voice was steady, sure, and she held his gaze without flinching. "My mother is going to like you. Not because you're impressive on paper, but because when I called her after two years of silence, I told her about you. And she heard it in my voice."
He felt something crack open in his chest, a tightness he hadn't known he was holding. "What did she hear?"
"That I'm not running." She said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "That for the first time in a long time, I want to stay somewhere."
He pulled her down to him, his hand finding the back of her neck, and kissed her. Not soft this time—deeper, hungrier, his tongue sliding against hers, his other hand gripping her hip hard enough to leave a bruise. She made a small sound against his mouth, her body pressing into his, and when they broke apart they were both breathing harder.
"Okay," he said, his forehead against hers. "Then today. What do we do today?"
She smiled, that mischievous slant creeping back into her expression. "I was thinking we could leave this room. See the sun. Pretend to be normal people for a few hours."
"Pretend?"
"I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not very good at normal." She shifted her weight, her thigh pressing against his morning-hard cock, and his breath caught. "But I'm willing to try. For you."
He groaned, half from the pressure and half from the way she was looking at him—like she knew exactly what she was doing to him and was enjoying every second of it. "You're going to kill me."
"Not today." She leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth, teasing. "Today we're going to be a normal couple doing normal things. We're going to have breakfast. Walk around. Maybe find a park." She sat up, the sheet pooling in her lap, her hair falling around her shoulders. "And when we come back to this room, I'm going to let you fuck me however you want, as many times as you want, until we have to leave for the airport."
He stared at her, his cock twitching at her words, his skin flushed with heat. "That's... that's not normal couple stuff."
"No," she agreed, her smile widening. "That's the part that's just for us."
He sat up, the sheet falling away, and reached for her. She came willingly, settling into his lap, her legs straddling his thighs, her cunt pressing against the length of his cock. The heat of her, the wetness already gathering—she was ready for him, had been ready since she woke up, and the thought made him dizzy.
"I don't know if I can wait until tonight," he said, his hands sliding up her thighs, gripping the soft skin there.
"I didn't say tonight." She rocked her hips, just once, the head of his cock catching against her entrance, slick and hot. "I said when we come back. That's hours from now. Plenty of time for a warm-up."
He didn't need to be told twice. He lifted her, guided her, and sank into her in one slow movement, the stretch of her pulling a groan from deep in his chest. She was so wet, so ready, her cunt gripping him like she had been waiting for this, and when she was fully seated on his lap, her forehead pressed to his, they both went still.
"Fuck," she breathed. "That's—I needed that."
He held her, his hands on her hips, her breath warm on his lips. "I needed you."
She started moving, a slow roll of her hips that had him gripping her harder, his fingers digging into her flesh. The morning light caught the curve of her shoulder, the fall of her hair, the way her lips parted as she rode him. She was beautiful like this—not performing, not teasing, just taking what she wanted, her eyes locked on his, her breath coming in soft gasps.
"Look at me," she said, and he realized he had closed his eyes. He opened them, found hers, and the intensity there made his chest tighten. "I want to see your face when you come."
He didn't last long. The slow build of the morning, the weight of her words, the way she was gripping him—it all crashed together, and he came with a sound he barely recognized, his hips thrusting up into her, his hands pulling her down, his release spilling into her in hot pulses.
She kept moving through it, riding out his climax, her own breathing quickening, and when he was spent she pressed her forehead to his and whispered, "Good. Now we can have breakfast."
He laughed, breathless, his cock still inside her, softening. "You're incredible."
"I know." She kissed him, soft and slow, and then lifted herself off him, the loss of her warmth making him ache immediately. "But I'm also hungry. And you promised me coffee four days ago, and I still haven't gotten it."
He watched her slide off the bed, naked and unselfconscious, and reach for the shirt she had been wearing yesterday—his shirt, he realized, the one he had worn on the plane. She pulled it on without bothering with the buttons, the hem just covering her ass, and turned to look at him.
"Coming?"
He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. "Yeah. I'm coming."
He found his shorts, pulled them on, and crossed the room to where she stood by the door. She was already slipping into her sandals, her hair still a mess, his shirt hanging off her shoulder, and she looked like the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"Hey," he said, catching her hand before she could open the door.
She looked up at him. "Hey."
"I want you to call your mother." The words came out before he could think about them, and he felt her hand stiffen in his. "Today. Before we go back to the room. I want to be there when you do. I want to hear you tell her I'm coming."
She stared at him, her blue eyes searching his, and he watched something shift in her expression—surprise, maybe, or fear, or hope. He couldn't tell. But then she smiled, that soft smile that reached her eyes, and she squeezed his hand.
"Okay," she said. "We'll call her after breakfast."
He leaned down and kissed her, soft and slow, tasting himself on her lips, and when he pulled back she was looking at him like he was something precious.
"You're really doing this," she said, her voice quiet.
"We're really doing this." He opened the door, and the light from the hallway spilled in, bright and ordinary and full of possibility. "Come on. I owe you coffee."
She stepped past him, her hand still in his, and as they walked down the hall toward the elevator, she pressed closer to his side, her fingers lacing between his, and he felt the shape of the day ahead—the breakfast, the call, the hours of normal before the night that was just for them. It was terrifying. It was exactly what he wanted.