Page 86 of Infamous
“Sorry,” she murmurs, brushing past me again.
“Don’t be.” My voice comes out lower than intended, rough and primal.
She looks over her shoulder, eyes wide for a second before she smiles faintly and goes back to whipping eggs.
The light through the kitchen window lands on her hair, making it glow like spun gold. I can’t stop watching her - her hands, her movements, the tiny furrow between her brows as she concentrates. Every small sound in the room - the knife on the board, the hiss of the pan, the rhythm of her breathing - feels intimate. Familiar.
She hands me tomatoes to chop, and I fall into the rhythmbeside her. It’s quiet except for the sounds of breakfast being born between us. She talks a little - about work, about the hospital, about the small things that fill her days. I listen intently. I like the way her voice lifts at the end of her sentences, like she’s not sure she should be telling me any of it but does anyway.
We eat at her tiny kitchen table, shoulders almost touching. The spread is simple, but when she takes a bite of her omelette and closes her eyes, I forget how to swallow. She looks so content, so alive.
“This is nice,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “It is.”
The silence that follows is charged. Thick with everything neither of us is saying.
When she stands to clear the plates, I catch her wrist. She stills. Her pulse flutters against my fingers like a secret.
She turns to me slowly, and the look in her eyes is invitation enough.
The next thing I know, her back’s against the counter, and I’m kissing her like a starving man who’s forgotten what it means to be full. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
The kiss turns rough, greedy. Every line between restraint and desire blurs until I can’t tell where she ends and I begin. Her breath comes in soft gasps against my mouth as I press her back into the counter and the world narrows to the sound of her moans, the drag of her nails against my skin, the pulse that pounds in my ears.
I drop my pants and take her hard against the counter. Her nails carve red lines down my back, sharp crescents of pain that only make me harder for her. I welcome the pain.
She writhes against me, heat slicking her thighs, her breath hot against my throat.
And then she surprises me.
In the middle of everything, she pulls back, breaking the rhythm, eyes bright with feral lust. The air between us turns sharp. She drops to her knees, gaze locked on mine, her smile daring me to move first. For a heartbeat, I can’t tell who’s in control - her, or me, or the gravity pulling both of us apart.
My hand finds her shoulder, not sure if I am steadying her or myself. The next breath burns in my chest as she tips her head back, sultry eyes pinning me in place, before she lowers her face and takes me in her mouth.
She takes me - takes it all, deep into her throat, one hand resting on my thigh as the other fists my cock and moves in time with her mouth.
My hand on her shoulder moves, my fingers brushing through her hair, and I push her forward until she gags on my cock. I hold her there, lifting on my toes until I hit the back of her throat. With one gargled moan, she finds my eyes and I spray my cum down her throat, holding her there until she’s choking on it.
52
NADIA
Idon’t know at which point I started living again.
Maybe it was the night Jude carried me to bed like I weighed nothing. Or maybe it was the morning his hand found mine before his eyes were even open. It could have even been the first time his laugh, a low, rough, surprised sound, broke open a place in me I thought had died with Lucian.
All I know is… somewhere between that night and now, something in me came back to life.
It’s been a week since we slept together. Seven days. And Jude Mercer has become a permanent fixture in my apartment. Without ever asking, without ever assuming, without ever naming it. He’s just… here. Like he was always meant to be.
Every night he walks me home from the hospital. Every night we fall into step like a rhythm carved into our bones long before we met.
We talk about everything and nothing; old movies I can’t remember the endings of, constellations I used to know by heart when I was a kid, dreams I stopped letting myself have.
We pause on a side street sometimes, amidst the chaos and bustle of people passing us by, staring up at the sky like it’sspilling secrets. Jude points out the stars like he’s tracing an old map. Sometimes he gets the names wrong and I correct him. Sometimes we just stand there shoulder to shoulder, letting the night settle around us like an exhale.
And then we head home. Sometimes grabbing a late coffee. Or sharing a pastry we don’t really eat. At times, we argue over which diner has better fries.
