Chapter 4: The Extra Mug
He didn’t bother with the elevator music, just took the stairs two at a time, his cleats echoing in the concrete stairwell. The sweat had cooled on his skin, leaving a salty patina, and his practice jersey clung to his chest.He smelled like grass, effort, and boy.He hoped she wouldn’t mind.
He knocked, a quick rap of knuckles on her heavy door. It opened almost immediately, as if she’d been waiting right there.
She was in different clothes now—soft, faded jeans that hugged the generous curve of her hips and a simple black tank top. Her hair was down, a cascade of dark curls around her shoulders. She looked him up and down, a small smile playing on her lips.“You look like you ran here.”
“Drove,” he said, breathing a little heavy. “The stairs.”
“Ah.” She stepped back, letting him in. The condo was cooler, the evening light now a deep orange bleeding into purple across the skyline. The two coffee mugs were still on the counter, clean and waiting.She handed him a fresh towel, soft and white. “For the sweat. And.” She turned, filled a glass with ice and water from the fridge door, and handed it to him.He took it, their fingers brushing. “Thanks.” He drank the entire glass in one long, greedy pull, his throat working. He set the empty glass on the island with a click. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then rubbed the towel over his face, his neck, the short hairs at his nape. He could feel her watching him.
“Good practice?” she asked, leaning against the counter, putting a few feet of polished concrete between them.“Yeah.Really good.” He tossed the towel on the island. The confession hung in the air, no longer a barrier but a third presence in the room. “How was your… call?”
She let out a short laugh, shaking her head.“Exhausting. A seventy-page merger agreement full of clauses designed to ruin someone’s life. I had to be… persuasive.”
He tried to reconcile the image—her, here in soft jeans, being ‘persuasive’ in some high-stakes boardroom.It made his stomach clench with a strange, hot pride. “Did you win?”
“I always win.” The words were sharp, professional, but her tone was weary. Then she softened.“It’s not winning, really. It’s just not losing as badly as the other guy.”
Silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but thick with unsaid things. The agreement to ‘take things slow’ felt like a sheet of glass between them—visible, fragile.
“So,” he said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his athletic shorts. “Slow.”
“Slow,” she echoed, nodding.Her eyes were unsure.He took a step forward. Just one.“Does slow mean I can’t kiss you?”
Her breath caught. She looked at his mouth, then back to his eyes. “I think… slow probably means we shouldn’t start with that.”
“Okay.” He took another step. He was closer now, close enough to see the faint gold flecks in her brown irises, the slight pulse at the base of her throat. “What should we start with?”
She didn’t answer with words. She pushed off from the counter and closed the final distance herself.She placed her palms flat on his damp, hard chest. The heat of her hands seared through the thin fabric of his jersey. She looked up at him, her gaze searching his face.“We start with this,” she whispered. “Just being here.”
He covered her hands with his own, holding them against his heart. He could feel it pounding, a frantic drum against his ribs. “I’m here.”
He bent his head, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away.She didn’t. He brushed his lips against hers, once, twice—feather-light promises. Her mouth was soft, yielding, and she made a tiny, broken sound in the back of her throat that shattered any notion of ‘slow’.
He kissed her properly then, deep and searching, his tongue sweeping into her mouth. She tasted of mint and the faint, expensive bitterness of dark chocolate. Her hands slid up his chest, around his neck, fingers tangling in his sweaty curls.She pulled him closer, arching her body into his.
The kiss broke, both of them gasping for air.“Fuck slow,” she breathed against his mouth.
“Yeah,” he growled. He grabbed the hem of her tank top and pulled it up and over her head in one rough motion.She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts spilled into his hands, full and heavy, her nipples already hard, dark peaks against her warm brown skin. He groaned, low and animal. “Christ, Tasha.”
He bent his head and took one taut nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. She cried out, her fingers clutching his hair, holding him to her. He lavished the other breast with the same attention, his tongue swirling, his teeth grazing gently.She was panting, her head thrown back. “Ares… god…”
He walked her backward, never breaking contact, until her knees hit the edge of the low, modern sofa. They tumbled onto it together, a mess of limbs. He kicked off his cleats, the heavy thuds loud in the quiet room. He yanked his jersey over his head, revealing the carved muscles of his torso, still slick with a fine sheen of sweat.
She reached for the waistband of his shorts, her fingers clumsy with need. Together they shoved them down his hips, along with his compression briefs. His cock sprang free, thick and achingly hard, the tip already glistening.Her eyes widened.“Oh, fuck.” The words were half reverence, half fear.
He didn’t give her time to think. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her jeans and peeled them down her legs, taking her panties with them. She was completely bare, her curves glorious in the dimming light.He knelt between her thighs, his hands spreading her open. She was dripping wet, her folds swollen and slick for him. He dragged a blunt finger through her heat, and she bucked, a broken sob escaping her lips.
“You’re so fucking ready,” he muttered, his voice ragged.
“Please,” she begged, her lawyer’s composure obliterated.“Don’t make me wait.I need you inside me. Now.”
He needed no further encouragement. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against her.He pushed forward, a slow, relentless invasion. Her tight, silken heat enveloped him, inch by excruciating inch.
“Shit,” he hissed, his muscles trembling with the effort to go slow. “You’re so tight… Jesus…”
She was gasping, her nails digging into his biceps. “You’re so big… oh god, yes… give me all of it.”
He buried himself to the hilt, a perfect, full-depth fit that made them both cry out. He stayed there for a moment, buried inside her, feeling her clench and flutter around him. Then he pulled back and thrust back in, setting a deep, punishing rhythm.The sound of their bodies meeting, skin slapping against skin, filled the sterile room. The sofa groaned beneath them. He fucked her with raw, unrestrained hunger, each drive of his hips chasing the sublime friction. She met him thrust for thrust, her heels locking behind his back, pulling him deeper.“Right there,” she chanted, her voice high and desperate. “Don’t stop, baby, right there!”
He shifted slightly, angling his hips, and found the spot that made her scream. Her back arched off the cushions, her beautiful breasts shaking with every impact. He leaned down, capturing a nipple in his mouth again as he pounded into her, the dual sensation driving her wild.
“I’m gonna come,” she wailed, her body tightening like a coiled spring. “Ares, I’m gonna…”
“Come for me,” he grunted, pistoning into her.“Let go. I wanna feel you.”
Her climax ripped through her with a violence that stunned him. Her inner muscles clenched around his cock in rhythmic, milking spasms, her whole body convulsing. The raw, guttural cries she made were unlike any sound he’d ever heard.It pushed him over the edge.
With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself as deep as he could go and came. Hot pulses of his release shot into her, a primal claim that had him seeing stars. He collapsed on top of her, his full weight pinning her to the sofa, both of them slick and trembling and utterly spent.
For long minutes, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city. The last of the sunlight had faded, leaving them in the soft blue glow of twilight.
He eventually shifted, slipping out of her, and rolled onto his back on the floor, pulling her with him. She curled into his side, her head on his shoulder, her leg thrown over his. They were a tangled, sweaty, sticky mess on her pristine rug.He kissed the top of her head. “So much for slow.”
She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I fired my client.”
“What?”
“Slow.I fired him. He was an idiot anyway.”
Ares grinned, his dimples cutting deep in the shadows. He trailed his fingers down the smooth, incredible slope of her back, coming to rest on the magnificent swell of her ass. He gave it a soft, possessive squeeze.She propped herself up on an elbow to look at him. Her makeup was smudged, her hair a wild halo.She’d never looked more beautiful. “That was….”
“Yeah,” he finished for her.
“We didn’t use anything,” she said quietly, the lawyer’s practical mind resurfacing.“I know.” He met her gaze. “I’m clean.I get tested for camp.You?”
“Clean. And… I have an IUD.From my marriage.” She hesitated. “It’s not… it’s not a problem.”
“Good.” He pulled her back down, holding her close. The complications were real, vast, and lurking just outside the circle of their warmth. But here, now, skin to skin, they were simple.He was hers.She was his.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, a harsh, insistent vibration.She stiffened slightly.
“Don’t,” he murmured into her hair.“I have to.It might be the office. The deal…”
“Fuck the deal.” He said it without malice, just a simple statement of priority.
She relaxed against him.The phone buzzed again, then went silent.She traced idle patterns on his chest. “You have to go home tonight.”
“I know.”
“But not yet.”
“No,” he agreed. “Not yet.”
They lay there in the gathering dark, the city’s lights blinking on one by one beyond the glass, mapping the vast, complicated world they would eventually have to face. But for this suspended hour, there was only breath, and touch, and the terrifying, wonderful truth of what they had just begun.
But for this suspended hour, there was only breath, and touch, and the terrifying, wonderful truth of what they had just begun.
He woke to the pale, sterile light of morning and the unfamiliar weight of a woman’s calf thrown across his thighs. His neck ached from the angle on the floor, his muscles sore in a layered way—football, then her. Tasha was still asleep, her face smoothed of its calculating intensity, one hand curled possessively on his chest. He watched the rise and fall of her breathing, the slight part of her lips, and felt a wave of something so profound it tightened his throat. Carefully, he extracted himself, letting her sigh and turn into the warmth he left behind on the rug. He found his shorts, pulled them on, and padded into her kitchen.
The silence was different now, no longer expectant but settled.The two mugs sat beside her sleek sink. He opened her refrigerator, surprised by its contents.It was fuller than he’d imagined, real food nestled beside the expensive water. He found eggs, a block of sharp cheddar, a bell pepper beginning to wrinkle, a knob of butter.The basic tools were in the logically organized drawers. He moved quietly, dicing the pepper, shredding the cheese, cracking eggs into a bowl with a confident, practiced rhythm. The butter sizzled as it hit the heated pan, filling the air with a rich, greasy promise.The sound and smell must have woken her. He felt her presence before he saw her, a shift in the light from the doorway. She leaned against the frame, wrapped in a silk robe she’d retrieved from the bedroom, watching him. Her eyes were sleep-soft, her hair a magnificent chaos.“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice husky.
“You have food,” he said, not turning, focusing on folding the eggs. “It’s begging to be used.”
“I was going to order something.”
“This is better.” He slid the golden, fluffy omelet onto a plate, the cheese oozing from its center. He found a sprig of parsley, placed it on top with a flick of his wrist, and carried the plate to the island.He pulled out a stool for her. “Sit.”
She obeyed, a faint, incredulous smile on her face. He poured her orange juice, refilled his water, and brought over forks. She took a bite, closed her eyes, and let out a soft moan that echoed, in a completely different register, the ones from the night before. “Oh my god.”
“Good?”
“This is… shockingly good.” She ate with a focused hunger, watching him over the rim of her glass. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“My abuela.My mom works two jobs. Someone had to feed the masses.” He leaned on the island across from her, eating his own portion straight from the pan. “It’s just eggs.”
“It’s not just eggs.” She finished, wiping her mouth with a napkin, leaving a smear of red from her lip. She looked at the empty plate, then at him—his bare chest, the tousled hair, the easy confidence in his posture.The truth settled over her, heavy and undeniable. This boy, this beautiful, infuriating boy, could fuck her into a state of holy oblivion on her living room floor. He could then wake up and make her a perfect omelet with her own sad groceries.He made her laugh.He was going to be someone. Her stomach dropped, a pleasant, free-fall sensation.She was in deep.So dangerously deep.
“You’re staring,” he said, a dimple appearing.
“I’m assessing.”
“And?”
She didn’t answer with words. She stood, walked around the island, and took the pan from his hand.She placed it in the sink. Then she took his face in her hands, her thumbs tracing the line of his jaw. She kissed him, slowly, a transfer of taste—egg, cheese, pepper, him.When she pulled back, her eyes were fierce. “I have to be in court by ten.”
He nodded, his hands finding her waist beneath the robe. “Okay.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Then don’t.”
She laughed, a short, sharp sound.“See? That’s the difference.” She rested her forehead against his collarbone.“You have to go home, get your gear. You have practice.”
“Yeah.” He held her, breathing in the scent of jasmine and sleep and sex. The complications were re-materializing, assembling themselves around this kitchen island.“Tonight?”
She tilted her head up. “What about your… masses?” She used his word.
“They can order pizza.” He kissed her again, a quick seal on the promise. “I’ll be here.”
He left her standing in the kitchen, the dirty pan in the sink, the empty plates on the counter, the condo smelling of real food and their shared night. She listened to the door click shut, the silence rushing back in, but it was a different silence now.It was waiting for him to return. She pressed her fingers to her lips, still feeling him there, and knew, with a clarity that was both thrilling and devastating, that every known parameter of her life had just been obliterated.