Chapter 10: The Morning After
The light hurt.
Rose peeled one eye open, then the other, and immediately regretted it. The morning sun cut through the gap in the curtains like a blade, striping the rumpled sheets with gold.
The Velvet Room released them into a night that had gone soft and damp, the kind of air that clings to skin like a second layer. Rose walked between the two men, her legs unsteady, Marcus's jacket draped over her shoulders and Julian's hand hovering at the small of her back without quite touching. They didn't speak until they reached the corner where Julian's car was parked.
Julian turned to face her. In the streetlight, his face looked younger, almost uncertain, like the bravado had been shed along with his clothes. He opened his mouth, closed it, then just nodded once and got into his car.
The engine turned over. The taillights shrank into the dark.
Marcus didn't say a word. He just took Rose's hand and led her to their car, opened the passenger door, and waited until she was settled before closing it. The drive home was quiet—not the heavy silence of months past, but something else, something unspooled.
Rose watched the streetlights streak across the windshield and felt the seat vibrate beneath her sore thighs. She didn't know what tomorrow looked like. She didn't care.
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She woke to an empty bed and the smell of coffee.
The sheets were tangled around her legs, and her body ached in a way that felt like a memory she hadn't earned. Her cunt throbbed—a deep, used soreness that made her shift her hips against the mattress just to feel it again. The ghost of Julian's hands lingered on her waist. The taste of Marcus's mouth, salty with another man's come, sat on her tongue like a secret she'd swallowed.
She sat up. The clock on the nightstand read 9:47. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept past seven.
The apartment was quiet except for the sizzle of something in a pan. Rose pulled on a t-shirt—Marcus's, actually, faded and soft—and padded barefoot down the hall. The kitchen smelled like butter and batter. She stopped in the doorway.
Marcus stood at the stove with his back to her, shirtless except for an apron tied around his waist. The strings crossed his bare shoulders in an X, and below the apron's hem, his ass was completely exposed. He flipped a pancake with his wrist.
Rose leaned against the doorframe. "Is that my apron?"
He glanced over his shoulder. His eyes moved down her body, slow, deliberate, and when they came back up, his mouth had curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "It's my apron now."
"It says 'Kiss the Cook' in pink letters."
"I'm secure in my masculinity."
She laughed. It felt strange in her throat, like a muscle she hadn't used in years. Marcus turned back to the stove and slid the pancake onto a growing stack. There were already six on the plate. He'd been at this for a while.
He gestured to the table with the spatula. "Sit."
Rose sat. The chair was cold against her bare thighs. She watched him pour more batter into the pan, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin, and she felt something twist low in her belly. He looked different this morning. Or maybe she was just looking differently.
He set a plate in front of her—three pancakes, butter melting into the surface, syrup pooling at the edges. She reached for the fork.
His hand closed around her wrist.
Rose looked up. Marcus stood over her, close enough that she could smell the butter on his skin. His eyes had gone dark, the way they had in the Velvet Room, and she felt her breath catch.
"I've been hard since six," he said.
The words landed like a match in dry grass. Rose didn't move. The fork hovered in her hand.
"I woke up and you were still asleep," he continued, "and all I could think about was last night. The way you looked riding him. The sound you made when you came."
He took the fork from her fingers and set it down. Then he pulled her chair back, just enough, and knelt between her legs. The tile was cold under his knees—she could see him wince—but he didn't stop.
"I lay there for two hours with my cock in my hand," he said, "and I didn't touch myself. Because I wanted to wait. I wanted to taste you first."
His hands went to her knees. He pushed them apart, slow and firm, and Rose let him. The t-shirt rode up her thighs. She wasn't wearing anything underneath.
"You're already wet," he said.