I wasn't sure if I was breathing or just vibrating.
Everything ached — in the best, most fucked-out way possible.
My legs felt like overcooked spaghetti. My spine had given up on posture entirely. My cock? He was dead. Retired. No longer with us. There should've been a eulogy. Flowers. Maybe a soft hymn in the background.
I stared at the ceiling, arm flung over my eyes, mouth parted because I couldn't muster the strength to close it.
Five. Rounds.
Fucking five.
Seraphine had curled against me like she hadn't just used my body like a toy she planned to keep, arm draped across my ribs, bare leg thrown over mine like she owned the whole goddamn thing.
Which, to be fair... she did.
"Don't take this the wrong way," I said, voice hoarse and a little broken, "but if you so much as breathe on my dick right now, I will cry."
Her laugh was low and pleased, against my neck. "He seemed so enthusiastic earlier."
"He was." I coughed a laugh, shifting like it hurt. "Now he's traumatized. He's seen things."
"Poor baby," she murmured, dragging her nails slowly down my stomach.
I flinched like she'd reached for a loaded weapon. "Don't. He's not ready. We are in mourning."
Another laugh. "He'll recover. You always do."
I turned my head to look at her, and it was a mistake — because there she was, glowing in the aftermath, lips swollen from kissing, hair an absolute mess, and her breasts—
Yeah. There went what little brain I had left.
"You're smug," I said.
"I'm satisfied," she corrected, stretching with that catlike, sinfully slow roll of her hips that made everything inside me clench in defensive panic.
I reached down, covered my poor dick with my hand like I was shielding him from further trauma. "Don't look at him. Don't even think about him."
Seraphine smirked and turned to face me fully, her thigh still warm over mine, her body so close it was like she'd never left it. And honestly? She hadn't. I could still feel her everywhere — in my mouth, on my skin, between my legs. My ribs even ached from how hard she rode me that last time.
She kissed my collarbone. "You're sweet when you're ruined."
"'Ruined' implies there's something left to wreck. You made sure there isn't."
"You were begging," she reminded me.
I groaned. "That wasn't me. That was... survival instinct. You're not letting me live that down huh."
She kissed the spot just below my jaw, dangerously close to where her bite still throbbed — a perfect crescent, red and healing. My mark.
"I like you like this," she whispered. "Wrecked and tender."
My throat closed up at that.
I didn't say anything. Just shifted enough to pull her fully on top of me, her skin sliding against mine like a memory I didn't want to let go of yet.
She didn't resist. Just sighed and sank into me like she belonged there.
And maybe she did.
Because even though my body was bruised, my mind dazed, my cock dead and buried — this moment, her, the heat of her breath on my neck, the way she curled into me like I was safe...It felt like coming home.
Eventually, Seraphine fell asleep — or entered a centuries-old vampire coma, who the hell knows.
Either way, I slipped out from under her like a man escaping the grip of a deity who'd ruined his soul and thanked him for the privilege.
My legs? Still noodles. My back? Clicking like an old floorboard. My dick? Absolutely offline. Towel over the head. Not accepting calls.
And yet... I felt good. Loose in my bones. Warm in a way that wasn't just physical.
Still — I couldn't lie in that bed all day waiting for the next round like I was in some softcore fever dream. I needed air. Movement. Reality.
I padded down the villa's hallway shirtless, still marked up like a bite-sized snack pack, heading toward the one place I hadn't checked out yet.
The garage.
I expected something functional.
What I got... was porn.
Literal automotive pornography.
The butler opened the double doors for me without a word, like he knew. Like he'd been waiting for this moment. Like he'd seen this scene play out a thousand times before with wide-eyed mortals who'd never touched money this old.
Inside?
Three cars.
All black.
All sleek.
All glinting under perfect spotlight like they'd just been detailed by angels with microfiber cloths and sinful intentions.
I stopped in the doorway, slack-jawed.
"Holy shit," I muttered.
The first one was a Mercedes AMG GT coupe, matte obsidian with gold calipers, like someone built a panther out of rage and metal and whispered drive me like you mean it.
Next to it? A G-Wagon that looked like it ate other SUVs for breakfast and washed them down with the blood of the weak. Lifted, armored, gloss black, windows tinted so dark they might've been legally illegal.
And the last?
A Maybach.
No. The Maybach.
Silver trim. Reclining back seats visible through the slightly open door. Interior done in champagne leather and what had to be endangered wood. The kind of car you didn't drive—you got driven in.
My soul made a small, reverent noise.
I stepped forward slowly, like approaching something sacred. My hand hovered over the AMG's hood, breath fogging just a little as I whispered, "I'm not worthy."
But the car didn't hiss. Didn't judge.
She knew I wanted her.
A velvet tray near the wall held a set of keys. Three fobs, no labels, because I guess when you're that rich, you don't need to bother.
But tucked beneath the first fob was a handwritten note.
"Pick one. Try not to crash it. — S"
I grinned like a man about to make poor choices.
"God, she's hot," I muttered, grabbing the fob that matched the AMG.
Fifteen minutes after leaving a literal goddess in bed, I pulled up to Tiffany's school in a matte black AMG like I was cosplaying rich and reckless.
The car purred, smooth as sin, and I swear I saw a couple teachers do a double take as I idled by the curb. The kind of car that made people wonder what you did for a living—and if it was legal.
Tiff jogged out with her backpack slung low, curls bouncing, and a confused look on her face that deepened when she spotted me.
She stopped mid-step.
Brows lifted.
Mouth dropped.
And then—"You're joking."
I rolled down the window.
"Need a ride, Miss Tiffany?" I asked, all fake charm and movie-star smile.
She stalked over like she couldn't decide if she was impressed or offended.
"This car has butterfly doors?" she hissed, yanking it open. "Butterfly fucking doors, Cass? Where did you even get this? Did your girlfriend loan it to you or did she just buy you outright like a human-sized accessory?"
I smirked and tapped the dash. "She said pick one. I picked."
Tiff slid into the passenger seat and sank into the leather like it insulted her to enjoy it.
She threw a hand toward the dash like it offended her. "What is this?"
I smirked. "AMG. Twin turbo. V8. 577 horsepower."
She blinked. "I didn't ask for the whole Tinder bio."
"Sorry," I said, shifting smoothly back onto the road. "I'm just emotional right now. It's my first time."
"With a luxury car?"
"Oh my God. The seats are cooled. I hate you." She turned to face me, then squinted suspiciously. "Wait... Wait a damn second."
Here it comes.
She sniffed dramatically. "Is that—jasmine? And sex? Did y'all—were y'all—" She flailed her hands wildly in the air. "You were!"
I choked. "Tiff—"
"I knew it!" she crowed, eyes wide, lips twisted into a delighted, devilish grin. "I heard you this morning. When I left for school. I thought the house was... groaning. But noooooo. It was you. Getting absolutely ruined by your filthy rich girlfriend who might i remind you is old enough to be our mom, what is she, like 42?"
I stared straight ahead. "I'm going to drive this car off a cliff."
Tiff cackled, leaning back like she owned the place. "I have never heard noises like that in my life, Cass. Like... who knew you had it in you? You sounded like you were fighting for your soul."
I rubbed a hand down my face. "I was."
"Did she leave you walking funny?" she asked sweetly.
"Yes."
"Did you cry a little?"
"Maybe."
"Oh my God."
She laughed so hard I thought she'd choke on air.
"You've changed," she said eventually, still grinning like a goblin. "You used to be all edgy and sarcastic. Now you're driving German luxury cars and getting laid so hard you can't stand straight."
"I'm still sarcastic," I muttered.
"And so whipped."
I sighed.
"I mean, I'm not judging," she added quickly. "She's hot. She's rich. She's got, like, murder-eyes but somehow still makes you want to climb her like a tree. Honestly, good for you. But still... holy shit."
The car turned a corner like it was gliding on silk. I exhaled slowly, trying to cool the heat in my cheeks, the throb still lingering somewhere between my thighs and my ego.
"She's intense," I admitted quietly. "Like... I feel like I'm gonna lose myself if I'm not careful."
Tiff's face softened.
"Then be careful," she said.
We were quiet for a beat.
Then—She grinned. "So she's letting you take the toys out now? Look at you. Responsible boy. Didn't even show up late. Still can't believe you pulled her, though. I thought you peaked when that girl from the gas station gave you her number."
I flipped her off.
She grinned and stuck her head out the window like a happy dog. "Okay, rich girlfriend. AMG. What's next?"
I didn't answer.
She tilted her head, glancing at me sideways. "You okay?"
I let the question hang in the air.
Outside, the sky was soft with evening—clouds bruised and low, the kind of blue that made you nostalgic for nothing in particular. The Benz purred beneath us like it knew it was expensive. I gripped the wheel a little tighter.
"I'm fine," I said eventually. "Just... thinking."
"Dangerous."
"I'm serious, Tiff."
She leaned back into the seat. "You wanna talk about it?"
"I don't know." I exhaled. "I feel like I'm waiting around all day for Seraphine to climb me like a jungle gym and then disappear. I'm not complaining. Not really. But..." I trailed off.
"But you want more."
"Or I just want something," I said. "Something I do. Something that isn't just her."
She was quiet for a second.
Then: "You're allowed to want that."
I glanced at her. She was watching me like she got it. And maybe she did.
"You thinking job?" she asked.
I gave a half-laugh. "Unless I plan on making a career out of being a kept man."
"You'd be good at it."
"Thanks."
"But yeah," she said. "Something normal might help. Anchor you. Give you back a little...you."
I didn't say anything, but my fingers tightened around the wheel again.
Because she was right.
Because honestly... the idea of doing something again—getting a job, making money, having a purpose outside of mind-blowing sex and weirdly sentient houses—was growing louder in my head by the second.
The gate opened before we even reached it.
Of course it did.
The house practically hummed as I pulled in. Tiff looked around like she was still waiting for someone to jump out and say just kidding, you're still broke.
I parked.
"Go on inside," I said. "I'll be up in a sec."
She gave me a look. "You okay?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Just need to... think."
Tiff walked up the steps, humming under her breath. I watched her disappear inside, then leaned back in the seat, head against the rest.
The car still ticked with heat. I stared out the windshield.
The villa was beautiful. Seraphine was... everything.
But I needed more than luxury and sex and magic doors that opened when I breathed.
I needed to remember who the fuck I was before I let someone rewrite me.
Maybe that started with a job. Maybe something small. Quiet.
Just... something mine.