As we gather the remnants of our picnic, David turns to me, a hopeful glint in his eyes. "I live close by. Want to come over for coffee? I make a mean cappuccino."
I hesitate for only a moment before nodding, the idea of prolonging this bubble of normalcy too tempting to resist. "Sure, that sounds great."
His apartment is only a short walk away, tucked into a charming brick building just off the park. Inside, it's pristine—a large desk dominates the living room, accompanied by a plush leather couch and walls adorned with vibrant paintings. The space feels warm and inviting, a reflection of David himself.
I wander over to examine a particularly striking abstract piece while David heads to the kitchen to start the coffee.
"This place is amazing," I call over my shoulder.
"Thanks," he replies, the sound of beans grinding briefly drowning out his voice. "It's small, but it's home."
I smile, tracing a finger along the edge of his desk. Like the rest of the apartment, it's meticulously organized, stacks of papers and books arranged with almost military precision. A far cry from the cluttered chaos of my own space.
My eyes wander past the desk, taking in the little details scattered around the room. A row of vinyl records is tucked neatly into a shelf beneath the television, their spines lined up like soldiers. A tall plant sits in the corner by the window, its leaves lush and perfectly green—probably watered on a schedule, unlike the half-dead fern on my own windowsill. A pair of framed black-and-white photographs hang near the couch, cityscapes caught in sharp contrast, all steel lines and shadows.
It's warm here, lived in but deliberate, every piece carefully chosen. I trail a hand along the back of the leather couch, the material cool under my fingers, and wonder what it would be like to curl up here with him on a quiet evening, pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist.
"Coffee's ready," David announces, emerging from the kitchen with two steaming mugs in hand. He passes one to me, our fingers brushing, and I take a sip, savoring the rich flavor.
We settle onto the couch, our knees almost touching, the conversation flowing as easily as it did in the park. For a moment, just a moment, everything feels right. Like maybe, just maybe, this could be my life. Normal. Safe. Happy.
But in the back of my mind, the shadows still linger, a reminder that this reprieve is fleeting. That the world outside these walls is darker and more complicated than I ever imagined.
For now, though, I push those thoughts away, losing myself in the warmth of David's smile and the comforting glow of this little oasis we've created, if only for a little while.
David sets his mug down on the coffee table, the soft clink of ceramic against wood echoing in the stillness. He turns towards me, one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face, his touch gentle, admiring. His eyes search mine for a long moment, the air between us seeming to crackle with unspoken words, with longing.
And then he leans in, his lips finding mine, and the world narrows to this, to him. The kiss is slow, tender, a question and an answer all at once. I feel the heat rise in my cheeks, my heart pounding in my ears.
Somewhere between one kiss and the next, I set my own mug aside, my hands coming up to tangle in the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat, his arms sliding around me, one hand coming to rest at the small of my back, the other tangling in my hair.
We kiss like that for what feels like an eternity, lost in the taste of coffee and each other, in the gentle slide of lips and tongues, in the heat building between us. Our tongues dance, a slow, sensual rhythm that sends shivers down my spine. I explore the contours of his mouth, savoring the smoothness of his lips, the faint scrape of his teeth. He kisses me like I'm the center of his world, like nothing exists outside of this moment, this embrace.
I try to lose myself in it, in him, desperate to forget the bond that haunts me, the shadows that cling to my skin. With each kiss, each caress, the world falls away a little more, until all that's left is the feel of his body against mine, the taste of him on my tongue, the sound of our mingled breaths in the quiet of the room.
At some point, David pulls back, his breath coming in soft pants against my lips.
"Come with me," he murmurs, his voice rough with want, with need.
He takes my hand, leading me through the apartment to his bedroom, never once breaking contact. Inside, the bed is wide, inviting, covered in soft gray blankets and a tumble of pillows.
We come together again, hands roaming, lips exploring. Clothes fall away, first his shirt, then mine, each piece of fabric drifting to the floor like petals on the wind. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, smooth, alive.
We tumble onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter, the rest of the world fading away until there's nothing left but this, but us, but the heat and the want and the desperate, aching need to forget.
His hands roam my body, cupping my breasts, his thumbs teasing my nipples into hard peaks. I gasp, arching into his touch, my nails digging crescents into his skin. His touch is gentle, a stark contrast to the possessive, almost brutal caresses of Grayson.
He leans down, his mouth replacing one hand, and I cry out at the wet heat, the gentle scrape of teeth. Each suck, each flick of his tongue, sends arrows of pleasure straight to my core. But even as I lose myself in the sensation, I can't help but remember the fierce, almost painful intensity of Grayson's mouth on my skin.
I can feel myself getting wetter, my arousal slick against his hardness. He groans, his hips bucking forward, seeking more.
"Please," I gasp, my hips tilting up, seeking. "David, please."
He reaches down, his hand sliding between us, his fingers finding my clit. I nearly scream at the first touch, sparks exploding behind my eyes.
He circles the sensitive nub, his touch light, teasing, even as his hips start to move, his hardness sliding against my wetness, not quite entering me.
His eyes, dark with desire, watch me intently, taking in every gasp, every shiver.
I'm sobbing with need, my hips rocking shamelessly against his hand, his hardness.
"David," I beg, my voice breaking. "Please, I need..."
He reaches over to the bedside table, fumbling with the drawer. I hear the crinkle of foil, the snap of latex, and then he's back, his hardness pressing against my entrance. His eyes never leave mine, watching my every reaction as he enters me. As he fills me, I feel every inch of him, stretching me, claiming me. His thickness drags against my inner walls with each slow, deep thrust, making me feel impossibly full.
Each thrust slow, deep, hitting that perfect spot inside me. His hand on my clit matches his pace, each circle, each slide, driving me higher, pushing me closer to the edge. It's a dance, a slow, sensual build, a world away from the fierce, almost violent coupling I've shared with Grayson.
I can feel the tension coiling low in my belly, feel the pleasure building, spiraling, a wave waiting to crash. I'm sobbing, gasping, my nails raking down his back, my thighs clenching around his hips, urging him deeper, faster.
His gaze is a caress in itself, hot and intense, as if he's memorizing every moment of my pleasure. I can see the hunger in his eyes, the possessive desire, as he watches my body move with his, my breasts bouncing with each hard thrust.
He gives me what I need, his hips slamming into mine, his hardness hitting that spot again and again. His fingers on my clit circle faster, harder, pushing me, dragging me towards the edge.
And then I'm falling, my body clenching around his hardness, my climax hitting me like a wave. I scream his name, my back arching off the bed, my thighs clenching around his hips. He watches me through it all, his eyes dark with satisfaction, as if my pleasure is his own.
He follows a moment later, his hardness pulsing inside me, his release filling the condom. We're a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin, our chests heaving in the aftermath.
For a moment, the world narrows to this, to him, to the pleasure still sparking through my veins. The shadows, the bond, they don't exist, not in this moment, this perfect, stolen moment.
But even as the glow fades, even as our breathing slows, I can feel it, a dark, pulsing thing in the back of my mind. A reminder that this, that he, can never be more than a momentary escape. That the bond, the darkness, will always be waiting. And that no matter how tender, how sweet, how good David is, he can never make me forget Grayson entirely.