--
Days later with Jesse..
"I can't believe I'm signing a lease with the man who once refused to give me his garage key."
Jesse looked up from the counter, eyebrow raised.
"Yeah? Well I can't believe I'm letting someone pick paint colors who still uses strawberry shampoo."
I smirked.
He handed me the pen.
I signed.
He signed.
Just like that—
We had a home.
---
We celebrated the only way we knew how:
Pizza.
Beer.
And heavy petting while the couch cushions were still on the floor.
But somewhere between the third slice and my second beer, Jesse pulled me into the kitchen.
Pressed me against the counter.
Voice low, mouth against my ear:
"You've been bratting all day."
I blinked. "How?"
"The paint color. The shampoo. The way you keep calling this 'our apartment' like you didn't just move into my spine four months ago."
I grinned, shameless.
"What are you gonna do about it?"
---
He didn't answer.
Just bent me over the kitchen counter.
Pants tugged down.
Breath hot at my neck.
And then—
Smack.
The first one landed on my ass, sharp and deliberate.
"Count," he said.
"One."
Another.
"Two."
Again.
"Three."
By the fifth, I was trembling.
Not from pain.
From need.
---
He leaned over me, voice velvet and gravel.
"Say it."
"What?"
"That this is ours. Not just yours. Not just mine."
I whimpered.
"This is ours."
"And?"
I moaned. "And I love you."
He kissed the back of my neck.
"Good boy."
---
We didn't make it to the bedroom.
He took me right there—bent over a counter barely wide enough to hold me, his hands greedy, his mouth filthy.
Every thrust said, You're mine.
Every moan said, I'm yours.
---
Later, when we lay tangled in half-unpacked blankets, he asked:
"You scared?"
I shook my head.
"No. Not anymore."
He pulled me close, fingers brushing the base of the velvet collar.
"Then we're right where we belong."