"Clack!" The bathroom door clicked open, and the world rushed back in. It was like stepping out of a bass-heavy, steam-filled club and into the pristine, judgmental silence of a museum.
The air in the Metal Bitch Music Shop, once rich with the scent of polished wood and expensive electronics, now carried the unmistakable, musky aroma of sex. I led the way, my own pulse still thrumming a satisfied rhythm against my ribs.
Cardi Bee followed, a step behind, her usually brash confidence replaced by a wobbly-legged, post-coital daze. Her denim shorts were back on, but they were a desperate formality. A thick, pearlescent trail glistened on her inner thigh, oozing slowly with every shift of her weight.
"Schluup."
I heard the faint, wet sound as she walked. Her stomach, usually flat and toned, had a gentle, distinct bloating to it. I'd pumped her full, no doubt about it. We hadn't been quiet. The raw, primal sounds we'd made against the tiled walls were probably now permanently etched into the acoustic foam of the shop's high-end recording booths.
The smirks from the staff were subtle but omnipresent. A cashier quickly found something fascinating to count on his register. A guitar tech polishing a Les Paul suddenly needed to examine the ceiling tiles. Ramona, didn't even bother to hide her expression.
Her arms were crossed, her brow arched, a silent statue of "I told you so" planted by the black SUV idling at the curb.
I ignored it all, a calm, quiet satisfaction settling over me. The shopping was done. Receipts were tucked into my jacket pocket, and a small fortune's worth of new instruments—a custom seven-string guitar, a compact but powerful electronic drum set, a vintage-style keyboard, and a stunning, rare acoustic violin—were being carefully loaded into a following van by two burly guys under Nicole sharp-eyed direction.
I stepped out into the Beverly Hills. The light caught the shop's sign—METAL BITCH—in brutalist steel and reinforced glass, making it gleam like a sharpened blade.
"Boss, she's trouble in six-inch heels." Ramona fell into step beside me, her voice a low, tactical murmur meant only for my ears.
"Haha," I let out a short, genuine laugh, the sound feeling good.
"Maybe… But sometimes, Ramona, trouble sings the loudest choruses." I gestured with my chin, and the SUV's door hissed open on silent hydraulics.
Cardi Bee's eyes, which had been darting around taking in the insane luxury of the vehicle, went wide as dinner plates. She clutched her slightly distended belly.
"Wait, for real? You takin' me with you?" The street accent was back, covering her shock like armor.
I just nodded, sliding into the plush leather seat. "Yeah. Get in… Let's see if you're worth all the noise."
It was then that the faint, rapid-fire click-click-click registered. Paparazzi. A pack of them, lenses like hungry eyes, were half-hidden behind palm trees and luxury sedans across the street, snapping away at the spectacle of Sael VT emerging from a music shop with a disheveled, cum-dripping rapper.
A familiar, smooth voice chimed in my inner ear, courtesy of Sunday.
"You are currently trending in 42 global regions. Hashtag '#StreetGodSael' has just peaked at 2.7 million mentions and climbing…. The dominant associated image is a blurred zoom-lens capture of you and Miss Bee entering the shop's restroom facilities approximately forty-seven minutes ago."
"Great," I muttered under my breath, leaning my head back against the cool headrest as the door sealed shut, cutting off the outside world.
"Another goddamn circus... Hehehe, didn't know that they can even capture that…". I muttered on my own.
******************
The convoy glided away from the curb, leaving the flashing cameras and gleaming storefronts behind. Inside the SUV, the world was hushed. The only sounds were the whisper of the climate control and the low hum of the powerful engine. The tinted windows turned the neon and halogen nightlights of Beverly Hills into a soft, swirling kaleidoscope.
Cardi sat across from me, trying hard to project an aura of nonchalance, but failing spectacularly. Her knees were pressed tightly together, a subtle, consistent tremor running through her.
Every so often, she'd shift minutely, and a faint wince would flicker across her face. She was sore. Well-used. And, if the occasional soft, almost inaudible gurgle from her midsection was any indication, still very full.
She broke the silence like she was breaking down a door—fast, loud, and with zero finesse.
"So, yeah, anyway," she started, words tumbling out in a nervous rush, "grew up in South Bronx District. Real shit-hole, you know? Not like this…" She waved a hand at the opulent interior.
"Started spittin' verses behind the bodega when I was like, fourteen. Hustled my way into some sketchy clubs. Wrote all my own shit, too…. Nobody writes for Cardi Bee." She puffed out her chest, a gesture of pride that made her wince again as the movement likely sloshed the contents of her stomach.
"Punched a promoter once. A real sleazebag. Stiffed me on a payment. PAH! Right in his smug mouth. Got banned for a month, but fuck him, you know? Got my money the next week."
I listened, one elbow propped on the armrest, my chin resting on my knuckles. There was a faint amusement warming my chest. She was a live wire, sparking and dangerous, all raw, untamed energy. Her cadence, the fire in her eyes even when she was clearly out of her depth—it was all so familiar. She was a spark trapped in a bottle, volatile and brilliant. Just like the Cardi B from my old world. A diamond, but one that had been kicked around in the dirt so long it was covered in grit and scratches.
She had all the talent and none of the direction. A storm without a compass.
She was mid-rant about a rival crew's weak-ass flow when I finally held up a hand, cutting her off.
"Cardi," I said, my voice calm, cutting through her torrent of words. "You've got power. A lot of it. But you're a storm without a compass."
She blinked, the bravado faltering for a second. "Uh… that a compliment or an insult, Papi?"
"It's a bit of Both," I said plainly.
"The power gets you noticed… But, the lack of a compass gets you eaten... You punch one promoter, it's a story. You make a habit of it; you become uninsurable to everyone... You talk shit on social media without a filter, and a corporation with twenty lawyers will sue you into oblivion for fun... You perform like it's a backyard party when you're on a national stage, and you look like an amateur…. If you do that,"
I laid it out bluntly, watching the emotions play across her face: defensiveness, anger, then a dawning, reluctant understanding.
"You need a lot of discipline…. Media training. Performance control…. And vocal lessons to keep from blowing out your cords in a year, You need to learn the game so you can stop being a pawn in it..."
For the first time since I'd met her, Cardi Bee went completely quiet. She looked down at her hands, then out the window at the blur of lights, really processing it. The SUV was silent save for the hum of the road.
She finally looked back at me, and a slow, sharp grin spread across her face. It wasn't her usual boastful smirk; it was something shrewder, more recognizing. "Guess that means you're my compass then...Right?"
"PFFTT!" From the front passenger seat, Ramona let out a soft, incredulous snort.
"She's got nerve, I'll give her that."
I couldn't help but smirk back, a genuine feeling of possibility unfolding in my chest. This wasn't just a random hookup anymore. This was an investment. A project. A piece of the entertainment empire I was building.
"Yeah, she does," I said, more to myself than to anyone else, my gaze lingering on the raw diamond sitting across from me. "This Cardi… might actually make it."
'I won't let her burn out the same way,' I thought, the memory of another world's tragic arcs flickering in my mind. Not this one.
"Multiple vehicles are tailing the convoy," Sunday's voice updated, cool and efficient in my mind.
"Predominantly paparazzi and civilian curiosity-seekers. One signature matches a known corporate intelligence-gathering outfit."
'Just let them be, Ramona and the others know what to do,' I saw Ramona's eyes flick to the rear-view mirror, then to the tactical display screen built into her door. Her fingers danced silently across it, and I felt the SUV accelerate slightly, smoothly changing lanes and heading for a less congested route.
The Pacific Highway stretched out before us like liquid glass, smooth and unbroken under the weight of our convoy. LA's skyline shimmered in the distance, a mirage of neon and steel—closer to a fever dream than a city. The kind of place where dreams were either made or devoured whole.
I leaned against the cool window of the SUV, my breath fogging up the glass just enough to blur the edges of the world outside. Relaxed? Sure. But my mind was, sharp and methodical.
Meteor Studio isn't just building entertainment—it's rewriting the definition of influence.
The thought settled in my chest, heavy and warm. Every artist I signed, every project I greenlit, was a gamble. The kind where the house didn't always win, but when it did, the payout was legacy. Or trouble. Sometimes both.
Next to me, Cardi was lost in her own world, humming under her breath, fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against her knee. The words were barely there; half-formed rap lines muttered between breaths. she was raw and instinctive.
I closed my eyes, just for a second, and saw flashes of another lifetime—cardboard stages, spotlights that burned too bright, a version of Cardi B who became a wildfire sensation before the flame ate her alive.
This one, I thought, lips barely moving, will last longer.
Nicole caught it. Of course she did. She sat diagonal to me, legs crossed, her sharp eyes flicking my way for just a second. I didn't have to look to know she'd caught the rare softness in my voice. The woman missed nothing.
The SUV rolled forward, the hum of the engine a steady undercurrent beneath Cardi's muffled verses. Outside, the city swallowed us whole, the glow of Hollywood's artificial stars bleeding into the tinted windows. The reflection staring back at me in the glass wasn't just mine anymore—it was the city's, too.
The elevator doors slid open with a muted ding, revealing the sleek, modern expanse of the penthouse lobby. The air conditioning hit me first—crisp, sterile, colder than Cassandra Roberts' glare as she stood waiting, arms crossed, her fitted navy suit sharp enough to cut glass.
I smirked. "Good evening, Cassandra."
Her lips curled just slightly, like she'd tasted something bitter.
"Sael," she said, her voice clipped. "Why did you bring a street-side hoe back to the hotel?"
"Pfftt!" Ramona snorted behind me.
Beside me, Cardi—dressed in her crop top, and panty cut jorts with a visible bulged stomach—froze mid-step. Her dark eyes flickered between Cassandra and me like she was calculating the odds of throwing hands versus bolting for the exit.
"Hah~" I chuckled, stepping forward like Cassandra's disapproval was just another breeze.
"Street-side hoe? That was harsh." I glanced at Cardi, who was tensed like a cornered alley cat. "You hear that, Bee? You've been upgraded from 'street rat' to 'street hoe.' That's a nice Progress."
Cardi's nose wrinkled. "I ain't no charity case…. And I ain't no Hoe… just your hoe, Papi~" She replied and attached herself to my arm.
Cassandra exhaled through her nose, a sound that could have frozen vodka. "Don't just 'good evening' me... Do you even realize what the paparazzi will do with this?"
"Probably call it charity…." I joked
Ramona disguised a laugh as a cough.
Cassandra's perfectly manicured fingers twitched toward her temple, like she was physically restraining herself from strangling me. "First Riana, now this one. What are you building, Sael—an orphanage for chaos?"
I tilted my head. "No. Just collecting diamonds…. Some come pre-cut." I flicked a glance at Cardi. "Others need pressure."
Cardi straightened, defiance flaring in her eyes. "Fuck pressure. I been made under it."
Cassandra arched a brow, unimpressed. "Charming one you got there, Sael..."
I shoved my hands in my pockets. "She's raw, but she's got rhythm, guts, and an actual voice… We'll refine her, into a proper talent…"
"Hmmm…." Cassandra's sharp gaze slid back to me, assessing.
"You never gamble blindly, do you," she murmured, almost to herself.
I grinned. "No. I just win."
We entered my suite, it was bathed in warm gold light, all dark walnut floors and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the neon sprawl of New San Antonio. Riana lounged on the suede sofa, her tablet glowing in her hands. When she spotted Cardi trailing behind me, she offered a polite smile—polished, practiced.
"Another one, huh?" Her tone was light, but there was a flicker of something beneath it. Amusement? Understanding?
I nodded. "Meet Cardi Bee—future rapper… Now, I'm testing her."
Cassandra stalked to the bar, her heels clicking. She poured herself a whiskey neat, not bothering to offer anyone else. "Testing how? By fucking the living shit out of her?"
"By letting her sing, of course…. And I am not denying, I DO fuck her… so that's that…" I gestured to the mic stand near the window; a sleek setup where Riana used to belt out her voice.
There is no use to deny me and her had already fucked, everyone here in the room around me is woman, with their superpower intuition, they knew it before I even say it.
Cardi hesitated, her confidence flickering for the first time since I'd found her spitting verses outside a record store. Then she flipped her hair back, grabbed the mic, and went in.
No backing track. No warm-up. Just her voice slicing through the air—raw, rhythmic, electric. The kind of sound that made the hair on your arms rise like you'd been zapped.
"Blood on my kicks but they still step clean,
Hungry like wolves but I feast like a queen—
Don't need your handouts, I take what's mine,
You see the dirt? Nah, that's gold in the grind—"
The room shifted. Cassandra's whiskey glass stopped halfway to her lips. Riana's tablet dropped into her lap with a soft thud. Even Ramona's usual smirk softened into real surprise.
When Cardi finished, chest heaving, her eyes were bright with adrenaline—and something else. Pride.
Silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Then Cassandra, against all odds, murmured, "She's… good."
I smiled faintly. "Told you."
Across the room, Riana clapped softly, her expression unreadable. I knew what she was thinking—this was her, two a few days ago. Rough edges and fire and no clue what the hell she was doing. I stepped forward, hands in my pockets, but my voice wasn't casual anymore. It was commanding.
"Cardi Bee. You've got fire." I locked eyes with her.
"Now, you need structure… Starting tomorrow, training begins. Media coaching. Performance drills. Vocal lessons."
Cardi's grin was all teeth. "Thanks, Papi… I'll do whatever it takes."
Cassandra, still nursing her whiskey, let out a half-amused sigh. "She's got more obedience than I expected."
I smirked. "She's smart enough to know when not to bark."
Cassandra snorted. "That's one way to put it."
The holographic clock on the far wall of my suite glowed a soft, persistent 2:17 a.m. The ever-present neon bleed from the Hollywood skyline painted shifting patterns of cyan and magenta across the plush carpet, a silent, electric aurora. The air hummed with the city's low, industrial-grade thrum, a sound you felt in your teeth more than heard with your ears. It was the soundtrack of a world that never truly slept, only powered down to a menacing idle.
"You both have potential," I began, my voice cutting through the late-night haze. It was steady, measured. I wasn't trying to impress them; I was stating a fact.
"Real, marketable, raw potential. But potential…" I let the word linger, watching them. "Potential means absolutely nothing without control…. It's just noise. Chaos."
Riana gave a swift, sharp nod, her eyes laser-focused. Cardi's smirk didn't falter, but I saw the way her crossed arms tightened just a fraction. She was listening, even if her attitude screamed otherwise.
"Cardi," I said, turning my focus to her.
"You. Rap. Your flow is aggressive, instinctual. We're going to hone that. Lyrical accuracy. Diction. Composure. Learning when to unleash the storm and when to let the tension simmer. You're a blunt instrument right now… I need a scalpel."
She uncrossed her arms, planting her hands on her hips. "A scalpel can still cut a bitch."
I almost smiled. "Precisely the point. But it cuts where and when I say." I shifted my gaze to Riana.
"Riana. Pop. Your voice is clean; your look is sellable…. But stage presence isn't just about hitting the right notes. It's about dominance. Vocal control, yes, but also command. Owning every square inch of that stage, every pair of eyes in that audience. Making them feel what you want them to feel."
From the deep leather sofa nearby, the rapid, tactile click-click-click of fingernails on a tablet keyboard provided a percussive accompaniment. Cassandra, efficient as always, didn't look up from her screen.
"Schedules are drafted. Vocal coaches, movement coaches, image consultants. Mentorship sessions with our established hip-hop and pop divisions. Wardrobe fittings are penciled in for Thursday. It's all logged. You'll both report to the Meteor Entertainment VR training facility. Tomorrow. Sharp."
Cardi let out a low whistle, a genuine grin spreading across her face for the first time. "Damn. You really do things fast around here, huh?"
"Speed is how we stay ahead," I said, my eyes drifting past her to the polluted, glittering sprawl of the city. "In this city, if you pause to blink, three corporations and a dozen hungry startups will already be eating your lunch."
Cassandra finally looked up, her gaze cool and analytical behind her sleek frames. She wasn't addressing the girls; she was talking to me. "You're investing in chaos, Sael."
I turned back to the room. "Chaos is just energy without direction…. This… I'll give it form."
Cardi barked a laugh. "You talk like some kinda professor or somethin'. All serious and shit, Papi~."
A small, quiet smile touched Riana's lips. "No," she said, her voice softer now, almost fond. "That's just Sael being himself."
Cassandra stood, smoothing down her tailored skirt. "9 a.m. tomorrow. Don't be late." She made it sound less like a reminder and more like a natural law.
"9 a.m.?" Cardi groaned, the sound full of theatrical agony. She clutched her chest. "You tryna kill me? The sun ain't even up then! That's, like, a myth."
"Discipline starts before breakfast," I said, deadpan.
The line was so ridiculously cliché, so utterly dad-like, that it broke the remaining tension in the room. A laugh went up—first from Riana, a light, melodic sound, then from Cardi, a louder, more raucous chuckle. Even Cassandra allowed a faint, fleeting smile to touch her lips.
For a second, the suite wasn't a corporate HQ annex; it felt warm, almost familial. It was a rare sound, and a useful one. It made them forget, for a moment, that they'd just signed their lives over to me. The moment passed. Cassandra offered a curt nod and exited, her heels clicking a precise rhythm down the hall.
The energy shifted instantly. The familial warmth evaporated, replaced by something heavier, more intimate. Cardi lingered by the door, her earlier bravado seeming to deflate, leaving behind something more vulnerable. She scuffed the toe of her boot against the carpet, not looking at me.
"So," she started, her voice quieter, losing its performative edge. "For real, for real. You really think I can make it? Out there? With all the… everything?"
I walked over to the minibar, not because I wanted a drink, but to give her a moment to collect herself. The cool glass of a decanter met my fingertips.
"I don't deal in 'think,' Cardi. I deal in 'know.' If you listen. If you learn. And if you keep that fire in your gut instead of letting it spill out and burn down the set? Yes. You'll make it."
Her smirk finally, truly faltered. It was replaced by something raw and real—a flicker of hope, a dose of fear, a fierce determination. It was the most honest expression I'd seen on her all night.
"Then I'll prove it," she said, the words a vow.
"Good." I turned to face her fully, leaning back against the bar. "Because I don't give second chances. My investment is finite. My patience, even more so."
A new grin spread across her face, but this one was different. Softer at the edges, but harder at its core. "Then I better not mess up."
She held my gaze for a beat longer, a silent understanding passing between us, then turned and left, pulling the door shut behind her with a soft, final thud.
The silence she left behind was immense. I let out a long, slow exhale I didn't realize I'd been holding. The fizz of adrenaline began to recede, leaving the familiar, cool analytical calm in its wake. I walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, pressing my palm against the cool, vibration-humming glass. Below, the light-trails of aerial cars wove through the canyon-like streets like luminous serpents. Towers punctured the smoggy sky, each one a fortress of a rival corporation, a rival dream.
Another storm added to the roster, I mused, the thought clear and calm in my mind. A damn hurricane, more like. Let's see if I can teach it to sing beautifully before it decides to burn my whole world down.
******************
My tablet chimed softly on the coffee table—a notification from Sunday. Probably the finalized training regimens, already adjusted based on biometric readings it had passively taken during the meeting. The work never stopped. I was about to turn and retrieve it when a different sound gave me pause.
It was the faint, almost imperceptible sound of a door clicking open down the hallway. Not Riana's. Not the main suite door. The one to the guest bath. I didn't turn, but I watched in the glass's reflection.
Cardi emerged. She'd taken off her bulky jacket. She stood there for a moment, hesitating in the shadowed mouth of the hallway, watching me watch the city. The defiant rapper was gone. In her place was just a young woman, looking overwhelmed and out of her depth in a ridiculously opulent penthouse suite.
I continued to stare out the window, giving her the out. She could retreat, and we could both pretend this never happened.
She didn't.
Her bare feet were silent on the carpet. I tracked her progress in the reflection. She stopped a few feet behind me. I could feel the heat of her, the nervous energy radiating off her like a low-grade current.
"Can't sleep?" I asked, my voice quieter now, not breaking the nocturnal spell.
"The Room's was too big," she murmured. "Too quiet. I'm used to… noise. The city sounds different up here. It's all underneath you…. Makes you feel… small."
"Or powerful," I countered, finally turning around to face her. "Depending on your perspective."
She was hugging herself, not in defiance now, but for comfort. The neon light caught the faint sheen of uncertainty in her eyes. The facade was completely down. This was the raw material.
"That thing you said about control…" she started, chewing on her lower lip. "How do you… how do you know when to use it? The fire?"
I took a step closer. Then another. The space between us crackled, the professional context of minutes ago melting away into something more primal, more personal. This was a language I was far more fluent in.
"You don't suppress it," I said, my voice dropping to a near-whisper. I reached out, and my fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. Her breath hitched. "You channel it. You aim it. You let it out in a controlled burn, not a wildfire… Baby girl…"
My hand cupped her jaw, my thumb stroking the line of her cheekbone. Her skin was warm. Her eyes were wide, searching mine, and I saw the exact moment the nervousness was eclipsed by a different, hotter emotion. A submission. A willingness to be directed.
"Show me how to do it," she breathed out, the words barely audible.
I didn't need to be asked twice. My other arm snaked around her waist, pulling her flush against me. She was all tight muscle and soft curves under that thin shirt. A small, startled gasp escaped her lips as I crushed my mouth to hers.
"Smack♥ Smack♥ Mmmwah♥"
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claim. It was me answering her question about control in the most direct way I knew how. My tongue plunged into her mouth, and she met it with a desperate, hungry fervor of her own. Her arms unraveled from around herself and locked around my neck, pulling me closer, grinding her hips against mine. The nervous girl was gone, consumed by the raw, untamed energy I'd seen flashes of all night.
I walked her backward, never breaking the kiss, until the backs of her knees hit the large sectional sofa. She fell onto the soft leather with a soft umph, looking up at me with dark, lust-blown eyes. I followed her down, caging her in with my arms.
"This what you wanted?" I growled against her lips, my hand sliding under her shirt, palming the warm, firm swell of her breast. Her nipple was already a hard pebble against my palm. "A distraction from the big, quiet room?"
"Yes," she moaned, her back arching, pushing her chest into my hand. "Fuck, yes. Just… make me feel something else."
I obliged. I pulled her shirt up and over her head in one swift motion, tossing it aside. Her breasts were perfect, round and full, and I dipped my head to take one taut nipple into my mouth.
"Schlurp. Schlurp!!" I suckled hard, laving it with my tongue, biting down just enough to make her cry out.
"Ah! God…!"
"Not God," I murmured, switching to her other breast, giving it the same treatment. "Schluuup."
"Just me. Remember that, Bitch..."
My hand slid down the tense plane of her stomach, past the waistband of her low-rise jeans. I found the damp heat of her through her panties. She was soaked. I rubbed my palm against her, a firm, circular pressure that made her hips buck off the couch.
"So ready," I said, grinning against her skin. "All that attitude, and you're dripping for me already."
"Shut up," she pleaded, but it was a moan, not a protest. "Just… stop talking and fuck me."
I unbuttoned her jeans, yanking them and her panties down her thighs in one rough motion. She kicked them off the rest of the way, her legs falling open in a silent, desperate invitation. I didn't make her wait. I freed my own aching erection, positioned myself at her entrance, and drove into her in one long, deep, unforgiving thrust.
"PAH!" The sound of our bodies connecting was obscenely loud in the quiet suite.
"Ngh♥ Ughh♥Hnghh♥ Hiiik AAAHHHHH!H!!!!!" She screamed, a raw, ragged sound that was part pain, part overwhelming pleasure. Her nails dug into my back, scoring lines of fire across my skin. She was incredibly tight, a hot, wet velvet fist clamping down on me.
"Ughk… Fuck! You're… so deep!" she choked out, her eyes rolling back.
"That's the point," I grunted, setting a brutal, pounding rhythm from the start.
"PAH! PAH! PAH!" Each thrust rocked the entire sofa. I dominated her completely, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, using the other to grip her hip, controlling the angle, the depth, the pace. This was the molding. This was giving the fire form.
"Whose… pussy… is this?" I demanded, my voice rough with strain.
"Yours!" she cried out, her body trembling violently beneath me. "Ah! AH! It's yours! PAPII!!!!!"
"Damn right it is." I released her wrists, grabbing both her hips now to piston into her even harder, faster. The lewd, wet slaps of our skin echoed off the high ceilings, a symphony of fucking. "PAH-PAH-PAH-PAH!"
"FUCK!! FUUCCKK!!!! AAAHHHH!!!" Her moans became incoherent, rising in pitch and desperation.
"AAHH!!! Ooh-Ooooohhhhhh GUOO~" Her body seized up, her internal muscles fluttering and clenching around me in a powerful, convulsing orgasm. The sight of her coming undone, all that fierce energy focused into pure, unadulterated sensation, was utterly intoxicating.
It pushed me over the edge. I drove into her one last, deep time, burying myself to the hilt as my own release ripped through me.
"Spluuurt. Spurt! Spurt… SSpppurrrtt!" I emptied myself inside her with a guttural groan, my own vision whiting out at the edges.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing, mingling with the eternal hum of the city. I collapsed on top of her, then rolled off to the side, pulling her with me so she was half-sprawled across my chest. We lay there in a sweaty, spent heap on the leather sofa.