“Come for me again,” he grunts, his thrusts becoming punishing, hitting a spot inside me that makes me see stars. “Now, Valentina.”
The command, the sensation, the sight of us in the mirror—it’s too much. I shatter. My body convulses around him, milking him, pulling a deep, guttural roar from his chest as he follows me over, pulsing deep inside me with a final, shuddering thrust.
We stay like that for a long moment, panting, laying on our backs against the mat, slick skin glued together. The air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat. He nuzzles into my neck, pressing a soft, almost tender kiss there.
Zay steps inside, saying something as he looks down at his phone, tone light. “Ash I need you to?—”
He stops. Looks up.
Takes in the scene: my hair, Asher’s bare chest, the arrangement of limbs, the way Asher’s hand is still on my stomach.
His mouth curves into a slow, indecently pleased smile. “Finally.”
I push myself up on my elbows, glaring. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting,” he says, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms. “Do you know how annoying it’s been, listening to both of you pretend you’re not stupid for each other while I have to sit on all the evidence?”
Asher scrubs a hand over his face. “Zay?—”
“Relax,” Zay says. “I’m not going to write it on the wall. I’m just thrilled you stopped playing chicken with your own feelings long enough to jump each other in a room with no locks.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, unexpected and a little hysterical. It breaks some of the tension I didn’t realize was still coiled in my shoulders.
“We’re not talking about this,” Asher says as he pulls his shirt back on.
“We are definitely talking about this later,” Zay corrects. “But not now. You two look like you need water, a shower, and maybe a priest.”
I throw a rolled-up hand wrap at him. He catches it easily, still smirking.
“We should… go upstairs,” Asher says.
“Good plan,” Zay says. “People will start looking for their fearless leaders soon.”
Asher’s eyes flick to me. Something soft passes through them, then hardens into resolve again. “I’m going to wake Talia. Make sure she eats.”
I nod, heart giving an uneasy little twist at her name. “Okay.”
He squeezes my hand once, then lets go and heads toward the stairs.
Zay and I follow more slowly, the gym door swinging shut behind us.
In the kitchen, the house feels nearly normal again. A couple of guys linger over late plates, arguing lazily about something on the muted TV in the corner. Sunlight slants across the table, catching dust motes in the air.
My legs still feel a little unsteady, but grounded. My skin hums with residual heat. There’s a stretch of satisfaction in my chest I refuse to apologize for.
Zay hops up to sit on the edge of the island, watching me with that hooded, too-knowing look. “You good?” he asks.
I run my fingers through my hair, trying to tame it. “Define good.”
“Not panicking, not blaming yourself, not planning to jump off a metaphorical cliff in the name of martyrdom,” he says. “So… above average.”
“I’m… okay,” I say honestly. “It feels like something that was already happening just… stopped pretending.”
He nods, something like approval in his eyes. “Good.”
He reaches out, catching my wrist as I step past him, and gently turns my hand. His thumb traces a faint red line on my knuckles I didn’t realize was there.
“You’re marked up,” he says softly. “You want me to clean you up before you traumatize Jackie’s kid with your battle scars?”