I Watched My Nephew's Secret Fetish, Then I Made It Real

The café was quiet, the kind of quiet that settled like dust in corners. Cass sat at the counter, the spreadsheet open on her laptop, numbers blinking like they were personally accusing her. The last quarter had been brutal—rent up, suppliers squeezing, customers thinning like her patience. She rubbed her temples, the screen’s glow making her eyes ache.

Then the door chimed.

She didn’t look up right away. Footsteps, measured. A pause. When she did glance over, Hiro stood just inside the threshold, not in the hoodie she’d washed a hundred times, but in a white button-down, sleeves rolled with surgical precision. He held a tablet like it was part of his arm.

“Morning,” he said, voice flat, professional. “I’ve compiled the preliminary audit.”

Cass blinked. “Audit?”

He stepped closer, tapped the screen, and turned it toward her. “Revenue per square foot is twenty-eight percent below comparable venues. Inventory turnover is sluggish. Your POS system predates touchscreens.”

She stared at the graphs, red bars like open wounds. “I know the numbers, Hiro.”

“Then you know the current model is unsustainable.” He didn’t smile. “We’ll need a full overhaul. Cloud-based ordering, dynamic pricing during off-peak, loyalty algorithm.”

She closed the laptop with a soft slap. “It’s a café, not an app.”

He met her eyes, unflinching. “Data doesn’t care about ambience.”

The words stung more than they should. This was the kid who used to hide behind her apron when the espresso machine hissed. Now he looked at her like she was a line item.

“I hired you to help, not to turn my living room into a server farm.”

“I’m here to keep you solvent,” he said. “If that means upsetting some décor, so be it.”

Cass stood, arms folding under her breasts. “People come here because it feels like someone’s kitchen, not because a bot texts them a coupon.”

“Retention trumps nostalgia.” His tone stayed cool, but a muscle flickered in his jaw. “We can’t pay rent with feelings.”

She wanted to shout that feelings were the only reason the place still stood, that every chipped mug had a story, that the faded mural was painted by his mother the summer before the accident. Instead she said, “If you erase the soul, there’s nothing left to save.”

For a moment the air between them crackled, the old warmth replaced by something sharp and unfamiliar. He looked down, swiped a finger across the tablet, and the screen went black.

“I’ll draft a hybrid proposal,” he said. “You’ll have it by noon.”

He turned toward the door. She watched the fabric stretch across his shoulders, the way his shoes clicked on the tile, and felt a sudden, dizzy distance—like he was walking out of her life instead of into the kitchen.

The bell chimed again. She was alone with the smell of old coffee and the echo of her own breathing.

The argument had started over barcodes. Hiro wanted every muffin wrapped in plastic with a sticky label; Cass said it made them look like airport food. Voices climbed, papers slid across the table, and by late afternoon the air conditioner gave up with a cough. Sweat collected under her breasts, between her shoulder blades, in the crease of her elbows. She finally slammed the ledger shut and told him she was done for the day.

He stayed inside tapping numbers. She went out back, yanked the plastic hose until the little pool wobbled upright, and filled it with cold water. While it gurgled she peeled off her dress, kicked away her sandals, and stood in the bikini she usually wore only under clothes—black triangles, thin strings, nothing left to the imagination. The water shocked her calves, then her thighs, then her stomach as she folded herself in. She floated for a minute, hair spreading like seaweed, eyes closed, listening to her own heartbeat.

The brush had fallen earlier, knocked from the patio table by a breeze. She climbed out, feet slick on the grass, and bent to retrieve it. Water streamed down her legs; the bikini bottom had ridden high, half of each cheek exposed, the fabric darkened to near-transparent. She wrung her hair, straightened, and that was when the slider hissed.

Hiro stood framed by the glass, tablet forgotten at his side. His gaze started at her ankles, travelled upward, paused at the damp strip of cloth, the knot at her hip, the water chilling her skin into gooseflesh. His mouth opened slightly. A flush surged from his collar to his ears, violent against the white shirt.

He spun so fast his shoulder clipped the doorframe. “Sorry— I didn’t— the Wi-Fi dropped.” The words tumbled, voice cracking on the last syllable.

Cass froze, brush dripping. She felt the cool air move across her bare back, the way the string tugged between her cheeks, the sudden awareness that her nipples were hard against the thin top. She should have spoken, laughed, anything, but her throat closed.

Behind him the hallway lights flickered. A soft mechanical whirr announced Baymax inflating, round form filling the doorway like a moon. “Cass, your epidermal temperature is thirty-five degrees Celsius,” the robot announced, extending a fluffy towel. “Evaporative cooling is recommended.”

Hiro muttered something that sounded like thanks and bolted, leaving the robot wedged half-in, half-out, towel flapping like a surrender flag. Cass took the cloth, pressed it to her chest, water pooling at her feet. The echo of his shocked face—eyes dark, pupils blown—stayed printed on the inside of her eyelids. She exhaled, shaky, and realized she was still holding the hairbrush so tightly the handle had left ridges in her palm.

Baymax’s vinyl shoulder squeaked against the doorframe as he tried to squeeze through. The towel flopped over Cass’s head like a surrender flag, blocking her view for a second. When she tugged it free, Hiro was already halfway across the kitchen, back rigid, shoes skidding on the tiles.

“Hiro—” she started, but the slider slammed before the second syllable left her throat.

Baymax rotated his head, optical sensors blinking placidly. “I will retrieve additional towels if required.”

“No,” she said, voice thin. “We’re good.”

The robot deflated a fraction, processing, then trundled back inside, leaving wet tire tracks that gleamed like snail slime in the dusk. Cass stood alone on the grass, towel clutched to her chest, water still dripping from the bottoms of her bikini. The elastic had crawled higher; she could feel the string sawing gently between her cheeks, a reminder she couldn’t shake.

She should laugh. Should roll her eyes, call Hiro an idiot, pretend the whole thing was nothing. Instead her pulse thudded so loudly she thought the neighbors’ security lights might flicker on. She kept seeing the exact moment his expression cracked—mouth parted, pupils blown wide, color flooding up his neck like heat lightning. He’d looked at her the way men look at strangers in bars, not at the woman who used to cut the crusts off his sandwiches.

She pulled the towel tighter, but terry cloth couldn’t erase the feel of his gaze on her bare skin. It had lasted maybe two seconds, yet her body replayed it in loops: the sudden awareness of how the triangles barely covered her nipples, the way the bikini bottom had slipped low enough to show the dimple at the base of her spine. She felt branded.

Inside, the kitchen light snapped off. Through the window she watched Hiro’s silhouette pass the refrigerator, shoulders set, one hand dragging through his hair. He paused, knuckles whitening against the counter, then disappeared toward the front of the café. A second later the faint glow of his laptop seeped back into the hallway, steady and blue as ice.

Cass exhaled, shaky. The pool water had turned cold against her ankles; gooseflesh rippled up her thighs. She stepped back onto the concrete, towel under her feet, and told herself to move, to shower, to forget. Instead she stayed motionless, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the distant clack of Hiro’s keyboard, the small wet sounds of her own breathing.

Eventually she wrapped the towel around her waist like a sarong, knotting it above her hipbone. The fabric was thick but she still felt naked, as if his stare had stripped off more than clothes. When she finally pushed through the slider, the air-conditioning hit her overheated skin like a slap. She passed the doorway to the café and caught a glimpse of him: head bowed over the tablet, the same device that had earlier displayed her failing revenue in neat red bars. Now his thumb hovered above the screen without moving, as if he’d forgotten what he meant to do next.

She climbed the stairs slowly, each step pressing the damp cloth between her legs, the friction sending small, involuntary sparks up her spine. In the bathroom mirror her cheeks were sunburned, her lower lip swollen where she’d bitten it. She brushed her hair with the same plastic brush, counting strokes—eight, nine, ten—until the bristles scraped her scalp hard enough to hurt. The pain helped, a little.

Downstairs, the typing resumed, faster than before, like he was trying to outrun whatever he’d seen. She turned off the light, but the image followed her into the dark: Hiro’s face, shocked and hungry, reflecting her own body back at her in a way no one had for years.

The next fight started over receipts.

Hiro wanted everything digital—no paper, no pens, no carbon copies that yellowed in a box. Cass slammed the roll of thermal paper on the counter so hard the spindle cracked.

“Your mother kept every ticket,” she said, voice low. “Every doodle a customer left on the back. That’s history, not waste.”

He didn’t look up from the tablet. “History doesn’t pay bandwidth.”

The words hung like smoke. Around them the café sat half-upgraded: new router bolted above the pastry case, cables snaking across the baseboards like black vines. The mural—his mother’s sunflowers—was covered by a white projector screen waiting for some cloud-based training video.

Cass felt the old fury rise, hotter than the steam wand hissing behind her. “You’re scrubbing them out,” she said. “One barcode at a time.”

Hiro’s jaw flexed. “I’m keeping you open.”

“By turning it into a server rack with muffins.”

He tapped the screen, finalizing the order for a cloud subscription she hadn’t approved. The chime sounded like a gavel. “You asked for help,” he said. “This is what help looks like.”

She stared at him—really stared. The boy she’d rocked to sleep after nightmares about micro-bots was gone; in his place stood a man who spoke in SLAs and uptime. The distance felt physical, like a pane of glass she couldn’t smash.

“Fine,” she whispered. “Do what you want. They’re already dead; why not bury the rest?”

She left before he could answer, shoulders shaking, not trusting herself not to cry in front of the evening customers.

At two a.m. guilt woke her like an alarm. She sat up, sheets damp, the fight replaying on loop. She’d used his parents as ammunition; that was low, even for exhaustion. She pulled on the robe draped over the chair, belted it tight, and padded downstairs.

The café glowed with emergency lighting. His bedroom door stood ajar, room beyond dark. She knocked once, soft. No answer. She pushed inside.

Empty. Bed untouched. Laptop open on the desk, screen angled toward the door, saver cycling photos of the old house—his parents laughing on the porch, Cass in the background holding a toddler Hiro on her hip. The slideshow froze, replaced by a browser window she hadn’t meant to see.

One tab glowed among the code repositories. The title was a single word: Taboo.

Her hand hovered, traitorous finger already twitching. She should close it, walk away, pretend ignorance. Instead she clicked.

The video buffered, then played soundlessly. A woman who looked too much like her—same dark hair, same curve of hip—knelt on a bed, face turned toward the door in guilty invitation. The man entering was younger, familiar in the way every nephew is familiar before he becomes something else.

Heat flooded her so fast her knees softened. She gripped the desk edge, pulse hammering against the wood. The air thinned, turned electric. She heard the front lock twist.

Footsteps on the stairs.

She snapped the lid halfway shut, leaving a finger-wide gap, and stepped into the closet, pulling the door until only a sliver of light remained. The laptop screen flared back to life, casting the room in pale blue.

Hiro entered, shoulders sagging, shirt untucked. He stopped when he saw the open tab, breath catching audibly. For a moment he simply stared, throat working. Then he sank onto the chair, hand dropping below the desk.

Cass watched, frozen, as his arm began a slow, steady rhythm. The faint sound of a zipper. A low exhale that wasn’t quite her name.

Her own hand moved without permission, slipping beneath the robe, past cotton panties already clinging. She bit her lip to stay silent, matching him stroke for stroke in the suffocating dark, the video still playing its silent accusation. Shame. Desire. Overlap.

The video filled the screen in perfect, obscene clarity. A kitchen that could have been hers—checkered tile, late-afternoon light—then the woman bending over the counter, palms flat, the younger man stepping up behind her with his hand already sliding beneath her skirt. Cass’s throat closed. The actress’s gasp was Hiro’s name in her head, sharp and breathless. She felt the sound between her legs, a sudden slick pulse that soaked the gusset of her panties in one hot rush.

She should close it. She didn’t. She leaned closer instead, robe parting, nipples tightening against the worn cotton. The man onscreen pushed the woman’s thighs apart, fingers hooking the thin strip of fabric aside, exposing pink flesh that gleamed under studio lights. Cass’s own clit throbbed in answering time, a second heartbeat she couldn’t ignore. Her hand moved without permission, two fingers slipping under the elastic, finding herself already slippery, swollen, ready. She pressed once, light, and had to swallow a moan.

The front door chimed.

She jerked back, chair wheels squealing against wood. Footsteps—measured, tired—started up the stairs. Panic flared, but her body rebelled, clit aching for the next stroke. She clicked the volume to mute, left the browser open, and stepped into the closet, pulling the slatted door until only a ribbon of blue light slipped through. The laptop screen angled perfectly toward her hiding spot, casting Hiro’s room in flickering shadows.

She heard him pause in the hallway, the soft rustle of his shirt coming untucked. Then he was inside, door nudging shut with a click. He saw the screen. His breath caught—an audible hitch that stabbed straight to her core. For three long seconds he stood frozen, profile lit by the moving images. Cass watched his chest rise, fall, rise again. His hand lifted, hovered, then dropped to his belt.

Zipper. A low metallic purr. He exhaled through parted lips, sound almost like her name. Cass’s fingers returned to her soaked folds, spreading wetness upward in a slow, deliberate circle that matched the rhythm he set below the desk. The video looped: woman pushed forward, man driving deep, skin slapping skin. Each impact echoed in her pulse. She bit the inside of her cheek to stay quiet, tasting copper.

Hiro’s shoulders loosened, hips shifting forward. She could see the outline of his cock in the blue glow—thick, veined, tip already slick. He palmed himself once, base to crown, then again, thumb gliding over the head on every upstroke. A bead of precome strung across his knuckles, catching the light like a tiny star. Cass wanted to lick it away. Instead she plunged two fingers inside herself, walls clamping down, imagining that salt taste, that heat.

His breathing roughened. Hers matched it, shallow, syncopated. The closet smelled faintly of cedar and motor oil; she pressed her back against the rough plank, legs spreading wider, robe slipping off one shoulder. Nipple brushed cool wood and she arched, stifling a whimper. Onscreen the man groaned, pulled out, stripes of come painting the woman’s ass. Hiro’s fist tightened, pace turning frantic. Cass felt her own climax building, coiling low and tight, a spring ready to snap.

She watched him finish: hips jerking forward, come spilling over his fingers, dripping onto the chair seat. The sight shoved her over—she came silently, inner muscles fluttering around her fingers, juices running down her wrist. Pleasure crashed so hard her vision tunneled, the blue light shrinking to a single point. When it cleared, Hiro was slumped forward, forehead against the desk, chest heaving.

Cass eased her hand from her panties, palm slick, and waited for the world to start turning again.

He didn’t move for a long moment, just stared at the frozen frame—woman bent, man poised, the crude invitation of it. Then his shoulders dropped like a switch flipped. He toed the door shut, the latch soft, final. Cass felt it in her bones.

Hiro crossed the room in three slow steps, sock feet silent on the boards. He sank onto the chair, the same worn vinyl that used to spin him in circles when he was eight. Now it groaned under his weight. The laptop screen brightened as the video resumed; sound still muted, but the slap of flesh came through anyway, phantom pops that matched the pulse in her ears.

His right hand settled on his thigh, fingers drumming once, twice. Then it slid beneath the desk. Cass heard the zipper again—lower this time, deliberate. He shifted, hips lifting just enough to drag denim and boxers down. His cock sprang free, thick root to flushed crown, already shining at the slit. He didn’t grip it right away; he simply let it stand, bobbing slightly with each heartbeat, as if introducing himself to the screen.

Cass swallowed the salt taste of her own blood where she’d bitten too deep. Her fingers were still sticky; she wiped them on the inside of her robe, then slipped back under the elastic, unable to stay away. The fabric clung, soaked through, peeling away from her folds with a quiet suck that sounded deafening in the closet. She spread her knees wider, heel bracing against a box of old circuit boards.

Onscreen the actress moaned—silent, open-mouthed—and Hiro finally closed his fist around himself. One slow stroke, base to tip, thumb sweeping the head, spreading the bead of precome until it glossed the entire shaft. His breath hitched, audible. Cass matched him, circling her clit with the same lazy rhythm, pressure light enough to tease, to keep the climb long.

He leaned forward, forearm resting against the desk edge, the motion opening his stance. She could see everything: the flex of his thigh muscles, the way his balls tightened on each downward pull, the faint tremor in his wrist as speed built. His other hand came up, palm flattening the laptop lid lower, angling the display so the blue glow painted his torso—skinny shirt ridden up, abs clenching with every thrust into his own grip.

Cass imagined that hand on her hip instead, imagined the sweat cooling between them. She pushed two fingers inside, curling hard, mimicking the angle she’d watched the actress take. Wet sound answered, louder than she meant. She froze. Hiro’s rhythm faltered; he glanced over his shoulder at the closet door. The slats were thin, shadows dense—surely he couldn’t see. Surely. His eyes narrowed, then drifted back to the screen, pace resuming fiercer than before, as if the risk itself stroked him.

Close. She could see it in the way his jaw locked, the way his knees spread wider, chair creaking. She felt it too, coil winding, thighs shaking. She pressed her free hand over her mouth, stifling breath, and watched him finish—cock jerking, stripes of come arcing onto the desk, some splattering the trackpad. The sight shoved her over the edge; she came again, inner walls clamping tight around her fingers, pleasure so sharp it hurt, silent scream trapped behind her palm.

He slumped, chest heaving, spent cock still pulsing in his loosened grip. For a second the room smelled only of cedar and sex. Then he reached for the towel slung over the chair, wiped himself once, twice, and closed the laptop with a quiet snap. Darkness swallowed everything.

Cass didn’t dare move. Neither did he.

Morning light filtered through the café blinds in thin white bars, striping the counter between them. Cass poured coffee she didn’t need, steam curling around her chin while Hiro tapped keys on the new register tablet. Every beep felt louder than yesterday, like the machine itself announced what they’d done. She slid a mug toward him; he caught it left-handed, the same hand that had striped come across his desk. Her stomach flipped.

“Transaction test complete,” he said, eyes still on the screen. Professional. Cool. Then his gaze flicked up and lingered on her mouth for half a second—long enough for her thighs to tighten beneath the apron. Accusation. Invitation. Both.

The lunch rush arrived. Orders flew, cards swiped, the new system humming without a hiccup. Each time the printer spat a receipt, Hiro’s shoulders relaxed a fraction more. At two-thirty the last customer left; the silence felt sudden, heavy. He looked at the numbers glowing green, then at her, and smiled—not the polite consultant grin he’d worn all week but the old Hiro smile, the one that used to ask for extra marshmallows. Only now it carried the weight of every secret stroke in the dark. Her core answered with a single, liquid throb.

“We did it,” he said, voice soft.

She wiped the same spot on the counter twice. “You did.”

“Celebrate?” He jerked his thumb toward the ceiling. “Roof. Champagne’s been chilling since launch code compiled.”

Her pulse spiked, frantic drum against bone. She should invent an errand, stay grounded, but her body was already climbing the stairs ahead of her mind. “Okay.”

They took the narrow stairwell used for storage, boxes of syrup pressing against her hips as she passed. Hiro followed close; she felt his breath on her neck whenever she paused. At the top he shouldered open the metal door, late-afternoon sun spilling over tar paper still warm from the day. San Fransokyo glittered around them, glass towers catching orange light like rows of lit match heads. He popped the cork; foam fizzed over his knuckles, running down the bottle neck. She watched a droplet slide to his wrist, remembered how different liquid had coated that skin hours ago, and swallowed hard.

“To new systems,” he said, handing her the first plastic cup.

Bubbles stung her tongue. Alcohol hit empty stomach, heat rushing outward, pooling low. He leaned against the parapet beside her, forearms brushing. The city hummed below, indifferent.

“I was lonely,” he admitted, staring at the skyline. “Thought fixing the café would fix… everything.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Didn’t expect it to get more complicated.”

The words hung, unspecific, electric. She set her cup down, turned, and his fingers lifted to her cheek, tentative. She leaned into the touch, eyes closing, seeing again the flex of his wrist, the arc of his release. When his mouth found hers it tasted of champagne and salt, a question asked with parted lips. She answered by opening, letting his tongue slide against hers, the kiss instantly frantic, years of safe distance collapsing. His hands mapped her waist, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts through cotton; her nipples peaked, aching for the pressure she’d denied herself this morning.

He walked her backward until the rooftop access door met her spine, metal cool through her shirt. One hand dropped to her hip, fingers curling, pulling her against the hard line already straining his jeans. She helped him with the button, denim parting, her own need eclipsing caution. Overload.

He drew back just enough to speak, breath warm against her wet lips. “I kept thinking… if I could make the numbers work, maybe the rest would stop.” His voice cracked on the last word, the admission slipping out like a broken wire. She opened her eyes; the boy she’d bandaged and scolded stared back, but behind him lurked the man who’d pumped himself raw to forbidden footage. Both versions held her pinned, and she wanted them both. Shameful. Obvious. Irresistible.

Her hand rose, covering his on her cheek, guiding those clever fingers downward. She pressed them to the hollow of her throat where her pulse hammered, then lower, over the thin cotton until his palm cupped her breast. He exhaled, shaky, thumb grazing the stiff peak. A soft sound escaped her—need, not encouragement; she didn’t need to encourage anything anymore.

City wind lifted her hair, strands catching in his stubble. He tucked them behind her ear, tracing the shell with a fingertip before letting that hand trail down her spine, counting vertebrae through fabric. When he reached the waistband of her jeans he paused, asking without words. She answered by arching, belly brushing the buckle of his belt, feeling the heat trapped there. His pupils blew wide, dark swallowing amber.

“Cass,” he whispered, like her name might break the spell. Instead it anchored her. She slid her fingers into his hair, gripping, pulling his mouth back to hers. The second kiss was slower, deeper, tongues sliding, tasting the champagne they no longer needed. She sucked his lower lip, bit gently, felt his groan vibrate into her chest. His hips rolled, denim rasping denim, the hard length of him fitting against the yielding softness beneath her fly. She tilted, giving him the angle, and he ground once, twice, breathing turning ragged exactly the way it had in the chair last night.

Memory flashed: his cock jerking, stripes of come catching blue light. She whimpered into his mouth, thighs clenching, fresh arousal soaking the gusset of her panties. He felt the shift, hands dropping to the back of her thighs, lifting until her feet barely touched the roof. She wrapped her legs around his waist, door cold at her back, Hiro furnace-hot at her front. The position opened her, seam of her jeans pressing exactly where she throbbed. One roll of his hips and sparks shot up her spine. Again. And again. Slow, deliberate dry-fucks while the city glittered beneath them, oblivious.

She dragged her mouth to his ear, voice husky. “Show me what you imagined.” His answering shudder told her he understood. He set her down, fingers flying to her button, tugging. She helped, zipper loud in the open air. Jeans sagged at her hips; he slipped a hand inside immediately, cupping her sex, palm grinding her clit through sodden cotton. She gasped, knees buckling. He held her up, middle finger sliding under the elastic, parting slick folds, finding her entrance. One digit pushed in, then two, curling exactly the way she’d watched him pleasure himself. She clenched around him, forehead dropping to his shoulder, breath hot against his neck.

“More,” she begged, the word thin, desperate. He gave it—fingers thrusting, thumb circling, wrist twisting until wet sounds joined the distant traffic hum. She rode his hand shamelessly, chasing the climb she’d started in the dark closet. When her orgasm hit it was sharp, silent, inner muscles milking his fingers, juices coating his palm. He kept moving, drawing it out until she whimpered and stilled.

She lifted her head, saw his eyes blown black, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. Without asking she reached for his belt, yanked leather free, button open, zipper down. His cock sprang out, flushed, tip dripping. She wrapped her fingers around the shaft, slick from precome, and began the rhythm she’d memorized—tight at the root, twist over the head, glide down. His hips punched forward, breath hissing. She angled him toward her bared belly, wanting to feel the same stripes he’d painted across wood.

“Do it,” she breathed. “Come for me, Hiro.” Three strokes later he groaned, low and broken, cock pulsing, hot ropes spattering her skin, dripping into the waistband of her lowered jeans. She held him through every spasm, thumb brushing the sensitive underside until he shuddered and stilled. City wind cooled the mess, sticking shirt to skin. He rested his forehead against hers, panting, fingers still tucked inside her, unwilling to leave.

Below, a siren wailed, then faded. Above, stars kept their secrets. She kissed him once more, soft, tasting salt and future.

He kissed her again, harder, swallowing the small sound she made. His tongue swept deep, claiming, while his hands shoved her shirt up, palms sliding over bare skin until thumbs hooked under the lace edge of her bra. She arched, nipples scraping cotton, and felt him groan into her mouth. The city lights blurred behind him like static; nothing existed except the heat of his chest crushing hers.

Her fingers found his open fly, wrapped around the stiff length still wet from before. She gave a slow pull, base to tip, spreading the slick bead over the head. Hiro bucked, hips jerking forward, forcing her fist against her own belly. He broke the kiss to watch—eyes hooded, breath ragged—while she worked him, wrist twisting exactly the way she’d memorized in the dark.

“Inside,” he muttered, voice raw. “Need inside you.”

Cass nodded, unable to speak. She shoved her jeans and panties down mid-thigh, baring herself to the night air. He lifted her again, thighs spreading around his hips, cock sliding through the slick folds without guidance. One thrust and he was there—thick, stretching, filling her in a single stroke that stole what little breath she had left. She clenched around him, inner walls fluttering, and he cursed against her collarbone.

He started to move, shallow jerks that quickly turned deep, pounding drives. Each slap of skin echoed off the parapet, matching the frantic drum of her pulse. She hooked her ankles at the small of his back, opening wider, taking every inch. His hand slipped between them, thumb finding her clit, rubbing tight circles exactly like he’d touched himself. The dual pressure—him inside, thumb outside—sent sparks shooting up her spine.

“Look at me,” he demanded. She obeyed, meeting his stare, seeing the same forbidden fire that had blazed on the laptop screen. Only now she was the video, the fantasy, the living wet heat wrapped around him. The thought pushed her higher, muscles clamping, orgasm coiling sharp and fast.

She came first, mouth on his shoulder to muffle the cry, body milking him in rhythmic waves. Two thrusts later he followed, burying himself deep, cock pulsing, hot release flooding her in thick spurts that felt endless. He kept rocking, slower, drawing out every shudder until they sagged together, sweat cooling, breath mingling.

City wind licked across her bare ass, reminding her they were still half-clothed and exposed. She didn’t care. He stayed inside her, softening but unwilling to leave, forehead pressed to the door above her ear. When he finally slipped free, warm come trickled down her thigh, proof stamped into skin. She lowered her legs, jeans still tangled at her knees, and kissed him once more—slow, certain, sealing the overload.