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I’m more methodical about it after, one finger to the hilt, don’t let the moans distract me, two fingers to the first knuckle, twist, curl, push them all the way in.

Fuck he looks beautiful, writhing on the sheets, biting his bottom lip as his brows scrunch up with pleasure.

He’s moaning continuously by the time I get the third finger in, and it seems that’s enough for him.

He bucks away, sits up, and pushes me to the side, onto my back, and straddles me before reaching for the condom and ripping it open—all of this lighting fast.

I’ve never wanted someone more.

His hands on my dick as he covers it, as he lines it up to his ass, are almost enough for me to let go, but I hold on to his hips and clamp my jaw.

I’m not gonna come until he has.

The slow, delicious heat that envelops me little by little would normally be the highlight of my fucking life, but getting to see his face go slack as he takes me to the hilt, then hearing him moan obscenely as he waits to adjust to the feeling of me inside him, is the most magnificent thing I’ve ever witnessed.

“Sunny,” I whisper, like a prayer, like an oath. “Please.”

“I got you,” he mumbles, leaning forward to rest one hand over my chest and the other next to my head on the mattress.

I can’t feel my legs or my head, all that matters is what’s between. All that matters is him above me, around me.

The first roll of his hips is slow, hesitant, but then he lets fucking go and rides me like a fucking professional or some shit.

“Yes, yes,” I chant. “Fuck, you take me so well, Sunny. You’re so good. So perfect.” I can’t think about keeping my cool, all I can do is hold on as he rides me, as he takes me somewhere else.

Somewhere safe.

Somewhere where it’s only us and the world can wait.

When he’s found his rhythm, I start to push up with him, start to look for that perfect pressure that’s going to give him everything he wants. I find it, so I hurry to pump his erection a couple of times too, and soon enough he’s tightening around me almost to the point of pain, but it’s the best kind of pain.

“Come with me, baby,” he whimpers, and I finally let go.

A date spent exploring bodies then cleaning each other up between orgasms and sharing dish duty is possibly the best date, but that’s my opinion, and mine hardly matters to me.

What matters is the easy smile that stays on Sunny’s face even as he falls asleep.

And, I discover the next morning when he joins me in the shower, what matters the most is that Sunny had enough of a good time to want more.

But then life butts its inconvenient face into our dreamy morning in the form of a text message from Eli.

Sunny’s packing a bag with more clothes for the boys and a simple one for himself, so I have time to look.

It’s a video.

An old man appears. He has the clearest eyes I’ve ever seen, closer to white than blue, and he’s clearly propping a phone up against something, maybe a bookshelf?

What follows is him going to sit on a sleek black couch that looks about as comfortable as a bed of nails, then waiting.

I fast forward until finally a voice rings out.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my apartment? How the fuck did you get in? Get out, I’m calling the police.” The faceless voice gets it all out before the old man can even begin to respond—he clearly doesn’t like that.

Instead he takes a very substantial handgun from behind his back and rests it on his thigh, obviously with the barrel pointed at the faceless voice.

“Come sit.” Even with only two words I can hear the Russian accent. Of course, his face was plastered on a lot of newspapers over the years, so I know it well enough.

“What is going on?” the man demands. Henry—that fuckface—appears in frame and sits as far as he can from Mikhail while still on the brick of a couch.