Waking up without Gray feels wrong now, like trying to drink decaf coffee when you need the real thing. We still have our own places, which feels important even though we spend most nights together. Keeping separate spaces helps us hold onto our own identities and independence. Still, each morning without him makes me feel quietly vulnerable, a reminder that life is easier when it’s shared. This morning, he had an early sponsor meeting, so I woke up alone for the first time in weeks. His absence is obvious, making me miss the sense of safety I feel when we’re together.

I’m opening Mountain Mornings, fumbling with the keys in the pre-dawn darkness, when I hear a soft whimper from the shadows beside the front door. My first thought is that someone’s child has gotten lost, but when I flip on the porch light, I find myself looking down at the saddest pair of brown eyes I’ve ever seen.

The dog is clearly older, with a white muzzle and a calm, dignified look. He’s huge, though, his head almost reaching my shoulders. He seems to be a massive, overgrown Pitbull mix—stocky and solid, but much too thin, especially for his giant body size. When I crouch down, I notice he smells faintly of old leather, which makes me think of my favorite old chair. His white coat is clean enough that he probably hasn’t been alone for long, but he has no collar or tags. The way he sits quietly by my door makes it seem like he’s been waiting for someone to notice him.

“Hey there, sweet boy,” I say softly, crouching down to his level. “Where did you come from?”

He doesn’t move toward me, but his tail gives a tentative wag that breaks my heart. This is a dog who has been disappointed before, having learned not to expect too much from humans, yet still hopes they might surprise him.

Once I’ve propped the coffee shop door open, I begin my morning routine, keeping one eye on my visitor. He doesn’t try to come inside, doesn’t beg or make a nuisance of himself. He just watches with patient intelligence as I turn on machines and arrange pastries. I decide to call him Duke for now, fitting the regal, ginormous dog.

When Emma arrives an hour later, she finds me sitting on the front step, contemplating sharing a blueberry muffin with my new friend. I pause, holding the muffin in the paper wrapper. For a moment, I hesitate, unsure if sharing breakfast means letting this new soul into my life. Memories of past losses and fears of becoming too attached resurface. But I break off a piece and offer it to Duke, and his grateful eyes make me realize I have been holding onto these fears for too long. The way he looks at me makes my doubts fade. I notice Emma’s amused look as she walks up.

“Well, that’s not a health code violation at all,” she observes with amusement.

“He was here when I arrived. Look at him, Emma. How could I not share my breakfast?”

Emma studies the dog with the practical eye of someone who’s dealt with strays before. “He’s obviously been someone’s pet. Too well-mannered to be feral, but he’s underweight.”

“I was thinking of taking him to the studio with me this afternoon. The guys are putting the final changes on the album, and maybe one of them recognizes him.”

“Or maybe, you’re looking for an excuse to show up at the studio with a critter that will immediately endear itself to every man in that building.” She smirks.

“That’s not… okay, that might be partly true. But mostly I’m worried about leaving him here alone.” I don’t like the idea of him being all by himself in this big, perilous world.

By afternoon, after a busy morning at the shop, my new canine companion has charmed every customer who comes in. Mrs. Patterson brought him a bowl of water and called him ‘a distinguished gentleman down on his luck.’ Jake Morrison even sketched him while waiting for his latte, capturing the gentle look in his eyes.

Later, when it’s time to leave for the studio, I call Duke. “Come on, Duke,” I say as we walk the three blocks to the studio. “Let’s go meet the boys.”

Belvedere Street Studios is humming with activity when we arrive. I can hear music floating through the walls, a melody that sounds like a beautifully haunting song, rather than the experimental noodling that characterizes most of their recent sessions.

Gray calls out my name when I walk in and comes over to kiss me hello. The studio is bustling with energy, filled with the sounds of guitars, rhythmic percussion, and a deep bass line. The aroma of fresh coffee lingers in the air. “Perfect timing. We just finished the final mix of the last track,” he says, his voice almost lost in the background noise.

I want to hear about the final track, but then Duke walks in, his presence drawing everyone’s attention. For a second, I worry he might get tangled in wires or cause a person with allergies to sneeze, but he moves carefully. It’s obvious that everyone finds him instantly likable. He brings a calm vibe to the busy studio.

“And who is this distinguished visitor?” Gray asks, immediately dropping to one knee.

Duke doesn’t hesitate. He walks straight to Gray and sits beside him, as if requesting permission to be petted. When Gray reaches out to scratch behind his ears, Duke’s entire body relaxes with contentment.

“This is Duke. He was waiting outside Mountain Mornings this morning. No collar, no tags, and he’s too thin.” My heart breaks all over again, wondering how hungry he must be.

“Hey there, Duke,” Gray says softly, and the tone in his voice suggests he understands exactly what it’s like to be lost and hoping someone will take you in. “You’re a handsome boy, aren’t you?”

Duke’s response is to lean heavily against Gray’s leg, as if he’s found exactly what he was looking for.

“Oh, he’s perfect,” Cody declares, abandoning the grand piano, which is housed in the middle of the live room, to join the impromptu dog-greeting committee.

What follows is fifteen minutes of Duke making his rounds to each band member, sweetly requesting attention and receiving it in abundance. He seems particularly drawn to Zep, who sits cross-legged on the floor so Duke can settle against his side. Duke gives Zep a slow, trusting blink before gently placing a soft paw on his knee, as if sealing a silent pact of companionship.

“He’s got excellent taste in humans. Very discerning,” Andrew observes.

“We should take him to the vet to check for a microchip and make sure he’s healthy.” Gray is back to scratching Duke’s ears after Zep has left to take a phone call.

A short walk takes us to Dr. Michael Peterson’s veterinary clinic, situated exactly two blocks from the studio, tucked between a hardware store and a small gift shop specializing in mountain crafts. The waiting room smells of antiseptic and pet treats, with walls adorned with photos of satisfied patients, ranging from prize-winning cattle to a pet iguana.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite band and barista. And who is this handsome fellow?” Dr. Peterson is a man in his sixties who’s been caring for the village’s animals for almost four decades. He has the kind of gentle competence that immediately puts both pets and their humans at ease.

“I found him this morning, but no collar, and he’s severely underweight. He’s clearly someone’s former pet.” I hope someone didn’t discard this old guy because of his age.

Dr. Peterson examines Duke. “Let’s have a look at you, boy. He’s underweight, having probably lost about fifteen pounds from his ideal weight. But his coat is good, his teeth are in decent shape for his age, and he’s got the demeanor of a dog who’s known love.” As the microchip scanner clicks softly and produces a negative beep, an emblematic sound of emptiness underscores Duke’s uncertain status, deepening the feeling of him being officially unclaimed.

“Well, congratulations on your new dog, because someone is going to need to take this sweet boy home. It’s clear to me that he’s already chosen his people.”

“I don’t have a dog,” I start to protest, but even as I say it, I’m looking down at Duke, who’s sitting between Gray and me like he’s exactly where he belongs.

“You do now,” Gray says softly, and when I look at him, his expression is full of understanding. “If you want him.”

“Mrs. Chen is going to kill me. Pets weren’t exactly part of our lease agreement.” Who am I kidding? I’m taking this sweet boy home and giving him the best years of his long life.

“She’ll love him. She’s been complaining about not having enough creatures to spoil since her last cat passed away,” Gray says.

Dr. Peterson is already pulling supplies from various cabinets. “I’ll send you home with a bag of high-quality food to help him gain weight, and we’ll schedule a follow-up in two weeks. He’s going to need dental work eventually, which is typical for senior dogs, but nothing urgent.”

As we walk back to the studio with Duke happily trotting between us, I think about how his unexpected arrival reminds me that new beginnings can happen, bringing change and joy into our lives. Just as Duke found us, meeting Gray was a surprise I never saw coming. I hope that welcoming Duke will help me become more hopeful. “You were about to tell me something when we arrived. About a track?” I remember suddenly.

Gray’s entire face lights up. “Right. We’ve been debating it for weeks, but we finally agreed on the perfect album name.” He pauses dramatically. “Solid Ground.”

The title is so perfect and meaningful that I stop walking entirely. It captures everything about Gray’s journey, the stability of recovery, the foundation we’ve forged together, and the steady footing that comes from facing your demons and choosing healing over destruction.

“Gray, I love that!” I’m profoundly moved by the band’s choice.

“It represents everything. The entire journey from the quicksand of addiction to the solid ground of recovery. I went from unstable to steady, from lost to found. But mostly, it’s about building something that can’t be shaken, whether that’s sobriety, love, or the life we’re creating together.”

Duke chooses that moment to sit down between us and look up expectantly, as if he’s waiting for us to acknowledge that this conversation applies to him too—another lost soul who’s found his way to people who understand what it means to heal.

“I think Duke approves.” I scratch behind his ears.

“Duke has excellent judgment,” Gray agrees. “Come on, let’s go introduce him to Leslie. I have a feeling they’re going to be best friends.”

As we walk back toward Main Street with our newest family member, I think about how some of the best things in life often show up when you least expect them. Gray didn’t plan to meet me three years ago. I didn’t mean to fall in love with a musician in recovery. I didn’t want to adopt an older dog this morning. But now that Duke is with us, I feel a sense of completeness. We hope to take our first walk together at dawn, ready to start this new chapter side by side. I picture Duke with us, excited as we are to begin this journey. Sometimes life has better plans than we do.

Sometimes love—whether romantic, familial, or the simple affection between human and animal—finds you exactly when you’re ready to receive it, even if you didn’t know you needed it.

The call comes at seven in the morning, jarring me from the peaceful sleep I’ve grown accustomed to in Rhea’s arms. Marcus Webb, our A&R representative at the record label, has never been one for pleasantries or respecting time zones, but there’s an urgency in his voice that immediately puts me on edge.

“Gray. ‘Solid Ground’ is fucking gold, man. This is Case in Point’s best work yet.” Marcus says that about every one of the six albums we’ve ever sent them.

I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake Rhea, and pad to her kitchen where Duke greets me with his usual dignified tail wag. It’s been two weeks since he joined our little family, and he’s already gained back most of the weight he’d lost, settling into the role of village mascot with remarkable ease.

“That’s great, Marcus. I’m glad Requiem is pleased with it,” I say quietly, scratching Duke’s ears. I’m trying to process whether this is good or bad. Success always comes with the pressure to make it last.

“Gray, this is phenomenal. We have to move. Major tour—minimum of fifty cities, possibly international. Your comeback. We can’t wait.” He talks so fucking fast, it takes a moment to fully process his jumbled speech.

The familiar knot returns. “Slow down, Marcus. We haven’t even discussed touring. The album hasn’t even dropped yet.”

“Exactly why we move fast. Momentum vanishes quickly. We’re going to start promoting the album in two weeks. We’ll pull out all the stops, visit all the late-night gigs, and make this the biggest album yet. Tour dates start in eight weeks and run through the end of the year. It’ll be intense. Huge payoff.”

Eight weeks.

End of the year.

As the reality settles in, dread tugs at me. Eight months away from everything that’s keeping me sober and stable—Rhea, the village, and my support system. The thrill of Marcus’s call fades under the weight of what I stand to lose.

“I need to talk to the guys,” I say, but Marcus is already steamrolling ahead.

“I’ve got venues interested, promotions lined up, and three different media outlets wanting exclusive interviews about your recovery story. This is bigger than just the music, Gray. You’re a redemption narrative that people are hungry for. We need Rhea on board, too. We can spin this whole second-chance story where love wins and all that jazz.”

He wants me for my fucking redemption narrative. The words sting, turning my journey into a sales pitch. This was my biggest fear when recording again. I don’t want my struggles to become a marketing tool. I set boundaries with Marcus and the team early, sharing only what I’m comfortable with. Standing up for myself is hard, but it keeps my story honest and protected.

“Marcus, I need time to think about this⁠—”

“We don’t have time. I need your answer by Friday. The window closes then.” He disconnects the line.

After he hangs up, I stand in Rhea’s kitchen holding my phone and feel like the walls are closing in. Duke senses my distress because he presses against my leg with the kind of steady comfort that only dogs seem to understand how to give.

This should be everything I ever wanted – chart success and a major tour. Yet, instead of pride, I feel a rising sense of entrapment. The good news now feels like a threat, like the moment my dream is at risk of becoming a nightmare.

I’m still standing there when Rhea emerges from the bedroom, her hair tousled and her eyes soft with sleep.

“Everything okay?” She clocks my tension instantly.

“The label wants us to tour. Major tour. Starting in eight weeks.”

She’s quiet for a moment, processing this information as she starts the coffee maker with the automatic efficiency of a woman who has worked in the coffee shop for a while. “How do you feel about that?”

It’s such a perfectly Rhea question. She doesn’t ask what I’m going to do or how this affects her, but how I feel about it. After years of being with a person who prioritizes my emotional well-being, I’ve forgotten how rare that truly is.

“Terrified, and guilty, even though this is supposed to be good for the band,” I admit, though it’s not easy.

“Success is still scary, even sober,” she murmurs, wrapping me in her arms. “What, exactly, scares you?”

I lean into her embrace. “Everything. Being away from you, from here, and from my support system terrifies me. The pressure, spotlight, and travel are grueling. You know, all the things that used to make me drink.” I remember the clink of minibar bottles in hotel rooms, and the lonely silence after shows that made escape seem like the only option.

“And what excites you about it?” Trust Rhea to ask the question I haven’t even allowed myself to consider.

“Sharing the music with people, playing these new songs live, and proving that sobriety doesn’t mean the end of ambition.” I want those things, too.

“So, it’s complicated.”

“Everything important is complicated.”

We drink our coffee in comfortable silence, watching the village wake up through her living room window. Mrs. Chen is already opening her Ink & Embers Bookshop, and I can see Leslie on his front porch watering his plants with the kind of focused attention he brings to everything.

“Talk to Leslie. I think he’s one of the wisest and most subjective people I’ve ever met.”

An hour later, I’m sitting on Leslie’s front porch with a fresh cup of coffee and the feeling that I’m about to confess to my priest. Leslie has that effect on people, it’s his eccentric combination of genuine wisdom and living outside of the box that makes you want to tell him everything.

“So, the prodigal son returns to temptation,” Leslie says after I explain the situation, settling into his wicker chair with the dramatic flair he brings to everything. “How biblical of your record label.”

“I don’t know what to do, Leslie. This could be huge for our career, but…”

“But you’re afraid it’ll kill you.”

Leslie’s bluntness jolts me. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“Suga Bear, let me tell you a story.” Leslie adjusts his perfectly pressed slacks and takes on the tone of someone about to dispense hard-won wisdom. “Ten years ago, I was the hottest interior designer in New Orleans. I was booked solid, featured in magazines, and celebrities were flying me to New York and LA for consultations. I was making more money than I knew what to do with, and I was miserable.”

“What happened?”

“I had what the professionals call a nervous breakdown and what I call a moment of clarity. All that success came from me saying yes to everything, being available to everyone, and never having a moment to figure out what I wanted.” He sips his coffee thoughtfully. “So, I ask you this—what do you really want deep down in your soul?”

“I want to make music. I want to share these songs with people. But I also want to keep what I’ve built here.”

“And who says you can’t have both?” He lifts a brow, challenging me to face my black-and-white mindedness.

“The record label seems to think it’s all or nothing.”

“Suga, record labels think a lot of things. Most of them are designed to make the label money, not to make the artist happy.” Leslie leans forward conspiratorially. “Have you considered that you might have more power in this negotiation than you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re sober, stable, and have created the best music of your career. You’re not desperate anymore, which means you’re not negotiating from a position of weakness. Instead of asking if you should accept their offer, you should be asking what offer you want to make to them. Just think about it. The album-titled single ‘Solid Ground’ is going to reach the top of the charts, and it’s bringing in substantial revenue. This isn’t just a personal victory but a professional leverage point.”

The suggestion hits like lightning. For years, I viewed myself as powerless, always asking for a seat at the table. Now, for the first time, it dawns on me—I have agency. The fear that defined me softens into the first embers of self-respect. I realize sobriety gave me something new—the confidence to walk away from what threatens my well-being.

I stand up, pacing the length of Leslie’s porch as it all comes together in my mind. “What if we offered a limited tour instead? Three long-weekend mini-tours or residencies in just a couple of cities, focusing on shorter, regional dates that fit my recovery needs. When I pitch this to the label, I can highlight the benefits. The fans get more excited about fewer shows, the band avoids burnout, and I stay connected to my support system. I could explain that limiting the tour makes each show feel special and keeps us healthy, which in turn leads to better performances. This way, I prioritize my well-being while still building on the success of ‘Solid Ground’ and showing the label an innovative approach to doing things.”

“What if indeed? Worst case, they say no. If so, other labels exist. Success creates options.”

“But what if I’m throwing away a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?” What if I’m being selfish to the rest of the band?

Leslie sets down his coffee cup and looks at me with the kind of direct compassion that cuts through all the noise. “Gray, sweetie, you’ve already had your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You almost died from addiction, and you chose something healthier instead. That was your true moment of clarity. Everything else is just details.”

“You really believe that?”

“True success isn’t about how high you climb, it’s about how sustainable the climb is. And I believe that a man who’s learned to put his health and relationships first is already more successful than most people ever dream of being.” He purses his lips as if to say, “And that’s that.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching the village go about its morning routine. Mrs. Patterson is walking her ancient golden retriever past the coffee shop. Jake Morrison is setting up his easel by the fountain to capture the morning light. Emma is already serving the early commuters who stop by Mountain Mornings before heading to jobs in the next town over.

This is my life now, not just with Rhea at its center, but a whole community that has embraced us. The thought of leaving it for eight months of hotel rooms and concert venues brings tightness to my chest.

“I think I know what I want to do.” A small epiphany pops into my mind.

“What’s that?”

“I want to make a counteroffer. We can come to an agreement that honors the music and the opportunity without sacrificing everything I’ve worked so hard for. I’m not falling off the wagon to make a label happy,” I confess my biggest fear.

“Now you’re thinking like someone who understands their own worth.” Leslie stands and smooths down his shirt with satisfaction. “And if your record label doesn’t appreciate that kind of wisdom, then they don’t deserve you anyway.”

Walking back, I feel a confidence I haven’t had in years. Recovery isn’t just about sobriety, it’s about making decisions from strength. Simple routines, such as meditation, exercise, and journaling, keep me steady and clear-headed, even when faced with challenges.

I find Rhea in the studio, going over scheduling details with Andrew while Duke supervises from his new favorite spot on the couch. She looks up when I enter, and I can see the question in her eyes.

“I’m going to call Marcus back, but not to give him the answer he wants,” I announce to the room.

“What are you going to tell him?” she asks, and I can see the panic in her eyes that she thinks she’s hiding from me.

“That we’ll tour, but we’ll do it on our terms with shorter runs, regional focuses, all helping rather than hindering recovery and relationships. If that’s not enough for them, then maybe they’re not the right label for us.” All of it rushes out of me so quickly. I stop myself from climbing on top of my soapbox and leading a revolution against the assholes in corporate America like Marcus, who control art and lessen its worth in the name of fucking dollar signs.

Rhea’s smile is radiant with pride and a sense of relief. “I love you.”

“I love you too. And I love what we’ve made here too much to risk it for anyone else’s definition of success.”

Later that afternoon, when I make the call to Marcus, his reaction is predictably explosive. But this time, instead of shrinking, I feel calm gathering inside me. Marcus’s raised voice, which lists risks, streams, momentum, and such registers, but doesn’t shake my new resolve. For the first time in my career, I’m not apologizing for my boundaries. Each objection he throws, I meet with a steady breath and relaxed shoulders. I recognize this emotional shift as relief and quiet pride displacing my former anxiety.

After the call, I take a moment to reflect on the pushback. Instead of folding under pressure and wanting to self-medicate, I feel strong and more resolved. Over the following days, the label’s management team reaches out with varying degrees of urgency and compromise. They propose scaled-back versions of the tour, illustrating just how keen they are to capitalize on my redemption journey. My peers, hearing of the negotiation, express a mix of admiration and curiosity. It’s uncharted territory for many of us musicians, used to toeing the line for the sake of careers. This shows me that setting boundaries doesn’t just protect my well-being, but it also empowers others to see that there are options beyond the standard fucking playbook.

Recovery has taught me that the most important word in my vocabulary isn’t yes. It’s enough. Sitting in the studio, I let reality sink in—peace and contentment now fill the space where anxiety once lived. The meaning of enough wraps around me, warm and solid. What Rhea and I have created together isn’t just enough—it’s every-fucking-thing. The relief is pure, deep, and finally mine.

Rhea is quiet for the next few hours as she works tirelessly to bring our dream to fruition. Keeping my gaze on her, I do my best to get a read on her, but she doesn’t look up from her work often enough to examine the expressions on her face.

After we have dinner with the band at Mae’s Diner, I decide I need to get to the bottom of her sudden silence. Rhea and I walk home from Mae’s, hand in hand, and a peaceful type of happiness lingers, leftover from seeing the look on my girl’s face when I made the best decision for us that I could ever make.

The longer we walk through the village, the more her quiet mood begins to weigh on me. Gazing over at her, I finally ask, “You okay, baby?”

A smile blossoms across her face, the easy type of beam a person who has been recently unburdened might wear. “Yeah, Gray, I’m okay… better than okay, actually.”

“Yeah?” I bring our joined hands to my lips and press a kiss to the delicate skin on top of hers. “Because I don’t know if I’m okay.”

Her brows furrow in concern. “The label… yeah, I get it. They’re greedy assholes who⁠—”

“No, baby. My issue has nothing to do with Marcus or Requiem.” I lean in, whispering into her ear and pulling her flush against my own body so she can feel me hardening just from standing next to her. “My problem is that I don’t have the patience to endure the small eternity it’s going to take to get you to the apartment, up the stairs, and undress you so that I may have my wicked way with you.”

She leans back and takes in my expression as the corner of her mouth twitches with a smirk. “So, you’re saying you want to sleep over tonight.”

Lifting a brow, I shoot her a grin. “I didn’t say the first thing about sleeping.”

She bats her lashes at me. “No? Well, what else could you possibly have in mind?”

Pulling her to me again, I press my lips to her ear. “I’ll have to show you.” I take her hand still in mine and drag it down my chest and stomach until she reaches my cock.

Rhea moans, and good God, I almost come right here on Main Street for everyone to witness. “Seems like you have a bit of a medical emergency. We’d best get you upstairs to my apartment stat!”

“She’s got jokes.” I chuckle, loving how playful and cute she’s being.

Then I wrap my arm around her back and guide her toward Ink & Embers Bookstore. Opening the stairwell door that leads to Rhea’s apartment, I quickly usher her toward the door and help with the keys. I don’t want anything to hold me up like a pesky set of keys or even the clothes we’re wearing, so I strip off my shirt and throw it across the room.

“You’re still wearing clothes,” I remind her before she’s even had time to set her purse on the counter.

She giggles, and the sound shoots straight to my already straining dick. If I get any stiffer, I might need a trip to the hospital. I kick my shoes off, pull my belt from my pants loops, and drop trou. Wearing nothing but a smile, I look across the room to see what progress Rhea has made, but she hasn’t. Instead, she’s staring at me with hungry eyes.

“You’re so fucking sexy, Gray.” The huskiness in her voice moves me across the room to her in a heartbeat.

“You’re overdressed, baby,” I remind her, and reach for the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head and discarding it somewhere over my shoulder.

She helps me remove the rest of her clothes right in the middle of the kitchen. Rhea takes a few steps to the freezer, peers over her shoulder at me, and smirks as she reaches into the ice bin to remove a cube.

“And just what are you doing?” I ask, hoping she’s up to something naughty.

Popping the cube into her mouth, she moves back over to me and sinks to her knees in front of me. Rhea sticks her tongue out to show me the ice, takes my cock in her hand, and puts me in her cold mouth.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I hiss at the shock of the frigid temperature against my flesh, bury a hand in her hair, and hold on for dear life. Her tongue travels up and down my length on the underside of my shaft, reaching the tip and pressing a chaste kiss to it. Before I can think of any sexy words of affirmation, she takes my entire length in her mouth and cups my balls in her free hand, massaging and sucking like her life depends on it.

“I can’t take much more,” I admit, because if she looks up at me with those big green eyes with me in her mouth again, I’m going to blow everything right here and now.

But Rhea doesn’t stop. She doubles down, taking me faster and harder than before. And, God help me, when the woman moans, I feel it all the way down to my balls.

“Please, Rhea, I want you to come, too,” I plead with her to let this end differently than it’s about to.

She goes down my length one more time, pops me out of her mouth, and winks at me. She doesn’t stop pumping my dick as she says, “What’s this I hear of orgasms in my future?”

Bending at the knees, I help her back to her feet, and then I guide her to the bedroom. I’m about to show her the true meaning of orgasm.

Rhea tugs at me, pulling back and standing her ground. “What’s wrong with the kitchen?”

Peering over my shoulder at her, I lift a brow. “Have a kitchen kink all of a sudden?”

She cocks a challenging brow at me. “Who said it was all of a sudden?”

Turning around, I oblige my girl’s kink. I scoop Rhea up and return to the kitchen. She wraps her legs around me long enough for me to carry her to the counter and set her on top of it. Her perky breasts beg for my mouth’s attention, so I lower to them and give them a little attention before moving south to what I really want between her legs.

“Gray, I need you inside of me now.” Rhea’s frantic pleas and pants of breath do nothing to calm the fire inside of me, burning and raging to give her exactly what she wants.

“I need a taste first,” I say, ducking down between her legs until I’m eye level with her pretty pink pussy. My mouth waters just looking at her, so raw and exposed for me. There’s something sexy about the vulnerable way Rhea gazes down at me before I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh.

“Gray,” she whines, and I admit that I enjoy teasing her.

Peppering kisses down to her knee and back up again, I skip over her pussy, making sure to blow on it as I make my way across to her other leg.

“You’re teasing me.” Her impatience is adorable.

“Yes, baby,” I say as I continue my assault on her thigh, slowly climbing my way back to her sweet little cunt.

Rhea squirms beneath me, so I finally put her out of her misery, lowering my mouth to her center and pressing my lips to hers. She smells like vanilla and coconut with a hint of a scent that’s all Rhea. God, how I have missed this.

I spread her legs wider as I run a finger up the center of her before dragging it back again. “Fuck, Rhea, you’re wet as fuck.”

She bucks at the contact as a strangled sound dies in the back of her throat, but she doesn’t reply with words. Instead, my girl reaches for my face, wraps her hand around the back of my head, and silently demands I finish what I started by shoving my face in her pussy.

Well, then, there’s not much I can do but give her what she wants, especially with the way she’s moaning above me. She lies back on the counter as soon as my tongue parts her, and I taste her wetness before inserting a finger inside. Rhea soaks one, then two fingers as I fuck her with my hand and massage her clit with my tongue.

Rhea’s thighs tighten around my head like a vice. Her back arches, and the sounds of ecstasy grow more desperate and primal. She’s close to coming, but I want her slick pussy all over my cock when she does. Removing my hand, I kiss a path up her body until I reach her mouth. She welcomes my kiss and the taste of herself on my tongue.

“I can’t take this anymore.” Rhea reaches between us, lines me up, and guides me inside.

I drop my head to her shoulder and sigh. “Jesus Christ, you feel better than any person has a fucking right to.”

“Baby, you gotta move,” she prompts, digging her heels into my ass. Her hips flex, pushing me out before bringing me back until I’m fully seated inside of her again.

Losing myself in how fan-fucking-tastic it feels, I pump in and out. Rhea holds onto me tightly as I pick up the pace and fuck her at a punishing rate.

“That’s right. Fuck me like you mean it.” She pulls the lobe of my ear in between her teeth.

Her words only spur me to move faster, fuck harder, and ask for forgiveness later. All my inhibition goes out the window as I draw near the finish line. But when Rhea spills over the edge of ecstasy, she locks her body around mine, throws her head back, and shouts, “I’m coming!”

As she spasms around me, her cunt tightening around my cock, I let go and have the longest, hardest orgasm of my life. When all the pleasure has pulsed out of my body, I nearly collapse from the sheer intensity of the release, but I’m not done yet.

“Keep your legs around me, baby,” I tell her, as I move us to the bathroom for a wet cloth.

Setting her on the small bathroom counter, I wait for the water to turn warm before using it to clean my queen. I take my time with aftercare as I press the cloth between her legs and wipe the wetness from her pussy.

Moments later, we settle into bed with her head between my shoulder and jaw. It takes mere seconds before Rhea’s deep breaths even out as she surrenders the day. My fingers trace invisible words and promises across her soft skin while she drifts away. I’m not far behind her, but I don’t close my eyes before saying, “I love you, Rhea.”