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The bar was loud, but not the kind of loud that swallowed you. The music hummed like a heartbeat under the surface, low and steady, vibrating through the floorboards. Conversations layered like mist, too many to follow, none sharp enough to interrupt the quiet thoughts in Agatha’s head.
She liked places like this. Dim lighting. Wood grain. That faint tang of spilled whiskey and citrus rind. It gave her a reason to dress up and somewhere to disappear at the same time.
She hadn’t come looking for anyone, exactly.
But she hadn’t come to drink alone, either.
She saw her the second she stepped inside.
Tucked at the bar. Already there. One seat in from the edge, her back angled just enough to keep her view of the room. Legs crossed. Elbows relaxed. One hand around a bourbon glass, fingers steady, unhurried. Her posture didn’t demand attention, but it drew the eye anyway, still, self-contained, the kind of presence people didn’t notice until they had to.
Her hair caught the light. Long, dark, and slicked back smooth from her face. Clean, sharp lines around a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a mouth that didn’t move much, but looked like it could, if provoked. Her arms were bare, thick, solid muscle under a fitted black tank, veins visible in her forearms even as she sat still. A plaid flannel hung knotted around her waist, low and loose over worn jeans.
Agatha didn’t stare. She looked.
And she caught the look back.
Not a double-take. Not surprise. Just… awareness. A glance, maybe a fraction too long, before the woman turned her attention back to her drink.
It wasn’t dismissal.
It was restraint.
And that, frankly, was worse.
Agatha smiled slowly, slid onto a stool near the door, and crossed her legs deliberately. Her skirt hit mid-thigh when she stood, and rode up even higher when she sat. Her blouse was black silk, unbuttoned just enough to hint without giving. She knew what she looked like in this lighting, dark, dangerous, like someone you shouldn’t get involved with but probably would anyway.
She ordered a whiskey and settled in, watching the room through lowered lashes. But her focus drifted—again and again—to the woman at the bar.
She wasn’t checking her out.
She was clocking her.
It was subtle. Quick flicks of the eyes. A casual adjustment of posture. That slight lean forward when someone passed behind Agatha’s stool, like she was keeping her in her peripheral.
Agatha bit back a grin.
So. She wasn’t immune.
Good.
Time passed. Ten minutes. Maybe more.
She let the tension build like static. Didn’t approach right away. Just sat there and let herself be noticed.
It wasn’t about control. Not exactly.
It was about… pace.
And pleasure.
Anticipation was the most delicious form of power, after all.
Eventually, when the song changed and her glass was half-empty, she slid off her stool. Walked toward the bar. Unhurried. Casual.
She didn’t sit beside her. Not yet. She took the stool one over. Just close enough to acknowledge. Just far enough to make it look unintentional.
She ordered a second drink and didn’t say a word.
The woman didn’t, either.
But Agatha caught her glance again. Brief. Curious.
They sat in silence for a while, separated by one empty seat and a mutual awareness that thickened the air like humidity.
Eventually, Agatha spoke, softly, eyes still on her drink.
“You’ve been sitting there longer than I have,” she said. “And your bourbon’s barely touched.”
The woman turned her head, slowly. One brow lifted, faint amusement curling in the edge of her mouth.
“Observation or accusation?”
Agatha smiled. “Observation. Unless you’re nursing it out of guilt.”
She looked at her glass, then back at Agatha. “Just pacing myself.”
“Mm.” Agatha let the sound linger. “That your thing?”
“What is?”
“Taking your time. Watching.”
A small shrug. “I don’t like surprises.”
Agatha hummed, lips twitching. “I do. That’s half the fun.”
Silence again. Not awkward. Just weighted. Like the space between them was carrying a conversation all on its own.
Agatha leaned forward, just a little. Elbows on the bar. Chin in her hand.
“You always this quiet?” she asked.
“I talk when it’s worth it.”
“Oh?” Agatha turned to her, fully now. “And I’m not worth it yet?”
Another pause. Then, without missing a beat:
“I haven’t decided.”
Agatha laughed. It wasn’t mocking, it was delighted.
“I like you.”
That earned a real reaction. The woman smiled, barely. Just a flicker, but it counted.
“I’m not here to be liked.”
“Oh, I know,” Agatha said, sipping her drink. “You’ve got that whole ‘don’t talk to me’ thing down. The hair, the boots, the arms, very intimidating.”
A longer pause this time. Then:
“You noticed my arms?”
Agatha didn’t hesitate. “Noticed? I’ve been staring at them since I walked in. You want me to lie?”
“No.”
“Good. Because I’d be terrible at it.”
Her drink was almost empty again. She set it down, fingers playing with the rim.
“What do I call you?” she asked.
The woman tilted her head.
“I could guess,” Agatha said, leaning closer. “But you look like the kind of woman who prefers to say it herself.”
Another stretch of silence. Then finally—
“Rio.”
Agatha let the name settle on her tongue.
“Mm. Of course it is.”
Rio raised a brow. “You sound disappointed.”
“Not at all,” Agatha said, flashing a grin. “It suits you. Confident. Short. Slightly dangerous.”
“And you?”
“Agatha.”
Rio nodded once. “Suits you, too.”
She didn’t ask how. Didn’t need to.
They both knew this was going somewhere.
The only question was how fast.
Agatha had always liked the quiet ones.
The still ones. The ones who didn’t rise to the bait because they were too busy calculating how best to bite back.
But this one?
This one had discipline.
She still hadn’t shifted her weight. Still hadn’t cracked more than a twitch of a smile. Her fingers stayed wrapped around her bourbon glass like she didn’t have a care in the world. But her eyes—they never strayed far. And Agatha knew that look. She knew hunger when she saw it, even buried under a thousand layers of self-control.
Which made this so much more fun.
“You really aren’t going to flirt back, huh?” Agatha drawled, finishing the last of her whiskey with a flourish. “Not even a compliment? I’m starting to take it personally.”
Rio blinked once. “You don’t strike me as someone who takes anything personally.”
Agatha grinned. “God, you’re good. Are you trying to neg me into bed? Because it might work.”
Rio didn’t rise to it. Not even a muscle twitched. She just looked at her, cool and steady, as if she were watching a storm roll in and debating whether it was worth standing in the rain.
Agatha, of course, leaned into the thunder.
“I mean, come on,” she continued, motioning to herself. “You’re really going to sit there with those arms and that voice and that—” she gestured vaguely at Rio’s everything, “—whole… situation, and act like you haven’t been picturing me on my knees since the moment I walked in?”
Rio lifted her glass. Sipped. Calm. Unshaken.
“I don’t picture anything I can’t make happen.”
Agatha’s pulse jumped. But she smirked anyway.
“Oh, that’s the first real thing you’ve said all night,” she purred. “Almost sounded like a threat.”
“Observation,” Rio corrected, and set her glass down.
“Mm.” Agatha uncrossed her legs, recrossed them slowly, letting her skirt ride up even higher. She caught the flicker of Rio’s gaze, the way her eyes dragged over bare thigh before snapping back up.
Still composed. Still no reaction.
Infuriating.
And fucking hot.
“You’re killing me,” Agatha said with a dramatic sigh. “Most people would be drooling by now.”
“I’m not most people.”
“Yeah. I figured that out when you didn’t come crawling over the second I winked at you.”
“I don’t crawl,” Rio said.
The way she said it—low, definite, unbothered—hit something sharp in Agatha’s spine.
“Oh no?” she said, teeth flashing. “So what do you do?”
“I wait.”
“For what?”
Rio’s eyes locked on hers.
“For you to stop pretending you’re in control.”
The breath caught in Agatha’s throat and she laughed. Loud. Bright. But her voice cracked, just slightly, at the edges.
“Damn,” she murmured, pressing her knuckles to her lips. “That was good. Okay. Okay, I’ll give you that one.”
Rio didn’t gloat. Didn’t even smile.
She just tilted her head slightly. Patient. Confident. Like she knew she didn’t have to say another word to win.
And that was exactly what made Agatha want to lose.
She leaned closer, elbows on the bar, breath brushing the rim of her second drink.
“You going to take me home,” she murmured, “or are you going to make me beg for it?”
Rio looked at her. Not up. Not down. At her. Direct and still.
“You’ll beg,” she said.
Not cruel. Not smug. Just fact.
Agatha grinned like the devil himself.
“Promise?”
The silence between them stretched, humming. Alive.
Agatha tapped her nails along the edge of her glass, deliberately loud. She didn’t need the attention—she already had it. What she wanted was a crack. Just one. A twitch of a smirk, a shift in posture. Something.
Instead, Rio watched her with that same maddening calm. Unblinking. Settled. Like she’d already mapped every move Agatha could make and found it amusing how predictable people were.
So Agatha leaned back on her stool. Sprawled, really. Thighs spread just a little wider, arms stretched across the bar like a bored goddess waiting to be worshipped.
“You know,” she said, twirling her straw between two fingers, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re afraid of me.”
Rio blinked slowly. “You don’t know better.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Agatha let her head loll to the side. “I’ve chewed up worse and spit them out smiling.”
Rio let the silence hang for a breath too long.
“I don’t smile.”
Agatha grinned. “Not even if I say please?”
Rio’s gaze dropped—once, briefly—to her mouth.
And then:
“No.”
Agatha’s smirk faltered, just a hair. But she covered it fast.
“You must be so fun at parties.”
“I don’t go to parties.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re probably at home folding your t-shirts into perfect little squares and polishing your, what is it, exactly? Knives? Motorcycle helmet?”
Rio tilted her head. “You think I have a motorcycle?”
“You’ve got that vibe,” Agatha purred. “Silent, dangerous, probably brooding at traffic lights. Do you ride shirtless in the rain or only when there’s an audience?”
Rio’s brow twitched. “You really think you’re funny.”
“Oh, I know I’m funny. I’m also hot, mouthy, and just self-destructive enough to make this worth your time.”
Another pause.
Agatha leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper.
“So what’s it going to take?”
Rio set down her empty glass. Stood.
No words.
Just a hand, extended. Palm open.
An offer. A dare.
Agatha didn’t hesitate. She slid off the stool and placed her hand in Rio’s like she’d been waiting all night to do it.
Because she had.
The door thunked shut behind them, heavy and final.
Rio’s car was black. Clean. Simple. No bumper stickers, no dangling charms.
Rio unlocked it with a quiet click and opened the passenger door for her.
Agatha raised a brow. “Chivalry? Really?”
Rio didn’t answer. Just waited.
Agatha slid in, brushing her skirt smooth over her thighs with a deliberate slowness, and crossed her legs like she knew she was being watched.
The interior smelled like leather and the faint trace of her cologne, something musky and clean that made Agatha’s brain fog up just breathing it in.
The door shut behind her. A second later, Rio was in the driver’s seat. One hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on the gearshift. Calm. Focused.
Too focused.
The engine purred to life.
They pulled away from the curb in silence.
Agatha waited ten seconds before turning her head.
“You always this quiet after picking someone up, or is this your way of building suspense?”
Rio didn’t glance over. “Would you prefer I talk you through it?”
“Oh, baby,” Agatha said, voice syrupy, “I’d prefer if you did something.”
Rio didn’t answer.
Not verbally.
Her right hand drifted from the gearshift. Rested on Agatha’s thigh.
Heavy. Warm. Solid.
Just resting there.
Agatha stilled.
The touch wasn’t rough. It wasn’t even bold. But it was firm. Possessive. Like it belonged there.
And for the first time that night, she had no immediate quip.
Rio’s thumb moved once, barely. A slow drag over the exposed skin above her knee.
Agatha’s breath hitched.
“I thought you didn’t crawl,” she said, softer now.
“I don’t,” Rio replied. “You came to me.”
The words landed like a collar.
Agatha shifted in her seat, her thighs clenching involuntarily. Her skirt was shorter than she remembered, and Rio’s palm was high enough now that one inch more would have her brushing covered heat.
But she didn’t move higher.
Didn’t move at all.
That stillness again. That infuriating control.
Agatha reached down, fingers brushing Rio’s hand, meaning to guide it—
But Rio caught her wrist. Gently. Just enough pressure to stop her.
Then, finally, she looked at her.
“Don’t.”
Agatha blinked. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t rush.”
Agatha wanted to laugh. To push. To say something cocky like who’s rushing?
But the way Rio looked at her—level, focused, completely unfazed—made her throat dry out.
Because for the first time tonight, she realized:
This wasn’t going to be casual.
Rio wasn’t going to chase.
She was going to claim.
And Agatha?
Agatha was already half-gone on the thought of it.
The car was too quiet.
No music. No chatter. Just the low, steady hum of the engine and the subtle rhythm of tires on asphalt.
Agatha sat back in the seat, trying to look relaxed. One leg crossed over the other, skirt riding high, fingers tracing lazy circles on her own knee.
She wanted Rio to look. Wanted her to react.
But Rio didn’t glance over once.
One hand on the wheel, the other still resting on Agatha’s thigh. Steady. Anchored. She wasn’t gripping, but the weight of her hand said enough. Like it wasn’t going anywhere.
Like Agatha wasn’t going anywhere, either.
That realization bloomed in the pit of her stomach. Slow. Heavy. Hot.
“You always this restrained?” Agatha asked, voice lighter than she felt. “Or is this just for me?”
Rio’s gaze stayed fixed on the road. “Does it bother you?”
Agatha opened her mouth, closed it again. “It’s... interesting.”
“Mm.” A slight curl of Rio’s mouth. Not quite a smirk. “Not the word I’d use.”
“No?” Agatha turned slightly in her seat, deliberately dragging the strap of her top further down her shoulder. “What word would you use?”
“Predictable.”
That stung. In the most dangerous way.
Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“You push. I don’t move. So you push harder.” Rio’s voice was soft. Controlled. “You don’t actually want me to flirt with you. You want me to hold you down.”
Silence.
Agatha’s pulse jumped hard in her throat.
She fought to recover. “And what makes you think I’d let you?”
Rio turned toward her at the next red light. Fully. Calm, unreadable expression.
“You wouldn’t.”
Pause.
“You’d beg me to.”
The light turned green.
Rio faced forward again and drove.
Agatha exhaled, sharp and unsteady.
Oh fuck.
She shouldn’t have liked that. Not that much.
But now she couldn’t feel her spine, and her thighs were practically trembling from how hard she was trying not to press them together.
And Rio? Still hadn’t moved her hand.
It sat there, calm as ever, a gentle promise pressed against her skin.
“Do you talk to everyone like this?” Agatha asked, trying to keep her voice dry. “Or am I just lucky?”
Rio answered without looking away from the road. “I don’t take everyone home.”
“Oh, so I am special.”
“You’re trouble.”
“Mm,” Agatha hummed. “But you like trouble.”
“I know what to do with it.”
That shut her up for a moment.
Not because she didn’t have a comeback, because her body had a comeback first, her thighs twitching, breath stuttering, skin flush with heat.
Rio’s fingers twitched once on her leg. Just enough to remind her:
I know what you’re doing. And I’m not going to stop you. I’m going to wait until you’re so far gone, you’ll thank me for it.
Agatha stared out the window. Quiet. Not defeated, but recalibrating.
“Do you—” she cleared her throat, hating the small shake in it, “—always drive this slow?”
“I’m giving you time to change your mind.”
Agatha turned sharply. “About what?”
Rio didn’t look at her. But her hand drifted higher. Barely.
Her thumb grazed the crease of Agatha’s thigh, right where it met the hem of her skirt.
Agatha shivered.
“About what you asked for.”
Her voice was steady. Factual.
Agatha swallowed. “And if I don’t change my mind?”
Rio’s voice dipped half a register.
“Then I won’t be gentle.”
Agatha’s mouth went dry.
And that was when she realized—truly realized—who was in control.
Not because Rio said so.
Not because she threatened.
But because she didn’t have to.
The car pulled to a stop in front of a dark, quiet building. Modern. Clean. Not flashy. Simple black brick, sleek steel stairs.
Rio put the car in park. Took the keys out.
Still didn’t look at her.
“You coming?” she asked.
Agatha was already unbuckling.
But her voice, when she replied, was quieter now.
“Yeah.”
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
Not a slam. Not a dramatic announcement.
Just final. Heavy.
Agatha stepped inside and took her time scanning the space. Dark walls. Clean lines. Minimal furniture. Sleek. Masculine. Quiet.
It was exactly what she expected.
And exactly what unnerved her.
There were no distractions. No clutter. Nothing for her to hide behind.
Just hardwood floors, a leather couch, and her.
Rio stood behind her, locking the door with deliberate care.
Agatha turned, arms folded across her chest, cocky grin still firmly in place.
“So this is where you bring all the girls who mouth off and pretend they’re not dying to be touched?”
Rio didn’t answer.
She just looked at her.
That same quiet, unreadable calm. Controlled. Unflinching. Unmoved.
Which meant Agatha had to poke.
“Minimalist,” she said, sauntering farther in, hips swaying. “Let me guess. Every tool in its place. Perfect spice rack. Folded laundry. Alphabetized trauma.”
Rio’s brow lifted just slightly. “Strip.”
Agatha blinked.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard me.”
That voice—steady and low—slipped through her spine like a second heartbeat.
And for a moment, Agatha hesitated.
Not because she didn’t want to. But because she didn’t expect to want to this badly.
Still, she reached for the buttons of her blouse. Slowly. Teasing.
“Bossy,” she muttered, letting it fall open.
Rio didn’t respond.
Just watched.
Not hungrily. But like someone taking inventory.
The blouse hit the floor. The skirt followed.
Agatha stood in her lace underwear, hands on her hips.
“Happy?”
Rio’s response was movement.
She closed the distance between them with slow, silent steps, until she was directly in front of Agatha, their bodies inches apart, heat crackling between them.
Agatha tilted her chin up.
“Well?”
Rio’s hand came down—hard—across her ass.
The crack echoed through the quiet apartment.
Agatha gasped, stumbling slightly on her heels, hand shooting back to cover the sting.
“Jesus—!”
Rio’s voice stayed level. “That was for pretending this is still your game.”
Agatha’s pulse spiked. The pain bloomed into something electric. Something she needed more of.
Rio’s hand found her throat next, not choking, just holding. Centering.
“You’ve been running that mouth all night,” she said, stepping forward until Agatha had no choice but to back up. “So now, you listen.”
Agatha’s back hit the kitchen counter.
Her mouth opened, to say what, she wasn’t sure, but no sound came.
“You wanted someone who wouldn’t fold,” Rio murmured. “Someone who wouldn’t crawl.”
She leaned in, her mouth brushing Agatha’s cheek, her voice thick with promise.
“You wanted rough.”
Agatha whimpered. Finally.
Rio pulled back. “Turn around.”
Agatha hesitated.
And Rio said it again, quieter this time. Deadlier.
“Turn. Around.”
Agatha’s body moved before her brain could protest.
She braced her palms on the countertop, breathing fast, heart pounding like a drum against her ribs.
Then—nothing.
For a moment, there was no sound. No movement. Just the echo of her own breath, and the awareness of Rio standing behind her.
Waiting.
Measuring.
Owning.
Then—fingertips. Light as breath, dragging down the exposed curve of her back. Then lower, over the curve of her ass. Then—
Smack.
Another slap, harder this time. Her body jolted, a sharp cry slipping from her lips.
“Still want to play games?” Rio asked, voice maddeningly calm.
Agatha gasped, clutching the edge of the counter. “You’re such a—”
Another slap.
Not cruel. Not punishing. Just commanding.
“You’ll speak when I tell you to.”
Agatha’s legs shook.
This wasn’t the power play she thought she wanted.
This was something else entirely.
Rio stepped forward. Her hand rested on Agatha’s lower back, keeping her bent, angled. Pinned.
“You think control is something you can fake,” Rio murmured. “But you’ve been begging for someone to take it from you all night.”
“I wasn’t begging,” Agatha hissed, breath hitching.
Rio’s fingers slid between her thighs, barely grazing her through the lace.
“You’re soaked.”
Agatha moaned.
“And that was before I touched you.”
She was right. And Agatha hated how much that turned her on.
“I’ll give you what you want,” Rio said, dragging her fingers higher, so close to slipping beneath the fabric. “But only if you ask properly.”
Agatha gritted her teeth. She wanted to be smug. She wanted to snap something back. But her body—her traitorous, burning body—wouldn’t cooperate.
Rio leaned in, lips at her ear, hand holding her exactly where she needed to be.
“Say please.”
Silence.
Agatha swallowed.
And then, soft, trembling:
“...Please.”
The word landed like a drop of honey on a blade.
Soft. Sweet. Dangerous.
Rio smiled. Not wide. Not smug. Just satisfied.
She’d been waiting for that.
Not because she needed the permission, but because she wanted Agatha to give it.
Willing. Open. Exposed.
Agatha kept her head bowed, hands braced on the counter, the tension in her arms barely holding her up. Her hair had fallen into her face, hiding her eyes. Hiding the way her expression flickered—confused, aroused, wrecked by nothing but words and the weight of a hand on her back.
She’d never been touched like this. Not really.
Not by someone who knew how to wait. How to watch.
Not by someone who could read her.
Rio didn’t move right away.
She let the silence stretch. Let Agatha feel it.
“Please what?” Rio asked eventually, voice velvet-dipped gravel.
Agatha flinched.
Her mouth opened, but her throat was tight, words tangled and reluctant.
Another pause.
Then—deliberately low:
“Please touch me.”
Rio’s hand drifted down again, dragging her nails along the backs of Agatha’s thighs. Agatha shivered, moaning softly, legs wobbling under her.
“You’re already shaking,” Rio murmured. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
“I—I’m not—” Agatha tried, but there was no bite in it. No edge.
She sounded wrecked already.
“Still pretending you’re in control?” Rio asked, voice soft as a blade.
Agatha gritted her teeth. “Maybe I like pretending.”
Rio’s hand curved around the back of her neck, not hard, not soft, just there. Steady. Undeniable.
“Then keep pretending,” she said.
And she bit.
Agatha yelped, hips bucking back against nothing as Rio’s teeth sank just hard enough into the soft curve of her shoulder. Marking her. Not enough to bruise. Just enough to make her feel it. Remember it.
“You’re mine now,” Rio said into her skin.
The sentence shouldn’t have hit that hard.
But Agatha’s moan was embarrassingly real.
Her hips rolled instinctively, chasing friction.
“Need something?” Rio asked.
Agatha nodded, unable to form words.
Rio grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back, not painfully, but firmly, sharply. A jolt to the spine.
“Use your words.”
“I need—” Agatha gasped, thighs clenching. “I need you to fuck me.”
Rio smiled against her skin.
“I know.”
She let go of her hair. Let her fall forward again, her cheek resting against the counter, her body shaking with need and tension.
Then—slowly—finally—
Her fingers curled under the waistband of Agatha’s panties.
She didn’t pull them down yet.
She just held them there. A pause. A question.
“You still want rough?” she asked.
Agatha whimpered.
“Say it.”
“Yes.”
Rio’s mouth brushed her ear. “Say it like you mean it.”
“Please—yes—I want it rough—fuck, just—”
“Good.”
And just like that, the fabric was gone.
Yanked down in one motion, sharp and clean, leaving Agatha bare and trembling and exactly where Rio wanted her.
Bent. Braced. Begging.
And Rio?
Still hadn’t given her what she asked for.
Not yet.
The panties hit the floor like a surrender flag.
Agatha bent forward, palms flat on the cool marble of the kitchen counter. Her breath came in short bursts, her legs spread just enough to bare herself, but not too much. Just enough to invite. To bait.
She didn’t look back.
She didn’t have to.
She could feel Rio behind her, still, silent, composed. That same goddamn presence she’d been trying to shake since the moment they met. But now it was all around her, closing in, undeniable.
Rio stepped forward.
One hand landed on the small of her back, firm and commanding. The other dragged slowly down the curve of her ass.
Agatha gasped at the contact.
“Stay right there,” Rio said quietly. “And don’t move unless I tell you to.”
Agatha rolled her eyes, because she had to. “Or what?”
Smack.
The slap landed sharp and hot across her ass.
Agatha jerked forward, groaning, her hands tightening on the countertop.
“That,” Rio said, entirely too calm, “was generous.”
A beat passed.
Then—fingers.
Warm and rough, dragging along the crease of her thigh, then upward, slow and steady. When they reached her folds, Rio didn’t push in—not yet. She just touched. A stroke down the center. A lazy pass up, spreading her slick.
“You’re dripping,” Rio murmured. “What happened to all that control?”
Agatha bit back a sound. “Still here.”
Rio didn’t reply.
She just pushed one finger in.
Agatha’s knees buckled.
It was slow. Deep. The stretch just enough to make her arch her back and whimper. The way Rio curled it, the pressure, the precision, Agatha wanted to scream.
But then it was gone.
Withdrawn.
She groaned in frustration.
“Patience,” Rio murmured.
A second finger joined the first—then they slid in together, deeper this time. More insistent.
Agatha choked on a gasp, rocking back into it. Her head dropped forward as Rio set a rhythm, slow thrusts, deep and dragging, just enough to make her legs tremble.
“You’re tight,” Rio said, matter-of-fact. “Too tight for what you think you’re ready for.”
Agatha growled. “Then stretch me.”
“I am.”
Another thrust three fingers this time. Another curl of fingers, brushing that exact spot inside her.
She howled.
Her hips bucked back involuntarily, chasing the pressure.
“Greedy,” Rio murmured. “But you don’t get to come yet.”
Agatha gasped. “Wha—what?”
Then, more pressure. More speed. Her fingers pumping now, filling her, curling with every stroke.
Agatha was gone, moaning, grinding, pressing back harder and harder, the tight heat in her core twisting into something urgent, unbearable.
“Oh fuck—fuck, I’m—”
And just like that—Rio stopped.
Pulled out.
Left her empty.
Agatha screamed. “You bitch—!”
Another slap. Same spot. Just as hard.
Agatha cried out, hips jerking forward.
“Still mouthing off,” Rio said. “Even when I’m being generous.”
“I was so fucking close—!”
Rio shoved her forward again—just enough to pin her. Her voice was low. Dangerous.
“You don’t come until I let you.”
“I need it—”
“You’ll get it.”
Silence. Tense. Shaking.
Then: Rio dropped to her knees behind her.
Agatha barely had time to breathe before she felt it.
A tongue. Hot. Flat. Right against her.
“Holy—fuck—”
Rio licked her like she was starving.
No hesitation. No warm-up. Her mouth locked on, tongue dragging from slit to clit, slow and rough and deadly accurate.
Agatha lost it.
She pressed herself down against the counter, arching her back, one hand flying to grip the edge like it might anchor her to the goddamn earth.
Rio devoured her.
She spread her open with her thumbs, dove in with tongue and lips and just enough force to make Agatha sob. Every flick was perfect. Every circle on her clit made her see stars. And when Rio started moaning into her—loud, guttural, hungry—it pushed Agatha straight into the fire.
“Please—fuck—I’m gonna—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”
Rio didn’t answer at first.
She sucked her clit hard, held it, then flicked her tongue back and forth—fast, focused, precise.
Then, finally, Rio’s voice, low and rough against her, “Now. You can come. Do it.”
Agatha’s orgasm hit her like a fucking explosion.
Her body convulsed. Her knees gave out. She would’ve collapsed to the floor if Rio’s arms weren’t locked around her thighs, holding her up as she came apart in her mouth.
She screamed.
Loud. Raw. Entirely destroyed.
And still—Rio didn’t stop.
She licked her through it. Over and over. Slower now, but just as thorough.
Letting her shake. Letting her fall apart.
Letting her realize just how deep she’d gone.
When Rio finally pulled away, her mouth slick with Agatha’s come, she stood slowly.
Agatha didn’t move.
She couldn’t.
Her chest heaved against the counter. Her legs shook. Her brain had gone blank.
And Rio?
She was just standing there.
Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
“You’re going to stay like that,” she said quietly, brushing a thumb along the red bite on Agatha’s shoulder, “until I tell you otherwise.”
Agatha nodded weakly.
Because she was already gone.
Agatha didn’t move.
She couldn’t.
Not really.
Her palms were still splayed across the marble, sticky with sweat. Her legs were shaking, inner thighs slick and tender. Her spine was bowed, her forehead pressed to the cool surface beneath her. Mouth open. Breathing hard.
The only thing holding her together was inertia—and the weight of Rio’s gaze on her back.
For a long, drawn-out second, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing.
Agatha’s—ragged. Shaky.
Rio’s—measured. Calm.
She didn’t know how long they stood like that. Seconds? Minutes?
Rio hadn’t spoken since the last command. Hadn’t touched her again.
And that stillness—that unbearable control—was somehow more devastating than anything she’d done with her hands or mouth.
Agatha finally exhaled. A soft, wrecked sound. “You’re terrifying.”
Behind her, Rio moved. Just one step closer. No rush.
“I haven’t even started.”
The words were soft.
Not threatening. Not taunting.
Just honest.
Agatha let out something between a laugh and a groan.
“I might actually die.”
Rio’s fingers brushed her hip—barely there.
But they didn’t move further. Just rested.
“You wanted someone who wouldn’t let you hide,” she said. “Now you have her.”
Agatha’s throat went tight. Not with fear. Not even arousal.
With something else.
Something slower. Lower. Deeper.
She’d stripped off her clothes thinking it was a game. A chase. Just another power struggle with an endorphin payoff. But Rio hadn’t chased. She’d stood still and let Agatha fall into her.
And now here she was raw. Blushing. Open in ways she hadn’t meant to be.
Rio’s hand lifted from her hip.
Agatha whimpered at the loss before she could stop herself.
But then—warmth.
That same hand slid up her spine, palm flat and slow, tracing the curve of her back with something that felt close to reverence. Not teasing. Not possessive.
Just there.
Present.
“I’m going to take care of you,” Rio murmured, like it was a vow.
Not a sweet promise. Not romantic.
A statement.
Solid. Grounded.
Like gravity.
Agatha lifted her head slightly. Just enough to glance over her shoulder.
Rio was watching her with something unreadable in her eyes. Not tenderness. Not lust.
Something quieter.
Something dangerous.
“You think I need taking care of?” Agatha tried to joke.
But her voice shook.
Rio stepped closer again. Her body warm against Agatha’s back now. Her clothed chest brushing between Agatha’s shoulder blades. Her hand curled around her waist.
“Right now?” she said against her ear.
“You need to be held together.”
Agatha’s breath hitched.
Because she did.
More than she wanted to admit.
She leaned back into the warmth. Into Rio.
Just for a second.
And Rio let her.
Didn’t push. Didn’t press.
Just held.
Still. Quiet. Real.
And in that breathless space between orgasms—between fight and surrender—Agatha let herself be still, too.
Just long enough to know:
The next wave was coming.
And she was going to break beautifully.
Agatha couldn’t stand. Not really.
She tried, legs wobbling as she pushed off the countertop, but her knees buckled almost immediately.
Rio caught her without effort. Hands steady, arms strong. One slid under her thighs, the other around her back.
Agatha barely had time to gasp before she was lifted off the ground.
“Wait—what are you—?”
“You earned it,” Rio said simply.
Agatha blinked up at her, dazed.
“Earned what?”
Rio didn’t answer.
She just carried her.
Through the kitchen. Down the hall. Into the bedroom.
Agatha’s breath stuttered.
She hadn’t expected this. Not the gentleness in the strength. Not the way Rio carried her like she weighed nothing. Like she was just another part of the evening. Like she belonged in her arms.
She was deposited on the bed, slowly, carefully.
And then Rio stood at the foot of it, still fully clothed.
Tank top. Jeans. Heavy black boots.
Her breathing hadn’t even changed.
Agatha lay back, chest rising and falling in time with the pulsing between her legs. The lace of her bra clung to her ribs. Her heels were still strapped on, legs parted, ruined but wanting.
Rio stared down at her like a decision.
Then, finally—movement.
She bent at the waist and untied one boot.
Kicked it off.
Then the other.
Slow. Methodical.
Agatha’s pulse spiked.
Rio straightened. Reached for the hem of her tank.
Agatha watched—breathless—as it lifted. Inch by inch. The fabric caught slightly on her chest before revealing the black sports bra underneath.
Firm muscle. Controlled power under skin.
Agatha couldn’t look away.
Rio caught her watching—and smirked. The first real one of the night. Barely there. Lethal.
Her hands lifted to the hem of her black sports bra. She paused for the first time—just a second—locking eyes with Agatha before pulling it up.
Slow. Controlled. A reveal, not a performance.
Agatha watched.
The bra peeled upward, taut across firm muscle and tan skin. It caught for a heartbeat on her chest, flattening as she pulled it over her head—and then it was gone.
And Rio was bare.
Her hands went to her belt next. The buckle clicked open.
Then the zipper.
Rio met her gaze, then slowly, wordlessly, dragging them down slow—
Agatha's eyes were locked on her hips.
The black boxer briefs hugged her thighs, sleek and tight, but as the pants dropped lower, Agatha caught something else.
Straps.
Leather.
The harness was already there, above the boxer briefs.
The cock wasn’t on yet. But the way Rio moved, the way she adjusted the straps, cinched them with practiced ease, made it feel like it was already inside her.
Agatha stared. Her mouth opened. Her breath stuttered.
Rio noticed.
“Something you like?” she asked, low.
Agatha didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
She wanted to touch. Wanted to beg.
But Rio stepped away.
She crossed to the bedside drawer and opened it calmly. Without show. No drama.
Inside: a collection. A quiet little arsenal.
Agatha turned her head, trying to see, but the angle only gave her glimpses.
Rio rifled through them like she was choosing a bottle of wine.
And then, she held one up.
A cock.
Big.
Long. Thick. Veiny. Gorgeous. Sleek black with just a hint of shine.
She held it up by the base and turned, expression unreadable.
Her eyes met Agatha’s.
And then she watched.
Waited.
Agatha’s breath caught hard. Her thighs twitched. She swallowed like her throat forgot how.
And Rio smiled.
“That’s what I thought,” she murmured.
She strapped it on. Tightened the harness like she’d done it a thousand times. Her hands were sure. No performance.
Just readiness.
She turned back to Agatha slowly, stalking toward the bed with the cock jutting from her hips, hard and heavy, and utterly unignorable.
Agatha’s legs parted without her realizing it.
She looked her up and down, truly looked. From her trembling thighs to the lace bra stretched taut across her chest. From the shine of sweat on her skin to the way her heels dug into the mattress.
“Leave them on,” Rio said when Agatha moved to reach behind her for the bra clasp.
Agatha froze. “The bra?”
“No the heels.”
The command wasn’t barked. It didn’t have to be.
It settled on her skin like truth.
Rio leaned forward. Crawled onto the bed one knee at a time—predator-slow—until she was towering over her.
Agatha held her breath.
Rio reached for her face, gently brushing sweaty hair away from her cheek. Her thumb traced the corner of her mouth.
“You’re still shaking,” she murmured.
Agatha tried to laugh. It came out breathless.
“Wonder why.”
Rio’s hand drifted lower, down her throat, between her breasts. Slow. Barely touching.
“Bra off,” Rio said.
Agatha reached up—
“No.”
“Let me.”
She climbed on top of her, kneeling between her legs, and reached back behind Agatha’s body, unclasping the lace bra with one hand.
It fell open.
Rio pulled it off slowly, dragged it down her arms, and tossed it aside.
Now she lay fully beneath her, bare, flushed, ruined.
Heels still on. Eyes wide.
Ready.
And Rio?
Finally ready to give her everything she’d begged for and everything she hadn’t.
“You asked for rough,” she said. “But I don’t think you understood what you were asking for.”
“I do now.”
Rio’s eyes glinted. Just slightly.
“Good.”
Agatha was already ruined.
She lay flat on her back, chest heaving, sweat cooling on her skin. Her bra was gone, tossed somewhere across the room. Her thighs were spread open, her heels still strapped on, legs trembling from anticipation and overstimulation.
And above her—Rio.
Naked, calm, unshakable. The harness buckled snug around her hips, and that massive, gleaming cock was strapped into place like it was part of her. Thick, long, intimidating. Heavy with promise.
Agatha reached for her without thinking, gripping Rio’s forearm, her hip, the edge of the harness.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please, I need it.”
“You’ll get it,” Rio said.
And then she gave it to her.
The head pressed into her folds—soaked, red, ready—and Agatha tensed. Her breath hitched.
The stretch was instant.
“Holy—fuck—”
Rio eased in, slow but unrelenting, watching Agatha’s face with terrifying focus as the first few inches slid in. Her mouth dropped open, her hands scrambled at the sheets.
Then—a thrust.
Deep. Heavy.
Agatha screamed.
The cock filled her completely, stretching her until her legs shook. She was pinned under Rio’s body, her breath coming fast, and that cock slamming in again.
Hard.
Then harder.
“Still cocky?” Rio growled, one hand braced beside her head. “Still want to run your mouth?”
Agatha couldn’t even speak. She moaned, long, high, and sweet.
Then Rio’s hand wrapped around her throat.
Not choking. Just holding.
“Eyes on me.”
Agatha’s eyes flew open.
“I want to see your face when you come.”
She tried to respond. A yes, a thank you, a plea—but the words dissolved as Rio adjusted her hips and drove in again, this time perfectly, hitting that deep spot inside her with devastating accuracy.
“Oh fuck—right there, right there—”
Her second orgasm of the night tore through her, sudden and complete.
Her body seized, thighs trembling, jaw slack as she clenched around that thick cock and came with a gasping cry. Her vision went white. Her body shook with it, pleasure exploding through every nerve.
Rio held her there.
One hand around her throat. The other on her thigh. Her cock buried deep.
“Good girl,” she murmured. “Just like that.”
Agatha collapsed against the sheets, panting, dazed. She blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented, shattered, but blissfully spent.
And then, she realized something.
Rio wasn’t stopping.
The cock pulled back slowly… and slid in again.
Agatha gasped.
“Wait—”
Rio grabbed her thigh, pushed her leg up higher, deeper.
“You’re going to come again,” Rio ordered, relentless.
“But I just—”
“I know,” she said softly. “That was one.”
She thrust again. Hard.
Agatha cried out, already sensitive, the stretch making her twitch.
Rio adjusted—tilted her hips just slightly—and slammed in again, every inch shoving against swollen nerves, against that perfect spot.
And it was too much.
Agatha sobbed.
“I—I can’t—”
“You will.”
Rio slammed into her. Again. Again.
Agatha’s moans became gasps. Sobs. Pleading.
And then it broke.
Her body convulsed. Her legs locked around Rio’s hips. Her back arched off the bed.
She came with a scream, louder, harder, her orgasm ripping through her like fire.
And then—
A gush.
Her thighs jerked. Her hips bucked.
She squirted.
All over Rio. The cock. The sheets.
Wet. Messy. Beautiful.
Rio grinned, just a flicker.
And she kept fucking her through it.
Deeper. Slower now. Riding the wave.
Agatha collapsed beneath her, twitching, gasping, sobbing from sheer overwhelm.
But Rio didn’t stop.
She pulled out—slow, wet, dragging the cock free with a slick sound and flipped Agatha onto her stomach in one clean, smooth motion.
Agatha let out a broken whimper. Her arms folded under her, face pressed into the sheets, ass up, legs still trembling.
She couldn’t fight.
She didn’t want to.
And Rio?
She crouched behind her again, one hand on her back, guiding her down.
“You think we’re done?” she whispered.
Agatha whimpered, “Please…”
“Not until you forget how to stand.”
She grabbed her hips, lined up again—
And slammed back in.
Agatha screamed.
Not from pain, though her body burned with it. From being overwhelmed. From being split open again, still tender, still raw, and now full of cock like Rio had never left her.
The sheets bunched in her fists. Her shoulders locked. Her cheek pressed hard to the mattress.
Rio’s grip was iron.
She dragged Agatha back onto the cock, grinding forward with a slow, brutal thrust that had no mercy in it. No softness. No pause.
“Good girl,” she murmured, one hand sliding up Agatha’s spine. “Still taking it.”
She drove in again, deeper this time.
Agatha’s eyes rolled back. Her mouth fell open.
Everything hurt. Everything throbbed.
And she’d never felt better.
Another thrust.
Deep.
Agatha gasped, the air knocked from her lungs. Her hips shifted reflexively, trying to push back, trying to meet the rhythm.
Rio didn’t let her.
She pulled out—not all the way—just enough to feel the drag, the sting of emptiness—
Then shoved back in, harder, rougher, until her thighs slapped against Agatha’s ass with a sharp sound.
Agatha moaned loud, broken.
“You like this,” Rio said. Not a question.
Agatha nodded frantically.
“Say it.”
“I—fuck—yes, I like it—I love it—don’t stop—”
“Good.”
Rio leaned over her, one hand gripping the harness strap across her own hip for leverage. Her chest pressed against Agatha’s back, sweat-slick skin meeting skin. The cock inside her slammed deeper, somehow fuller now, angled perfectly to hit that spot again and again.
And again.
And again.
Agatha sobbed into the sheets.
She was being used. Fucked. Owned.
And she loved it.
The rhythm became steady, measured, punishing. Each thrust drove her higher, kept her right on the edge. Her legs shook, her moans turned to choked gasps, her fists curled in the sheets like she could survive it if she just held on tight enough.
Rio’s fingers curled into her hair.
“Up.”
Agatha lifted her head with effort, back arching beautifully.
Rio pulled harder. Not cruel, just firm.
She drove in deeper.
Agatha wailed.
“Please—please, I’m close—”
“Then hold it.”
She slowed. Barely. Just enough to drag it out.
Agatha screamed.
Every thrust now came with pressure, full, deliberate, designed to ruin.
The bed shook.
Their bodies moved together, friction and sweat and sound. The headboard tapped the wall. Agatha’s breath came in short, fast bursts. Her thighs trembled with every grind of Rio’s hips into hers.
“I can’t—I’m gonna come—”
“Beg.”
Agatha whimpered.
“Please—please, let me—please—”
“Say you’re mine.”
“I’m—fuck—I’m yours, please—”
“Now.”
She let go.
Agatha came hard, body clenching so tight around the cock that Rio had to hold her down, had to force herself deeper just to stay inside her.
She moaned loud, raw, ruined.
Her legs twitched.
Her arms gave out.
She collapsed face-down on the sheets, shaking with aftershocks.
And Rio—finally—stilled.
Stayed inside her.
One hand splayed across her back.
The other still tangled in her hair.
Agatha panted, flushed and wrecked, her cheek pressed to the sheets.
Rio leaned in, lips near her ear.
“You did so well.”
Agatha didn’t reply.
She couldn’t.
She just melted under the praise.
Held still by the cock still buried inside her.
Owned.
Spent.
And completely hers.
The room had gone still.
Agatha lay face-down, arms limp, breath shallow against the sheets. Her body twitched now and then, little aftershocks, nerve endings still buzzing, thighs slick and tender. She was a mess. Sweaty, wet, utterly used.
And utterly safe.
Rio stayed where she was for a moment. Still kneeling between Agatha’s legs, still inside her, still watching her.
Then—slowly, she pulled out.
Agatha whimpered.
Not from pain. Just from the loss.
Rio caught the sound, her hand steadying Agatha’s hip, soothing along the curve of her back.
“You okay?” she asked, quiet now. Low. Almost uncertain.
Agatha didn’t answer right away.
Couldn’t. Her brain was molasses. Her body wasn’t hers yet.
Rio hesitated.
Then she moved. Calm. Methodical.
She got up from the bed, left the room briefly, and returned with a warm, damp cloth. She knelt beside the mattress, pressed a hand gently to Agatha’s lower back.
“I’m gonna clean you up, alright?”
Agatha nodded. Just barely.
The cloth was warm. Soft. Careful.
Rio touched her like she might break her now. Like she was something delicate, not the same bratty, cocky girl who’d taunted her at the bar. Not the slick, moaning mess she’d pinned to the mattress.
Now she was just Agatha.
And Rio…
Rio was being so gentle it almost hurt.
She cleaned between her thighs. Down her legs. Wiped her skin clean of slick and sweat and come.
Every touch was deliberate. Respectful.
Agatha blinked slowly, eyes stinging for reasons she didn’t want to name.
Once she was clean, Rio returned the cloth, then pulled the blanket down. She slid onto the bed next to her—naked, quiet—and gathered Agatha into her arms.
She didn’t say anything.
Just held her.
Agatha let it happen.
Let herself be wrapped up in strength and warmth and that low, steady rhythm of Rio’s breathing. Her cheek rested against Rio’s chest. The sound of her heart—slow, even—filled the space where words should’ve been.
And still, Rio stayed quiet.
Until—
“I didn’t hurt you… did I?”
The words were soft. Tense.
Agatha lifted her head, just a little.
Rio wasn’t looking at her. Her jaw was tight. Her brows faintly drawn.
Agatha blinked. “What?”
“Just—” Rio exhaled. “I pushed. A lot. I usually… I don’t usually let it get that far.”
Agatha was quiet.
Then, very softly: “You didn’t hurt me.”
Rio looked at her.
And for a moment, Agatha saw all of it.
Not the confident butch with the tank and the harness.
Not the unflinching dom who’d wrecked her not even an hour ago.
Just Rio.
Concerned. Uncertain. So obviously worried she’d crossed a line. That she’d lost control.
Agatha reached up. Brushed her knuckles across Rio’s collarbone.
“You didn’t hurt me,” she said again. “You… saw me.”
Rio swallowed hard.
“Good,” she murmured, barely audible.
And Agatha?
She tucked herself closer.
Let her body melt against the solid heat of Rio’s chest. Let her legs tangle with hers. Let her breathing slow until it matched the other woman’s.
Because it wasn’t just the orgasm.
It wasn’t even the fucking.
It was the way Rio had handled her. Carried her. Held her together when she came apart.
This wasn’t just a hookup.
This was something else.
And as her eyes finally fluttered shut, Agatha let herself believe it might be okay to want more.
Agatha woke alone.
The first thing she registered was the soreness, everywhere.
Her thighs ached. Her stomach was tight. Even the back of her neck felt tender. Her arms barely wanted to move.
But the second thing—the one that made her stomach knot—was the silence.
No breathing behind her.
No warm weight of someone else in the bed.
No hand in her hair, no chest at her back.
Just… quiet.
She blinked at the ceiling, the morning light painting soft golden lines across the sheets. The same sheets she’d been held down against not twelve hours ago.
And now—
Empty.
She sat up.
Slowly.
Her body screamed at her for it. Her thighs protested, her lower back throbbed, and somewhere deep inside, she could still feel the ghost of Rio’s cock.
She pulled the blanket up over her bare chest, clutching it close without thinking.
A flutter of panic twisted in her stomach.
She was used to the fast exits. One-night stands. Smoke breaks that became disappearances. Waking up alone after being touched but never held.
But Rio hadn’t seemed like the type to—
Then she smelled it.
Bacon.
Fresh. Hot. Greasy. Perfect.
She paused.
Tilted her head.
And then she heard it, muffled movement, the quiet clatter of a pan, the low hiss of something frying.
She stood—slow, wobbling, blanket still wrapped around her—and padded quietly to the door.
The hallway was warm. Lived-in. Her legs protested with every step, her hips reminding her exactly what had happened the night before.
But when she reached the kitchen doorway—
She froze.
Because there she was.
Rio.
Back turned.
Bare skin glowing in the morning light.
Hair mussed from sleep, slightly damp at the ends, pushed back out of her face.
Muscles shifting as she flipped bacon in a skillet.
Shirtless.
Wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs that hung low on her hips.
And barefoot.
Like she hadn’t nearly rearranged Agatha’s spine last night.
Agatha stared.
Absolutely stunned.
How was it possible that this—this quiet domestic butch calmly cooking bacon—was the same woman who had bent her in half, fucked her until she saw stars, and then held her like she was afraid she’d break?
It didn’t compute.
Rio turned slightly at the sound of her footsteps, just enough to glance over her shoulder.
When she saw her, her entire expression softened.
“You’re up.”
Agatha blinked. “You’re—cooking.”
“Yeah.” Rio flipped another slice of bacon, calm as ever. “You were out cold. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I thought you left.”
Rio went still for just a second.
Then she turned around fully, tongs still in hand, expression unreadable.
“You thought I’d just disappear after that?”
Agatha shrugged weakly, still holding the blanket like armor. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Rio’s brow furrowed.
And then—quietly—“I wouldn’t do that.”
Agatha didn’t know what to say.
She didn’t know how to handle someone like this.
Someone who made her come so hard she cried—
And then made fucking breakfast.
Rio glanced down, back at the pan.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Agatha blinked. “What?”
“Last night.” Rio’s voice dropped. “I kept thinking maybe I went too far. You went so still at the end. And you didn’t say anything this morning, so I—”
“You made me come so hard I forgot the alphabet,” Agatha said.
Rio blinked.
“Multiple times,” Agatha added.
Rio’s mouth twitched. Just slightly.
“Also,” Agatha continued, “you’re shirtless. Cooking bacon. So I really can’t decide whether I want to eat first or fuck you again.”
That got a full smile.
Warm. Real.
Rio set the tongs down.
“You could do both.”
Agatha’s heart gave a little traitorous kick.
She stepped closer, blanket trailing behind her, and reached out—fingers ghosting over Rio’s bare ribs, just to feel her again.
“You’re confusing the hell out of me,” she murmured.
“Good.”
Rio turned back to the stove, completely unbothered.
“Because I’m not going anywhere.”
The bacon was crispy. The eggs were perfect.
There were even toasted slices of bread with butter, stacked neatly on a plate like Rio had been doing this every morning for years.
Agatha sat down at the kitchen table with an almost comical amount of care, legs wobbling, body sore in exactly the right ways.
She tried to play it cool.
But the second her ass hit the chair, she hissed and shifted with a grimace.
Rio looked over from the stove, plate in hand.
“You alright over there?”
“I’m fine,” Agatha lied, pressing her palm to the seat like that would help. “Just… gently destroyed.”
Rio chuckled—low and warm.
She walked over and set a plate down in front of her, then moved to sit next to her.
But she paused.
Watched her struggle for another beat.
Then—without a word—Rio stepped behind her chair, slipped her arms under Agatha’s legs and back, and lifted her straight off the seat.
“Wait—what—”
“You’re not sitting like that,” Rio said, calm as ever. “You’re going to hurt something.”
And then—
She sat down.
With Agatha in her lap.
Just like that.
Agatha froze, half-clutching the blanket still wrapped around her, now bunched up between them.
“What are you—”
“You want the food or not?”
Agatha blinked. Then stared at the plate Rio reached for and pulled toward them.
“…I’m not feeding myself from your lap,” she said finally.
Rio raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because it’s weird.”
“You’re already naked in my blanket.”
“I wasn’t planning on staying naked.”
“Then you should’ve brought clothes.”
Agatha flushed, just a little.
“You’re annoying.”
“Mhmm.” Rio handed her a fork. “Eat.”
Agatha took the fork. Slowly. And scooped up a bite of scrambled eggs. They were soft, buttery, absurdly good.
She tried not to moan. Failed a little.
Rio’s hand was resting casually on her thigh now. Not moving. Just warm. There.
“So,” Agatha said between bites, “do you do this for every girl you fuck senseless, or am I just special?”
Rio’s head tilted slightly. “That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you’re planning to let me do it again.”
Agatha paused.
Her heart gave a little skip.
She stabbed at a piece of bacon like it hadn’t just happened.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Take your time.”
They ate in silence for a minute. Agatha in Rio’s lap, Rio casually sipping coffee and occasionally stealing bites from her plate like it was just any other morning, like it was normal.
Agatha leaned back against her chest eventually, still holding her fork, half-draped in the blanket.
“You’re not what I expected,” she murmured.
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know.” A pause. “More swagger. Less bacon.”
“Disappointed?”
Agatha smirked. “Still deciding.”
Rio’s lips brushed the side of her temple, so soft she almost missed it.
Agatha froze. Just for a second.
Then breathed in, coffee, skin, breakfast, Rio.
And slowly, without meaning to, let herself relax.
Just a little.
Just enough to wonder how long she could stay like this.
Later, when Agatha stood by the doorway towards the bedroom, trying to look casual about leaving.
She looked over her shoulder.
Rio was still in the kitchen, shirtless, barefoot, coffee in hand. Leaning against the counter like this was normal. Like this happened every Sunday.
Agatha cleared her throat.
“So,” she said. “I should probably get going.”
Rio just nodded, sipping from her mug.
“You heading somewhere important?”
“Just… out,” Agatha said vaguely. “Back to my life. My apartment. My aggressively judgmental bunny.”
Rio smiled. “Sounds serious.”
Agatha disappeared briefly into the bedroom to start getting dressed.
Her shirt was the first thing she found. She held it up.
Wrinkled. Still faintly damp. Smelled like sweat and sex.
She frowned.
And without a word, opened Rio’s closet.
She rifled through without asking. Just casually pulled out a soft gray button-down, shrugged it on over her bare skin, and started buttoning it like it was always part of her outfit.
It was too big. The sleeves swallowed her hands. It hung just below her hips.
It smelled like Rio.
She liked that more than she wanted to admit.
She walked back into the kitchen, now fully dressed—sort of—hair messy, one heel on and the other dangling from her fingers, Rio’s shirt hanging comfortably off one shoulder.
Rio glanced up. Stilled.
“You planning to return that?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
Agatha slipped her second heel on, nonchalant. “You make a habit of letting people leave in your clothes?”
“Only the ones who steal them.”
Agatha smirked. “It’s a good shirt.”
“You can keep it. Consider it a souvenir.”
“Of the best sex I’ve ever had?”
Rio didn’t blink. “You said it. Not me.”
Agatha flushed but didn’t back down. She finished tucking the hem into her skirt and slung her bag over her shoulder.
She hovered in the doorway again, just like before.
But this time, she lingered.
Then—casual, like it didn’t matter, like it wasn’t a thing—
“You, uh… got a number?”
Rio raised an eyebrow.
Agatha shrugged. “I figured if I’m going to get completely rearranged by someone, I should probably be able to text them.”
Rio chuckled. Set her mug down.
“You want my number.”
“And a date,” Agatha added quickly, before she could talk herself out of it.
Rio blinked. Just once.
Then smiled, soft and a little surprised.
“We’re really doing this backwards.”
Agatha smirked. “At least I know we’re compatible.”
Rio crossed the kitchen. Picked up a pen and a napkin. Scribbled something down.
Held it out.
Agatha took it.
She stared at the numbers for a beat longer than she meant to.
Agatha tucked it into the pocket of Rio’s shirt like it belonged there.
Rio watched her quietly.
Agatha turned for the door. Then paused.
Glanced back.
“You cook like that on the second date too?”
Rio leaned against the frame, arms crossed, still shirtless and glowing in the sunlight.
“I cook better.”
Agatha’s smile turned real.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Then she stepped out into the hallway, heels clicking, heart loud in her chest.
And for the first time in a long time, as the door clicked shut behind her—
She already wanted to come back.