Liesa's Night (VI)

By the time they left the bar, the city was blue with evening, the river catching whatever stray light fell from the tramlines and the orange globes of the old street lamps. Liesa took the lead, not hurrying, her shoulder always angled just enough to brush Andy’s as they walked along the embankment. The path was slick with the day’s rain, but her boots found the dry seams between the stones, and Andy, though taller, matched her pace and never once pulled ahead. They could have walked side by side, arms linked, the way couples did in tourist brochures, but this way was better; it left a little room for the current of the world to move between them, and for the ghosts of old conversations to walk behind and ahead, out of sight but never out of step.

They barely felt the cold. Andy recognized the effect of the Gifts, the way they sanded the edge off every discomfort until you could focus on anything but the weather, but he let himself pretend it was just the power of having Liesa next to him, the heat of her presence radiating through her coat and into his sleeve. If she noticed how much she leaned, she didn’t say.

The river was different at night. It looked less like a body of water than a spill of black velvet, flat and almost frictionless, the only texture coming from the oily twist of current that caught the streetlights and broke them into little gold islands. The bridges arched across at deliberate intervals, each one throwing down a slow, regular rhythm of light and shadow. Liesa aimed them at the oldest of the bridges, a low-slung mass of stone and iron that had probably outlived a dozen dynasties.

They walked without hurry. Andy tried to count how many different scents moved through the air—wet stone, the faint bite of diesel from a ing barge, someone’s cigarettes drifting down from a balcony—but he kept losing count every time Liesa looked up at him, her eyes shining with a humor that never needed to be spoken aloud. There were things they could have talked about: the day, the visit to her father, what came next. But neither seemed in a hurry to name anything.

When the silence did break, it was because Andy couldn’t resist the memory, the one he’d been holding in reserve for the right moment. “Do you ,” he said, “the radiator in my apartment? The one on Halsted?”

She made a face so expressive it almost made him laugh out loud. “The one that only worked in summer and screamed like a cat in winter? Yes.”

“It exploded once. I woke up to steam and the whole room fogged over.” He let out a huff of laughter, mostly at himself. “You came by with a space heater from the art department. You almost set the curtains on fire.”

Liesa put a hand over her mouth in theatrical horror, then grinned. “You told me you could fix it with physics. Instead, you hit it with a wrench and called that ‘percussive maintenance.’”

“It worked, though,” Andy said, mock-defensive. “For a whole afternoon.”

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a that was all warmth and the little edge of sleep deprivation that used to belong to their college selves. “I still think about that apartment. You had, what, two chairs and a mattress on the floor, and all your mugs were recycled from the cafe down the street?”

“Paper-cup coffee tastes better when you don’t have to wash dishes.”

She shook her head, the gesture half fondness, half exasperation. “You used to say it tasted like victory. I thought you were so American, so proud to live with nothing but ideas and caffeine.”

Andy winced. “I was so American it hurt. Sorry.”

Liesa touched his sleeve, brushing her fingers against his wrist, a little squeeze that said she didn’t mind. “I liked it,” she said, softer now. “I liked that you could make a day out of nothing. In Antwerp, we had to plan everything. No day was wasted, but also, nothing felt extra.” She let the sentence float for a while before adding, “I envied you. The way you could decide, on a Tuesday, that it was time to visit the planetarium or take the blue line to the end of the line and just see what was there.”

He let that settle, and for a while they just walked. The river did the talking for them, the water slapping quietly against the pylons below. Liesa adjusted her pace, and he matched; they hit the bridge at exactly the same time.

The span was built of old, pitted limestone, the railings a pattern of soft-worn posts and little lion heads at every interval. The lights were set close to the water, throwing long ribbons of gold that glimmered out and away, blurring the boundary between city and current.

Liesa stopped at the parapet, set her hands flat to the cold stone, and tipped her head so her hair fell to one side. Andy stood beside her, not crowding. Her shoulder grazed his arm.

For a while, they didn’t speak. The city behind them was quieter here, the noise tamped down to a background hiss by the water and the width of the river. A tram bell sounded from the opposite shore, but it was so far off that it might as well have come from a different day.

Liesa looked out over the surface, eyes narrowing as if she were calculating the distance to the far bank. Then she said, “You know what I missed most, when I was in America?”

Andy considered. “Beer that doesn’t taste like disappointment?”

She smirked, the line of her jaw tight. “Close. But no. I missed this.” She tapped her fingers once on the stone, then waved at the sky, the river, the bridge itself. “The city at night. The air is different. In Chicago, everything is too bright. Even the dark has its own lights.”

He knew what she meant. “This feels older,” he said. “Like nobody ever really chased the darkness out. They just agreed to share it.”

She laughed, softer now. “Yes. Here, the dark is not the enemy.”

Andy leaned on his forearms beside her. He let his gaze follow the drift of a plastic bottle caught in the current, tracing its slow spiral as it tumbled under the bridge, past the islands of reflected gold. He thought about how many times in his life he’d stood at the edge of water, always with the same feeling of being both present and just a step away from falling in.

He said, “You when I showed up to your studio without warning?”

Liesa looked at him sidelong, brows up. “Which time?”

He smiled. “The day after Thanksgiving.”

She considered, then nodded. “You brought those horrible cookies. With, what was it, white chocolate?”

“I thought you liked them.”

“I liked you,” she said, and it was so blunt he had to look at her to make sure she was joking. She wasn’t. She went on. “You came into my studio, and I was working. You asked if you could watch. I said no, but you watched anyway. You never listened.”

“That’s not true,” Andy said. “I listened. I just—sometimes I didn’t believe you meant it.”

She let that rest. “Do you what I was painting, that day?”

He nodded, feeling a little odd about it now. “A portrait. But you wouldn’t let me see.”

She looked at him, unsmiling. “Liar. You saw it. I turned it face-down, but you saw it.”

He said nothing, but it was true.

She pressed her thumb along the curve of her jaw, thinking. “I hated it,” she said. “Not the painting. I hated that you saw it. I wanted to show you only the good things, not the mess.”

Andy said, “It wasn’t a mess. It was beautiful, Liesa.”

She shrugged, the motion making her coat slip off one shoulder, her blouse bunching up at the wrist. She left it, exposing a strip of pale freckled skin to the air. “It was a mess,” she repeated, but quieter.

They stood with that for a while, letting the current take the rest of their words away. Andy felt the urge to reach for her, to fit his hand over her exposed shoulder, but he didn’t. He thought about the painting—how, in his memory, the face in it was all angles and unfinished brushwork, the eyes two blurred ovals set so deeply that you couldn’t decide if they were sad or just unfinished.

He wondered if that was the point.

After a minute, Liesa spoke again. “I used to think about this walk,” she said, voice pitched low for the river alone. “When things were bad, when I was back and working, I’d think: one day, I will find him again, and I will show him this city at night. I will stand on this bridge with him, and everything will feel better.” She huffed a small, self-effacing laugh. “It was stupid. But I thought it.”

He didn’t try to make a joke of it. He reached out for her hand and said, “Is it what you imagined?”

She kept her eyes on the water. “It’s better,” she said. “Because you are really here. Not just in my head.”

She shifted her weight, her hip bumping his, and for a second he let himself lean back, matching the pressure. They stayed like that, just enough to know the other would not move, and watched the lights flicker on the surface.

Eventually, the cold began to creep into Andy’s hands, Gifts or no. He looked at Liesa, who showed no sign of wanting to leave.

He said, “Should we head back?”

She thought about it, then nodded, once, quick and firm. “Yes.” She turned and led them off the bridge, her hand reaching for his sleeve without looking. He let her take it. They walked back the way they came, the city now empty of any trace of tourist or local.

Near the corner where they had started, Liesa slowed and pointed down an alley so narrow it looked like an architectural error. “Shortcut,” she said, grinning, and pulled him after her.

At the end of the alley was a door, painted a color that only existed in this country—a gray so blue it was almost black. No address, no number, but Andy knew at once it was the way home. He pressed his palm to the button beside it, and the door swung open, silent and smooth, giving onto the familiar, utterly out-of-place Master’s Elevator of the Hotel.

He stepped in first, then turned to watch Liesa cross the threshold. For the first time all night, she hesitated, standing just outside the glow of the lobby light. She looked at him, something teasing in her eyes.

“We will come back?” she said, her accent thicker now, the words almost slurred with sleep and something else.

“Always,” he said.

She nodded, satisfied, and followed him in.

---

The suite was dark except for a run of indirect LEDs in the coving and a single lamp by the long, low couch. Both of Laura’s bodies were there, sitting next to each other with some space in between, knees drawn up and backs half-turned to the door. She held the same book in both laps, reading in perfect mirror, the kind of party trick that would have haunted Andy in the first days but now just felt like an extra layer of normal.

Neither Laura spoke at first. She didn’t look up, just flicked her eyes to the new arrivals and back to the page. The left-most Laura was dressed in one of Andy’s old sweatshirts—he recognized the band logo, the one with the ripped-off sleeves—and the right wore a thin, yellow nightshirt with a faded fox cartoon on the chest. Both sets of hair were rumpled from hours of leaning on the couch, and both faces had the same pinched look of someone who’d been up for a day and a half.

Andy let the door close behind them, its soft whump breaking the momentary standstill.

He said, “We’re back.”

Laura looked up, both faces at the same time. She smiled, small and a little lopsided. “You made good time,” she said. “How was it?”

He shrugged. “Antwerp was… beautiful. The pastries were delicious. And Liesa’s father is a man of few words.”

Both of Laura glanced up at the same time. “Her father was there?” The question was mild, genuinely curious, the way you ask about weather.

“He pours a mean cup of coffee,” Andy said.

Liesa hung her coat on the hook, took off her boots with the delicacy of someone determined not to make noise, and crossed to the couch. She kept the hat and scarf, though. She sat between the two Lauras, so that each of Laura’s bodies was on a flank, and folded her legs up, matching Laura’s posture in a kind of spontaneous solidarity.

She reached for the left Laura’s hand, then, after a beat, did the same for the right, lacing her fingers with both. “You look tired,” Liesa said. “Are you okay?”

Both of Laura smiled. “I’m tired, but I’m fine. You can relax.”

Andy watched the scene—Liesa, sitting crosswise, cradling two hands at once, the lamp painting gold into the hollows of their faces. Liesa said, “You don’t have to pretend for me, you know. If you would like to us, I’d like it.”

Laura blinked, clearly not having expected the question. She hesitated, then shook her heads, the movement perfectly in sync. “No, thank you. I’m mentally exhausted. I already dialed it down,” she said. “The Bond of Marriage. You can go as loud as you want, and hopefully I won’t wake.”

Liesa smiled at that, a little mischievous. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Laura’s mouth twitched, almost a smirk. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Andy moved to the far end of the couch, settling beside the right-side Laura. He put his hand on hers, palm to palm, and she squeezed back, just once. He felt the difference in her temperature, how cool her hands were, as if she’d been sitting in a draft for hours.

He said, “If you need anything—”

Laura shook her head, eyes closing for a second. “Just want to read. Maybe nap.”

He nodded.

She gave a single, grateful look, and picked up the book again. Both bodies stood up, and with a little wave, headed for the Consort’s Bedroom.

Liesa got up, stretching, then said, “Come on. We’ll give the Consort her peace.”

---

The kitchen was all glass, steel, and stone, the kind of glossy, architectural fantasy that looked more like a catalog page than a real place to cook food. Andy reached for the wine fridge tucked into the island and pulled a bottle at random—white, something with an umlaut in the name, probably Belgian or German. He found two glasses in a drawer that hissed open on hydraulic hinges, and poured.

He brought the glasses back to the living room, where Liesa was standing at the window, looking out at the resort. Liesa took her glass and gestured for Andy to her on the couch. They sat close, knees almost touching, the way you do when you’re not sure if you’re on a date or just unwilling to be further apart.

For a minute, they just drank. The wine was cold, almost too cold, and tasted of apples and wet stone.

Liesa spoke first. “Today gave me more than I expected,” she said. “I thought I was showing you my city, but it showed me that I still belong there.” She paused, looking down at her glass. “I wasn’t sure if I did, anymore.”

Andy sipped his wine, considering. “I could tell you belonged. You walked like it. Talked like it. Even when you were nervous.”

She laughed, short and low. “I was nervous the whole time. I thought my father would look at me and see only the person I had become, at the end. Instead, he made me coffee and asked if I was eating enough.” She shook her head. “He just wanted to know if I was okay.”

Andy said, “Sometimes, parents do get it right.”

Liesa looked at him, something shifting in her face. “He never asked about the last few years. About the job, about what I did for money. I think he knew, but he didn’t want to hurt me by asking.”

Andy said nothing, letting her have the space.

She drank, then set the glass down on the table, twisting it until the base left a perfect wet circle on the wood. “Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Of course.”

She turned to him, her body angled so their knees now touched. “Does it bother you that I’m marrying Sam and not you?”

The question was so clean, so unornamented, that it caught Andy off guard.

He thought about it for a second, then he said, “No. I want you to be happy. If Sam is what you want, then it’s right.”

Liesa searched his face, hunting for any trace of a lie, but Andy was as close to honest as he’d ever been. She relaxed a fraction, her shoulders dropping. “That’s good,” she said. “I worried you’d pretend.”

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” Andy said. “I just want you to have what you need.”

She took a slow breath, then exhaled. “Can I tell you the real answer?” she said.

“Please.”

She looked at the floor, searching for the words. “I never really believed I would get to choose, in the end. Not just in The HH, but ever. I thought—if it came to it—I’d be alone, or maybe just… drifting. When Sam asked me, I said yes because I love her very much, but also because the way she does, she makes me believe I was worth asking.”

She paused. “But I love you, too. I love you as much as I love Sam.”

Andy nodded, the words making perfect sense.

She went on: “There’s still a part of me that doesn’t believe I should be allowed to choose at all. That maybe if I just keep going, keep giving people what they want, I’ll make up for everything that happened in the last few years.” She smiled, not sad, just honest. “I’m getting closer, though. To believing.”

Andy took her hand, their fingers cold from the wine. He didn’t squeeze, just held on.

She looked at him. “You’re waiting for me to say what I’m closer to.”

He nodded. “If you want to tell me, I’ll listen.”

She shook her head. “Not yet. Maybe after the next glass.”

He poured, and they sat together, drinking in silence. The city glowed outside the windows, the two of them reflected in the blackness, a perfect mirror.

---

The bedroom was warm, the sheets still holding a faint charge from the last time they’d been changed. Andy sat on the edge of the bed, shoes off, watching Liesa move through the little rituals of undressing.

She started with the hat, tossing it on the floor with a playful smirk. Then she moved to the scarf—a soft, featherweight knit she’d worn all day, the color indeterminate in this light. She unwound it, letting it pool on the dresser, her breath hitching slightly as her neck was exposed. She ran her fingers through her hair, shaking out the static, her movements gaining a sensual rhythm. She slid out of her coat, folding it over the back of a chair, her breath deepening as she bent to unlace her boots, each motion deliberate and charged.

She glanced up to catch Andy’s gaze, her eyes sparkling with excitement. He looked away, not out of embarrassment, but to give her space. She didn’t seem to need it—she was enjoying his attention.

Next came the blouse, peeled off in a single, eager motion, her undershirt clinging underneath so that the fabric tugged at her wrists before giving way. She set the blouse on the bed, her breath quickening as she slipped her thumbs into the waistband of her tros, rocking them down over her hips with a little roll that was almost a caress. She was in socks, a pale pink undershirt, and her underwear, her hair settling back into its usual half-wild, half-tame disarray, her cheeks flushing.

The room was so quiet Andy could hear the soft rasp of nylon as she pushed the tights down her legs, her breath hitching with each inch of fabric that slid off. She sat on the chair, pointed her toes, and slid the socks off, her movements languid and deliberate. She caught Andy’s eye again and gave him a little, private smile—intimate and full of promise.

She removed her undershirt, slow and precise, exposing the thin, pale bra underneath. She let the shirt fall to the floor, her breath coming in short gasps. For a moment, she just stood there, lit by the bedside lamp, her skin flushed and her chest rising and falling rapidly.

With both hands, she unfastened her bra, letting the straps slide down her arms and the cups fall away. Her breasts heaved with her excited breaths, the nipples flushed a deep pink, the areolae dusted with freckles. Andy tried not to stare, but she wanted him to stare. She shrugged, as if to say, this is all for you, then reached for the waistband of her underwear.

She paused, looking at him, her eyes filled with desire and a silent question: Do you want this?

He nodded, unable to speak, his heart pounding in his chest matching her own rhythm.

She hooked her thumbs and pulled the panties down in a single, fluid motion. Her hips rolled, the movement purely instinctual, primal. She stepped out of them and straightened, her whole body alive now, a kind of fever running through every muscle. She was panting, her eyes wild, her body ready.

This was the transformation—not just a woman undressing, but a creature of pure desire. She crossed to the bed, naked and unrestrained, and sat beside him, pressing her thigh to his, her body heat radiating like a furnace.

The change in her was instant and absolute.

One moment Liesa was sitting beside him, her thigh pressed to his, her eyes locked on his face and her breath coming quick and shallow. The next, she was on him, pushing him back onto the bed with a strength that made Andy feel as if he’d missed a crucial step in the conversation. Her hands went to his shirt, but she didn’t tear it off, didn’t rush—she unbuttoned it with a careful, almost reverent precision, as if each button was a secret to be solved. Then, with both hands, she peeled the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, her fingers trailing after it like she was savoring the loss of every square inch of fabric.

She made a sound—something low and hungry that might have started as a word, but ended in a gasp. She ran her hands over his chest, his stomach, mapping the terrain with quick, greedy es. Her nails were short but sharp; he felt them drag across his skin, leaving tiny lightning trails in their wake.

She straddled his lap, hair falling in a soft curtain around her face. Her nipples were flushed, her skin hot and slightly damp, her whole body humming with energy so raw it was hard to believe it belonged to the same person who, hours earlier, had been so happy, so carefree about every word and gesture. She was in a new mode now—a creature of friction and momentum, with no room left for second-guessing.

She kissed him, hard. Her mouth was open and wet, her tongue insistent, tasting him with a thoroughness that bordered on devouring. Andy met her, matched her, but she set the pace—every kiss, every grind of her hips, every brush of her chest against his, all of it was calculated to provoke, to escalate, to push him toward a state where there was nothing but sensation.

Her hand found his belt and worked the buckle with the same deft skill she’d used on his buttons. She slid it free, then popped the clasp on his jeans, tugging them down just far enough to free his cock. She wrapped her hand around it without hesitation, stroking with a grip that was neither tentative nor rough—just right.

He hissed, and she grinned, her lips shining with spit and her eyes glazed over with pure animal joy. She held his cock in one hand and pressed the head of it to her cheek, nuzzling it like a cat marking territory. She looked up at him, daring him to look away, then bent her head and took him into her mouth.

There was no preamble, no slow buildup. Liesa engulfed him, lips sealing around the shaft, tongue swirling around the head with a practiced, greedy rhythm. She bobbed her head, up and down, her hair swinging in time with her movement. Each time she pulled back, she opened her mouth wide and let him see the glistening trail between her lips and the tip of his cock; each time she went down, she took him deeper, the pressure of her mouth unyielding, perfectly insistent.

Andy let his head fall back, hands fisting in the sheets. It was impossible to think, impossible to do anything but feel.

Liesa moaned around him, the sound vibrating all the way through his pelvis. She upped the tempo, one hand squeezing the base of his cock while the other cupped his balls, rolling them in her palm. She was utterly focused—her own arousal manifesting not as a need for immediate penetration, but as a burning, insatiable desire to please, to consume, to drive Andy to the brink and hold him there for as long as she could.

Her hips ground against his thigh, slick with her own wetness, and every now and then she’d break rhythm to straddle him higher, pressing her pussy to his skin, grinding in tight, **** circles. But then she’d drop her head again and take him back into her mouth, more insistent than before, like she needed him to fill her in every way possible.

She swallowed him down, taking him as deep as she could, gagging just a little, then pulling off with a gasp, her eyes watering but her expression triumphant. Andy tried to speak, but she went down on him again before he could form words. He could feel her lips stretch, the suction intensifying, her tongue lapping at the sensitive underside of his shaft. It was relentless, merciless, every stroke calculated to make him lose control.

Edged the Master! +1 VP

He felt it build—first as a tightness, then as a helpless, rolling surge that started at the base of his spine and shot straight to the crown of his cock. He warned her, but Liesa just held him tighter, sucking harder, and he came, hard, filling her mouth in two, three, four hot pulses before she pulled back and the rest of his load splashed over her face and neck.

Blowjob! +4 VP
Pearl Necklace! +2 VP
Facial! +2 VP

Only when he started to soften did she lick the head once for good measure before sitting up and wiping her face with the back of her hand, licking it like a cat.

Her face was flushed, her hair wild, her eyes shining with pleasure and something more—pride, maybe, or the thrill of having let herself be this thing, this version of herself, without apology.

She crawled up next to him, body slick with sweat, her breathing ragged. She draped herself over him, her breasts pressing against his arm, her thigh thrown possessively over his. For a long moment, she just lay there, shuddering with aftershocks of her own, hips still twitching against his leg, her cunt soaking wet and leaving a smear on his skin.

Andy reached for her, brushed a strand of hair from her face. She kissed him, deep and hungry, and he tasted himself on her tongue. They moved together with the kind of understanding that didn’t need language, just the raw impulse of touch and counter-touch.

As soon as Andy’s hand slid between her legs, Liesa moaned and ground against him, her body so wet it felt feverish. She was shameless now—no reticence, no strategic waiting for him to take the lead. She let herself go completely, writhing under his hand, bucking her hips, chasing the pleasure with a desperation that seemed to consume her from the inside out.

He circled her clit with two fingers, gentle at first, but she wasn’t patient for gentle. She grabbed his wrist and pressed it harder, then let out a wild, wordless sound that told him exactly what she needed. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him down, grinding her pussy against his palm so he could feel every throb, every urgent pulse of her need.

She shuddered, the first orgasm slamming through her so hard she almost sobbed. “Fuck, Andy, don’t stop, don’t—” He didn’t. He kept going, fingers working her even as her whole body seized up, her thighs quivering around his hand, her breath coming in ragged, stuttering gasps.

When she finally stilled, she pulled him up and kissed him, deep and biting, her teeth scraping his lip. “Now you,” she said, her voice rough and almost hoarse. “I want to feel you inside me, I want it so much.” She sounded like she might cry if he made her wait.

He lined up, the head of his cock slick and already leaking, and slid into her with a single, smooth thrust. She arched, gasped, and clawed at his back, her nails leaving stinging little marks that only made it better. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight, her body a perfect, hungry vise that drew him in and wouldn’t let go.

They fucked, slow at first—Andy holding back, savoring the impossible heat of her, the way she clenched around him with every movement. But the transformation in her was all-consuming, and after a minute she started to rock against him, faster and faster, wordlessly begging him to match her. He did, letting the rhythm build, letting her body dictate the pace.

She was so vocal now, every moan and gasp and plea spilling out without filter. “Yes—oh god, yes, don’t stop, harder, harder—” and when he fucked her harder, she shrieked and bit his shoulder, her cunt spasming around him as she came again. Each orgasm seemed to stoke the next, her body never settling, always rolling forward into more.

She pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him, riding him with an abandon that bordered on animal. Her hair stuck to her cheeks and her breasts bounced with every movement, her nipples hard and flushed, her eyes wild and locked on his face. She set the pace, grinding down, rolling her hips, chasing her own pleasure and daring Andy to try and keep up.

He could barely hang on. She was relentless, each movement wringing more sensation from him, more and more until he thought he’d break. When he came the second time, it was with Liesa screaming on top of him, her cunt clenching and milking every drop out of him. She collapsed onto his chest, panting, her skin slick and salty, her arms wrapped tight around his neck as if she never wanted to let go.

But even then, she wasn’t done. After a minute or two, she slid down his body, took his cock into her mouth again, and sucked him back to hardness with a focus that was almost religious. She kissed and licked and worshipped him, never once letting her eyes leave his, as if daring him to look away.

He didn’t.

When she was satisfied, she threw her leg over and lined him up again, sinking down onto him with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips. She sat up straight, one hand braced on his chest, the other moving to her own breast—cupping it, squeezing, her thumb dragging slow circles over her nipple until it stiffened under her touch. She watched his face while she did it, chin tipped down, her expression somewhere between daring him and losing herself entirely. Her hips never stopped moving. She brought both hands up then, palming her breasts together, rolling her nipples between her fingers, her breath catching each time she did. She got her orgasm that way—shaking and swearing in Flemish and English both, her hands still at her chest, her whole body quivering as she collapsed onto him for the third time.

Played with Boobs in front of Master! +2 VP

This was how they spent the night—shifting, rolling, finding new ways to tangle their bodies together, never quite satisfied, never quite finished. All the careful edits were gone. She lived entirely in the moment, devouring sensation, never shying from her own hunger or the pleasure it brought.

Every time she came, she clung to him, gasping, “You’re mine, Andy, you’re fucking mine,” as if the only thing that could possibly anchor her to the world was his body, his presence, his hands on her. She didn’t care how loud she was, didn’t care that that Laura might hear, didn’t care that tomorrow would come with a hangover of memory and emotion. All that mattered was now.

After what felt like hours, they finally lay side by side, tangled in the wreckage of the sheets, both of them spent and shaking. Liesa’s head rested on his shoulder, her hair plastered to his chest, her breath hot on his neck.

Andy stroked her back, slow and gentle, feeling the rise and fall of her breath, the way her heart still raced under her skin. He whispered, “I love you, Liesa,” and she squeezed him tighter, her reply just a shudder and a long, slow exhale.

---

For a long time after, they just lay there. Not in the way of people who have said everything, but as if even the smallest motion would risk rolling them off the narrow balance beam between pleasure and exhaustion. Liesa’s skin was tacky with sweat, her breathing still not regular, and Andy’s arm was half-numb from where she’d pinned it beneath her neck. He didn’t move, not even when a trickle of sweat started an icy migration down his ribs. If she noticed, she didn’t comment.

When at last she did move, Liesa stretched one arm out, fingers scrawling blindly across the sheets until they landed on her underwear, which had been banished to the far corner of the bed sometime in the last hour. She retrieved them and, with a minimal shuffle, wriggled them back up her legs. The process was careful, deliberate; not an ounce of self-consciousness, just a pilot re-engaging with the controls after a long time on autopilot.

She rolled onto her side, burrowed into the crook of Andy’s arm, and let her head drop to his shoulder. Her hand rested flat against his chest, splayed as if to keep him from floating away. Andy could feel her heartbeat, fast at first, then slowing, then matching his. It felt almost artificial, a loop of biology and affection, but neither of them broke the spell by naming it.

For a while, neither spoke. The only sound was their mingled breathing and, distantly, the clink and rush of glassware from the floor below, where some other version of themselves might be having a night less complicated, or maybe just differently complicated. The windows were open to the evening, and through the crack in the curtains Andy could see the river, still gold where the streetlights hit it, still holding the day’s warmth in its slow, blank current.

Finally, Liesa said, not looking at him, “You know, I never believed I would see you again. Not really.” Her accent was thick, the words slurred at the edges by fatigue and, maybe, by the simple laziness of not wanting to be understood too perfectly.

Andy kept his eyes on the ceiling, tracing the lines of the LED that ringed the room. “I didn’t, either,” he said.

She made a sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You were always too good. Too… innocent.” She rolled the word in her mouth, testing it, then snorted. “I thought, if you ever really saw me, all the way to the bottom, you’d run.” She turned to look at him, her cheek pressing into the hollow below his collarbone. “But you’re still here.” It wasn’t a question.

“I am,” he said, and meant it.

They let that rest, the silence filling back in.

A minute later, Liesa said, “You know what I want?”

Andy said, “Tell me.”

She thought about it. “I want to be yours.” She paused, letting the words hang there, then clarified, “Not just tonight. Not just when we are lucky or lonely.” She was picking her way through the sentence, careful with every step. “I want to belong. To you. If you’ll have me.”

Andy’s heart gave a wild little stutter, not quite panic but not far off. He’d never been asked for something so direct, not even by Erin. With her, everything had been a negotiation, a slow detente of needs and histories. This was different.

He turned his head to look at Liesa, really look. Her eyes were fixed on some point past his shoulder, jaw set with the determination of someone who’d rather die than have to repeat herself. Her hand tightened on his chest, not hard but enough to remind him she was there.

He said, “I want that, too. I always have.”

She closed her eyes, breathing out a fraction slower. “I’m going to ask you, one day, I promise,” she said, voice steady. “Not now. But when I am ready. I want it to be a real question.”

Andy said, “I’ll wait.”

She smiled, the kind that barely moved her lips but changed her whole face. “You’re patient. I like that.”

“You’re worth it.”

She snorted, the sound soft and almost embarrassed. “Nobody is worth that much patience.”

“You are, to me.”

She kissed him then, not a hungry, insistent thing but a simple press of lips to skin, as if marking him for later. Her hand traced a slow, absent line down his chest, not for pleasure but as a kind of tether, keeping her from drifting away again.