NOVEL NEXT Chapter 298: Morning Rom-Com
I needed something real. Something mine to ground me.
Found it in the bedroom.
Madison and Amanda. A study in contrasts tangled in sheets that cost more than most people's monthly rent. Both face down, unconscious, the morning light painting masterpieces across their exposed backs.
The dip of Amanda's spine created a shadowed valley leading down to the sweet swell of her ass, barely covered by Egyptian cotton so soft it practically whispered promises against her skin. Madison's tan lines, faint tracks from some ridiculously exclusive beach, framed the strong lines of her shoulders. Fuck the Louvre; this art hung in my bed. My private collection.
I moved to Amanda first. The bed dipped slightly under my weight. Leaned down, pressed my lips to that warm, sensitive spot between her shoulder blades – the one that always made her melt like caramel in the sun.
Her skin tasted clean, expensive, faintly of some floral lotion Madison doubtlessly insisted on.
The kiss sent a shiver rippling through her, muscles tensing then relaxing under the touch.
"Hey you..." Her voice was thick with sleep, gravelly, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with fucking and everything to do with belonging.
"Hey beautiful." No embellishment needed. She just was.
She pushed herself up just enough, eyes still heavy-lidded, and found my mouth. Morning breath be damned. Her lips were soft, warm, chapped from sleep – achingly real against mine.
That sweetness… it wasn't just taste. It was her. The essence of the girl who'd looked at Harold's millions and family forceful arrangements to marry her off and said, Nah, I'll take the chaos. Her body melted against my chest, soft curves molding to hard muscle, bare breasts warm through my shirt, nipples peaking into hard little points that sent a jolt straight to my dick. Not a demanding jolt, but a remembering one.
I held her. No roaming hands, no urgency. Just kissing her deeper, tasting the profound trust she'd handed me when she chose danger over sterile safety. The choice still knocked me sideways.
"I want to sleep more," she mumbled against my neck, pulling away, her breath hot.
"Of course, beautiful. Beauty needs her sleep." Pressed a kiss to her forehead, tasting salt and night sweat, then breathed in the scent of her hair – expensive French shampoo blended with pure Amanda. Settled her back into the warm nest. She curled up instantly, a contented cat, all soft surrender.
Gods, I fucking loved mine.
Before I could shift towards Madison, she moved. That voice, dark honey and command, wrapped around me like custom-tailored velvet.
"Come here, my king."
King. The position only I held in her life. Just mine. Not the trust fund assholes who'd circled her like vultures at every sterile gala, not the CEOs' spawn waving Ferraris and Cartier like cheap bait.
Just me. The ghost from the wrong side of the tracks who'd somehow walked off with the crown jewels.
This was my Madison. The anchor. The one who looked at the god who burned through lovers, the Dark Lord who made grown women weep and beg, and saw Peter. Saw the fucking mess beneath the power, the kid who might drown in the liquor store earthquake of my own making without her.
Lose yourself in a world sculpted from beauty, power, obscene wealth, and sex so addictive it should be illegal? Easy. Staying sane for twenty-four hours in that shitstorm? That was the trick. Throw in a snarky AI whispering tactical data in your ear and abilities that blurred the line between human and weapon, and madness started looking like a viable retirement plan.
But Madison… she held the tether. My anchor in the hurricane. She kept me fucking here. Grounded in the glorious, messy, complicated reality of owning the world, one woman at a time. And right now, the world felt perfectly, dangerously, beautifully mine.
She undressed me with the precision of a swordswoman—each button surrendered, each zipper lowered under fingers that understood the terrain of my body like a map. Her nails scraped against my ribs: not marks of ownership, but shorthand for I know every scar, every tremor.
Then she pulled me into the chasm between her and Amanda, claiming her spot pressed against my right side, she lay my head on her outstretched arm.
Her breast pressed against my ribs, soft and warm, her heartbeat a rhythm I could write symphonies to.
"Sleep for a few hours at least." Her fingers traced my face with tenderness that had nothing to do with the Eros enhancement. This was just Madison caring for Peter — the real me under all the supernatural bullshit. "You push yourself too hard, baby."
The endearment hit different in the morning light, intimate in ways that made my chest tight.
I closed my eyes as she began humming softly, the melody unfamiliar but soothing, vibrating through her chest into mine. Sleep crept in at the edges like fog rolling off the ocean, soft and inevitable.
"I didn't know you could sing, M," I murmured, already half-gone to whatever dimension exhaustion takes you.
"I can do a lot of things, Honey." Her fingers combed through my hair, nails scraping my scalp in that way that made my whole body relax like she'd found my off switch. "Weeks ago, I didn't know I could share my man with another woman, much less eight, given how territorial I am. But look at me — in bed with you sandwiched between me and a woman I've known for barely a day."
She kissed my forehead, the gesture so tender it made my chest ache like someone was squeezing my heart with velvet gloves. Her lips were soft, slightly sticky with lip balm, leaving a warm imprint that tingled.
Amanda laughed softly behind me, the sound rumbling through her chest into my back. She turned to press against me, her breasts flattening against my spine, nipples two points of heat that made thinking difficult.
Her arm slipped around my waist, fingers tracing patterns on my abs, her lips finding that spot between my shoulder blades that apparently had a direct line to my soul.
"Me neither," she murmured against my skin, her breath hot and damp. "I guess he has that effect on women. Makes us want to not only have him whole but share him with our sisters."
Maybe I did have that effect. Or maybe they were just extraordinary women who understood that love didn't divide like money in a divorce — it multiplied like cancer cells, but the good kind if that existed.
Madison kissed my forehead again, then my hair, her humming resuming. The melody wrapped around me like their bodies, warm and safe and real. Sleep wasn't just approaching — it was seducing me, pulling me down with gentle fingers and whispered promises of peace.
The morning light painted red through my eyelids. Madison's heartbeat in my ear. Amanda's breath on my neck. The scent of expensive sheets mixed with sex and perfume and something uniquely them.
This was what grounding felt like — being held between two women who'd chosen to love not just the god, but the broken kid underneath all the power.
As sleep finally claimed me like a possessive lover, pulling me into dreams that tasted like tomorrow's victories, I thought I heard Madison whisper something. Might have been "I love you" or might have been the wind through the windows or might have been my imagination writing checks my heart couldn't cash. Could've been the wind. Could've been her.
Either way, I believed it.
Either way, I was home.
Either way, the vultures could fucking wait.
Sleep took me then, not gentle but demanding, like everything in my life now — intense and overwhelming and absolutely fucking perfect.