Alex shut the front door behind the last of Jake's crew, turned the deadbolt, and exhaled like a man surfacing from deep water.
Elena waited in the living room, barefoot in the yellow sundress, the one that had nearly killed him all weekend.
She held the velvet box from Chapter 12 in both hands.
"Punishment time," she said softly.
He crossed the room in three strides, took the box, set it on the coffee table.
"Strip."
She obeyed (slow, deliberate, letting the straps slide off her shoulders, the cotton pool at her feet).
Naked except for the faint bruises his mouth had left on her inner thighs.
He opened the box, tipped it.
Twenty-three photographs spilled across the dark wood floor like contraband confetti.
"On your knees."
She sank down among them.
He circled her once, twice, then crouched behind her.
Picked up the oven shot (her bent over, sundress high, unaware).
"This one almost got us caught," he said against her ear.
"Connor's phone was two feet away."
She shivered.
He laid the photo in front of her.
"Hands on it."
She flattened her palms over her own frozen image.
He nudged her knees wider with his foot.
Unzipped.
Rubbed the head of his cock through her folds (once, twice), coating himself in her.
"You teased me for three days," he said, voice low.
"Every time you bent over. Every time you reached high. Every time you smiled at them like you weren't dripping for me."
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"No you're not."
He thrust in (hard, punishing, perfect).
She cried out, fingers scrabbling on the glossy print.
He set a brutal pace (hips slamming, the slap of skin loud in the quiet house).
Every photo beneath her palms shifted with the force of it.
"Look at them," he growled.
"Look at what you do to me."
She did (saw herself scattered in pieces: laughing, sleeping, bending, always his).
He reached around, pinched her clit.
"Come. Now."
She shattered (back arching, a broken sob tearing from her throat).
He didn't stop.
Pulled out, flipped her onto her back, scattering the photos further.
Entered her again, slower this time, eyes locked.
"Count them," he said.
She blinked, dazed.
"The photos. Count every time I make you come."
He started moving (deep, grinding, relentless).
"One," she gasped as the second orgasm rolled through her.
He shifted angles, hit that spot inside her that made her see stars.
"Two."
He lifted her legs over his shoulders, folded her nearly in half.
"Three—Alex—please—"
He leaned down, kissed her filthy and sweet.
"Four."
By seven she was sobbing, oversensitive, begging.
By ten the photos were stuck to her sweat-slick back, her thighs, her breasts.
He finally let himself go on eleven (pulled out, painted her stomach, her breasts, the scattered images beneath her in thick white ropes).
Then he collapsed beside her on the wreckage of their secret gallery.
They lay panting among the ruined prints (some crumpled, some torn, all claimed).
After a long silence, he gathered them gently, one by one.
Kissed each sticky corner.
"New rule," he said, voice hoarse.
"Every month, we add one. Taken together. No more stealing."
She turned, kissed him slow.
"Deal. But I get to choose the pose."
He smiled against her lips.
"Only if I get to ruin you in it."
She laughed, breathless.
"Always."
They left the photos exactly where they were (scattered across the living room floor like a crime scene of love).
Curled up on the couch instead, naked and sticky and utterly owned.
Tomorrow they'd frame the best one.
Tonight, they slept in the evidence.
Elena had sent Mark to Tokyo again (another "emergency conference," another lie that rolled off her tongue like honey).
The house was theirs for four full days.
She waited in the foyer wearing nothing but a black silk ribbon tied around her throat and the velvet box from the scattered photos clutched to her chest.
Candles lined the staircase (twenty of them, one for every year she'd loved him).
The front door opened.
Alex stepped inside, dropped his duffel, and froze.
"Happy birthday, baby."
He shut the door with his heel, eyes never leaving her.
"Mom…"
"Elena," she corrected, same as always on nights like this.
She set the box on the console table, turned it toward him.
"Open it."
He lifted the lid.
Inside: a brass key on a thin silver chain, and a single photograph (new, taken yesterday while he was at the gym).
The photo showed her on her knees in the bedroom mirror, wrists bound behind her back with the same black ribbon around her throat, eyes blindfolded, lips parted.
On the back, in her handwriting:
**Your apartment. Downtown. Ours. Move in tonight.**
Alex's breath left him in a rush.
She stepped closer, took the key from the box, and fastened the chain around his neck.
The metal settled warm against his collarbone.
"I signed the lease this morning," she whispered.
"Top floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows. No neighbors on either side."
She pressed her naked body to his clothed one.
"Somewhere we never have to hide again."
He cupped her face, thumbs trembling.
"You're giving me… us?"
"I'm giving you everything."
He kissed her (slow, reverent, then desperate).
Lifted her against the door, hands under her thighs, and carried her upstairs.
The candles flickered as they passed, wax pooling like tears.
In their bedroom (soon to be just hers, soon to be just a guest room), he laid her on the bed and stripped slow, letting her watch.
When he was naked, he crawled over her, the key glinting between them.
"Tell me the rules," he said against her lips.
She smiled, wicked and soft.
"No rules tonight. Just you. Just me. Just twenty."
He entered her in one deep thrust (no teasing, no warmup, just home).
She cried out, nails raking down his back.
They fucked like the world was ending (hard, then soft, then hard again).
On the bed.
Against the window, city lights smearing across their skin.
On the floor among the scattered birthday candles, wax dripping onto her breasts, his tongue chasing every drop.
At 3:07 a.m., he carried her to the shower, washed her slow, then bent her over the bench and took her again while steam curled around them.
At 5:22 a.m., they lay tangled in the wrecked sheets, his head on her stomach, her fingers in his hair.
"I have one more gift," she whispered.
She reached under the pillow, pulled out a small black-and-white ultrasound print.
Six weeks.
Heartbeat 162 bpm.
Alex stared, tears spilling before he could stop them.
"Yours," she said simply.
"Only yours. Always."
He pressed his lips to the tiny image, then to her still-flat belly, then to her mouth (salt and sex and forever).
"I'm never leaving you," he vowed, voice breaking.
"Not for college. Not for him. Not for anything."
She pulled him down, guided him inside her again (slow, reverent, tears mixing with sweat).
Outside, the sun rose over the quiet house.
Inside, they made love until noon, the key warm between their hearts, the future growing inside her with every thrust.
Twenty years old.
And already a father.
Already hers in every way that mattered.