Chapter Fifty-Two: Gratitude

They’d fallen asleep on the sofa, watching some bad tv and drinking cheap wine when they’d decided they shouldn’t waste the good stuff.

It hadn’t been planned—none of it had been, really. One moment she was curled up with her feet in his lap, teasing him for his taste in TV, and the next, she was waking up with her cheek pressed against his chest, the soft rhythm of his breathing grounding her in the quiet gray light of early morning.

“Shit,” he muttered stirring awake. “What time is it?”

Marissa blinked against the fuzziness in her head, squinting toward the window. “Early,” she said checking her watch, six thirty-ish it seemed.

He shifted slightly, careful not to jolt her, and ran a hand over her shoulder in lazy circles. “We fell asleep to re-runs of Family Matters?”

“All I remember is Steve turning into that weird, sexy version of himself,” she mumbled. “Stefan Urquelle.”

“That’s not real.”

“It absolutely is,” she said, sitting up and running her fingers through her hair. “You missed out.”

“I was distracted,” he said, his hand absently tracing circles on the spot where her leg had rested. “Also… you snore.”

She gave him a flat look. “You snore.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” she said, smirking. “Just a little. It’s kind of charming, actually. Little huff-snore. Like a confused puppy.”

“Yeah, that’s what guys like to hear.”

She reached up, fingers combing her hair out of her face. “Damn. Should have brought my bonnet.”

“Bonnet?”

“See, that’s how I know you’ve been with a black girl in your life.”

“Don’t suppose our night at the hotel counts?”

“It does not,” she said. Her fingers brushed the hem of his T-shirt as she looked up into his face. Her voice was quiet but steady, something grounding in it. “Speaking of which…”

“I want to thank you for last night,” she said.

Daniel started to speak, but she cut him off with a glance and a soft shake of her head.

“Not just for letting me stay,” she continued. “Not for the wine or the couch or the bad TV. I mean for… for what you didn’t do.”

His mouth opened again, uncertain. “Marissa—”

“No,” she said firmly, but not unkindly. “You know how easy it could have been?”

She held his gaze. No flinch. No apology.

“I asked you to fuck me,” she said, blunt, because there was no point in softening it now. “I was hurting. I was drunk. I was spiraling. I threw myself at you. Begged, practically.”

“But you didn’t,” she said. “You saw the state I was in, and you said no. You held me instead.”

“Marissa.”

“I said hush,” she smiled this time. “You know what that makes you Reyes?”

He blinked, unsure if it was a trap. “Uh…”

“Makes you a hero.”

She let the word hang between them for a beat, watching his face. Then her lips curved, just slightly. A hint of mischief breaking through the tenderness, she leaned in to whisper in his ear. "And you know what heroes get, right?"

His breath caught. Just barely. But she felt it.

"Marissa..."

"They get the girl," she whispered, leaning in until her lips were almost brushing his. "At least, that's how it works in the movies."

"This isn't a movie."

"No," she agreed. "It's better."

And then she kissed him.

She remembers his lips still, remembered how he tasted. Remembered how tentative he was at the start. “I don’t bite,” she said.

He kissed her back, but carefully. Tentatively. Like he was still waiting for her to change her mind.

She pulled back just enough to look at him.

"I'm sure," she said, reading the question in his eyes before he could ask it. "I'm not running from anything this time. I'm choosing you. This. Right now."

"You don't owe me anything—"

"I know." She kissed the corner of his mouth. "That's not what this is."

"Then what is it?"

She considered that, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "It's me wanting you.”

He hesitated, and she saw the disbelief flicker across his face—the same doubt that had lingered since the beginning.

“Yeah, I know,” she said with a wry smile. “I’m gay. I’m a lesbian. It’s not supposed to make sense.”

She leaned in again, her voice low, sincere.

“But I don’t care. Not right now. Right now, I want you.”

She moved quietly, it deliberately off of him, down between his legs, she looked up, like a cat with its new toy but unsure about how to play with it.

“Look I’ve never done this before,;” she said tugging his trousers down.

It was true. Even the night where they’d had a wild sex night, she’d avoided anything like this.

“But this time I want to,” she said tugging his trousers down to reveal his length.

“Huh, not hard yet,” she said. Last time he hadn’t needed much encouragement. There was no judgement behind it—just an edge of challenge. Of curiosity. Of wanting to know what she could do to change that.

Her fingers were warm and sure as she reached out, brushing along his length without hesitation. She glanced up again, aware of how she must look right now—hair tumbling around her face, eyes sharp and knowing.

“I’m improvising,” she murmured, pulling her hair back with one hand and giving him a wicked little smirk. “Go easy on the Yelp review.”

She leaned in, lips brushing against the inside of his thigh—a kiss, soft and lingering. Her breath was warm, her mouth tentative but eager.

“Like that, Reyes?” she asked, voice teasing, almost lazy, as her grip adjusted, steady and unhurried.

He groaned something that might’ve been her name.

She could smell him—salt, skin, musk. A man’s scent. Different from what she was used to. Rawer. Stranger. And he didn’t need to know that comparison, not really.

She still liked women. That hadn’t changed. But this wasn’t about labels. It was about him. And if she didn’t know how to explain it, maybe that was okay.

This felt like crossing some final frontier. And if her lesbian friends could see her now…

Well—not Leah. Leah would be howling with laughter. Probably live-texting commentary to their group chat.

She parted her lips though, she needed to focus, her hands on his knees, and she took it in her lips. She felt it now.

His warmth, a slight tremor when she took his cock between her lips. The taste, slightly salty, a little tang. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, only that when she heard him groan, because of what she was doing, that she wanted to continue.

She felt him twitch, and she pulled away, having to take a moment to breathe.

“Hey,” he said quietly to her. His hand came over to stroke her cheek, she could tell he was flushed. “You can stop.”

“Hey,” he said softly. His hand reached down, brushing her cheek, warm and reassuring. His voice was low, wrecked. “You can stop if you want.”

She looked up, flushed, lips damp, hair a little wild now. And she smiled. “Who said anything about stopping?”

She returned a little more determined, her tongue at his base, she thought to herself that this was what men liked? Getting a chance to feel all of himself being adored.

And he deserved it, after all he’d done, or rather hadn’t done.

She whispered quietly against his length. “You deserve this, Reyes—Daniel,” she said using his name.

After what he’d gone through, cheated on by his wife, made to think he wasn’t enough. He deserved that.

And so did she, Marissa decided. She deserves to be seen as someone who was desired. Who deserved to be made safe.

So, she took him in her mouth again.

This wasn’t a porno. She wasn’t some sudden expert just because the mood shifted or the music got soft. She didn’t know what she was doing, not really.

It was a little clumsy. Her rhythm off. There was an awkward brush of teeth once or twice. She gagged slightly when she went too far and had to pull back, wiping the corner of her mouth and catching her breath with a faint laugh.

“Sorry,” she muttered, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Told you I was improvising.”

But he wasn’t laughing. “Marissa, god,” he whispered. “Don’t worry about it. You’re perfect,” he murmured.

She paused for a second, it was probably the adrenaline talking, but it felt good to hear.

She exhaled, rolled her shoulders, and leaned back in. Slower this time. More deliberate. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She just wanted him. The sound he made when she got it right, the involuntary hitch of his breath, the low hum in his throat, that was enough to keep her going.

She let her hand work in tandem, steadying her movements, trying to remember to breathe through her nose. He was warm, and getting harder with each stroke, each glide of her mouth. Her hair fell forward again, but she didn’t stop.

This wasn’t about performance.

It was about care. About intimacy. About rewriting something for both of them.

And when he whispered her name, when his hand slid down to gently brush the back of her head, not pushing, just being there, she felt it. That connection. That trust.

He groaned out, as she ran her tongue against his length, “I’m g-g-gonna cum.”

She looked up, unsure what to do with that information. What was the protocol here? She didn’t know, and in the time it took her to consider she felt him twitch and suddenly, she felt him pulse, warmth flooding her mouth And she felt it fill her mouth.

The taste was odd, not like a woman’s juices, not sweet either. Maybe a little more bitter.

She swallowed what she could and wiped the back of her mouth. She made a note to herself to figure out a way to make that taste better.

“Holy fuck,” he curses eyes wide at the sight. Marissa had actually swallowed.

She shrugged, “Well, that was an experience,” she said trying to process it. She stood about to go get washed up, but he pulled her by the wrist and kissed her.

She hadn’t expected that, after all she likely still had his taste, but she leaned into the kiss. And he held her close hands cupping her face as they kissed.

He pulled back, those impossibly green eyes on her, “Bedroom?” He asked.

“Bedroom,” she said.

He stood, pulling her up with him, their mouths finding each other again—slower this time, deeper. Like they had all the time in the world.