"Man, why is this game so fucking hard?" I muttered, my eyes locked on the Tree Sentinel looming just beyond the golden grace of the First Step.

  That hulking golden knight on his spectral steed, weapon gleaming under the midday sun, patrolling the open fields like an unbreakable wall.

  I'd cwed my way past the Soldier of Godrick after thirty grueling attempts—each one a brutal lesson in timing and desperation—but now this bastard had me pinned right at the start.

  I rubbed my temples hard, feeling the throb of frustration pulse beneath my fingers. "It can't be this hard," I whispered to myself, steeling my nerves as I urged my tarnished warrior forward once more.

  I rolled left, then right, the sentinel's massive weapon whistling past in a blur of gold and fury. But it wasn't enough—he wheeled his mount with impossible speed, impaling my character clean through in a spray of ethereal blood.

  The "YOU DIED" screen faded in, stark red letters on bck, staring back at me like a smug fucking taunt.

  It lingered there, bold and unapologetic, like it was judging my entire existence.

  I leaned back slowly.

  "This game hates me."

  I let out a long, defeated sigh and reached for the power button. The monitor blinked once, then went dark, swallowing the golden fields and that mocking "YOU DIED" screen whole.

  The sudden silence in the room felt almost loud—only the low hum of the cooling fans winding down, then nothing. The knot of tension that had been living between my shoulder bdes finally loosened, like a fist slowly unclenching.

  I leaned back in the chair, rubbing the back of my neck. "Maybe Car was right," I muttered to the empty room. "Elden Ring might not be for me."

  The words hung there a second before I pushed myself up.

  My legs felt heavy, the way they do after too many hours hunched forward, gripping the controller Car bought me like it owed me money. I crossed the room, flipped off the mp, and stepped into the hallway.

  Le was there, same as always—posted just outside the door like a statue carved from midnight. Bck tactical gear, rifle slung low but ready, muzzle angled toward the floor in that practiced way that said she could have it up in half a heartbeat.

  Her eyes flicked to me, sharp and unreadable behind the faint reflection of the hallway sconces. I gave her the small nod we'd developed over the month; she returned it, a single crisp dip of her chin. No words. Never needed them.

  I started down the wide staircase, boots quiet on the runner. The house was still awake in that te-afternoon way—soft light spilling from sconces, distant murmur of a television somewhere on the lower level, the faint metallic tang of gun oil that never quite left the air.

  As I descended, two of the perimeter girls stationed at the nding turned their heads just enough to register me.

  Dark suits, earpieces, eyes scanning in that professional half-second before they looked away again. No greetings, no small talk. Just acknowledgment. I was moving; they noted it; protocol satisfied.

  I neared the east wing, footsteps muffled on the polished hardwood, the faint echo of weights cnging somewhere ahead growing louder with each step.

  The double doors to the gym stood half-ajar, spilling warm yellow light and the sharp scent of rubber and exertion into the hallway. I reached for the knob without really thinking—habit, muscle memory—and pushed through.

  What met me stopped me cold for half a second.

  Car was already sitting up on the bench press, bar racked, legs straddling either side of the padded seat. Her sports bra was gone—tossed somewhere on the nearby dumbbell rack, judging by the bck fabric dangling off a 45-pound pte.

  Her chest rose and fell with heavy, controlled breaths, skin flushed and gleaming under the bright overhead LEDs. Sweat traced slow, shining paths down the valley between her breasts, over the defined curve of her pecs, catching the light like liquid gold.

  She wasn't posing or performing; she was just... there. Breathing. Existing in her body the way only someone who owned every inch of it could.

  I knew it shouldn't have hit me like that. Women train topless all the time, But the world outside these walls had turned bare skin into currency, into endless scrolls of thirst traps and comments and "appreciation" posts that made everything feel charged, even when it wasn't supposed to be.

  I'd seen one this morning while doom-scrolling over coffee: some guy waxing poetic about how much he loved his wife's breasts, complete with heart emojis and a photo cropped just so.

  I'd smirked, scrolled past... and yeah, okay, I won't lie. I get it. I love Car's too. The way they move when she breathes hard, the soft weight of them against my palms, the way her nipples tighten when the air's cool after a set. It's not abstract. It's hers, and it's mine to know.

  Heat crawled up my neck anyway. I felt ridiculous for blushing—like some teenager who'd never seen skin before—but there it was.

  She looked up from her phone, caught my stare, and the corner of her mouth curved. Not mocking. Just... knowing.

  "Hey, baby..." Her voice was low, still a little rough from exertion, the words wrapped in warm amusement.

  I crossed the mats without answering, drawn in like gravity. She didn't move to cover up; she just leaned back slightly on her hands, chest lifting with the motion, watching me approach. When I reached her I bent down, cupped the back of her neck—fingers sliding into damp hair—and kissed her.

  Her lips were warm, parted, tasting of salt and the faint metallic edge of effort. A bead of sweat slipped from her hairline, rolled down her temple, and I chased it with my tongue before kissing her deeper.

  She made a small, pleased sound against my mouth, one hand coming up to grip my shirt, tugging me closer until I had to brace a knee on the bench between her thighs.

  When we broke apart, her forehead rested against mine, breath mingling.

  "Tough session?" Car asked, her voice still husky from the workout, one eyebrow lifted in that half-teasing, half-curious way she had.

  I nodded, letting out a short, tired chuckle. "Yeah... whatever though. I just want to be here with you." The words came out quieter than I meant, almost swallowed by the hum of the AC and the distant cnk of cooling metal racks.

  She smiled—small, real—and I leaned in again, kissing her lips once more. Slower this time. Her mouth was warm, yielding just enough, still carrying that faint tang of effort and the sweetness underneath that was all her.

  I lingered there, breathing her in, until the knot in my chest finally unraveled completely.

  When I pulled back, my eyes dropped. Her torso was right there—close enough to count the shallow ridges of her abs, each one carved sharp and defined under the sheen of sweat.

  The overhead lights turned every droplet into a tiny prism, catching gold and white as her chest rose and fell. A thin rivulet slid down the center line, tracing the deep cut between her rectus abdominis, disappearing into the waistband of her shorts.

  My mouth watered before I could stop it. I licked my lips—pure reflex—and caught myself too te.

  Car noticed. Of course she did.

  "Go ahead..." she murmured, voice dropping low. Her hand drifted down, fingertips trailing zily across the slick pne of her stomach, drawing my gaze like a magnet. She pressed just enough to make the muscles flex under her touch, a slow ripple that sent another bead of sweat rolling sideways toward her oblique.

  I didn't hesitate.

  I dropped to my knees between her spread thighs, hands sliding up the outsides of her legs for bance. The rubber mat was cool under me; her skin was furnace-hot. I leaned in, nose brushing first, inhaling the clean-sharp scent of her sweat mixed with whatever citrus body wash she'd used that morning.

  Then my tongue—ft, deliberate—dragged up the center channel of her abs.

  Salt bloomed instant and bright across my taste buds. Sharp, mineral, alive. I chased the next droplet, licking sideways into the shallow groove between two ridges, then down again, following the path gravity had started. Every crevice got attention—slow, thorough strokes that left her skin glistening with my spit instead of sweat. She tasted like effort and heat and something primal that made my pulse thud heavy in my ears.

  Car let out a soft, approving hum, fingers threading into my hair—not pulling, just holding.

  Her abs tightened under my mouth as I worked lower, tongue dipping into the shallow dip just above her navel, then fttening again to p broad across the lower row.

  Another bead slid free; I caught it before it could escape, sucking lightly at the skin there until I felt her shiver.

  "Fuck..." she breathed, half-ugh, half-sigh. Her free hand braced on the bench behind her, arching her back just enough to push those carved lines closer to my mouth. "You're thorough tonight."

  I pulled back only long enough to meet her eyes—dark, heavy-lidded now—and grinned against her skin.

  "Only the best for my champion," I muttered, then dove back in, slower this time, savoring every salty inch like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

  And right then, it was.

  "God... I need more of you," I breathed, the words rough and needy against her skin.

  My face was already drifting lower, drawn by the heat rolling off her in waves. I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her bck shorts—still damp at the edges from sweat—and tugged them down in one slow, deliberate pull.

  She lifted her hips just enough to help, the fabric sliding over the curve of her ass, down her powerful thighs, past her calves until I yanked them free and tossed them aside in a careless heap near the dumbbell rack.

  No briefs underneath. Just bare, glistening skin and the dark, neat trim of hair framing her already swollen folds. The sight hit me like a punch—raw, open, waiting.

  Car spread her thighs wider, one foot pnting on the bench for leverage, the other dangling off the side. Her eyes locked on mine, heavy with command and amusement.

  "You want to make mommy feel good, don't you... slutty boy?" she cooed, voice velvet-low, dripping with that teasing edge that always made my stomach flip.

  I swallowed hard—throat clicking audibly—and nodded once, sharp. Then I dove in.

  My tongue found her clit immediately, ft and broad at first, pping up the length of her slit in one long, greedy stroke. She was soaked—sweat and arousal mixing into something slick and heady that coated my lips instantly.

  I circled her clit with the tip of my tongue, then sucked it gently between my lips, flicking fast little pulses against the underside the way I knew made her thighs tremble.

  Her cunt throbbed against my mouth—hot, insistent, pulsing like a second heartbeat. I groaned into her, the vibration pulling a sharp gasp from her throat. Hands slid into my hair again, tighter this time, guiding without forcing, holding me exactly where she wanted.

  "That's it..." she moaned, the sound rolling deep and rich, bouncing off the high ceilings and mirrored walls of the gym. "Such a good little bitch for mommy..."

  The praise nded like gasoline on fire. I pressed my tongue harder, fttening it to p broad circles around her clit before dipping lower to push inside her—slow, deep thrusts that mimicked fucking her with my mouth.

  She rocked her hips in shallow, greedy rolls, grinding against my face, smearing wetness across my chin, my cheeks, the bridge of my nose. I didn't care. I wanted to be drenched in her.

  One of her hands left my hair to brace on the bench behind her again, arching her back so her chest thrust forward, nipples tight and dark against flushed skin. The other stayed tangled in my hair, fingers flexing every time I hit just the right spot.

  "Fuck—right there," she hissed, voice cracking on the st word. Her thighs cmped around my ears for a heartbeat, then rexed, trembling.

  "Don't stop. Don't you fucking dare stop, baby..."

  I hummed my agreement against her clit—long, low, vibrating—and doubled down.

  Sucking harder now, tongue flicking relentless little patterns while two fingers slid up to join, curling inside her, stroking that spongy spot that always made her curse under her breath. She was dripping down my wrist, slick and hot, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet gym.

  Her moans grew louder, less controlled—sharp cries that echoed back at us from every direction.

  Her abs flexed hard under the sheen of fresh sweat as her hips bucked, chasing the edge.

  "Gonna come on your pretty face," she panted, voice wrecked. "Gonna soak my good boy... fuck—yes—"

  I curled my fingers harder, sucked her clit between my lips like I was starving for it, and felt her shatter.

  Her whole body locked—thighs squeezing my head, back bowing off the bench, a broken moan tearing out of her throat as she pulsed around my fingers, against my tongue.

  Wave after wave rolled through her, hot gushes coating my mouth, my chin, dripping down my neck. I kept going—gentler now, pping softly through the aftershocks—until her grip in my hair sckened and her breathing turned ragged, shuddering.

  She finally tugged me up by the hair, pulling my face to hers. Her lips crashed into mine—messy, desperate—tasting herself on my tongue with a hungry little growl.

  When she broke the kiss, her forehead pressed to mine, eyes gssy and dark.

  "My filthy little slut," she murmured, thumb swiping across my soaked chin, smearing her wetness like war paint. "We're not done yet... not even close."

  She kissed me again—slower, deeper—and I felt her smile against my mouth.

  "Get those leggings off. Mommy's turn to py."

  ——