Chapter One

Can't wait to see you tonight.

The text had arrived somewhere around hour three of the quarterly review, right when the CFO was explaining variance analysis to a room full of people who already understood variance analysis. Alex had read it under the table like a teenager, and the rest of the meeting had become background noise.

Six words. No photo, no elaboration—just Mia's name and six words glowing on his screen. A year ago, he would have smiled and texted back something equally simple. But lately, her messages had started landing differently. There was heat underneath them now. Promise. Her “goodnight” texts had turned into “I've been thinking about you all day.” Her “how's work?” had become “I'm counting down the hours.”

And when she said she couldn't wait to see him, what she meant was: I'm going to take you apart tonight, and you're going to love it.

He'd sat through four more hours of budget projections with that knowledge burning a hole in his pocket. Every time his phone buzzed—a calendar reminder, an email from IT—his pulse jumped. By the time the meeting finally ended and he'd escaped to his car, the anticipation had turned into something physical. A restlessness under his skin that had nothing to do with the eight hours he'd spent trapped in a conference room.

He normally worked from home—joggers and good shirts, video calls from the waist up, freedom to pace around the apartment when his brain needed movement. But today the executives had flown in from Chicago, which meant catered lunch that somehow made sandwiches feel corporate, a chair that had been ergonomically designed by someone who hated spines, and fluorescent lights buzzing at a frequency specifically calibrated to make human beings question their life choices.

Now he stood outside their apartment door, loosening his tie, rolling the tension out of his neck. Two years together. Eight months living in this apartment. And she could still do this to him with six words and a promise.

Can't wait...

He opened the door.

Mia was waiting just inside the entryway, and whatever Alex had been planning to say about the meeting from hell evaporated somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

She was wearing something he'd never seen before—an oversized sweater in charcoal gray, but not the cozy kind. This one was designed to do exactly what it was doing: the neckline slipped off one shoulder, the hem hit mid-thigh, and the cashmere clung to curves it was pretending to hide. Bare legs. Bare feet. Nothing underneath, if the way the fabric moved was any indication.

Her dark hair fell across her face in messy waves, framing those green eyes that were watching him with undisguised amusement.

Say something, his brain suggested. Words. You know words.

“Hi,” he said.

Her dimple appeared—the real one, the one she didn't show in polite company. “You're staring.”

“I'm—” He blinked. “Yeah. I am.”

“Hmm.” She tilted her head, letting her gaze drift down his rumpled button-down, his loosened tie, the jacket he was still holding like he'd forgotten what hands were for. “Long day?”

“The longest. But I'm having trouble remembering why that matters.”

Her smile curved. “Good answer.”

The apartment smelled like garlic and rosemary—warm and savory, the kind of smell that usually meant Alex had been at the stove for an hour. But tonight, two plates were already waiting on the small dining table. Pasta with something green. A bottle of wine, opened and breathing. Candles lit.

“You cooked?” He was still processing this when Mia stepped closer and started working on his tie, fingers brushing his throat.

“I attempted to cook.” She tugged the knot loose, pulled the silk free from his collar. “You had your horrible meeting. I knew you wouldn't have time.” Her hands moved to his top button. Then the second. “The recipe had good reviews. If it's terrible—” third button, her knuckles grazing his chest “—we can order Thai.”

“It smells incredible.”

“You're biased.” She pushed his shirt open, palms flat against his undershirt, and he forgot what they were talking about.

“Extremely.” His voice came out thick. “But also correct.”

She laughed—the real one, from her chest, dimple showing—and rose on her toes to kiss the corner of his jaw. “Sit. Eat. I want to hear about every boring minute of your day.”

“You want me to sit and eat.” His hands had found her waist, the cashmere impossibly soft, the warmth of her bleeding through. “While you're wearing... this.”

“Mmhmm.” She was already pulling back, moving toward the table, but she let her fingers trail down his arm as she went. “I worked hard on that pasta.”

He followed her like he was on a string. They sat. She poured wine. He picked up his fork and watched her do the same, and for approximately thirty seconds they pretended this was a normal dinner.

Then her bare foot traced up his ankle under the table.

“So.” She twirled pasta onto her fork, not looking at him. “Tell me about variance analysis.”

“I can't remember what that means.”

“No?” Her foot slid higher, tracing up his calf. “That's a shame. It sounded very important.”

He set his fork down. “You're not playing fair.”

“I'm not playing anything.” She took a bite of pasta, chewed slowly, watching him with bright eyes. “I'm eating dinner. You should try it.”

He tried. He actually tried. He got the fork halfway to his mouth before she reached across the table and ran her thumb across his lower lip, catching a drop of sauce that wasn't there.

“Missed a spot,” she said innocently.

The fork clattered onto his plate.

Mia grinned—sharp, triumphant—and that was it. He was out of his chair and pulling her up from hers, and she came willingly, laughing against his mouth as he kissed her. Her hands were in his hair, his were under that sweater, and the table knocked against the wall as they stumbled past it.

“The food—” she started.

“Don't care.”

“The wine—”

“Don't care.”

She laughed again, breathless now, and tugged him toward the bedroom. “Good answer.”

They left a trail of clothes between the kitchen and the bed—his shirt somewhere near the hallway, his undershirt pulled over his head by her impatient hands just inside the bedroom door, his pants kicked off in a graceless stumble that made her laugh against his mouth.

Then she stepped back, just out of reach, and pulled the sweater over her head.

He'd been right. Nothing underneath.

Breathing, he reminded himself. Breathing is a thing humans do.

She stood there for a moment, letting him look. Candlelight from the living room caught the curve of her hip, the soft weight of her breasts, the flush already spreading across her chest. Two years, and she could still stop his heart with a sweater on the floor.

“Come here,” she said, her voice dropped low enough to make his skin prickle.

He closed the distance between them, and when his hands settled on her waist—warm skin instead of cashmere now—she made a small sound in her throat that short-circuited whatever was left of his higher brain function.

They tumbled onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs sorting itself out until he was above her, her thighs parting to make room for him. The feel of her beneath him, skin against skin from chest to hip—familiar and electric at the same time. He kissed her slower now, deeper, one hand tracing down her ribs while the other tangled in her hair.

“I love you,” he murmured against her throat. It came out the way it always did with her—not a declaration but a reflex, like breathing, like his heart had a direct line to his mouth that bypassed his brain entirely.

“I love you too.” She arched into his touch, her nails dragging lightly down his back. Her voice had gone velvet-soft, but there was an edge underneath. “Now stop talking and show me.”

Yes ma'am, he thought, and then stopped thinking much at all.

He kissed his way down her body—the hollow of her throat, the soft swell of her breast, the sensitive spot below her ribs that made her squirm. She was already wet when his fingers slid between her thighs, already making those breathless sounds that meant she'd been thinking about this as long as he had.

He wanted to take his time. Draw it out. But Mia had other ideas—she pulled him up, wrapped her legs around him, and the look in her eyes said now.

When he pushed inside her, they both exhaled like they'd been holding their breath for hours. Maybe they had been.

He started slow, savoring the way she rose to meet him, the way her eyes fluttered closed and her lips parted. But Mia's hands gripped his hips, urging him faster, and he was helpless to deny her anything. The pace built until they were both panting, until sweat prickled at his temples and his thighs burned with the effort.

She was close—her body tightening around him, her cries climbing in pitch. He held on, focused entirely on her, watching her face as she crested. When she came, her whole body went rigid, her back arching off the mattress, his name torn from her throat.

The sight of her—undone, beautiful, his—pulled him over with her. He buried his face in her neck and let go, the release crashing through him in waves that left him shaking.

For a long moment, they just breathed. His weight was on her, probably too heavy, but she was holding him there with her arms wrapped around his back, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his shoulder blade.

This, he thought. This is the good part.

Then Mia shifted beneath him, and he felt her smile against his temple.

“My turn,” she whispered.

Before he could process, she'd rolled them over—a move she'd perfected somewhere around month three of their relationship—and suddenly she was on top, straddling his hips, her hair falling around her face like a curtain.

She looked down at him with an expression that made his stomach clench. Hunger, yes. But darker than that. Her teeth showed when she smiled, and for just a moment she looked like a woman who could devour him whole and enjoy every bite.

“Hi,” she said, echoing his earlier eloquence.

“Hi yourself.”

Her hips rolled once, experimentally, and his breath caught. He was still sensitive, his body voting firmly for a five-minute break, but she was warm and slick and moving, and certain parts of him were already being overruled.

“Still with me?” she asked, that knowing smile playing at her lips.

“Always.” The word came out rougher than he intended, but it made her smile widen.

She started to move in earnest then—slow at first, finding her rhythm, her hands braced on his chest. The oversensitivity faded into something else, pleasure building again from embers he'd thought were spent. He watched her face as she moved, the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way her lips parted, the way the flush spread from her cheeks down her neck to her chest.

She's so beautiful, he thought, and then: I'm so fucked.

Both things were true.

Her pace quickened, her movements becoming more urgent. He gripped her hips, not guiding—she knew what she wanted—just holding on. The sounds she was making had shifted from soft sighs to urgent, demanding ones.

“God, right there,” she breathed. “Don't move. Just—fuck—just like that.”

He didn't move. He barely breathed. He just watched her chase her pleasure with single-minded intensity until she threw her head back and cried out, her body convulsing above him.

Round two, he thought distantly. That's round two.

She collapsed forward onto his chest, gulping air, and he wrapped his arms around her automatically. Her heart was pounding against his ribs. For a moment, he thought that might be it—a spectacular finish, two for her, one for him, everyone goes home happy.

Then she lifted her head, and he saw the look in her eyes.

Not done. Not even close.

“Mia—”

“Shh.” She pressed a finger to his lips, then replaced it with her mouth, kissing him deep and slow. When she pulled back, her hips were already moving again, a gentle grinding that sent sparks up his spine despite his body's protests.

“You're going to kill me,” he said, only half joking.

“Mmhmm.” She sat up, hands braced on his chest, and the new angle made them both groan. “But what a way to go.”

She's got a point, he admitted to himself.

This time was different—less urgent, more deliberate. She moved like she had all the time in the world, like she was savoring every sensation instead of racing toward release. Her eyes stayed open, locked on his, and something about that unbroken gaze felt more intimate than anything they'd done so far.

“Touch me,” she breathed, and he didn't need to ask where.

His thumb found her clit, circling in the rhythm she liked, and her composure cracked. The deliberate pace stuttered, her movements becoming erratic as she ground against his hand and took him deeper. The sounds she made now were less controlled—whimpers and gasps and his name repeated like a prayer.

When she came this time, it was quieter but longer—her whole body quaking, her breath catching in these little hitches that made his chest ache with how much he loved her. She rode it out slowly, eyes finally closing, lost in sensation.

His hand was cramping. His thighs were shaking. He'd never been happier to be exhausted in his life.

She folded forward again, pressing her forehead to his, their breath mingling.

“I love you,” she said softly, and it sounded different this time. Less playful. Almost desperate.

“I love you too.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, watched it fall right back across her face. “You okay?”

“Mmm.” Her hips moved, just barely, and he felt himself twitch inside her. “One more.”

“Mia...”

“Please.” She lifted her head, and the look on her face was—needy, yes. But also almost... frightened? Like she was chasing something she couldn't quite reach. “I'm so close to something, Alex. I can feel it. Just one more. Please.”

He was running on fumes. His muscles had gone from burning to simply numb. Every breath felt like effort.

But she was looking at him like that, asking him like that, and some part of him would crawl through broken glass to give her what she needed.

“Okay,” he heard himself say. “Okay. One more.”

She smiled at him, and it was so full of love it hurt to look at. She kissed him hard, then sat up and started to move.

This time there was nothing slow about it. She rode him with frantic intensity, chasing whatever phantom peak she'd sensed, her body demanding what his could barely provide. He gripped her hips hard enough to leave marks, trying to meet her movements, trying to be enough.

His vision went hazy at the edges. His lungs couldn't find a rhythm. Every muscle in his body was staging a full rebellion, his legs shaking with fine tremors he couldn't control.

Come on, he thought, half to her and half to himself. Almost there. You can do this.

But minutes passed, and the desperate edge in her movements never crested into release. She was chasing something that kept slipping away, her frustration mounting with every failed attempt. Her breathing went ragged, then almost panicked.

“I can't—” She made a sound of frustration, something between a groan and a sob. “I'm so close, I'm right there, I just need—”

She looked down at him, and he saw it in her eyes—the plea, the need, the absolute certainty that he could give her this if he just tried harder.

“Mia.” His voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper. “I... I can't. I'm empty, honey. I'm completely exhausted.”

The movement stopped.

The silence that followed was deafening. Mia stilled above him, her breathing still fast, her skin hot against his. She didn't move for a long count of ten.

“What?” The word was quiet, but it had a sharp, brittle edge he'd never heard before. “You can't?”

“I'm sorry.” He reached up to touch her cheek, but she pulled back just enough to avoid his hand. “I'm spent. I don't think I have anything left to give tonight.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable in the amber light. Then she slowly slid off him. She didn't curl into his side or rest her head on his shoulder. She rolled to the far edge of the bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling.

“It's okay,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet, stripped of the playful heat from before. “I understand.”

Okay. He wanted that to be true. She said it, so it must be true.

But she was on the far side of the bed now, and the space between them felt like more than mattress.

He reached out and rested a hand on her hip. She didn't pull away, but she didn't move toward him either. She remained on her side of the bed, a gap that hadn't been there before.

When she finally did roll toward him, resting her head on his chest, he held her close and stroked her hair as her breathing gradually slowed. But even as she drifted toward sleep, he couldn't shake the realization settling like a weight: he had given her everything he had, and for Mia, everything still wasn't enough.

Chapter Two

The morning after was quieter than Alex expected.

He woke to find Mia already out of bed, the shower running in the bathroom. For a long moment he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, replaying the way she'd rolled to the far edge of the mattress.

She said it was okay, he reminded himself. She said she understood.

The shower shut off. He heard her moving around the bathroom, the familiar sounds of her morning routine. Everything normal. Everything fine.

He dragged himself out of bed and headed for the kitchen. Coffee. Coffee would help. Coffee was a problem with a solution.

The apartment was warm—Mia kept the thermostat a few degrees higher than he would have on his own, and he'd learned to love it. He filled the kettle, pulled down the French press, and tried to focus on the familiar ritual of grinding beans and measuring scoops. The morning light through the kitchen window was doing something interesting to the dust motes, making them drift and swirl like drunk fireflies.

Focus on the coffee, he told himself. Don't overthink last night. Don't—

The doorbell rang.

Alex frowned. It was barely nine on a Saturday. He wasn't expecting anyone, and Mia hadn't mentioned—

“I'll get it!” Mia called from the bedroom, and a moment later she was padding past the kitchen in leggings and an oversized t-shirt, her hair still damp from the shower.

He heard the door open, heard Mia's surprised “Jess! What are you doing here?” and then a voice that snapped him fully awake.

“I was in the neighborhood.” Jessica's voice carried easily, confident and unhurried. “Thought I'd stop by. You have coffee?”

“Alex is making some. Come in, come in.”

Alex busied himself with the French press as footsteps approached. A moment later, Jessica appeared in the kitchen doorway, and even though he'd met her a dozen times, he still had to consciously stop himself from standing up straighter.

Jessica had that effect on people. She was tall—taller than him by an inch or two—with the kind of athletic build that suggested she could either run a marathon or pin you to a wall, depending on her mood. Blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, a presence that seemed to fill whatever room she walked into. She moved like she belonged everywhere, and somehow that made it true.

“Alex.” She nodded at him, a slight smile playing at her lips. “Surviving?”

“Barely.” The word escaped before he could catch it. “I mean—coffee's almost ready. You want some?”

“Black,” she said. “Thanks.”

She leaned against the doorframe, watching him with those analytical eyes, and she could see right through him. Like she knew exactly how last night had ended, could read it in the tension in his shoulders or the way he was gripping the coffee scoop.

She's Mia's friend, he reminded himself. She's just being friendly. Stop being weird.

Mia appeared beside Jessica, hooking her arm through her friend's elbow. “Come on, let's sit. Alex, bring the coffee when it's ready?”

“Sure,” he said, and watched them disappear into the living room.

He heard them settle onto the couch, heard the low murmur of their voices as they started talking. Something about Jessica's week, a photography client who'd been difficult, Mia's job and her demanding workload. Normal friend stuff.

Alex pressed the plunger on the French press slowly, watching the grounds compress.

A fragment of Jessica's voice reached him through the chatter: “...texted me at midnight...”

She texted Jessica last night? Guilt twisted in his stomach. After he'd fallen asleep, apparently. While she was lying there in the dark, not okay.

He looked down at the French press, half-plunged. His hands didn't move to finish it.

“It's nothing.” Mia's voice was small. “I mean, it's not nothing, but it's... I don't know. I feel stupid even bringing it up.”

Alex drifted toward the doorway, coffee forgotten.

“Hey.” Jessica's tone softened slightly. “It's me. When have I ever made you feel stupid?”

A pause. Then Mia laughed—that nervous giggle she always did when she was uncomfortable. “Okay, fair. Um. It's about... you know. Me and Alex. In bed.”

Alex's heart rate picked up. He should walk away. He should absolutely not be listening to this. But his feet seemed rooted to the floor.

“What about it?”

“It's just...” Mia trailed off, and he could picture her biting her lip, turning the phone over in her hands. “Last night was really good, you know? Like, really good. But then at the end, I wanted... more. And he was just... done. And I felt bad for wanting more, like I was being too demanding or something? I don't know.”

Jessica was quiet for a beat. “And this has happened before?”

“Kind of? I mean, honestly, yeah. A lot. He's great, he really is, but after he... you know... finishes... it's like a switch flips. He's still there, still trying, but he's not really present anymore. Does that make sense?”

“Perfect sense.”

“And I end up feeling like I'm asking too much. Like my body is broken for wanting what it wants. Which I know is dumb, but—”

“It's not dumb,” Jessica cut in. “It's just... bodies being bodies. After he finishes, his brain kind of checks out, right? Like he's still there, but not really there. Meanwhile you're—” She made a revving gesture with her hand.

“Exactly! And I don't want to make him feel bad about it, because it's not his fault, but also I just...” Mia's voice dropped. “I want to feel like I'm the most important thing. Not just before he finishes, but after too. Is that crazy?”

“No,” Jessica said. “That's not crazy at all.”

There was a pause. Alex held his breath.

“There are ways to address it,” Jessica continued, her voice taking on that confident, instructive quality he'd noticed before. “Things Brennan and I tried that helped with exactly this issue.”

Alex's ears perked up. Brennan was Jessica's ex—he knew that much. Knew they'd had some kind of intense relationship that had ended badly, though Mia had never shared details.

“Really?” Mia sounded uncertain. “Like what?”

“Well...” Jessica paused, and something in the quality of the silence made Alex tense. “There are tools. Techniques. Ways to keep someone's focus where you want it, even when their body is trying to check out.”

“What kind of tools?”

Alex leaned slightly closer to the doorway—and found himself looking directly into Jessica's eyes.

She was watching him. Had been watching him, maybe for a while. Her expression didn't change—that slight, knowing smile still playing at her lips—but her eyes held a glint of acknowledgment. Amusement.

Oh shit.

He froze, caught. He should retreat, pretend he hadn't been listening, busy himself with the coffee. But Jessica held his gaze for a long, deliberate moment, and then—still looking at him—continued talking to Mia.

“The basic idea,” she said, her voice somehow both casual and pointed, “is that if someone keeps checking out after they get off... you just don't let them get off.” A pause. “For a while.”

“Prevent that how?”

“There are devices.” Jessica's eyes hadn't left Alex's. “Things that can be worn. That prevent certain... releases. For as long as you decide.”

Heat flooded his face. His cock stirred despite his mortification. Jessica's eyes glinted with quiet satisfaction.

“Wait.” Mia's voice was hushed. “You mean like... for days?”

“Days. Weeks. However long it takes.” Jessica finally looked away from Alex, back to Mia, and he sagged against the doorframe. “Brennan did a week his first time. By the end he was just...” She laughed softly. “He'd follow me around the apartment like a puppy. Couldn't focus on anything else. It was—” She paused, something flickering across her face. “It was really something.”

“A week?” Mia sounded genuinely shocked. “Wasn't that... I mean, didn't he go crazy?”

“A little. That's part of the point.” There was warmth in Jessica's voice now, something almost fond. “All that frustration has to go somewhere, right? So it turns into... I don't know, attention? Like they can't stop thinking about you. And when you finally let them—” She laughed softly. “Well. It's memorable.”

Silence. Alex realized he'd stopped breathing.

“I... I don't know, Jess.” Mia's voice was smaller now. “That seems like a lot to ask someone. What if he thinks I'm weird? Or too demanding?”

“He won't.” Jessica said it with certainty. “Trust me. Some guys, they hear about this stuff and it just... clicks. Like they've been waiting for it without knowing.”

Waiting for it.

The words caught in his throat and stayed there, pulsing.

“Maybe I should think about it more,” Mia said. “I want to understand it better first, you know? I don't want to mess this up.”

“Smart.” Jessica's voice shifted, becoming brisker. “We can talk more. I'll send you some stuff to read. But Mia—” her tone softened again “—don't psych yourself out, okay? Just... ask him. You might be surprised.”

Alex heard movement—they were getting up. He scrambled backward, nearly knocking over the French press, and was very busy pouring coffee into mugs when Mia and Jessica appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Thanks for coming over, Jess.” Mia hugged her friend. “I feel better just talking about it.”

“Anytime.” Jessica returned the hug, then stepped back and accepted the coffee mug Alex held out with trembling hands. “Thanks for the coffee, Alex.”

“Sure. Yeah. Anytime.”

She took a long sip, watching him over the rim of the mug with those sharp blue eyes. Then she set it down on the counter, still half-full.

“I should go. Let you two enjoy your Saturday.” She pulled Mia into another quick hug, murmured something in her ear that made Mia blush and swat at her shoulder. Then she turned to Alex.

“Alex.” She held out her hand, and he shook it automatically. Her grip was firm, her palm cool. “Always a pleasure.”

“You too,” he echoed.

She held onto his hand for just a moment longer than necessary. Then, leaning in slightly, she murmured: “You look like a man with a lot to think about.” A pause. “Good.”