🔥STEAMINESS ALERT—very mild mentions, but we're leading to good stuff, babes 🔥

♫ Baby, you don't wanna leave, you'd be sorry, 'cause honestly
I can make you feel better, any day
Look at what you've done for me, I called it how I see
You belong with me ♪
{BANKS—Stick}

Michael agreed to a lunch or a coffee break on Tuesday, depending on Coralie's schedule. She didn't disclose to him what was going on, but she did say she had no clue what her day would look like and couldn't commit to a specific time.

He was happy enough that she'd agreed, he said; and Coralie smiled at the idea of seeing him again.

But that smile soon faded. She spent the weekend stressing over meeting with him, worrying about Ryan or Chester finding out, and panicking about the approaching gig. She was supposed to be resting, but instead she took lengthy walks and jogs, and wrote so much and so often in her journal that her wrist throbbed in pain.

Would Michael see through her request for a break? Would he know she'd been sleeping with not one, but two other men? He hadn't figured it out before, but they hadn't been separated, then. She'd kept her cool, she'd managed to cover her tracks; but this time, she wasn't sure she'd be able to. Bella had told her to keep her mouth shut, but one glance at his sweet innocence, and Coralie would have to confess the truth to him, wouldn't she? Of all three guys, he was the one she'd strung along the most, lied to the most, hurt the most—though he wasn't aware of it yet.

She debated what to say and how to dress all the way up to the day in question. Her outfit ended up being chosen for her—Nikita had told her to wear tight jeans and a low-cut, tight top, because that was the dress-code Mellie had e-mailed the boss about. "Casually racy," Nikita specified in her text-message, claiming she wanted Coralie to get used to the attire, and comfortable performing in it. It wasn't quite what Coralie had planned for; she'd wanted classy, with high-top pants and a short-sleeved top for this first massive performance. But Mellie had a signature style, and according to Nikita, the bar had asked her to stick with that. And they'd notified Nikita that any of her troupe or other performers that night would have to mimic her.

It made sense, but Coralie hated it, and hated it even more as she got ready on Tuesday morning. It was chilly, so she wore a beige trench coat over her attire, but felt naked underneath it. The jeans were a tad too tight, and the top she'd chosen was light, clinging to her as if it were her own skin. As she rode the subway, she kept peering down into her décolleté, wishing she'd brought a change of clothes for her meeting with Michael. How would he react to her showing up like this? Provocative, taunting—he'd call her a tease and be upset that she'd do this while they were on a break.

They'd settled for a sandwich shop a few blocks from her building; it was a local hang-out, and not too busy.

But even if the place had been packed, Michael wasn't hard to spot among the patrons seated at the checkered cloth colored tables. He was by the front door, handsome as ever. As Coralie located him, she slowed her pace—there was something different about him; an edge to his posture, a posh-like vibe to his demeanor she didn't recognize. He didn't sport his skater-style ripped jeans, nor did he wear his customary flannel or t-shirt. No, he looked like a big city businessman taking a lunch break in a classy joint. He was in a crisp auburn shirt, navy slacks, polished shoes. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal his arm tattoos, and he'd cut his hair, leaving it a bit spiky on the edges, with a few longer, loose curls near his temples.

He sat up straight at the sight of her, waving her over. His bright eyes creased as she approached and removed her coat, wincing at her own appearance; rather unflattering compared to his. She'd borrowed a cardigan from Nikita in a last-minute urge to cover some of her near nakedness up, but her outfit still caught Michael's attention.

His eyes grew wide. "Um, okay, that's quite the outfit." His gaze fixed on her cleavage for a second too long, and he zipped his chin up and shook his head, though not without a smile. "Not judging, I just... wasn't expecting this."

"Believe it or not, it's for work," said Coralie, wishing the cardigan had buttons that went higher up so she could conceal her half-exposed boobs. Nikita and the others had been thrilled at the ensemble, saying she was almost a copy of Mellie. But Coralie had gagged upon seeing herself reflected in the glass while she sang in the studio. "But you," she whistled, drinking in Michael's dapper threads, "you've got quite the outfit, too."

"Yeah?" He perked up and tugged at his collar with a smirk. "I'm between meetings with investors and interviews to hire some help. I guess this is how they dress in NYC; it's much more laid back in San Francisco, but... I did my research. Gotta charm them, right?"

Charm was the appropriate word—Coralie couldn't stop staring at him as he explained the proceedings for his time spent in New York to prepare for the new office. She drooled when he brought his coffee cup to his lips and sipped; and she fanned herself when he stood to go to the bathroom, noticing how his pants molded perfectly to his perky, round ass.

She'd been coaching herself to calm down and to remember they were on a break when he returned, and he squinted at her, as if trying to understand what she'd been mumbling.

"You okay?" He sat and took a bite of the salad he'd ordered. "You haven't said much since you got here. Is there anything you want to talk about?"

Oh, there was plenty. Revelations about what she'd really been doing all this time, the truth behind the inspiration for her songs, her double—no, triple life and how one could write novels about all her schemes.

"I suppose I wasn't that ready to see you," she said, peering into the depths of her soup, wishing to plunge into it and drown. Her cheeks were on fire, and must have turned the same color as the tomato shade in her bowl. "I was going to be firm and answer your questions, if you had any, and be clear that I needed this break. But now..."

His mouth didn't quite quirk into a smile, but the subtle twitch of his lips sent a jolt of electricity up her arms. Her confusion pleased him, didn't it? Of course, this was what he'd planned; get all dressed up and hot, remind her what she was missing, keep at a safe distance so she wouldn't be able to touch him, to tempt him in return. She'd wanted so bad not to lead him on that she hadn't stopped to think that he might do just that. And he had every right to—he had to be disappointed with her, right? Or eager to show her his worth, but not to give in to her, to keep her hungry for him. To throw her off and convince her to forget about the break. It was a game—Michael was playing with her.

With his tidy New York City style, he'd reminded her of someone else. Sitting across from her, casual and comfortable, looking like a day-trader who worked in one of the fanciest buildings in the Financial District; he had airs of another person she knew. She hadn't figured out who, at first, too busy being hypnotized by his every word, sucked into his citrus scent, lulled into a bubble that contained only her and him. But now, woken up by his playfulness, she understood.

Like Bella had the other night, Michael reminded her of Ryan. And this type of plot was something Ryan would do, wasn't it? Toy with her, tease her, mess with her mind to get what he wanted out of her.

The problem was, she wanted that same thing. Such a Ryan-esque behavior was unlike Michael, and she should have been pissed at it, but she could never be too mad at him. Not for long, at least.

"You're loving every second of this, aren't you?" She narrowed her gaze and crossed her arms, desperate to hide her plunging neckline from him. Not that he'd been absorbed in it, but she'd caught his eyes wandering occasionally. It had flattered her earlier, but now, she wasn't so sure.

"Huh?" The slow smirk wiped from Michael's face and he scrunched his eyebrows. "Being on a break with you? No, I'm not liking that at all."

"Not that." She scowled at him as she pushed her soup away; her appetite was gone. "But inviting me here, begging to talk about this break, but not doing that at all. All fancied up and sexy-looking, no... you wanted to tempt me, right? To flirt your way out of this?"

Michael blinked at her and slouched in his seat. "I'm genuinely confused." He scratched his chin and focused on his empty coffee mug. "I asked you here because I missed you, and I wanted to understand why you needed this break. And I wasn't going to dive into that topic, not like that. It's uncomfortable; you sounded freaked on the phone when you told me, and I didn't want to pressure you. I realize I sort of pressured you into this, but," he shrugged, "I miss you, Cora. What did I do? Why did you need a break from me, from us?"

She felt like stones had dropped into her stomach, weighing her down, keeping her crouched in her seat. How she craved to come clean, to clarify he'd done nothing wrong. He was perfect; she was the fucked up one who couldn't keep her vagina in her pants and her libido in check. And that wasn't his fault.

"It's... a lot. My life, I mean, not you." She sighed. "Getting the contract, moving across the country, living in a cramped apartment with Delilah, commuting between two jobs... it's exhausting. It all caught up to me recently, and I didn't think I could be a good girlfriend so... I asked for a break so I could figure my shit, my rhythm out, you know?"

It wasn't untrue, and she made it sound plausible as it escaped her mouth. She didn't need to act this part—she was exhausted and overwhelmed, and hadn't anticipated that having a boyfriend through all this would make things more difficult. No matter how much she cared for Michael, staying in touch with him turned out to be a burden, at times.

"I understand." He flagged down a waiter and asked for a refill of their waters, and to-go boxes for their unfinished food. "And I respect that, I do. But there's a dilemma, still, that we need to discuss."

Fuck.

Coralie gulped, clamping her lips shut. That was it—he knew about Ryan and Chester, didn't he? He'd had her followed, stuck a private investigator on her, or was in contact with Delilah, who'd been feeding him the truth. He was about to confront Coralie, call out her bullshit, tell her to fuck off—

"I'm insanely turned on by you right now, and if we're on a break, it means I can't," he cupped a hand around his mouth and leaned in closer, "fuck you senseless in my hotel room."

Coralie's eyes bulged and her heart skipped a beat. "Wh-what?"

Michael was no prude—oh, he was superior in the bedroom, for sure—but she hadn't heard him talk like that in a while. Blunt, dirty, direct, with a croaky whisper that tingled her extremities and rang her vagina's doorbell, drawing it into the conversation.

"Sorry," he chuckled, "that was intense, but... I can't help it." He bit his lip. "You talk about me tempting you, but have you seen yourself? You're straight out of a Christina Aguilera video. Which one was it?" He tugged on his chin, then raised a finger in triumph. "Dirrty, it was called. Yeah, you look like her, albeit with a less provocative top, but it did the trick."

The heat already infesting Coralie's cheeks grew worse, nearly intolerable. "Fuck."

"Did you do it on purpose?" Michael winked at her as the waiter deposited their boxes and the check. He didn't give her a chance to help pay—he threw his credit card out and ensured the waiter took it right away. "I always had a secret crush on her when I was younger, and I swear you walked out of that video. Like one of her background dancers, or something. It's," he blew out a breath, "fucking hot."

Coralie's eyes were dry, and she realized she'd kept them wide open. She blinked and shook herself. "I didn't do it on purpose, no. I promise, it's for work. A gig I'm rehearsing for." She rubbed the back of her neck, dipping her chin but fixing her gaze on him. "But I'm flattered by the comparison."

"Yeah?" Michael ran a fingertip over his lips; slow, sensual, inviting.

"And speaking of tempting," Coralie arched her spine, "you're doing a great job at it for someone who didn't mean to. I mean, look at you." She eyed him from head to waist—the rest of him was hiding under the table, but she had no doubt his pants were growing tight. Her own pants were becoming wet at the thought of it—her underwear was soaking through, it had to be. "You've always been hot, but this new you is all sexy, serious. And," she angled forward, "it's even more intense when you talk so naughty."

Michael's cheeks flushed, but his sights didn't budge from Coralie's face. "Glad you like it. Understand this—I want you, badly. Now. Today. Tonight." He slid forward, too, leaving a few inches between them. His warm breath swarmed her, warmed her, titillated her. "Please, Cora. We're still on a break, I won't change that. But can we still have fun? I've missed you," he peeped down at his lap, "really missed you."

It dawned upon Coralie that though she'd been having sex left and right, Michael hadn't. Michael was faithful, and had probably been using his hand to rid himself of tension. His need for her was genuine, and growing. And the more he spoke of it, the more she wanted him, too.

It was wrong, it was against her promises—as usual—but to spend a night with him might be in her favor. It might even the playing field. She'd given in to Ryan recently, and had her erotic elevator moment with Chester; it was only fair that she had a round with Michael, too.

To help my decision. One last time, to enlighten me.

Did this seduction mean Michael controlled her lower half? Or did he loiter in her brain? Or was this tactic a means to capture her heart?

She wouldn't know unless she caved.

"Tonight." She extracted herself from their momentary trance, and seized her purse from where it hung over the chair. "I'm not working at the bar this week. But we can't go to my place. I have a guest—my best friend Bella, from England—and I'd hate for her to overhear us. She's a... light sleeper."

What she wouldn't tell him was that Bella and Delilah would kill her for bringing him over; she wasn't supposed to have sex with him.

I won't tell them... yet.

Michael stood up and handed her her soup container. "My hotel room, then." Their fingers touched, and a shock-wave of pleasure rattled up her limbs. "I'll text you the details. Meet me there whenever; I'll be done with my meetings by five, at the latest." He walked past her, brushed his lips over her cheek, then let his mouth linger near her ear. "Wear that trench coat, would you? It's sexy as heck. When you came in, if I hadn't seen your jeans, I'd have thought you had nothing on underneath."

♥♥♥