🔥STEAMY ALERT—still fairly mild, folks, but we're getting there...🔥

♫ You do not want this
This is the voice in her head that says "You do not want him" ♪
{Halsey—Whispers}

"You're an idiot." Delilah tugged a smidgen too hard on the strand of hair that she was straightening—Coralie's hair.

Reluctantly—and after several minutes of berating Coralie for answering the phone when Ryan called—she'd agreed to help her get ready for the event. Because in Delilah's opinion, Coralie needed a wardrobe consultant and a hairdresser for regular outings. So something this massive warranted all of Delilah's attention.

Angry as she was with Coralie's decision to go, she told Coralie that she couldn't help feeling a pinch of jealousy, too. She couldn't prevent the slight envy in her tone when Coralie had explained what exactly Ryan had invited her to. The grand NYC opening of his clothing brand, NebulaLee. Hate Ryan as she might, Delilah loved his product. The spell-binding slacks, the open-backed dresses, the glittery, near see-through chemises—NebulaLee was a one-of-a-kind luxury brand that Delilah, up until recently, swore by. She had several gowns, pants, shirts. A few pairs of shoes, handbags, random accessories that she fawned and drooled over. When she'd found out Ryan was one of its highest level ambassadors, she'd freaked out and trashed almost all the clothes from the brand that she owned. But she hadn't had the heart to trash them all.

"They're works of art!" she'd said, though Coralie wasn't sure who she'd been justifying herself to.

One of those items was what she'd forced Coralie to put on for the evening. After she'd finished screaming, she'd hurried to her small closet to fetch it, dismissing all Coralie's other clothing options. Telling her that this dress, on this night, at this event, would be glorious. A sleek, slitted, fitted satin navy gown that fit Coralie's curves to perfection.

Once Coralie put the dress on, Delilah's tone filled with regret. "I can't believe I'm letting you, a fool, wear my dress to forgo your promises to yourself and attend this fancy event and get fucked by Ryan."

"Hey!" Coralie jolted around in her seat, tugging the hair straightener—clamped over her curls—and Delilah's arm with it. "No one's getting fucked! Not me!"

Delilah snarled as she pulled back, pulling Coralie's head, too. The straightener burned against Coralie's scalp, causing her to hiss. "Bring your journal with you. So when he tries to fuck you—don't look at me like that, he will—you can write it in there and re-read it later and realize how much of a moron you are."

Sneering at Delilah in the mirror, Coralie crossed her arms; which was difficult to do in such a tight dress. The half-length sleeves squeezed her arms so much she worried they might cut off her circulation, but Delilah had told her that was normal. "Suffer to be beautiful—a French expression I live by."

And tonight, Coralie was beautiful. She rarely thought that about herself, but with Delilah's expert help, she looked like a million bucks. That was what Ryan had implied he needed her for—to be bedazzling on his arm and to bewilder everyone with her wit. At least she'd have the hot factor working for her; she wasn't in a witty mood, and hoped no one would talk to her too much.

"Well, I'll be good," she said, still snickering at Delilah, as she turned the straightener off. Coralie's ice-blonde locks were straightened, shiny, and the hints of violet from her recent hairdresser visit glimmered in the mirror lights. "I won't let anything happen."

Delilah snorted, motioning at Coralie to get up. "Right; like you were good every other time you said you'd be? Bullshit, Cora." She gestured at Coralie to twirl around so she could get a full view, and nodded in approval—though her lips were down-turned and her tamed eyebrows scrunched. She was barefoot, and Coralie was wearing heels—the height difference between them was staggering. Delilah snapped at Coralie to sit back down. "Let me apply more lipstick. Hopefully, this dissuades you from kissing him, at least."

"I won't kiss him. Come on, D—" Coralie swiveled in her seat to watch Delilah rummage through her make-up on the kitchen counter. Their bathroom was tiny, and setting up a chair inside had been a hassle. Which left no room to set up all the tools needed to transform Coralie. "I won't. We're on a break, and I'm doing this as a friendly favor."

Delilah chortled. "And again, I say bullshit. But, honestly," she turned Coralie to the mirror and jammed the lipstick to her lips, "it's not you that worries me as much. It's him." She pouted her lips, indicating for Coralie to do the same. "He's a tempting, delicious flower, and you're the honey bee hovering around him, famished for his nectar. All he has to do is stand there and wink at you, and you're done for, hun."

After pressing her lips to a napkin—for a smoother, longer-lasting application, per Delilah—Coralie shrank in the chair. "Fuck. I know you're right... shit, and this is proof." She winced. "He coaxed me into this event with, like, two words. I did all the work for him." Coralie rose and kicked the chair back, where it bumped into the shower curtain and nearly fell into the tub. "I can't go."

Delilah grabbed her shoulders—more like her upper arms, from where she stood—and grunted. "I'm giving you shit, and you shouldn't have said yes. But it's too late—you agreed to it, he's likely on his way, and it's rude to cancel last-minute. Especially to something like this. NebulaLee's grand opening in NYC? Girl, if I wasn't already pissed at you for going with him, I'd just be pissed that you were going, period. So go, be merry, get drunk, and try not to stain my dress when he shoves you against a wall to—"

"—Delilah!"

Fifteen minutes later, Ryan's number popped up on Coralie's phone. He was downstairs, his driver had parked off the street, and she needed to hurry.

She grabbed a jacket, waved at Delilah—who refused to hug her, either afraid of wrinkling her outfit or still disgusted at her attitude—and hurried out as swiftly as her higher-than-high heels would allow.

Ryan's head poked out the car as he signaled for her to join him inside. His eyes were a magical shade of sea-foam and evergreen, sparkling as she approached, and watching her with intrigue.

As she entered the vehicle on the other side, he bit his lower lip and lifted one eyebrow, letting out a low whistle. "Damn." He smirked, leaning over to place a quick peck on her cheek. Not quick enough—one whiff of him and her knees were weak. She was happy she was sitting. "I should have invited you to something like this before. You're a knock-out."

To hear him use such Americanized language cracked her up. "Stop it." She buckled the seat-belt, and tried to get comfortable.

But as the car took off, she sensed her cheeks overheating and her legs fidgeting beneath the thick layer of fabric covering them.

"That's one of ours, isn't it?" Ryan's arm grazed hers as he tilted to better analyze the gown. "Last year's collection. Fits you well, really well. I had no idea you owned anything I sold."

His tone implied he'd never expected her to clean up so well, nor to wear something from the store; but it didn't offend Coralie. She'd shown him how lacking she was in the fashion area when they were in Paris. When he'd shopped with her, and when he'd chosen her outfits.

Paris—the mere thought of the gorgeous city brought back so many memories she'd tried hard to repress for so long. Being next to him in the backseat of a car wasn't helping—it reminded her of when he'd picked her up at the airport. He smelled the same, tonight, as he had that day; his spicy, sultry cologne that infested and poisoned her nostrils, yet delighted and soothed them. And though he wore a tux now—even sitting down, Coralie could tell how well he wore it—everything about him was the same as it had been in France. His clean-shaven face, his light brown skin glowing, polished, his bright white smile so perfect, so hypnotizing. His broad shoulders that could carry her across oceans. The way he sat, legs slightly apart, one hand on his knee, the other on the space between him and Coralie. Fingers twitching, aching to entwine with hers. She assumed.

That day, on the journey to Paris, she'd climbed on top of him. She'd rubbed herself against him until they'd been breathless and sweaty, horny and insatiable. That trip had been steamy and sexy and everything she'd wanted—until the ride back to the airport, days later, without him. After he'd ditched her.

She didn't want to think of such times; not now. So she changed the subject. Asked him how he'd been. How work was going. How New York had been treating him since he'd moved. Any kind of small talk to pass the time, to stop thinking about what they could do, right then and there. All the ways he could hike up her skirt and slip his fingers into her underwear, and no one—not even the driver—would suspect what he was doing. Or how she could caress the bulge between his legs, the one she knew was there without looking at it. The one she craved, dreamed of, and still tasted late at night while hugging her pillow and wishing he were there.

But she thought the same thing about Michael and Chester, too.

Fuck. I'm a hypocrite. This was a terrible idea.

The store's entrance was arched, shrouded in glittering overhead lights, flashing like thousands of cameras snapping pictures. And when Ryan helped Coralie out of the car, she realized there were a lot of cameras.

She covered her face with her arm and cringed. "Ryan! Help!"

"Shit," said Ryan, grabbing her wrist and dragging her up the red carpet that would bring them to the doors. "Shit, I forgot about them—sorry."

Coralie lowered her arm as a footman opened the doors and let them in, saving them both from the obsessive, yelling photographers.

"I'll talk to them later," whispered Ryan, tucking Coralie's arm under his as they descended the three steps leading into the store. Someone took Coralie's coat, and Ryan side-glanced at her briefly with interest before facing the room. "Don't worry—no one will know you were here tonight."

He was so concerned about her; about Michael finding out she'd been his date for the night. It surprised her—days ago he'd threatened to tell Michael about their affair. Now he was doing his best to help keep it hidden? What had changed?

A tiny voice inside Coralie warned her he had an ulterior motive. He always did; Ryan was full of surprises, yes, but they weren't always good ones.

The store was massive. Two stories, pristine ivory walls, clicking black-and-red marble floors. The displays shone like bars of gold. A few items were hanging from walls, or draped over porcelain mannequins. A few comely women were modeling out designer pieces on either side of the area, atop runway platforms.

But the rest of the room had been set up as a banquet, a private club. Waiters weaved between attendees offering champagne and platters of amuse-bouches. Tables of pastries and candies were near the runways. A small orchestra played off to the side, near the registers, and a few couples were dancing to the muted but melodic tune. Plush crimson-colored chairs lined the back walls, separated by black velvet dividers, and housing ladies in golden gowns and men in crisp shirts and leather pants. Everyone else clustered here and there throughout the room, chattering like the New York socialites that they surely were.

If Coralie hadn't known better, she'd have thought she'd entered a ballroom, not the grand opening night of a well-known brand of luxury clothing. Sure, the luxury was there—but it was almost excessive. Tasteful, impressive, but so vibrant and flashy that it all felt unreal.

Ryan was stopped many times as they headed towards the chairs in the back. He shook hands, he kissed knuckles, he laughed at bad jokes, he handed out business cards to eyelash-batting prissies in too-short dresses. He was serious, professional, but relaxed, in his element. These parties were where he thrived—a social butterfly who staved off connections, opportunities, possibilities. And to see him so enthralled, so beloved by all those who spoke to him, Coralie felt small and insignificant.

But this was why she'd come—to make him look good, right?

She'd hoped to not have to talk much, and she got her wish; all the guests were more interested in Ryan. The few who'd asked politely, "who's this charming lady?" he'd replied to by saying she was a friend. Not without a wince and a brief but faltering smile at Coralie—they hadn't discussed who she was to him, who she'd be for him that night. She wasn't his girlfriend, wasn't even his lover, at the moment. Was it okay for her to be a tad disappointed?

Usually he brought his wife, and Coralie imagined many of these associates were wondering where Gemma was. But if Ryan cared that some might be talking about him and debating why his spouse wasn't there, he didn't mention it.

Eventually, he was oblivious to Coralie. She started to blend into the crowd, detaching from him when he greeted old friends, new friends, co-workers, fashion icons. She went unnoticed, though many complimented her dress—last year's collection, right?—and soon wondered if she should leave.

While looking for a bathroom, she noticed the stairs in the rear of the room and leading up to the second floor. An open space that looked out over the bottom floor, and where she detected curtained fitting rooms and a large bay window. Interested in the view she might have through that window, she slithered up, unsure if that area was off-limits.

At the top of the stairs, she saw that there was a balcony beyond the window, and a small door leading onto it. It was open.

Tiptoeing farther onto this deserted second floor, she peeked behind her, at the cramped downstairs. At the people she didn't know and who didn't know her, and at the man who'd brought her here but was too busy shaking hands and air-kissing to realize she'd wandered off.

Air—she needed air. So she snuck outside. The freshness she'd so desperately craved splashed over her heated cheeks. Leaning against the copper railing, she sipped on her second—possibly third—glass of champagne.

The view she'd hoped for wasn't that spectacular, but it was still a sight to behold. A large street of rushing cars, zooming by in zaps of red and green and black and yellow. Streetlights blaring onto sidewalks where dizzy drunkards wandered by, and sober partiers walked by them watching with envy. The backdrop was composed of boisterous buildings. The glassy, mirrored towers of the Financial District, with the Hudson river in the distance reflecting on their surfaces.

"There you are."

Coralie didn't shudder; she'd expected Ryan would find her soon enough.

As his footsteps approached, he cleared his throat. "Like it up here?" His voice was croaky; he'd been talking a lot. "You escaped."

Coralie craned her neck to him, keeping her body facing the railing. "Is it okay for me to be up here?"

Ryan shrugged, continuing his slow stride towards her, stuffing his hands in his pants pockets. "I didn't see any roping or locked doors. Fuck—I'm the boss, so I allow it."

His tiny smirk when he said boss woke a few butterflies in Coralie's gut.

He swayed up to her, grinning coquettishly, head tipped down but eyes fixed on her. She swung around completely, stretching out her arms, preparing to stop him from getting too close. She knew that look; that dazed, almost drug-like gaze. The glazed and gorgeous eyes that drank her up as he nodded once, twice, sizing her up.

It was a look she didn't know how to resist, and her lungs began to constrict as she tried to.

"No—" she shook her hands at him, "—don't. I came up here for a break from the noise, not for... whatever you're thinking about. No bullshit, Ryan."

"Bullshit?" He cocked an eyebrow and though he slowed his pace, he didn't stop strolling towards her. Two feet separated them now. "What are you talking about?"

She gulped. Something woke in the lowest parts of her belly—a growl she hated to recognize. A desire she'd sworn to keep tucked tight inside for the night. A craving for him she'd been worried about giving into.

"Yes. None of your flirting. I'm admiring the view, that's it."

He swerved past her barricade of hands and settled beside her, peeking down at the busy avenue below. "The view?" He squinted, then turned to her, fire igniting in his gaze. His earlier smirk was gone, and an air of seriousness crashed over his features. "Which one? I see two different ones." It was so stupidly cheesy, but so perfectly timed. The growls in Coralie's stomach worsened.

She knew she shouldn't have, but she twisted to him. To see him, to be certain he was indeed craving her as she craved him.

His breaths were loud and heavy with champagne and mint. He kept his focus on her, without a flinch or a blink. His sturdy shoulders seemed to point at her, and his arms twitched at his sides.

A hunch told her to take a few steps back, but her feet were anchored to the floor. "What are you doing?" She narrowed her gaze at him, hoping to appear stern, stubborn, and unreachable.

"Testing my limits." He responded so fast, it was as if he'd been bracing for this discussion, this situation, for days. Had he known she'd saunter off to the secluded upstairs balcony in need of a reprieve? Had he been keeping track of her while he high-fived and hugged the other guests, contrary to what she'd thought?

Of course. Ryan is a sly thing. He wouldn't bring me here to be decoration, no; it's more than that.

She set her cup down and held on to the railing. "Don't." Even she knew that her half-assed plea wasn't heartfelt. Instead of meaning do not, it sounded like please. Try. Do it.

He slipped his hand as close to hers as possible without actually touching it. "You're a goddess," he said, in his tangy, alluring tone.

Another inkling warned her to move away, to escape before it was too late. But his fingertip grazed hers, and there was no stopping the blood rushing to her temples, her heart, the crevice between her legs. There was no halting the growls that continued to unfurl in her abdomen, crying, begging for him.

His fingers trailed over her skin, crawling up her forearm, past her elbow, dancing up to her shoulder. He was so close she could almost taste him, yet he kept his lips far from hers, taunting, teasing. His nails scratched along the exposed areas of her back, then tapped along the base of her spine before he cupped her ass. Softly, at first, then squeezing, massaging, pulling her closer to him.

Her brain yelped, protested, told her to run, quick, now; but her body wouldn't react to it. Her body only reacted to him, to his touch, to his breath on her neck as he traced featherlight kisses under her chin. She wasn't even sure when he'd started kissing her there—and she wasn't sure she wanted him to ever stop.

I did this. I accepted. This is my fault.

The magnetism was strong, too strong. The more he kissed her, the more she melted—so she seized his face, holding it a few inches from hers, ready to tell him enough.

But she said nothing. As their gazes connected, she weakened at the hunger in his eyes. That same hunger Delilah had mentioned in her honey-bee and flower analogy—it was real, and it was too much to ignore.

Gripping her hips, he plastered his wet, welcoming lips on hers, but he was hesitant, cautious. As if anticipating that she'd shove him off.

But she didn't. She couldn't. His lips were bubbly and winter-fresh, and when he slid his tongue into her mouth it was like silk, like a gooey triple chocolate cake she wanted to devour.

So she devoured. She moaned. She pushed into him, eager to feel him growing harder against her. He wasn't a flower, and she wasn't a honey-bee; they were famished felines who'd found each other in the jungle after eons of solitude. They clawed at each other's clothes, dug through each other's hair, ripped into each other's flesh as their tongues entwined, over and over and over until champagne bubbles blew up Coralie's throat.

"Shit." Coralie recoiled, wiping her mouth, awakening from the fantasy. "Ryan... shit."

The alcohol creeping up her esophagus was her wake-up call, her reminder. They weren't supposed to do this.

"Cora..." Ryan ran his thumb-pad over her lips, as if erasing any traces of the flavor of him, his scent, the arousal he'd transferred to her. Yet the gesture was so sexy, so persuasive, that she came close to kissing him again.

But her conscience had taken control. She squirreled away from him, shaking her head. "No." Something acidic arrived in her mouth, coating over her tongue. The tongue that he'd been twirling around his, seconds ago—but it didn't belong to him. He had no right to it. "We can't do this."

She flipped around and ran as fast as her heels would allow. Hopping down the stairs, flying by confused attendees, whooshing out the doors, barreling past the line of photographers.

And once in a side alley a few buildings down, she hurled her guts out—all the champagne and pastries—into a dumpster.

"Fuck."

♥♥♥