🔥STEAMY ALERT—starting off mild, but please enjoy 🔥

♫ I'm a sucker for you
You say the word and I'll go anywhere blindly ♪
{Jonas Brothers—Sucker}

It took an hour for Coralie to finally find the inspiration she'd needed for the song. Three verses of violent cravings for sex, a crude chorus that she feared might end up censored, and some raspy notes to accompany it—Complicit was, she hoped, a success.

Minutes after she'd sent it to Nikita, her door burst open—no knocking? That could have been dangerous—and Coralie gasped. She'd been all sweaty and horny after finishing writing, and had forgotten to lock her door, in case she'd wanted to touch herself to ease her vagrant mind.

"That..." Nikita blinked at her, wetting her lips, teetering in the doorway like she'd received an epiphany. "That was fucking it, Coralie. When you told me the title, that was exactly what I'd been hoping for."

She then left with instructions for Coralie to continue to unravel her heart with deep-rooted lyrics and difficult experiences. Nikita—and the company—wanted more raw songs, more discharging of Coralie's soul, more shocking melodies that would draw attention to her. More Complicit-style songs; and now, they knew Coralie could produce them.

When she went home that night, she regretted having sent the tune to Nikita in haste, without preparing for the consequences. She'd offered Complicit—one word, no explanation—and now her team wanted more. More of her pain, more of her secrets leaked—more risks of being caught. Michael wouldn't question her songs; he'd support her, as always, though surely he'd be a little surprised at the twist her compositions were taking. But Ryan? He'd read right through every letter, every syllable; he'd somehow know what Complicit actually meant.

And she'd lose him before being able to choose.

Once in her apartment, she leered at Delilah, angry at her for suggesting this. Suggesting that she write, pour her soul out, transform her agony into songs. No, it wasn't truly her fault—she hadn't told Coralie to give her work-in-progress to her boss, to promise her the fruits of her labor. But now, she had her work cut out for her. Her assignment was to rip out her heart and throw it onto the page, to let the blood splatter and mix into the ink. Her assignment was to shock, because her company saw potential in her daring lyrics.

But was it potential for her own growth, her exposure as an artist? Or for the label?

For several days, after work, she cloistered in her room with BANKS on repeat, alternating between random ravings on paper and smacking her head repeatedly against the wall. Between sudden inspiration and crying about said inspiration, wondering if her pain was being used against her, used for profit.

But wasn't that what she'd wanted? Wasn't that why she'd started writing—to share how she felt? It was while keeping a diary of her emotions that she'd written her first song, and later shared it on YouTube. And her viewers loved it—loved the depth of her words, the harshness of what she expressed, the way each verse punched them in the face and stabbed into their hearts.

Yet this new version of her songs—bloody porno, in her opinion—displeased her. It was too much, too revealing. Not that her other creations had been prude, but they were tasteful, leaving a lot to the imagination. Songs like Complicit were straightforward and surprising.

And she'd always kept a curtain of mystery over her tunes, ensuring they were understood but that those who they were about remained anonymous. That they wouldn't necessarily know she spoke of them when she sang. But Complicit—it was flagrant. It was obvious, too obvious. Boys and bodies and confusing sentiments and decisions to make—every second of the melody pointed to what Coralie was going through, and with such blaring lights that even someone who didn't know her would figure it out.

They'd know that Coralie Amber Watson was in a relationship. And in an affair. And in another affair. She'd basically written it in black and white and offered the story up to her boss. And soon, to her viewers.

Fuck.

Every night, she considered retracting the song from Nikita's desk when she went into the studio the next day. But she chickened out—she stayed put, swirling around in her office chair, staring at the ceiling. She couldn't do it; because while her attitude disgusted her, and the song terrified her, it was her potential big break. It had the rumblings of a hit, and the label would never let her take it back. Not without berating her and throwing some mystery clause in her contract at her, reminding her they owned her. They owned her music. And now that she'd showed them, they owned her heart, too. It was too late.

And the only person she wanted to talk to about all this, the only man she believed would understand her... was Chester. Always Chester. As an artist himself, he'd know what she was going through. The ups and downs of creating art, the struggles of sharing one's work, the constant second-guessing of one's talent.

He would have given her clarity. He would have told her to calm down, to accept this as her slow beginning into stardom. Yes, Complicit was daring; but it was her ticket into the music world outside of YouTube. It was her entrance into prominent nightclubs and featurings on famous performer's songs. That was what Nikita had said—and Chester would agree with her.

Was the song cryptic enough? No. But was it worth it? Yes.

As she tapped her fingertips to her desk, scowling at the phone, considering breaking her own pledge to call Chester, the device vibrated. She was alone in the apartment, but knew Delilah was too busy to call her. So she smiled, thinking it might be Chester. That he'd read her mind from afar. He was calling her, because he knew she needed support, needed someone to talk her out of walking out of the studio, from panicking and thinking they were abusing her when they definitely weren't—

But the name that flashed on the screen wasn't Chester's.

She sucked her lips inward, sighed, then swiped to pick up the call. "Ryan?"

He cleared his throat. "Oh... Cora, hi. I was expecting to get your voicemail."

Oh, that voice. That sultry slyness in every word. That damned accent that made her legs quake and her stomach do back-flips. It didn't matter how many times she heard him speak, Ryan would always make her crumble.

"What... what's up? I don't think you're supposed to be calling me." She did her damndest to sound mad, but she couldn't help the flicker of excitement bulging in her. The anticipation blooming with every moment spent listening to Ryan's breathing on the other end.

Breathing that reminded her of their last roll in the sheets. When his breath had blown over her, sent rippling goosebumps over every inch of her skin, awoken massive winged-creatures in her abdomen. Then the feel of him entering her, slow, steady, controlled, but with a slight thrust that had made her squeak, shudder, lose all sense of time and space. A wild ride, he was; and a few days without seeing or hearing him had almost made her forget that.

"No, I'm not." She pictured him flinching, and something pulsated in her lower half. He was hot even when frustrated, confused, upset—fuck, he was always hot. "I'm sorry, I'm disturbing our break, I'm aware. But this is important."

She bit her lip. Important, he said? She imagined he was about to tell her how he craved her, how he couldn't stay away, how he'd been dreaming of her every night since they parted.

Oh, shit. Don't go there, Cora.

She trembled as she sensed her nipples growing hard under her tank top, while envisioning him telling her how sorry he was. How he couldn't bear to see the empty space beside him, the unused pillow next to his. How he'd woken every morning to stroke his penis after thinking of her in his sleep, drooling over their past exploits together. And how he'd exploded, convulsed while moaning her name, wishing she were there. And that was why he'd called, tonight. Because he'd been driving by her apartment, considering coming upstairs, begging her to let him in, to let him inside her, to let him have her, once and for all. Forgotten was their spat, forgotten was Michael—

Shit.

Her arousal abated, reminded of what had caused the argument with Ryan in the first place. Michael, that she couldn't stop caring about. Michael, that she couldn't break up with. Oh, Michael.

"Cora?"

Coralie shook out of her reverie and slouched in her chair. "I'm here. Waiting for you to tell me what's so important." She winced—her voice had grown stern and harsher than she'd meant it to be.

If affected, Ryan didn't mention it. "I have an event to go to tomorrow night. A store opening in a large location; one that's important for the company's start in the United States. I initially responded with a plus one... but I've no one to accompany me. And if I show up alone, it won't look good."

Oh, Coralie knew where this was going. She scoffed. "Are you asking me to go with you? You're telling me you can't find some other bimbo to hold your arm and smile pretty while you network?" Again, she winced; that was uncalled for and rude, and she prepared for Ryan to hang up on her.

Instead, he huffed; and she could have sworn she could feel him smiling, the way he did when partially offended, but aware he was wrong. That shy, cautious grin he had, licking his lips, looking down as a light, barely-there redness brushed over his dark cheeks. "I deserved that. Cora... I've been an arse—an ass, sorry—and you have every right to say no."

She did have every right. Why would he bother calling her with this? Did he truly have no other female friends that would go with him to something like this? Coralie had seen pictures of Ryan's store openings—grand galas with flowing champagne, fancy dresses, finger-foods on golden platters balanced by dancing waiters. This was a luxury brand, and they didn't joke around when they opened new branches in new towns. And usually, Ryan did have someone on his arm at these events—his wife. Or was she his ex-wife, now?

Coralie almost spat out that he should bring Gemma, instead; fly her out for the night, since he absolutely had the means to.

"It's just that... this is a big deal for me. You can't see it in the pictures, but these are usually intellectual events. Frivolous, yes, and in appearance they're all about what everyone wears and who will make a fashion statement... but there's more to them. Those who attend are expecting witty conversations and deep knowledge of current affairs and politics..."

Coralie snorted.

Ah, that makes more sense.

He couldn't bring a brainless, boring chick from a dating app, who wouldn't be able to maintain an appropriate conversation or make him look good. Nor could he bring Gemma, who was in England, and likely not too up-to-speed of activities in New York and political affairs. Not that Coralie was much better versed, but she lived in NYC, she immersed in its culture daily, and she worked in the Financial District.

Now she understood why Ryan wanted her to attend with him.

"So you thought of me." She crossed one leg over the other and peered at her nails. One had chipped, its fake acrylic surface ready to pop off. The others were neglected, and needing a trim. Or a new manicure altogether.

"So I thought of you. Look, you can say no—I'd never force you. And it's last-minute, I realize. I'm sure you have a lot going on and don't have time for this, but..."

She did have a lot going on; but that was one more reason to consider his invitation. Coralie had been stuck in her own head for days, curled in a ball regretting her actions, or writing so much her wrists throbbed and doubled in size. She'd barely eaten, barely spoken to anyone aside from her bosses, and had spent so much time scaling the walls and taking the stairs to avoid Chester that she'd been physically drained. The woman in the mirror—blotchy-faced, red-eyed, with a messy mop of ice-blonde hair sticking up in all directions—wasn't her. Not who she wanted to be. Not the sexy, sassy lady her three suitors lusted after.

"This definitely breaches our terms. Our break." She grimaced at her nails, realizing she'd have to fix them if she was going to be attending this event with Ryan. She'd have to take a long bath—and shave, which she hadn't bothered to do in several days—and spruce up and find something decent to wear.

"It does. That's why I hesitated to call." She knew he was fidgeting, his lips bunching side to side, his eyebrows scrunching. He must have been lounging on his bed, shirtless, a glass of wine on the nightstand and a pile of paperwork beside him. His belt unbuckled, his pants button undone, and his zipper whispering her name, demanding that she tug it down, tug the pants down, tug them off him—

"I don't have anything to wear." A lie—she had several dresses that would work perfectly for this, but she had to find excuses. She had to delay this, had to at least try to say no to him before caving. He needed to understand that he'd have to fight for this.

"Then go shopping and I'll reimburse you. Shit, I'll send you my card information—I trust you. Please, Cora."

Oh, it was too much. He'd used that scraping, scratchy, sensual begging voice. The same he'd employed when he lay beneath her while she sucked on his penis. Or when his head rested between her legs and he stopped his licking to chew on his lower lip while batting his lashes at her. When he demanded to stop the foreplay and get to the main dish. When he'd had his fill of the taste of her, and when his member was on the brink of eruption and he wanted, needed to be inside her.

"Fuck." She melted off her chair and fell onto the floor with a thud.

"Cora?" His once orgasmic voice shifted to one of alarm. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." She rubbed her forehead, having hit it on the desk.

That better not leave a scar.

"I'm... I'm fine, trying to figure out when I'll have time to go pick up a fancy dress for your fancy event." She regretted the reply at once, but the damage was done; her heart had spoken out for her.

More like my vagina, but whatever.

"Oh... so you'll go?" Genuine happiness squeezed into every word; like a little boy holding onto a lollipop he'd begged his mother for, and finally, he got it. Bouncing to and fro, excited, elated, successful.

"I'll go. But I'm warning you..." She frowned, hoping Ryan would detect her seriousness despite not being able to see it in her eyes, in her down-turned mouth. "No funny business. I'm there as your friend, nothing else. You'll keep your hands to yourself, yes?"

"Yes." Ryan chuckled. "It's a serious event, and there will be a plethora of photographers there. I'll behave. Everyone will see it... so I'll be on my best behavior."

Crap.

"I..." Coralie gulped. "I won't have to be in those pictures, will I?"

She thought of Michael, who, though not interested in the world of fashion, often picked up newspapers and magazines to check out photography trends.

"He won't see you," said Ryan, guessing her train of thought without a hint of spite in his tone, for once. "I'll make sure you're not photographed. I only want your moral support, so yes, hands to myself."

"Promise?" She got to her feet and wobbled over to the rack where most of her clothes hung—there was little room in the minuscule closet for most of her outfits.

Ryan's light laugh on the other end stopped her heart. "No, I can't promise not to touch you, Cora. I can promise to try—that's all you'll get out of me."

After they hung up, Coralie gave up on digging through her dresses and instead fell onto her bed and slipped her fingers under her leggings, into her underwear. A warm surprise welcomed her, and she closed her eyes, picturing Ryan in a tuxedo, and all the nasty things he could do to her—if she let him.

Which she wouldn't. They were on a break. She had a journal to write in. She had promises to herself to keep.

But for now, she had to take care of herself in a different way. If she didn't pleasure herself, to get the tension out, then she'd be the one touching Ryan tomorrow night. And that would be wrong, so wrong.

♥♥♥