🔥STEAMY ALERT—some mild mentions of *things* throughout the chapter 🔥

♫ Can't get my mind off you
I think I might be obsessed
The very thought of you
Makes me want to get undressed ♪
(Toni Braxton—You're makin' me high)

The candy-red V-neck dress clung to Coralie's figure in ways none of her own dresses did. She was still shocked it fit her, as Delilah was a size smaller than her. But it hugged her curves and rode up her thighs and molded over her ass so well that Delilah had lost her breath and words when she'd tried it on. That was a feat.

As she slipped on her favorite pair of black platform pumps, Coralie received a text from Ryan.

RyRy: I realize you may still need space, but I was hoping we could have dinner? Talk? Watch a movie? You want time, but I want you.

It was selfish of him, but that no longer fazed her. Ryan wanted what Ryan wanted, and he wanted it now.

She texted him that she was tired, and yes, she still needed time; to which he replied with a sad face and an I hope to see you soon, Cora.

"You should tell him," said Delilah, as she guided Coralie to the door, throwing a black cardigan at her. The outfit was long-sleeved, but one couldn't know if the rooftop bar was open air or closed. It would be chilly at this hour—nine pm—and Coralie was grateful Delilah looked out for her... despite being tipsy off her three cups of wine.

"That I'm going out for a drink with a blast from my past?" Coralie snorted as she opened the door. "Like that would go down well. He's got jealous tendencies, Delilah. I'd rather not say anything."

Delilah shrugged, and yanked down her work out top as it had climbed up her middle. "Ew, like Jayden?" Coralie nodded. "Fine, then it's for the best. But let's hope Ryan didn't get that same invite for that same bar tonight, otherwise you're fucked." She giggled as she pushed the door closed, once Coralie was out in the corridor. "Have fun!"

The whole ride to the bar, Coralie gritted her teeth and abstained from biting her nails. Had she made a mistake by accepting? Would she be underdressed? Overdressed? She'd never attended a rooftop bar in New York City before, and Chester claimed this one was fancy. Would she clash with the other guests? Would she blend in, as if she belonged there?

She knew she should have been getting used to such settings, as she'd be going to big parties like this one in the future, if her career took off. The label had warned her of luxury clubs they wanted her to sing at, and that the dress-code was strict, even for performers. Glancing into her lap, and at the outfit's hem that rested an inch above her knee, she chewed on her lower lip.

Can I do this?

A few seconds later, she groaned, thankful the lip-stain she'd worn was super-glued to her lips—Delilah had promised it was top-notch and wouldn't come off under any circumstances. Her wink as she'd said it still haunted Coralie's thoughts as she exited the car and entered the high-rise building atop which she was to meet Chester.

The lobby was dim, and a lone security guard welcomed her and checked a guest list for Chester's name. He'd added hers as his plus one, prompting the guard to let her into the mirror-lined elevator that would take her up to the fiftieth floor.

With every floor she passed, she further tensed. Her nails dug into her palms, her heart raced, her temples pounded with trepidation. Was it too late to press a different button and reverse her trek upwards? Was it too late to change her mind?

The ding from the elevator doors opening informed her that yes, it was too late. Too late to shield her eyes from the twinkling lights, spread across an overhead canopy like stars shining down on her. Too late to not notice the fluorescent bar to her left, with a suited bartender mixing a drink in a crystal shaker, and diamond-dented barstools occupied by patrons sipping from martini glasses. And too late to not see the dazzling man walking towards her, his dress shirt opened at the top and wrapping around his svelte figure, the sleeves bunched at the elbow but so tight they showed the bulging upper arms beneath. The fabric fit his flat chest well, and shimmered as if tiny gems had replaced the buttons.

"Hey," said Chester as he approached, his velvet pants creasing with his every step. Though he balanced two large and delicious-looking glasses of wine in his hands, Coralie couldn't help but focus on the space between his legs, and the obvious growth there, accentuated by the tightness of his trousers. "Glad you made it." He'd arrived from a massive threshold leading out to a patio, and Coralie detected a hint of soft jazz music from speakers near the French doors.

Clutching her purse in front of her lower abdomen, Coralie flashed him a nervous smile. "I almost didn't. This place is," she spun on her heels, surprisingly agile considering how she trembled, "incredible."

In a gesture so reminiscent of their past that it caused her to hiccup, Chester handed her one of the glasses and winked. Like those nights when he'd order her drinks and feed them to her until she could no longer see straight. "I thought you'd appreciate it. Months in NYC and you still haven't been to something like this?" He tsked. "About time someone showed you how to live like a New Yorker."

She permitted him to lead her to the right of the bar, to stand before a giant floor-to-ceiling window overlooking a garden courtyard. "Clearly, I've been fucking my new life up."

They lingered there for a while, recounting memories of other views they'd witnessed in San Francisco together. They spoke of the greasy diners they'd had early morning breakfasts in, the shady bathrooms they'd taken shots of whiskey in, and the dingy, dust-ridden hotel rooms they'd woken up in.

At the mention of the latter situation, Coralie cringed, and covered her disgust by gulping down more of her beverage.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of," said Chester with a grin. He smelled like coconut suntan oil with a pinch of peppermint, reminding Coralie of some exotic cocktail.

"I'm not ashamed." She glanced out at the tiny lights sprinkled over the tree-tops in the courtyard below. "I just wish I recalled more of it all, you know? More of those moments we spent together. More of how we always ended up in that same spot, entangled in sheets, and yet we still lost touch for years."

He recoiled a few inches away from her and fixed on the few drops remaining in his glass. "It's my fault. I should have..." he hurled the liquid from his cup into his mouth and hissed as it went down. "Honestly, I think I took advantage of you. Of your kindness, of how easily you were drunk. You were fun, Cora, such a fun time, and I was so miserable, so depressed at times that I... I used our friendship. I'm an asshole."

She'd never seen their relationship that way. Coralie was often inebriated with him, yes, but she'd never let him abuse her. She shook her head. "I consented, Chess. Always. You never took advantage, that much I'm sure of. It's the actual details of our escapades that are fuzzy, and that's what I hate."

"No, but I am an asshole." He glanced towards the bar and raised his glass. Coralie followed his gaze and realized that the bartender had acknowledged his request and was already pouring another drink. "Monogamy... you deserved a real boyfriend in those days, but I couldn't give you that, so I gave you sex, instead. And then, with my ex..." He squinted and flipped to the window. In the reflection, Coralie saw his nostrils wrinkle and his lips purse.

"What happened with your ex?" She thought about touching his arm, squeezing it in support, but worried the contact might make him shudder. He was affectionate and tender, but she recalled he sometimes had issues with people getting too physical. "You mentioned he dumped you? Do you want to talk about it?"

Though he slouched, and his image in the window showed dejection and disappointment, his voice was firm as he said, "No. I don't." A server popped up to deliver his fresh beverage—along with one for Coralie, too, that she didn't have a chance to decline—and he hurried to guzzle down a few sips. "Because I'm not the reason you're here. You are the reason you're here. To discuss what the fuck kind of predicament you've gotten yourself into."

With a frown, she watched him continue to drink until most of his wine was gone. It was a lot, yet he didn't stutter, didn't stumble, tolerating the booze as if it were his own blood.

Yes, she had come to pick his brain and listen to his advice, but why wouldn't he open up to her like he used to? Why so secretive and dismissive whenever the topic of his love life came up?

She eyed her drink, and opened her mouth to remind Chester that she'd said only one—but his abrupt switch in demeanor stopped her, forcing her to swallow her speech. He scoffed, then pivoted from the window and ogled her as he wiggled his eyebrows. "Two dudes, hm? Damn. You know what you should do? What would really help you get your shit together?" He smirked as he narrowed his gaze. "A threesome. With both of them. That'll pit them against each other and put them in competitive modes, and that's how you'll know which one is right."

Coralie refrained from slapping him, clenching her free fist at her side. "Shut up! That's insane."

"Is it, though?" He arched an eyebrow. "And it's not like it would be your first three-way, darling. You have experience, and I don't care how drunk you claim to have been, I know you remember it."

"Yeah," she snorted, "I remember how botched it was."

Against her will, she brought the rim of her cup to her lips and slurped a few drops. The vintage was smooth, albeit stronger than she was used to, and she loathed how Chester had somehow managed to get her to forgo her rule so fast. She'd been there all of fifteen minutes, and already sensed she'd be more intoxicated than planned.

Lowering her voice, she grimaced. "It sucked. We were so clumsy, so immature, so fucking wasted that our coordination made him lose his boner, and you fall asleep. And I remember that while it was ongoing, it didn't involve anything competitive; we were all messed up and didn't do it correctly."

Chester chuckled. "I don't disagree." He gaped at her and his lips tugged into a sly, barely there smile. "Because we should have done it with a girl, not another dude."

"Oh," Coralie gasped, "that's not what I meant, I was trying to say—"

"—don't deny it." He teetered closer to her, his wine and mint breath washing over her cheeks, causing them to freeze, then overheat. "You'd be intrigued by that, wouldn't you? You were back in the day, in case you forgot. During a few of our drunken nights you mentioned it. Oh, I wouldn't say no to eating a chick's p—"

"—Chester!" She smacked his upper torso and shoved him backwards. Luckily, he had little left in his cup, otherwise he would have spilled over his wine-colored shirt. Which she realized almost matched her outfit. Coincidence? "What the hell, man? That's not fair. I never said that. I don't believe you."

"So you are denying it, then?" He pouted his lips and cocked his head as he lifted his glass. "You're telling me that you're not interested in a better done, better planned threesome with me and a hot chick? I bet you," he trained his gaze across the room, scanning it for contenders, "we could locate someone right now, if we wanted to. What's your style, hm? Blonde, like you? Brunette? Ah, no." He bit his lip as he concentrated on her again. "Redheads, I'm ready to put money on that."

"Stop it."

She masked her discomfort by swigging down more alcohol, but the flush creeping down her neck and into her decolleté canceled out her effort. Because in truth, deep in the confines of her brain, and in her wildest fantasies, she was intrigued. Despite being straight, there was a slight bi-curiosity that had always loitered in her. A timid trickle of interest towards women, an admiration for their beauty, and a flicker of wonder about what it would be like to be with one. Men were her fancy, and she preferred penetration over any other sexual stimulation... but she'd never pretend not to appreciate a beautiful pair of breasts. And she wouldn't pretend to never have masturbated to a bit of girl-on-girl pornography.

"Ah," Chester nudged her and scrunched his nose, "you're definitely considering it! You can't lie to me, Cora. I know you."

What she truly considered was throwing her drink in his face—what was left of it, at least. "I'm not trying to lie, but—"

"—I could arrange it, you know." He brought his cup to his mouth, hiding behind it. "I might have contacts, girls who would be interested—"

"—enough." She shot down the rest of her liquor and marched over to a vacant space before the bar, where she deposited the cup.

Chester followed her, eyeing her with interest, waiting for her reply. "Did I hit a nerve?" The voice he used—low, sultry, that seductive tone he reserved for his flirting—drove her insane, tearing her between wanting to punch him or laugh at him. Or possibly shove her tongue down his throat to shut him up.

"I'm in a relationship, dude." She snarled. "And I'm having an affair. I can't have," she cupped a hand around her mouth, "a threesome!"

"Why not? You and a bombshell blonde, or a redheaded goddess, making out while I watch..." Chester whispered, his breath a blur of alcohol and desire. With a flip of his hair, he raised one shoulder and batted his lashes. "But hey, your choice. Just remember... it's an option. A threesome with them, to help you decide... or with me and some sexy brunette, to help you unwind." The suggestive nature in his tone sent shivers up her limbs and unleashed catastrophic butterflies in her gut.

A dizziness swirled up her legs, shooting into her heart. She felt queasy, and not because she'd eaten little and drunk her wine too fast; but because the temptation was there. It was intense. And it was almost impossible to ignore.

Her knees were weak, and she gripped the back of a bar-stool to not crumble at Chester's feet.

Was the alcohol clouding her judgment, or was she actually appealed by Chester's proposal? Had he put a spell on her, or were all her former sentiments towards him resurfacing? Was it her adrenaline spiking because despite her insurmountable problems, she was envisioning herself with him again, in his arms, in his bed?

A part of her wanted to recall what it was like to have sex with him, and while a little more sober than usual. Another part of her wanted to walk out right then and there, and never look back. And yet another part of her wouldn't stop fantasizing over him, her, and a sexy redheaded chick, lounging on a satin, scarlet bedspread, exchanging passionate kisses while removing pieces of clothing.

A part of her craved to realize that desire, and to postpone her dilemma with Ryan and Michael.

"I need to go," she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she pirouetted from the bar. Her feet were wobbly, and though these high heels were ones she was used to walking in, in all states of sobriety and inebriation and everything in between, she had difficulty keeping upright.

"You sure?" Chester had caught up to her, and strode backwards, keeping ahead of her.

Was she certain leaving was the solution? No. Because she'd go home and imagine all the things that could have happened had she stayed. She'd imagine the shots they'd have taken, the women Chester would have conjured, the hotel room he would have booked. She'd slide her fingers into her underwear and moan in pleasure while picturing herself doing something so naughty, so disgustingly delicious, that she'd wake Delilah and be embarrassed for it.

No, she wasn't certain saying no to Chester was a good idea. But for now, it was all she could do to not succumb to his wayward charms and make another mistake to land herself in a worse, deeper, harsher predicament.

She waved as she entered the elevator, unsure when she'd see him again, and planning on how to avoid him at the office.

Once at the bottom of the building, she dialed Ryan's number. "Pick me up at my place in an hour, would you? I can't sleep, I changed my mind, and I want you, now."

It was a lie—a sheepish, cowardly lie—but she had no clue how else to get Chester's tempting invitation out of her head.

♥♥♥