♫ See these feelings are outta control
Talk about losing, losing all my shit for you ♪
(BANKS—Bedroom wall)

Ryan's satin sheets scratched Coralie's back as they bunched beneath her when she stretched. Though she'd brushed her teeth at some point the night before—between sex sessions, she was positive—her tongue tasted like sour wine and her throat was clogged and croaky.

Thirsty, she reached for the nightstand, hoping to find a glass of water, something to soothe her, and drown the grossness in her mouth. But she almost spilled everywhere when her phone, residing next to her drink, came alive, buzzing like crazy.

She'd put it on silent before bed, and its vibrations shook the nightstand so hard, she worried it would wake Ryan.

"Fuck," she whispered, grabbing the glass first, and transferring it to her other hand as she snatched her phone. "Fuck, what time is it?"

Meaning to check the clock on her cell, she accidentally clicked the green pick up button, and gasped as she realized, all too late, who was calling her.

Michael! Crap!

"Shit." She glued the receiver to her ear. "Hello?" Keeping her tone low, she gripped the cup so tight, she feared it might shatter.

Michael's melodious morning voice blasted into her ears, and she winced. "Babe? You okay?" His chipper tone diminished. "You sound far. And quiet. Like you're echoing... are you in a big empty room? Wait," a clap came from his end, as if he'd smacked himself on the forehead, "are you in the studio? Shit, it's about that time, huh?"

Pulling the phone away to squint at the screen, she saw the time, at last—ten am.

"Oh, uh..." She brought the cell to her ear again and took a quick sip of the stale-tasting water before depositing it onto the nightstand. "Yeah, it is that time, but, uh... no, I'm not in the studio."

No, she wasn't recording songs or sitting behind her desk at the office, as she should have been. She was in Ryan's high-ceilinged, non-decorated, vast bedroom. Heaps of fluffy blankets surrounded her, giant pillows rested under her tangles of hair, and the floor-to-ceiling window was covered by a darkened curtain that had prevented her from waking up when she'd hoped to. Sure, Nikita had said to come in late—but Coralie would be really late, today.

After all the drinking—she and Ryan had several shots of vodka and half a bottle of red wine after they returned from the bar—and the wild sex, her mind had deactivated. And so had her phone; she'd apparently turned off all her alarms. Or she'd slept through everything, who knew. Inebriated as she'd been last night, anything was possible.

As she tried to move her legs, she bit her lip to not scream out in pain.

"Oh," said Michael, drawing her back to him. "Then... where are you? You sound distracted. Should I call later?"

She almost said yes, but as she gazed to her right and saw no shape beside her—Ryan was awake?—she sighed. "No..." Her head became heavy, falling deeper into the cushion beneath it. "No, no, I'm sorry. I'm happy to hear you, I just... had a long night."

"The gig, that's right!" Excitement peppered his tone. "You were supposed to text me after and tell me how it went! And I hoped for something on your Instagram, but... nothing. Was it bad?"

If he were there with her, she knew he'd be trying his hardest not to frown, not to indicate disappointment that she hadn't kept her word. And no, she hadn't promised him anything, yet she felt like she'd broken his trust, anyway.

Of course; I'm sleeping with Ryan, for fuck's sake.

"We, uh..." She gulped. "The show went well, really well, so my bosses treated me to a few drinks. A lot of drinks, actually, so I'm, uh... still in bed." Wincing through her semi-lie—she did drink a lot, and she was in bed—she attempted to sit up. Her temples pounded in response, and a slight wave of nausea crept up her throat, so she let herself slip against the mattress once more. "I feel like shit."

Michael, on the other end, chortled. "Ha, well that's what you get for drinking! Sobriety is the healthier choice, my sweet!" She pictured him wagging his finger at her. Since he didn't drink, he often criticized those who did, though he never asked Coralie to stop imbibing in alcohol for his sake. He only liked to tease her, and she heard the mockery in his voice now. "But seriously, that's awesome, babe. Do you know when influencers will start posting stuff? You'll have to tell me who to follow, who to look up. And are you going to put anything up, soon? Didn't the label film you or something?"

Coralie massaged the bridge of her nose, recalling that yes, the label had filmed her. But all anyone would view in that video was her singing a sensual song while basically eye-fucking Ryan. And she didn't want that video anywhere on the internet until she had a chance to see it for herself and make sure her behavior wasn't obvious. Already she was composing a text message in her head to Nikita, begging for forgiveness for sleeping in so late and beseeching her not to share any footage of the night.

Damn, I hope she's waiting for my approval...

"I'm not sure, I'll have to find out. And actually," she rolled onto her stomach, gritting her teeth in discomfort, "I need to get ready. A shower is the only thing that'll get me going, and I reek of booze and—" she clamped her mouth shut before saying sex, "—and that's bad."

"Coffee helps, too," said Michael, typing away on his keyboard in the background. It was seven in the morning for him, and he usually started his work day at around six-thirty, showing up at his office before everyone else. Workaholic, they all called him, including Coralie. She smirked at the recollection of his grumpy attitude when called that. "And bacon, oh man, I remember from my days of binge-drinking, and back when I was a meat-eater—" he scoffed, "—anyway, I'll let you get to it, then. Just wanted to check on you, since I didn't get any goodnight texts or anything."

Coralie clenched a fist and glowered into the pillow. Why was she such a shitty girlfriend? She cared about Michael, about keeping him up to speed on her new life. So far she'd never omitted their goodnight messages... until meeting up with Ryan and going home with him.

If she chose to end her relationship with Michael, this wasn't the way. But right now, all she was doing was drawing suspicion to herself by acting like such a jerk. All her missteps would make it easier for him to dump her if she wasn't more careful. And she didn't want to lose him, not yet, and not like that.

She made a mental note to make a bigger effort, at least until she figured out exactly what she wanted. Because if she ended up deciding to not end things with Michael, and to instead tell Ryan to go fuck himself... she had to ensure she didn't ruin the relationship.

Gosh, I'm the worst.

"I'm so sorry, Michael. You don't deserve this crappy treatment, for real. If I hadn't been so wasted, I wouldn't have forgotten to keep you in the loop and text you goodnight. Definitely planning to watch my drinking from now on." She blew out her cheeks. "I still plan to make it up to you, super soon. Work—both jobs have been nuts lately, and I'm waiting for things to slow down. Then I can be more present."

"I'd never ask you to abandon your dreams to send me some stupid 'sleep well' message, Cora," said Michael, turning suddenly serious. "I get it. Please, don't take that as me being clingy. I was simply saying... hey, I miss you, okay?"

Imagining his sheepish smile, Coralie melted into the mattress. He was so cute, so sweet, so thoughtful... and she didn't deserve him in the slightest. "I miss you too."

"Feel better, sweetheart. I'll text you later, yeah?"

"Yeah." She smiled, hoping he'd hear it through her voice. "And I'll answer, I swear. Have a good day, babe."

She hung up, flung her phone onto the bed next to her, and stuffed her nose into the cushions.

The door creaked open—she hadn't realized it was shut—and she froze.

"Babe?" Ryan's dejected tone roused her from her pouting and prompted her to whip her head up and flip to find him standing in the doorway. He was in his boxers, and his stern eyes fixed on her. With one hand, he balanced a tray with a plate on it, and in his other he held what appeared to be a steaming mug of coffee.

"Ryan," said Coralie, sitting up, and grimacing through the pain flaring across her forehead. "Hi. Good morning. Didn't notice you'd started breakfast!"

"Babe?" he repeated, taking two strides into the room. Light poured in from the threshold, basking him in an angelic glow. But his V-shaped eyebrows and curled lip reflected nothing angelic; he was pissed. "Who was that? Him?"

Not in the mood for an argument, Coralie kicked the covers off and frowned at the agony shooting from her hips to her ankles. Their adventures last night were acrobatic, and she had flashes of entangled legs, nails digging into skin, and teeth sinking into necks as moans of ecstasy escaped into the air. "Stop it." She cracked her knuckles, then her neck. "You know exactly who it was."

"Yes, I do, and I'm confused." He stomped into the area and put the tray on the night-table. The silverware clattered against the plate, and Coralie twisted to see what he'd brought her. Eggs, bacon, sausage, toast—he'd cooked her the works.

"Confused about what?" She motioned at the mug he still held, and he handed it to her, before walking off and sitting on the far edge of the bed, his back to her.

"About why he's calling you. Have you still not talked to him?" He brushed his fingers over the back of his neck, pressing into a nibble mark Coralie had left there.

"We talked about this yesterday," said Coralie, bringing the mug's rim to her lips. She sniffed in the strong java and closed her eyes, letting the scent wake her senses. Ryan made excellent coffee. "Did you expect me to have time to discuss things with him so fast? Come on."

Ryan's eyes narrowed as he spun around and pulled one of his bare and muscular thighs onto the bed. "I did. Didn't you speak to him yesterday, at work? And then again before the gig? And from the sound of this conversation, you'd said you'd call him to tell him about how the show would go, so... yes, Coralie. I expected more. Can you blame me? You're stringing me along."

Coralie nearly spat out her third gulp of coffee. "Are you kidding me? I am stringing you along?"

Ryan snorted. "You came home with me, that night, remember? You said we needed to talk. And... okay, yes, we didn't talk much, but I was under the impression our bodies did the talking for us. You chose me, right?"

"Ryan." Coralie set the cup on the nightstand, and crawled across the bed to join him. She wrapped her arms under his armpits and squeezed him. "Please, understand... Michael is in love with me, okay? It's not that easy to resolve things with him, and more so with so many miles between us. He's a great, decent dude, and I don't want to destroy him."

"But you didn't answer my question." Ryan pried from her embrace and stood up, setting his fists on his hips. He grunted, then drew a hand down his face and turned to her. "You chose me, right?"

"I..." Coralie's lips widened, then glued together as she fought for a reply that would satisfy him. In reality... she hadn't chosen anything, and Ryan knew it. He had to know it. They never formally discussed what this was, what they were doing, what they would do. All they did was get drunk and have sex and enjoy luxurious meals, and then go to the bar so she could sing. There was no agreement, no concrete plan. And the fact that he kept implying that she was supposed to break up with Michael, to trample all over his heart—more than she already had—irked her. "Ryan, come on. Why are you doing this?"

He marched to the curtains and ripped them aside, blaring bright sunlight into Coralie's eyes. She threw her arm over her face, hissing like a vampire about to melt in the rays. "Because you're right, we do need to talk. My fault for... being too hungry for you to figure that out." He peered out the window, and his back muscles pulsated as his arms tensed. "I was in love with Gemma, remember? And look what I did for you."

"Um," Coralie snorted, "she left you, Ryan. Don't get it twisted." She retreated to the other end of the bed and plucked her coffee from the table. "Don't imply you made all these grand gestures and fucked your life up for me, because you didn't. Before she chose to leave, you'd picked her. So don't get all angry with me for not having officially chosen between you and Michael. That's not fair."

With a devilish glare, the likes of which Coralie hadn't ever seen, Ryan rotated to her. "Ouch." He sneered, then paraded past the bed and over to the adjoining bathroom. Once inside, he slammed the door, and a few seconds later, Coralie heard him switching the faucet on, starting the shower.

She would usually sneak in and join him, to lather herself in the water, and prompt them to go for another round of breathtaking sex. But his mood and her irritation wouldn't be a good mix. He needed to mull over her words, and she needed to figure her life out. So she grabbed the breakfast tray, and plunged into her food, shoving forkfuls of hot eggs into her mouth to numb her tongue and divert her thoughts.

♥♥♥