♥

♫ If he knew the things I did, he couldn't handle it
And I choose to keep him protected ♪
(TLC—Creep}

The brisk breeze, signaling the evening's arrival, whirled up seventeen stories of the Liberty View building, in the Financial District. It curled around and around like a tornado and blew right under Coralie's silk robe, scattering goosebumps from her neck down to her toes. She smiled, drinking in the vast space stretching around her, the immensity of this upper-scale balcony. But her smile faded when she glanced down at her phone on the table to her right.

Moments before, she'd been seated on one of the cushioned chairs, peering over the high railing at the skyline. She'd been waiting, relaxing, unwinding; but Michael had called her and pushed her into fumbling with excuse after excuse for postponing their usual video-chat. Now, she stood, fidgeting, regretting her lies.

The screen still displayed Michael's number and the length of their conversation—ten minutes, fifteen seconds. His profile picture—a snap of him and her in her last days in San Francisco—stared back at her, as if scanning through her and judging. His harmonious hazel eyes fixed on the red marks on her neck, the gentle nibbles on her partly exposed shoulder, the hardness of her nipples through the satin gown she wore. But knowing him, he'd probably never question Coralie on these marks. He trusted her, cared for her, and if anything he'd be worried to see a single bruise on her. And he wouldn't hang up until she promised she was okay. He'd never leave such traces on her flesh, sweet and cautious as he was.

She pressed one hand into the soft fabric of her robe, and clutched her cup with her other, smacking her lips in delight at the cooling sensation on her sweaty skin. Sniffing at the scents—the fragrant flowers wilting on the patio, the crisp catered delights from a few floors above, and the liquor swirling in her glass—she retrieved her grin, basking in the momentary silence. Reveling in the end of the day, the sun setting, and the city lights flickering on like fireflies dotting the New York City horizon.

With a shrug, she tugged her robe up farther and turned away from the phone, resting against the see-through railing instead, with her back to the view of buildings and parks and busy streets. She tipped her cup to her mouth and peered up at the multiple stories above where she stood. The apartment complex was decadent, with massive windows—some open, party sounds spilling out; some closed, showing no sign of life—well-maintained facades, and scenic sights. Most had enormous balconies—like this pad—with spectacular views. It was quite the elaborate setting for an affair like hers.

With a laugh, she detected the flickering lights of the neighbor who was practicing his DJ skills, and heard the beats from his room.

In the mere day she'd been at Ryan's luxury home, Coralie Watson had learned a lot—about her surroundings, her city, herself. She also drank heavily—champagne in her morning mimosa, a splash of vodka in her Bloody Mary at noon, a whizz of raspberry Schnapps in her Sprite around three, and now, a chocolate red wine that melted in her mouth and aroused her. She clicked her tongue, blew out a breath of exhaustion, and took another sip.

How she could still express any sort of physical desires was beyond her. She'd spent most of the day—with all those beverages—in bed with Ryan, and his hunger was never satisfied. The robe she had on was the only layer of clothing he'd permitted since she'd discarded her dress from the night before. Her legs were in agony, her lower lips throbbing, her back pinging with pain—yet she'd never had such incredible sex in her entire life.

Her phone buzzed, drawing her from the memory of Ryan biting her lip as he slid his finger in—

Delilah Cell: Yo, where are you? Some random driver dude showed up a bit ago to pick up some of your stuff? Are you stuck somewhere? How did your meet-up with Ryan go?

Coralie's throat constricted. "Shit." She set her cup down and picked up the device, but her thumbs hovered over the keyboard aimlessly as she pondered what to respond. "She knows. Oh, she knows. I didn't come home last night... she's not stupid." She groaned as she began to type a sentence, then groaned louder as she erased it. "Fuck."

The sliding door opened ahead of her, and a tall silhouette fluttered out onto the patio.

She flipped around to hide her phone as she scrounged up some semblance of a reply.

Coralie Amber Watson: I got too wasted and couldn't figure out how to get home... oops! I meant to tell you, sorry. Spent the night at a cheap-ass hotel, and the driver was from work.

She cringed, hearing his footsteps behind her, getting closer, closer. Her fingers shook as she hurried to finish her half-assed—and made-up—explanations.

Coralie Amber Watson: I had to call in to the office, too hungover. They offered help, so I can get to work tonight. I should be home after my shift. Sorry again!

She quickly x-ed out of the conversation, but it was too late. She felt his breath brushing over her neck, swishing down her shoulders, her arms, wrapping around her wrists, twirling between her fingers.

"Cheap-ass hotel, huh? Damn, I didn't realize my hospitality skills were that terrible," said Ryan, his sexy southern London accent digging into Coralie's core and rendering her knees weak. He lingered behind her, his chin near her ear, his wine breath continuing to spiral out of his delicious mouth as he weaved his arms around her middle.

She put the cell on the table to their right and bit her lip as she tilted her head to her left. "I can't let Delilah get suspicious. Not before I can explain everything to her in person." She moaned as Ryan trailed his mouth from her earlobe, to her jaw, then down her neck until he reached her upper shoulder. "If I tell her where I've been, what I've done..."

"She'll judge?" Ryan snorted, but then his tongue touched her skin, sending shivers down her spine as he pursued his small but fervent kisses, slowly tugging her robe collar down. "From what I know about her, she has little room to do so."

Coralie pivoted, removing herself from his grasp. "Stop." She connected her gaze with his, trying—and failing—to look stern. His ocean eyes plunged into hers, immobilizing her against the railing. "You don't know her." He squinted at her, then yanked her close again, to resume planting pecks along her flesh. "She's my roommate and one of my best friends, and she's only looking out for me. You're—"

"—dangerous? Toxic? Too damn gorgeous for you?" He quirked an eyebrow, and she did her damndest not to melt and let him have his way with her—as he had several times that day already.

She pursed her lips. "I was going to say married, but all that, too."

"About to be divorced, Cora. Come now... don't be a downer." He tucked her icy blonde hair out of the way so he could kiss right under her chin.

She waved him off and escaped his embrace, twirling to the table. Seizing her glass, she took another swig—before Ryan stole it from her and guzzled down the last drops for himself. "Hey! I was enjoying that!"

He chortled at her, and as he put the cup back down, she ogled his chiseled chest, and the perfect V vaulting down under his tight boxers. Oh, he had no shame, wandering onto his private but easily seen patio with little to no clothing on. He'd even suggested that they make love outside, but Coralie had put her foot down on that one, preferring to stay inside. Bed, floor, bathtub, kitchen counter, couch—not a single spot had been spared, and the thought of their escapades heated her face, fired up her thirst for him.

But she wouldn't, couldn't relent. If she allowed him to ravage her once more, she might pass out and not wake again for days.

Her phone vibrated and, expecting a smart-ass response from Delilah, she grabbed it and unlocked it. To her dismay—and to Ryan's, from his sudden scowl—it wasn't Delilah.

Michael: I hate that Delilah's love life has you staying elsewhere! If I were there we could compete with her and her conquest, yeah? ;)

She immediately locked the device and tossed it onto the table, but Ryan saw the message, or at least the sender, and crossed his large, tattooed arms. "I thought you were going to tell him? I noticed a winky face... ugh, is that what you Americans call them?"

"You are one of these Americans now, remember? You live here." Coralie nudged him out of her way and padded towards the sliding door. "And I said I was going to figure out what to say to him, yeah. But you can't expect me to come up with something in one night. Especially not when I've been too busy to pay attention to my phone."

In the glass door, she noticed him coming up behind her, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right, but the longer you string him along, the worse his reaction will be, no? Cora... this is serious. I chose you, you chose me... and I want you all to myself. Is that too much to ask?"

Yes.

She almost said it out loud, but chewed on her tongue before letting her brain speak for her. Only the night before, Ryan had declared his love to her, swore he and Gemma were getting a divorce, and that he'd always wanted her. He'd vowed that he only went back to Gemma out of duty, to avoid complicated paperwork and lawyers and custody battles. But he fantasized over Coralie, dreamed of living with Coralie, moved across the world... for Coralie.

"Michael and I were serious, too, remember?" She spun on her heels and watched as Ryan caught up to her; but he kept his distance this time, his gaze narrowing, his square, sturdy shoulders stiffening. "Before you showed up and swept me off my feet. Again. Now I'm the one having illicit affairs and cheating on my boyfriend."

"Then," Ryan whooshed closer and snuck an arm around the small of her back, "make him not your boyfriend anymore." He produced her phone—that she hadn't seen him take—and lifted it towards her. "Call him. End it. Apologize, ask to stay friends, whatever you need to say, but do it."

She snatched the phone and almost threw it at his perfect face. Almost hurled it into his six-pack abs and his beautiful bulge and his bulky but gorgeously shaped thighs. Almost jammed it into the palms of his dark hands, telling him to go fuck himself.

How dare he? After everything he put her through, he expected her to press a button and erase all the things she'd done in the past months? All the ways she'd fought to get over him, to move on with her life, to be happy—he needed her to forget those? It wasn't fair. He hadn't given her enough time to process what was happening, nor how she felt. And barely permitted her a second to breathe before whispering in her ear how badly he wanted her.

As Ryan watched her, awaiting her reply, Coralie reflected on the lack of progress from last night. After he'd led her away from the bar, she'd insisted they sit down and talk, despite the steamy make-out session they'd had in the cab to his place, and the sneaky fondling in the elevator up to his floor. In his half-furnished living room—he was still waiting on some pieces—they'd settled on the settee and she'd glared at him. When he'd tried to snuggle, she'd shoved him off. When he'd offered to give her a massage, she'd asked if they could chat while he did so. She'd meant it when she'd said they had things to discuss, and he'd claimed he understood. Yet in the twenty-four or so hours since they'd entered his apartment... they'd barely gone over terms.

And when she'd reminded him she was in a relationship, and needed to think about the consequences, he'd told her, begged her to ditch Michael for him.

"You've known me longer, and I'm the best you've ever had, right?"

Right. Right? She wasn't sure anymore. Her recollections of Michael, of how he made her feel, of how his fingers tickled down her spine and crept into her crevices and wound her up... were fading. And a tiny, tormented part of her didn't want them to. She'd chosen Ryan... but Michael was important to her, too.

"Soon." She reverted to the door and slid it open. A wave of warmth collided with her cheeks and whistled under her robe. "I... promise." Cringing, she dipped her chin, so he wouldn't see her in the glass reflection, so he wouldn't question her hesitation.

Did Michael deserve such a brutal, out-of-the-blue break-up? No. And she didn't deserve him, of that she had no doubt. Yet she clung to him, to what he represented—peace. No drama. No complications.

Poor Michael, Delilah had once said. And now, Coralie agreed. He'd done nothing wrong, nothing to warrant such betrayal. He was an exemplary boyfriend, calling her daily but never invasive, supporting her but never over-the-top, encouraging but never too cheesy. And she missed him, missed being in his arms and sleeping with him and kissing him. Sure, Ryan was one of the best she'd ever had... but he was inconsistent, flighty, fickle. Michael... was stable, reliable, wonderful.

Coralie always kept her promises... but this was one she wasn't certain she wanted to.

♥♥♥