🔥STEAMY ALERT—very mild 🔥

♫ You don't even have a clue
Of all the things I'm doing to you ♪
(Vera Blue—Private)

The dampness in Coralie's underwear the next morning might have been left-over from last night with Michael. But it might have come from the intense wet dream she'd had about Chester, too. She could have sworn she still felt his chafed hands over her mouth when she woke to her Thirty Seconds to Mars alarm. And his chest clapping against hers, his sweat smearing onto her skin, his teeth nibbling her lips as he moaned her name. And his thrusts, savage and sensual all at once, prompting her to zone in and out of consciousness, drowning in waves of pleasure.

The dream had been so vigorous, so realistic, that as she turned off her alarm, she instinctively checked to her left, where she'd remembered Chester laying to take her from behind. Michael had been snoozing to her right, immobile as Chester pounded, pounded, pounded, rattling the bed so much the frame nearly shattered. Dream Michael hadn't reacted. And somehow real Michael hadn't either, despite the groans Coralie must have emitted in her sleep as the fantasy played out in her mind.

Now, Michael snored softly beside her, unfazed by her alarm's blaring rock music. How peaceful he appeared as his naked chest crept up and down, and he breathed in and out, and his eyelids fluttered.

As Coralie turned off her second alarm, five minutes later, she found two text messages waiting for her. And of course, they were from the two men she didn't want Michael to find out about.

RyRy: Is it done yet? Can you come over here? We need to talk.

He'd sent it in the middle of the night, as if expecting Coralie would end things with Michael a few hours after he showed up. As if he'd paid no attention to her warnings for him to leave her the hell alone and let her take care of the situation at her own pace.

"What an asshole," she whispered as she deleted the text message, unwilling to address his rudeness. She'd told him she'd do what she pleased, and yet he still insisted she do things his way?

How dare he?

She hesitated to open the second text message—from Chester—wary of what it would say. With him, it could be anything; wishing her goodnight, asking for another coffee date, or a straight-up "dick pic"—and she couldn't lie, she wouldn't be super disappointed if it was the latter. But not with Michael next to her, able to peer over and witness it and watch his entire world crumble.

Inclining the phone away from him, but unable to move farther as his legs were woven around hers, she took a deep breath. She clicked on the message and gulped.

Chess: Have any good dreams last night?

She caught herself before jolting out of bed and screaming.

What?

Dreams? What prompted him to text her about those, of all things? Was it another coincidence? Or had he been watching her again, somehow? She had half a mind to check every corner of her room for cameras, or to call Delilah and ask her if she and Chester were in cahoots somehow, to trick her. Was Chester there right now, chilling in her living room, expecting her to climb on top of him and resume what they'd started in her dream?

How did he know she'd had vivid, voracious images stuck in her mind all night? Did he know those images focused on him? Did he know how he haunted her even when she was with the other men she cared about? Or... had it been a dream at all? What if he'd called her, and in her sleepy haze she'd told him to come over, and opened the door for him, and then let him take her with her official boyfriend slumbering in the same bed?

"No..." She didn't delete his message, because she'd answer him—she needed explanations. Insight. Reassurance. She needed to be positive she hadn't done anything so serious, so perilous, so risky. Yes, she was cheating on Michael; but to do so literally under his nose? That was preposterous, even for her.

"Hmmm?" Michael stirred and threw one arm over her to draw her closer. "Hmmm," he hummed, clicking his tongue and nuzzling his nose into her neck.

She barely had time to minimize the chat screen, lock her phone, and toss it to the floor before Michael had engulfed her in a warm, good-morning embrace.

"Babe," she said, kissing his forehead and trying not to grimace. She wasn't unhappy to be with him... but she'd cheated on him not only in real life, but in her dreams, too. And it disgusted her. "I need to wake up. To get up."

"Ugh." He stretched one arm as the other lugged her closer. "So do I, but I don't want to." He was usually a morning person, and had no trouble jumping out of bed in a positive mood and ready to start the day. Today, however, he seemed to struggle to even open his eyes.

"Baby." She nudged him and pressed her lips to his forehead again. "Come on."

When at last he pried his eyelids apart, he fixed on her and smiled, taking in every inch of her face. "Hi, beautiful." His smile widened as she smirked at him. "Oh, that won't help me get up any faster... well, something else is up." He attempted a wink, but with his tired expression it looked more like a confusing squint.

"I can't, babe." Coralie's lower parts animated at the idea of a brisk morning session. It would wake her up and assuage any urges that might have bothered her throughout the day. But she was already running late in her usual routine and wasn't certain she wanted to have sex again after last night's fantasies. Her guilt had grown, and to indulge in Michael once more when she still craved Chester... wasn't right. Was it?

No, none of it was. Not Michael's impromptu visit, not Ryan's constant nagging, not Chester's incessant teasing. Not her still caring for Michael and hoping he'd forgive her transgressions. Nor her ongoing and never-ending desire for Ryan despite how he treated her. Nor her insane curiosity towards the dangers that Chester represented.

But she was too tired, too stressed, and too overwhelmed to sort through it all now.

Michael grunted as he let her go and rolled to the farther side of the bed. "Fine." He drawled out the words as he yawned. "But can I shower before you kick me out? I should have last night, but... I was too cozy in your bed."

Since Coralie showered in the evening, she urged him to get his adorable ass in the water. But she didn't budge from the covers as she was supposed to. Instead, as he borrowed a towel and locked himself in the bathroom, she reached onto the floor and plucked her phone from it. Digging her head into her pillow, she reopened the chat with Chester. And before she had a chance to stop herself, she typed.

Coralie Amber Watson: How the fuck did you know?!

She set the phone down and threw the blankets off herself, shivering as she realized she'd fallen asleep with nothing but her underwear on. She'd never done that at this apartment—since the only other person she slept with was Ryan, and that was always at his place—and forgot how chilly it could be early on. Their heater wasn't the most functional piece of equipment and tended to work when it felt like it.

After shrugging on last night's bra, a pair of checkered black and white pants, and a long-sleeved black shirt, she wandered into the kitchen and prepared the coffee that she'd omitted to set up the night before.

Moments later, back in her room, she picked up her phone, and, to no surprise, she discovered Chester had replied.

Chess: I had a feeling after that kiss in the elevator—

Her cheeks heated as she lowered the screen and glanced around in uncertainty. She could still hear the shower running, so the coast was clear. And yet she feared someone, anyone, was lurking and reading Chester's message over her shoulder and denouncing her as a fraud. A cheat. A piece of shit girlfriend and a trashy lover.

Fuck.

She resumed reading.

Chess:—because it was always so steamy between us, right? That's how I remember it.

She fanned her face and fell onto her unmade bed with a huff. "Shit. Shit."

Another text came through.

Chess: To be honest, I had crazy dreams last night, too, but sort of assumed you would. So is that you confirming you did? Will you tell me about them?

She scoffed.

Coralie Amber Watson: No!!! That thing affected me more than I wanted it to.

She pulled on some low-cut see-through stockings, then rubbed her forehead. Would her habitual make-up cover her flush? Would it cover her shame? Or would it lessen the bold desires growing in her gut, the brazen fire igniting in her heart, or that impossible to tame hunger flaring to life in her vagina? She wanted Chester, that much was more and more obvious. But how was she to clobber that desire and make it go away if they kept meeting in elevators and sending secretive texts to each other? How was she to survive his intoxication, and more so while her actual boyfriend was in town?

I can't take the stairs at work... not all the way up to my floor!

Why, why wouldn't that thirst for Chester disappear? She didn't need him; she had Michael and his magic fingers and tongue, and she had Ryan and his talent for rocking her world. Where would Chester fit in? What more could he provide that the other two didn't? She was satisfied—physically and emotionally—and beyond that. She was elated, ecstatic, never bored, never lacking for anything. Chester occupied a space she didn't have room for... and she had no clue how to eject him.

As she strove for a way to explain this to Chester, to let him down easy, he sent her another message.

Chess: Ah, so you didn't want it to affect you. Did I put you in a tight spot?

"Tight spot?" She snorted and considered hurling the phone against the wall and watching it shatter. Though with her luck, it would bounce into her lap, and Chester's words would still float before her, repeating in his heavy, hot voice. "Tight spot?"

The device vibrated again.

Chess: Or a wet one? ;)

"Oh, fuck you, dude." She gripped the phone, willing it to explode, so she'd never have to witness Chester's flirting again. Her fingers shook so much she battled to keep the device steady in her grip.

Chess: Sorry, I can't help it. Maybe we should try "bumping" into one another again soon, yeah? See you at work, Cora.

She locked the phone and left it to rot on her nightstand as she flurried to her mirror to finish getting ready.

Masking her fury with concealer and foundation was near impossible. And hiding the luminous lust in her eyes under a thick coat of mascara proved difficult. But as she applied a layer of lip-stain, she decided it would do, for now. No one needed to know the truth of the imposter sheltering beneath her make-up; not her co-workers, not random strangers in public transit, and especially not Michael.

Michael came out of the bathroom in his jeans, bare-chested, and rubbing a towel over his curls. Pivoting from her reflection, Coralie drooled at the sight of him. Tall but not too tall, muscular but not bulky, handsome but not devastating.

When he paused before her, his features showed the same admiration towards her. "Damn, you're... wonderful. But you're going to abandon me already?" He eyed her from head to toe and grinned. "You look gorgeous. Is this how you always dress for the office? I bet you wow them whenever you walk through the door."

She flushed at his compliment. "You're sweet. Everyone dresses to impress, but I... don't impress anyone."

Michael scrunched his eyebrows and ditched the towel as he wandered over to her. He seized her chin between his thumb and index finger and forced her to gaze into his harmonious, honest, hazel eyes. "Babe. No. You're a splendor and a marvel and if they don't fall at your feet, then they're idiots. And," he placed his lips against hers, soft and smooth and comforting, "your voice is heavenly. No, never think you don't impress anyone, because trust me, you do."

Awed by his kindness—and believing she didn't deserve it—she gave him a quick peck and then checked his lips to make sure her lipstick hadn't stained him. "You're amazing, Michael."

He clasped his hands in prayer and batted his lashes at her. "Amazing enough to skip work and tour me around the city?" Her immediate wince caused him to drop his quirky, cute demeanor and reveal a hint of disappointment. "Ah, no negotiating that, huh?"

"I'm sorry," she said, massaging his shoulder before scampering out of the room. In the kitchen, she poured coffee into a cup for him, then another for her, then the rest into her travel mug. "They're having me catalogue most of my songs and record a few. And they're trying to book me gigs to get me out there and popular, and find sponsors and—"

"—babe." He appeared behind her and weaved his arms around her waist as he kissed the back of her head. "It's okay, you don't need to explain."

"And," she flipped around, escaped his arms, and handed him his coffee, "you took me by surprise. If you'd warned me you were coming, I might have been able to get some time off. But I have two jobs, and they rarely work in sync with each other."

"I know." Michael sipped from the scorching black coffee without a flinch. "But I wanted to surprise you. Isn't it better that way?" He narrowed his gaze. "Wait, are you at the bar tonight, too? When do I get to see you again?"

She hadn't thought of that, and as she returned to the counter to pick up her mug, she frowned. How would she fit him into her ridiculous schedule, all while avoiding Chester and dodging Ryan's calls?

"You could meet me here when I stop by to change between jobs." After pouring creamer into both her mugs, she allowed herself a glance at him; at his poorly concealed dejection and his flimsy smile. At his chiseled chest and his low-rise jeans and the tiny, shaggy hairs below his navel. Her heart stung, her belly ached. "Babe... I'll do my best. Maybe you can hang at the bar while I work, too? My boss won't be there tonight, and it's a slower evening, so..."

"We'll see." He found the paper travel cups Delilah used every morning, and drained his glass mug's contents into one, then secured a lid over it. "I have a list of sights to visit, so if I'm done with those, I'll come over. And if not... maybe the bar. I tend to avoid those if I can help it."

Coralie wrinkled her nose. Yes, they'd reacquainted with one another at a bar, but that didn't mean Michael enjoyed frequenting such places.

Because he doesn't drink, duh! And I invite him there? Moron.

"Forgive me," she said, planting a swift kiss on his cheek. "Please, forgive me."

As she said it, she wasn't sure if she was asking forgiveness for her lack of availability, or because somewhere deep, deep below the surface of her worry and guilt, she had other cravings bubbling, brewing, begging for attention. She wanted to see Ryan, and she wanted to undress Chester. And with every minute spent with Michael, she wanted to tell him the truth, but didn't have the balls to break his heart. Or her own.

♥♥♥