🔥STEAMY ALERT—some *ahem* moments throughout the chapter 🔥

♫ Have to touch myself to pretend you're there
Your hands were on my hips, your name was on my lips
Over, over again like my only prayer ♪
(Lana Del Rey—Burning desire)

Yawning through another workplace security video, Coralie plucked her cup from her desk. The liquid lapping onto her tongue had become cold, and she cringed, wishing she'd brought more java to put in the shared office coffee-machine. Sure, she could borrow one of her co-worker's K-cups—again—but she had no idea when she'd have time to replace it. Grocery shopping had been on her list for days, but between avoiding Delilah and spending hours naked in Ryan's bed... she never got a chance.

That morning, after another evening of frolicking with Ryan, Coralie made her way home late enough to not bump into Delilah, who'd left her a passive-aggressive note on the fridge, requesting that they talk. She must have had an inkling what Coralie was up to—her flimsy excuse of getting drunk and spending the night at a hotel because she couldn't get home was bullshit, and Delilah would call her out for it, for sure. But Coralie wasn't ready for that, to explain her behavior, her decision, her defiance.

Her phone buzzed, and she paused the security tape to pick up the call. The cute profile picture made her smile, and she put the caller on speaker.

"Hi, babe," she said, staring at Michael's adorable face as it plastered over the screen.

"Hey, beautiful." He sounded a bit distracted, out of breath—probably just finished skateboarding. It was late morning in San Francisco, and he tended to take his lunch breaks outside, away from the stuffiness of his desk. "Do you have time for a video chat? I really need to look at you, today's been rough, and I hate that we missed our call last night."

Coralie stared at her computer screen and grimaced. "Well... I'm at work, and kind of in the middle of a company-wide security thing." Her grimace grew as she realized how full of shit she was. She'd had video-chats with him in her office more than once, and when working on important lyrics or right before a recording session. What motivated her to turn him down, today? Not the security video, not the fact that she was at work...

No, exhaustion. Her body ached from all the love-making with Ryan, and she had trouble concentrating on words. She struggled to comprehend half of what the training tape tried to instruct her. And one glimpse at her off-the-shoulder sweater revealed the nibbles on her neck, reminding her of the scratch marks on her thighs, and the bruises on her ass from having sex on the floor—all things she'd have a hard time explaining to Michael.

Why the fuck did I wear this top?

Stable, reliable, wonderful Michael wouldn't comment much on it. He'd stare at the wounds and hold his tongue, or ask her how she'd hurt herself, or offer advice on how to heal. And out of obligation towards him, out of affection, Coralie would have to figure some means to placate him, to drown his doubts. But tired as she was, her imagination had turned off, disappeared, become dormant. With her silence, things would be awkward, until he finally dared to mention his hesitations, and she'd come clean, admit she was cheating—

"Okay, well... when works for you, then?" She heard him cough, and a sound of wheels rolling over gravel, confirming her suspicions of him skating. "Our sessions are the only thing keeping me sane. I swear, everyone in San Fran is calling these past few weeks and they're driving me nuts. Don't you people email? Ugh."

His frustrated voice prompted Coralie to want to reach through the phone and hug him. He stressed out easily, and though he was kind and sociable, he wasn't always the best people-person. Which was why he used to have a secretary and a receptionist to answer calls for him and handle details. But since Coralie had quit his start-up, he hadn't bothered to hire anyone else. Yet he needed someone. With his popularity growing, with his photos gaining recognition, more and more folks requested his services and offered a lot of money for them.

"I'm so sorry, baby." She started the work video again, but put it on mute. There wouldn't be a test on it, and she wanted to get it over with so she could return to the current song she'd been working on—a steamy tirade about her gallivanting with men she shouldn't. "I'll make it up to you, I promise. Trust me, I need it too. These last few days have been," she cleared her throat, "rough."

It wasn't a lie. Bumping into Ryan had been startling. Avoiding his messages had been tough. Deciding to meet with him had been bold. Finding out about his divorce had shocked her. And choosing to isolate herself with him was rash, stupid, delirious. All those emotions smacked together, fusing into one—confusion. Her brain loaded with images and outcomes, and none were happy endings; not for her, not for Ryan, and especially not for Michael.

What had she done? Why hadn't she run off from the bar when Ryan had said he loved her? A part of her still didn't believe him, and the other remained so enraptured by the taste of him, by the glaze of his ocean eyes and the rippling muscles he'd used to hold her, that she'd melted and lost control of her mouth. A mouth that he'd kissed so hard, so often that it had become numb, and still sort of was. Her first few sips of coffee that morning were awful, and she'd spilled quite a bit onto her lap.

"Babe," Michael's voice drew her back to reality, "I miss you. I miss the smell of you, the sight of you. How long can we chat? I need to listen to you because I'm losing my mind."

In truth, Coralie missed Michael too, more than she wanted to admit. Because admitting that she cared so much about him made it harder for her to accept that she had to break up with him. And breaking up with him felt wrong; why would she let something so good slip out of her grasp? Sure, Ryan was adventurous and dangerous and thrilling; but Michael provided her with as much excitement in his own way. His kisses were sweet and tasty, his embrace warm and comforting, his voice calming and melodious to her ears. She appreciated his gestures—flowers, cute notes, adorable comments on her videos—but also his daunting, daring, sexy talk.

Ryan said little during sex—he grunted, groaned, growled, and specified when something pleased him to the point of explosion. But Michael... Michael talked dirty. He whispered naughty nothings in Coralie's ear as his tongue tickled her earlobe. He promised to make her cum as his fingers crept under the hem of her underwear, teasing her. And he complimented her prouesse when she slid his penis into her mouth and pleasured him until he grabbed her and thrust into her, prompting her to scream. Before she moved to New York, it had taken them a few times to get comfortable enough to be so bold. But they'd reached a level of trust, of confidence in one another, that permitted them to unleash their desires out loud and... taunt each other.

Had he read her thoughts? Because he let out a sly, sultry chuckle. "Am I on speaker? Turn it off. I want to... tell you something."

Her cheeks flushed in anticipation, and she obeyed at once, curious what he'd come up with this time. He was so imaginative, his sentences so thought-out and powerful, packed with a nastiness she'd never expected to enjoy... but she did. She couldn't lie; a handful of times, while Ryan was on top of her, even while they kissed, she heard Michael's voice in her head, repeating over and over in rhythm with Ryan's thrusts. It was messed up, and unnecessary, since Ryan always pleased her... but she hadn't been able to stop it.

"What did you want to say?" She made her reply as innocent-sounding as possible, licking her lower lip as she waited for him. She'd locked her office door, afraid she'd fall asleep, unwilling for her boss or co-workers to find her snoring over her keyboard.

"That I can't quit picturing that lacy bra you wore the other night, and how badly I want to rip it off you, Cora." He sighed, and she could have sworn she sensed his breath trailing under her jaw, down her neck, and between her breasts. "The way you sat there and slid your finger under it and played with your nipple in front of me, on the screen... fuck. It was hot."

"You are hot," she said, about to repeat the motion he mentioned, if anything to sense her skin tingle while he spoke to her. "Your reactions are always incredible. That fire in your eyes... mmmm."

She'd surprised herself the first time she responded to his dirty talk. Never had she felt safe to say what was on her mind, to describe the racy images playing in her thoughts. But with Michael, something clicked, something unlocked her deepest desires and pushed her to be her true self.

"I can't see you, but please, tell me you're touching yourself, right now? Tell me you're at least considering it?" He sounded winded with ecstasy, as if the idea of her sliding her fingers into her pants took his breath away. And to think of him rubbing his bulge and picturing her only intensified her urge, her craving for him. As if her night of sex with Ryan hadn't been enough; she needed Michael, and she needed him now.

And she was considering pleasuring herself, since it was the next best thing. She kept glancing at her door, at the blinds closed over its tiny window, hoping no one would pass by and attempt to peek in. With her laptop open and her giant computer screen blocking her from view and her legs beneath the desk... yes, she could get away with it. She was drained, mentally dead... but if Michael wanted her to touch herself, then she wouldn't deny him.

"I'm doing it," she whispered, biting her lip as she lifted her shirt a little and her fingers caressed the smooth skin under her belly button. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as she got closer, closer, anticipating the chills she'd create by doing something so suggestive, so improper, so nearby to her associates and supervisor. But she had to venture into that zone, no matter how sore she was, nor how fatigued. She was hungry for Michael, and wouldn't be able to relax and finish her work until she took care of herself.

She'd worn leggings, so sneaking past them would be a piece of cake. A wet, gooey, moist piece of delectable cake covered in sugary, honeyed frosting that she couldn't wait to lick off—

"Coralie?" Someone knocked on her door, and she sat up straight, her middle finger centimeters from reaching into her drenched underwear.

"Fuck," she said into the phone, groaning. "Michael, baby, I'm so sorry, but I gotta go."

He blew out his cheeks. "Okay... but we're picking this up tonight, yeah? Can't leave me hanging."

She giggled. "Believe me, you're not alone on this." She lowered her voice as she stood to unlock her door. "I want you bad, babe. We'll definitely resume this later."

As soon as they hung up, she opened her door to find one of her bosses. Nikita was a guitar-playing genius who wrote poetry and performed it a few nights a week in some dingy bar not far from Coralie's second job.

"You got a minute?" Nikita padded into the office—she was often barefoot at work—and her lengthy, lush skirt swished over the floor. "Remember that gig we were talking about the other day?" She didn't give Coralie a chance to answer, and wandered over to plop into the seat before the desk. "Well, we scored a prime spot for one of our performers... and we unanimously chose you."

Coralie almost tripped over her feet as she scurried to sit in her chair, her eyebrows lurching upwards. "M-me? The super cool gig in the super cool bar? Are you serious?"

Nikita smiled. She was beautiful, with her crimson and candy-pink colored hair curtaining her face, and her long fake lashes batting, and her pretty mouth pouting as she spoke. Coralie thought her to be a walking contradiction. She wrote of animal cruelty and injustice and criminal reforms and defunding the police, but devoured real burgers at any opportunity and drank more liquor in one night than Coralie did in a few weeks and had several warrants out for wrecking cars and setting fire to dumpsters. Yet she admired the woman. At thirty-six, she looked like she was eighteen, and her voice and lyrics were works of art.

So if she was serious, if she was telling Coralie of such an opportunity... it was no joke.

"I am, but there's only one hiccup." Nikita flinched, and leaned into the desk. "The show is tonight. I realize how last minute and short notice that is, and we're happy to give you the afternoon off to practice and gather your bearings. But this would be wonderful publicity for us. For you. So... not to put you on the spot, or anything, but... what do you say?"

Coralie didn't regret ending her call with Michael for this. Because this was why she'd moved to New York. She slammed her laptop shut, grinned, and joined her hands under her chin. "I'm in."

♥♥♥