🔥STEAMY ALERT—towards the end, a bit of naughtiness going on ;) 🔥

♫ But now I'm thinking, I'll never stop thinking about you
Yeah, I'm just wondering when I'll stop wondering about you ♪
(FLETCHER—About You)

The day after Coralie's self-imposed quarantine started—sniffling into her pillow and devouring chocolates she'd stashed into her drawers for late-night consumption—Delilah barged in and dragged her from bed.

"Explain yourself."

She forced Coralie to sit on the carnelian chair in the living room and shoved a glass of what appeared to be rum and coke into her hand. She then lowered to the ground and cupped Coralie's knees, squeezing relief into them.

"I came home early this morning and heard you whining. But from what I gathered with the obnoxious selfies you sent me from Paris, everything was going well. What happened?"

It took a few more knee squeezes and several gulps of the very strong rum and coke for Coralie to loosen up. But once she'd finished detailing the trip—crying so much she'd watered down her drink with her tears—Delilah's hardened exterior faded. She snuck onto the chair behind Coralie, wrapping her legs around her, and combing her fingers through her hair.

"I'm so sorry, babe." She raked her nails against Coralie's scalp, which Coralie loved. "It was an asshole move for sure. But I—"

Coralie spun and gripped her wrist. "Don't you dare say you told me so. Don't. I don't want to hear that yet." She hiccupped as a chill coursed up her arm.

Delilah pried out of her grip and captured her cheeks, forcing their foreheads together. "I wasn't going to say that. Not yet, at least. But I was going to say it's for the best." Her strawberry shampoo scent whipped into Coralie's nostrils, dispelling the rage that burned in her veins, the disappointment that raced up and down her spine. "It wouldn't have ended well, even if he hadn't been such a dick. You knew he'd choose her. He had to. You knew."

"I did." Coralie melted off the chair as if she were liquid spilling to the floor. "But it fucking hurts, anyway." She lounged on the carpet, its plushness massaging her sore muscles, its softness lulling her into a calmer state. "It fucking hurts because I gave in."

Delilah joined her and slid her fingers between Coralie's. "Of course it does, doll. And it always will. But you have to move on, resume your life. Your dreams, your passions... you almost put it all on hold for him. The songs, the gig... it's time to return to reality."

Turning onto her side to gape at her roommate and best friend, Coralie sighed. In truth, she'd already started returning to the real world, if anything to occupy her thoughts, to erase Ryan from them.

She'd spent some of her isolation stalking Michael's social media; because she'd put him on hold and kept him in her back pocket. Despite Ryan's sorcery, despite the curse he'd put on her... she still thought about Michael. She still wondered if there could be something there, with him, even after all she'd put him through.

"And to Michael."

"Michael?" Delilah blinked, eyebrows scrunching as she lifted to her elbows. "Is he still talking to you after all this?"

Coralie wrinkled her nose. "Somehow, yes. And... maybe he's my way to move forward. Maybe he always was, but Ryan came in and distracted me. With him gone... I might be able to focus on Michael and what he has to offer, which looks a lot more stable now that Ryan's fog is clearing from around my head."

With a weak smile, Delilah brought Coralie's hand to her mouth and kissed it. "Make sure he's not some rebound you're using to get over Ryan faster. Michael is a good guy, babe. So be good to him."

Coralie started being good that very afternoon. Michael had sent her several messages since she'd landed in San Francisco, and she decided it was time to be honest with him. Well, as honest as possible without mentioning her sultry, illicit adventure with Ryan.

He doesn't need to know about that.

She called him, and he replied on the second ring, breathless, claiming he'd just gotten out of the shower.

"I... I think the gig freaked me out, so I needed some space," she said, her throat clogging and her lungs tightening. She hadn't thought of the gig at all in the past week; she'd been too busy sucking on Ryan's lips, ogling his dick, and basking in his muscular arms. But it wouldn't be completely wrong to use it as an excuse for being distant with Michael. "So I took off, for a few days. I can't explain why, nor can I tell you where, but... I'm home now. And somewhat normal again."

If he doubted her, Michael didn't sound like it. "Whatever you need, Cora. I'm happy you're okay. Do you want to meet up for coffee? Dinner? A walk? Or do you need more time?"

Browsing through her Facebook on her laptop, she stumbled upon an update on Ryan's page. It was a picture of him, his girls, and his wife; beaming from ear to ear, sipping on tropical cocktails on a beach in what looked like southern Spain.

If she hadn't been on the phone with Michael, she would have slammed the laptop shut and thrown it against the wall. Two days ago he'd abandoned her in that damned Parisian hotel room, and already he was taking vacations with his perfect spouse and their perfect children? He'd only recently ripped her heart to shreds, and already he posted photos as if it had never happened? As if they'd never shared a bathtub and kissed until their lips were chapped and made love so often they could barely feel their limbs?

She clicked out of the browser and double-tapped on her folder containing her most recent songs, eager to write up another hate-filled melody.

"You know what? Dinner would be nice." She typed everything that passed through her mind—every insult she wished to hurl at Ryan's face, every reproach she yearned to fling at his sleeveless tank top and his flawless skin. "Something simple though, okay? I'm still a bit out of it."

"You got it. I know just the place. Pick you up at seven?"

She heard Michael shuffling, and wondered if he was clothed, or wearing a towel around his defined lower half—and then she muffled a laugh at the thought. If she was picturing him without clothes on, so soon after Ryan's deception, something told her she'd be all right in the long run. Maybe he'd animate feelings in her gut.

"Seven is perfect."

***

Not that she expected an explanation or a remote sign of life from him, but Ryan didn't say a word to her after posting his pretty family pictures. And though hours prior she'd been sobbing about how much she missed him, she refused to waste any more time dwelling on what they could have had. They wouldn't have it, and the sooner she accepted that, the sooner she'd heal.

She spent the afternoon composing furious songs, betrayal tunes, and a handful of moving on melodies she'd been processing in the plane. Once her eyes were blurry, she laid down for a power nap, then showered and threw on a pair of jeans and a funny graphic t-shirt she was certain Michael would like.

When he picked her up, his features illuminated at the sight of her, despite her disheveled appearance. He complimented her messy mop of curls; she'd screamed at it when trying to brush through the tangles. He guffawed at the words on her shirt—keep calm and moo've along with a cow on it—and kissed her cheek as if she hadn't spent weeks ignoring him to spend time with a hunky British boy she'd once loved.

Best of all—he didn't push her to talk about why she'd been distant.

"I've had moments like that," he said, as they shared a pitcher of raspberry iced-tea and waited for their food.

He'd taken her to a hip diner near the Golden Gate Bridge, and she loved the quiet ambiance, the cushioned booths, the silly drawings on the menu. It was all so plain, so uncomplicated compared to the fancy candlelit suppers she'd had with Ryan; and she enjoyed it.

"Moments like what?" She cocked her head, focused on Michael's eyes and how they shifted from hazel to an otherworldly blue under the neon lamp above them.

"Where you need to disconnect, get away, take time to yourself. You're an artist," he peered at her, catching her stare, and smiled, "and a talented one, at that. And so am I, with my photography. We artists can close up sometimes. That's why I still messaged you, but tried not to overwhelm you—to make it clear I was here for you when you were ready."

Against her will—her insides were screaming at her to not rush into anything after Ryan—the corners of her lips reached up as her fingers crept over to his.

"Thank you. For being so... patient."

He flipped his palm up and wrapped his fingers around hers, pulling her a little closer. Tipping over their half-full glasses of tea, he kissed her, his lips fluttering against hers like a docile dove's wings. A subtle brush, a tiny tingle; it didn't unleash butterflies in her tummy and it didn't make her head spin. But it made her grin, and that was enough for now.

***

The following week, she rehearsed with the band for the first time. They loved her songs, she loved their sound, and they got along better than she'd hoped.

Within a few days, they were ready to perform in front of a live audience. Roger started promoting them on social media, declaring that Friday to be their first night. He even urged them to find a stage name, but everyone insisted Coralie take the title—she'd won the contest, after all.

She chose Coralie Amber and repeated it over and over until it rolled off her tongue.

That Friday, nerves on edge, belly loaded with jitters, Coralie took the stage. She had ten compositions of her own, and a few covers, but despite how prepared she was, she still worried her style wouldn't be appreciated.

As she belted out her lyrics, she kept gawking at the door, expecting Ryan to saunter through it once more. As if he'd prostrate himself at her feet, declare her the goddess of music, and apologize for ditching her in the luxurious suite at Le Royal Monceau.

But he wouldn't. He didn't react to the Facebook post announcing her show. Nor to the ominous lyrics she'd written and posted, and that definitely referred to him. Nor to the song she'd shared—FLETCHER's "About You"—while stating how much she identified with every word.

Ryan had made a clear exit from her life, leaving her to lick her wounds and regret the damage she'd done; but to her luck, it wasn't irreparable. Her heart would mend, and she had Michael, a kind guy who trusted her more than he should have. It ate her on the inside, but she wouldn't tell him how wrong he was. She needed him—he was part of her healing.

And there he was in his holed jeans, his occult nineties band t-shirt, and his beanie—at the front of the crowd, beaming up at her, cheering her on. Since the open-mic, he'd clung to her no matter how off-standish and awkward she was with him.

In the week since they'd reconnected, he rooted for her, moved mountains for her, worshiped her every move. He made efforts, and though earlier he'd been cryptic about what he wanted, he was now straight to the point with her, with everything.

When she got discouraged from her lack of original songs, he stayed on the phone with her to encourage her to write. When she feared her voice wasn't all that, he played her YouTube videos and pointed out her incredible talent for whipping up melodies.

She didn't deserve him, but she sure as hell wouldn't let him go.

The first gig went so well, Roger popped open a bottle of champagne at the end. Coralie had promised herself never to celebrate again—and to never drink champagne—and yet she couldn't stop from imbibing with him and Delilah and Michael, who all congratulated her for an amazing show.

The following event brought more patrons, more curious music-lovers, and Roger was ecstatic. Delilah sat at the bar and whistled at the end of every tune; Michael took up his habitual fan-boy spot at the bottom of the podium. To see them there, Coralie's spirits lifted, her nerves settled, and she grew used to the crowd.

By the third show, she barely even imagined Ryan showing up anymore. In fact, she rarely pictured him at all. She'd unfollowed him on Facebook, unwilling to stumble upon any of his happy updates. She avoided his Instagram page like the plague. He no longer punctuated her dreams, though he sometimes made appearances, his heavenly body tempting her to sway from Michael. But the recollections from Paris were vague flurries in the back of her mind, and she couldn't remember their parting words or the pain he'd caused her. He was a specter, but he didn't haunt her like before.

On that third gig night, after Roger offered another bottle of champagne, Coralie felt daring enough to invite Michael up to her apartment. Delilah had given her the wink—meaning she wouldn't be home that night.

"Really?" Michael chewed on his lower lip as they departed from the Swirled Lady, the fresh downtown air whooshing over their cheeks.

"Yes." She smirked at him, dismissing any doubts she'd once had about being sexually attracted to him. Her skin heated whenever he looked at her and her heart throbbed whenever he said her name and his touches affected her more than she'd anticipated.

Over the passing weeks, their kisses had evolved to tongue-twisting whirlwinds that left her breathless and wanting more. They'd made out in the backstage area, outside on the bench, and in his car so many times, she almost forgot what it had been like to kiss Ryan.

Michael tasted different—of cinnamon and spice, of fall afternoons sipping on mulled wine in front of a crackling fireplace. Ryan was fire, and Michael was earth; easy to hold, malleable. And Michael had, to her pleasant surprise, awoken her sex-drive once more.

After he parked his vehicle in the basement garage, Michael weaved his arm around her as she led him to her floor. She unlocked the door, and the instant it opened, he grabbed her, pressing their bodies together.

"Cora," he whispered, his breath breezing over her earlobe.

They couldn't detach their tongues as they blew inside the apartment. Their hands wandered over and under clothes as they tumbled through the living room.

When Coralie fumbled with the doorknob to her room, she'd already lost her shoes and her jeans were unbuttoned and her bra straps had skidded down her upper arms.

"Wait." Michael pulled his lips from hers and cupped her chin. "Are you positive about this? Is this—" he took a stride backwards, "—is this what you want?"

A slither of light poured in from the dining-room window in the background, glowing over Michael. He'd worn an actual shirt, for once, but all the buttons were undone, revealing the thin layer of brown hairs over the top of his chest, and the sculpted V leading down to under his unzipped pants. She sighted his boxers, but struggled to notice the color as she gawked at the bulge, flagrant and throbbing and calling out to her.

"Um," she gulped, resisting the urge to stick her hand into his slacks and seize him, "yeah. It is."

A voice echoed within. A blissful moan once mumbled into her ear, a sexy timbre saying her name over and over, an accented string of words begging her to keep going, keep going.

No, Ryan—you're not allowed to feature in my fantasies anymore.

Michael wasn't as tall, nor as brawny, nor did he carry himself in that sensually confident way. But he was delectable, his body sculpted and well-built, and would be naked in front of her in a matter of seconds if she asked.

He tasted like ice cream on a hot summer day, and when he embraced her, goosebumps prickled along her skin. And here, in the semi-obscurity of her apartment, steps away from her bed, she wanted him. Not as fiercely as she'd craved Ryan, and not with the same animalistic passion, but still, she sensed a wetness forming in her underwear, and had no doubt what that meant.

"What?" Michael smirked, shoving one hand into his back pocket, tugging his pants down a little lower. With the fingers of his other hand, he lifted her chin, gazing deep into her eyes. "Changing your mind?"

She stretched onto her tiptoes and trailed her tongue over his lips.

"No. I'm trying to convince myself to not tear your clothes off right now."

Though shocked at her own boldness, she continued to tickle his lips until he yanked her into him and slipped his tongue into her mouth; hot with desire, fervent with hunger.

They were clumsy, nervous, giggling every few seconds as they stripped each other's clothes. Their tongues explored new places and their fingers rubbed and caressed and pinched, eliciting groans from her and growls from him. His touch was sizzling, his prouesse for teasing shockingly arousing to Coralie.

They chortled as they searched for condoms in Coralie's mess of drawers. Her cheeks reddened when he rolled the thing over his surprising length. Her breaths hitched with anticipation.

All amusement ended when he entered her. When his hips thrust against hers in a ravishing rhythm, when he held her down and picked up the pace, watching her as she wriggled beneath him and moaned in delight. He wasn't violent like Ryan, but he wasn't docile, either; every pump of his member within her filled her up, delighted her, and the tingling sensations of an orgasm grew with his every move inside her.

Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as he went faster and faster, rendering her delirious and dizzy. She dug her nails into his biceps and begged for more—and he didn't hesitate, rocking the bed until they could no longer breathe.

Later, lounging atop one another, sticky and sweaty and satisfied, Michael asked her to be his girlfriend.

The same voice from earlier—Ryan's seductive vibrato that made her legs shake—continued to repeat in her head, but she shrugged it off and accepted Michael's offer. They'd established an emotional connection that comforted her and gave her solace, and she had no reason to delay. No reason to wait around for someone who'd never be hers. Michael wanted to be with her, and he could—and as they fell asleep in each other's arms, she gave herself permission to smile.

She wasn't sure she'd ever lovehim as much as she loved Ryan, but she would be happy.

♥♥♥