🔥STEAMY ALERT—mildly steamy content🔥

♫ And you took the dark for granted
And you love me like you promised your wife ♪
BANKS—Contaminated

"And what would you do next?" Michael's suave tone fizzled through Coralie's laptop's speakers, prompting her fingers to flicker faster between her legs.

Their bi-weekly video-chat had become heated sooner than usual, and Coralie wouldn't complain, as she had plenty of frustrations to let out.

"Um..." She considered opening her eyes and peeking at him, to watch what he was doing—what she'd asked him to do so she could pleasure herself—but she worried it would break her concentration. "Slide my... tongue... down to your..."

Michael's moan interrupted her, allowing her to resume thinking of who she, unfortunately, had been picturing since the beginning of their steamy discussion. The person with that toned tummy and that incredible new tattoo that likely snaked up his arm and wrapped around his bulging biceps. The one with lips like cotton candy, melting over hers and covering them in a sticky sweetness that made her—

"Fuck," she and Michael said, reaching their climax in unison, as they usually did.

Except today, Coralie didn't attain her peak thanks to Michael's deliciously dirty mouth; she only had thoughts for Ryan.

Ryan... goddammit.

It had been two days since she'd bumped into him, and she'd been unable to tell anyone about it—even Delilah. After the event, she'd ran off, gotten lost in the subway, then somehow made her way home with dried tears on her cheeks and a dull ache in her gut.

Ryan fucking Bennett was in New York City, and he wanted to hang out with her.

Michael had spotted her distraction when he'd called her earlier today, but he'd attributed it to stress from work.

"Want me to help you unwind?" he'd said, biting his lip, ruffling his messy mahogany mane, giving her his best smoldering look. And it was smoldering; when she lived in San Francisco, that look was all it took for her to drop her panties and summon him to her flat for a quick round of fun. Michael was fun...

But Ryan was exotic, passionate, perilous. Picturing him in that way, recalling all the daring things they'd done and all the places they'd done them in raised her temperature to insane levels. Those images made her body writhe and wriggle in impossible manners.

Since the instant their eyes had reconnected a few days prior, despite her mind screaming at her to be cautious, to run far away, all she could do was envision Ryan in her bed once more.

When Michael came up with a scenario for them—he was fantastic at setting the mood, at describing the scenery to help Coralie get excited—she'd replaced him with Ryan, in her mind.

When she took a gander at Michael stroking his penis at the sight of her nakedness, she imagined Ryan there instead, and his long, nimble fingers instead of Michael's smaller, chubbier ones.

When Michael groaned as she removed her leggings and jammed her hand into her underwear, she heard Ryan's groan instead; guttural and animalistic and hungry.

It was beyond painful as she turned the lights on and saw Michael on the other side of the screen, smirking at her in absolute satisfaction. Painful because she'd wished he were Ryan and was disappointed at herself for doing so.

One encounter had sufficed to plunge her back into the depths of her love for the adulterous London-native, and she hated it. She did her best to not show her sorrow as she bade Michael a pleasant afternoon and scurried to her shower to get ready for work.

Fifteen minutes later, upon exiting the closet-like bathroom, towel tucked around her as she brushed her teeth, Coralie squeaked.

Delilah was blocking her passage to their adjoining rooms.

"Hey," she said, fists on her hips, a stern simmer in her eyes, her posture rigid. She'd removed her workplace mini-skirt and replaced it with tiny workout shorts, and her forehead was slick with sweat.

"Uh..." Coralie yanked her toothbrush from her mouth and gawked at her friend in confusion. "Yeah? What's up?"

"Are you okay? You've been weird. Weirder than usual." Delilah leaned against the kitchen counter, giving Coralie access to her room, but never removing her worried gaze from her. "And you were singing Contaminated."

"So?" Coralie fetched her worn black jeans and a plain black t-shirt, sniffing at it to make sure it was clean enough for work.

"So you only sing that when you're freaking out about something. And last time you sang it in the shower," Delilah tapped her chin with her index, "was a few days after you came home from Paris. When you were still dealing with your Ryan feelings. You told me you'd never listen to that song again because it reminded you of him."

Coralie winced and hurried to the bathroom to spit out her toothpaste.

Shit. Busted.

She often sang in the shower, to unwind and reflect and test out her vocal skills. But that song was one she'd sworn to herself not to sing anymore. Its lyrics were too strong, too reminiscent of Ryan. Subconsciously, they'd been swimming in her mind since she'd jammed into him outside the coffee shop.

"I... saw Ryan." She turned to Delilah, who stood in the bathroom doorway, her perfectly plucked eyebrows arching up in surprise. "He's in New York. For work."

"For real?" Delilah shook her head. "Or having another affair with some unsuspecting girl who's willing to give her his heart with a bat of his eyelashes and a flash of his hot abs?" She moved out of the way when Coralie pushed through to return to her room.

Sliding the curtain closed—their bedrooms didn't have doors, to their dismay—she let the towel drop to her feet as she shrugged on her underwear.

"No, for real. Business expansion, I think. I didn't ask. I bolted."

Delilah ripped the drapes aside as Coralie finished attaching her bra. "Bolted? Why? Did he try to take you right there in the street?"

Coralie smacked her friend's upper arm and hustled her out so she could continue getting dressed. "No, he asked me to have drinks with him." She threw the shirt on, tugged on the jeans, and sat on her bed as she rolled on her socks. "And I panicked, I... didn't know what to answer. I was so pissed, you know? Of all the places to see him again, it had to be here, in my new city of residence? Sure, New York is huge and plenty of Europeans migrate here at some point, but why him? What the fuck did I do to the universe to deserve this?"

She cringed, realizing she'd done plenty to upset the balance of the world; illegal drinking, heartbreaking, dancing on tables, getting kicked out of bars, and, more recently, an illicit affair with a married man.

But before she could speak up and criticize all her life choices, Delilah lowered beside her on the mattress and grabbed her hand.

"It's one hell of a coincidence," she said, her voice soft, her eyes losing all their earlier severity. "And I'm going to hate myself for saying this, but... Mom's side of the family, the religious and traditional one believes in that shit. It believes bumping into people is a sign of something bigger. You bumped into Michael at the Swirled Lady, and he's a big part of your life now. And you bumped into Ryan here, of all places, like you said..."

"Wait," Coralie spun to her, tearing free from her grasp, "are you saying I should have drinks with him? Have you lost your fucking mind?"

Delilah wrinkled her nose and nudged her. "Hear me out, okay? Yes... you should see him. But for closure, to hash things out, to find some way to recover your friendship." She pushed a wet strand of Coralie's hair out of her face and pinched her cheek. "You were best friends in high school and were on track to strengthen that friendship before you both ruined it by having sex. There's a way to move past this, and I think you should give him a chance to explain. He might surprise you."

"Closure."

The word felt foreign on Coralie's tongue; she'd rarely had the opportunity to use it, to experience it. Things with Victor were unresolved for months, her love for Benjamin ended abruptly, and her relationship with Jayden tormented her so much that she'd skipped the closure part and become a hardcore celibate, instead.

"But... what about his wife? How will it look if him and I go out together now?"

Delilah snorted as she stood up, flipping her hair like only she could, swaying her hips to some unheard beat. "Girl, it's a few glasses of alcohol with a friend. If his wife freaks out about that, then she's insecure as fuck. As she should be when he's with you, but she need not know that." Whirling around, lips pouted and chest poked out, she snapped. "Do it. Trust me, you'll thank me when a weight lifts from your shoulders and your heart is free and you can finally dedicate yourself one hundred percent to that adorable Michael."

***

Coralie thought about Delilah's words all night. Though most days, Delilah was a fervent opposer of monogamy, a fierce partier, and didn't dish out the most mature advice when it came to sex and men, everyone listened when she turned serious. More than once she'd been correct in predicting things that had happened to Coralie. She'd vetoed a few prospects when they first became friends, she'd warned about Jayden's behavior, and she'd alerted Coralie of Ryan's too-good-to-be-true proposition.

Yet as the hours passed at work and the patrons came and went, she couldn't decide. To sit at a counter with Ryan, sipping on alcohol that would turn bitter in her mouth, would remind her of London, when their bodies had first reacted to one another. And of her old bedroom in San Francisco, where she'd first succumbed to him. And of Paris, where they'd last been in contact, and where he'd been a jerk.

How could he assume she'd be okay perching on a stool beside him, ignoring how his presence weakened her in the knees? Feigning indifference from his musky, mouthwatering scent? Pretending like she wasn't ready to pounce on him despite how he'd broken her heart?

As she hopped into her Lyft to cruise the few blocks between the bar and her apartment, her phone chimed. She expected a drunk text from Bella—who was on a bender after a bad break-up—but to her shock, it was someone else's name that lit up the screen and fissured into her heart.

Did he know she'd been thinking of him?

Ryan Bennett: Have you thought things over? You ran off so fast the other day I wasn't sure how to interpret it.

She snarled at the words, fighting the urge to hurl her phone out the window.

How dare he?

"Interpret it as a no, you fucker," she hissed under her breath, ignoring the confusion from the driver gawking at her in the rearview mirror.

She knew that answering Ryan would enable another reply, would begin a conversation, would engage his attention. But she had to make a point, take a stand.

Noticing the late hour—two a.m.—she blinked, confused at Ryan's timing. He wasn't in London anymore; he was there, in New York City, lying awake in the middle of the night and thinking of her.

Why is he thinking of me?

Coralie Amber Watson: Why are you up?

Immediately, the "..." appeared beneath her message, meaning he'd been expecting her reply, staring at the screen, prepared to type out something smart to coerce her, convince her, draw her to him.

Ryan Bennett: Out for a colleague's birthday, having a few beers.

She chuckled at the idea of him drinking beer. Ryan was a wine or cocktail drinker, and she'd often heard him mocking beer as piss-water. Though he was an Englishman, he had the refined tastes of a Parisian and the palate of a gourmet chef, which she'd always made fun of him for in their youth.

She almost replied with a silly emoji, but worried that would open the conversation to amusement, which would lead to flirtation. And she refused to flirt with him ever again.

Instead, he sent another comment that chilled her to the core.

Ryan Bennett: Look, I don't know why you rushed off, and I'm sorry if I scared you. But I want to see you. Need to see you, Cora. No tricks, no games—just you and me, two adults, chatting over drinks. Can we do that? Can you do that?

The sentences were evocative of when they'd first started talking again, when he'd voiced his need to see her. But it made no sense; why would he bother explaining himself? Why did he want to act casual and pretend like they were on great terms, comfortable as if they hadn't seen each other naked countless times and explored each other's bodies with their tongues?

A part of her wished she could compartmentalize like him, that she could sweep her emotions under the rug and accept his oddly timed olive branch. But she was still adjusting to her new life, still vulnerable from switching up her habits and climate and profession.

Coralie Amber Watson: I need time.

Ryan didn't miss a beat; for someone who was out celebrating, he seemed to adopt the rude attitude of being glued to his phone.

Ryan Bennett: I'll wait forever for you, Coralie.

She scratched her cheek, and the doors unlocked as the car stopped at the curb. Removing her gaze from the screen, she noticed her apartment building and hurried out, her mind a blur, her legs like jelly.

Is Ryan doing this to me? Or am I that tired?

She took a few strides towards the building's door and halted, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

Coralie Amber Watson: What if it takes me a month? Several? A year? I don't know if I'm ready.

She shoved her phone into her pocket as she fished out her keys and scampered into the darkened entryway. Her calves ached by the time she reached the top floor and squeezed into the apartment, gently closing the door behind her. Delilah was a light sleeper, and she'd already woken her more than once when returning home late, so she tiptoed throughout the area, quiet as a mouse.

Once in bed—after scrubbing her face and drinking a few glasses of water and changing into her sweats—she finally checked her phone again.

Ryan Bennett: I meant it, Cora. Forever. You tell me when you're ready. You can even pick the place, and I'll be there. I only want to share a few drinks with you. No pressure, no nothing. Please.

After informing him she had to sleep on it, sheplugged in her cell and buried her face into her pillow, torn between crying orlaughing at her awful luck.

♥♥♥