“A mistake?” he offers.
I frown. “No. Not a mistake.”
His mustache twitches. “But not a repeat thing either.”
“Right,” I say quickly. “Exactly.”
He nods slowly. “Totally.”
We lie there for another long, awkward moment.
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Glances at me. “Unless you, uhh… also happen to be insanely stressed on a regular basis and need of convenient, mind-blowing sex to stay functional.”
My head snaps toward him, and I chuckle.
“Oh my god.”
“What?” he says, innocent. “Just spitballing.”
“You think that’s what qualifies as casual?”
“No strings, no expectations. Just stress relief.”
I blink. “That’s your pitch?”
“You got a better one?”
No.I don’t.
I’m tired, and most days, I’m wound so tight I could snap. And that was the best sex I’ve had in myentire life.
Maybe this doesn’t need to mean anything. Maybe it can just be physical. Controlled and safe stress relief with the hottest man ever, giving me the best orgasms I’ve ever had. In secret.
“I guess we both have high-stress jobs,” I offer dryly.
He nods solemnly. “Occupational hazard.”
“And sex is…” I wave a hand. “A necessary outlet?”
“Like yoga,” he agrees. “But louder.”
I snort, my hand snapping up to cover my grin. He smiles back, and the tension starts to dissolve.
But then he shifts, moving into a sitting position, and the sheet pools around his waist.
“I should go.”
I still. “Okay.”
He doesn’t move right away, instead studying me as if he’s waiting for me to ask him to stay.
But I don’t.
He nods once, then eases out of my bed, gathering his clothes from the floor and dressing in comfortable, unhurried movements.
I keep my face carefully neutral, as though this doesn’t affect me. As though this really was just sex.
He pauses at the door, one hand on the frame, his eyes boring into mine.
