“No. Not since you kissed me.”
She rises onto her toes and kisses me again. It’s not tentative. It’s not polite. It’s a kiss meant to be felt, mouth warm and wet, pressure calibrated to pull a reaction from me.
My hands come up without conscious thought, fitting to her waist, drawing her closer until the space between us disappears, and my hands curve down her ass. So fucking soft.
The world reduces to sensation—heat, breath, the faint sound she makes when I deepen the kiss. We move together with easy familiarity, bodies aligning like they’ve already agreed on the terms.
I break away just long enough to look at her. “I don’t even know your name.”
She tilts her head, unbothered. “Do you need to?”
The question lands harder than it should. My family flashes to mind. Not the individuals, but our reputation. The thing we’re trained to protect even more than ourselves. The hospital and how we’re supposed to be above reproach. The weight of a life measured and managed by everyone else but me is an anchor, and it’s been drowning me since I can remember.
“No. I don’t need to know your name.” I don’twantto know it. I want one reckless night. One night just for me.
Her smile is slow and satisfied, like she knew the answer before I did.
Once the decision is made, everything else feels simpler. The tension doesn’t dissipate—it sharpens. She steps back just enough to look at me properly, eyes assessing, like she’s cataloging a reaction she expected but still enjoys confirming.The anonymity between us hums, no longer a question but a choice we’re both actively making.
She reaches for my tie, fingers curling into the silk, tugging me closer.
I let her.
Her mouth finds mine again, slower this time, exploratory rather than demanding. The kiss deepens in layers—pressure, pause, pressure again—until my focus narrows completely to her and the quiet room and the sense that I’ve stepped out of my life and into a pocket where consequences don’t exist.
My hands slide along her back, feeling the warmth through the thin fabric of her dress, the subtle tension in her muscles. I trace the tattoo on her arm. It’s intricate ivy, winding down her bicep and forearm. Must have taken hours. I wonder what else she can do for hours. She presses closer, the silk whispering against my legs, and I’m acutely aware of how long it’s been since I let myself want without negotiating the cost.
She breaks the kiss first.
Her forehead rests briefly against my chest, breath warm, unhurried. I feel the brush of her fingers at my waist, light and deliberate, tracing rather than grabbing, like she’s enjoying the effect of anticipation as much as the act itself. “You think too much.”
“I’m told that a lot.”
“Not tonight.” She shifts, guiding me back a step until the edge of the bed presses into the backs of my knees. The room feels suddenly smaller, the air heavier. I sit without being told,watching her as she stands between my knees, unafraid of my attention.
She looks pleased. Confident. Entirely too aware of what she’s doing to me.
This is reckless. I know that. Reckless in a way I haven’t allowed myself to be in years. But the thought doesn’t stop me—it fuels me. I’ve spent too long being the stable one, the responsible one, the man who fixes problems instead of creating them.
Tonight, I want to take something for myself.
She lowers herself in front of me, movement unhurried, eyes never leaving mine. The intent is unmistakable, and for the first time since she kissed me, something like laughter flickers through my chest—pure disbelief at myself, at the situation, at how little I care.
I reach out, fingers closing gently around her wrist. “Wait.”
She stills immediately, looking up at me, curious rather than annoyed. “Second thoughts?”
“No. Just…making sure we’re clear.”
“About?”
I meet her gaze, steady and honest. “This isn’t the start of something. One time only. Agreed?”
Her expression softens, just a fraction. Then she smiles—slow, assured, intimate. “I’m not looking for anything but one night of fun.”
That’s all the confirmation I need. I release her wrist, letting my hand fall away.
She moves closer again, and this time, I don’t interrupt. The world narrows to the sound of my zipper as she pulls it down. Time blurs in a way I haven’t felt in years.
