She made a small sound—half protest, half relief.
I stepped back, tucked myself away, zipped my pants, and buckled my belt with hands that weren’t quite steady.
Alexis turned around, her dress still bunched around her waist, her panties around her thighs, her hair mussed, her lipstick smeared.
She looked wrecked.
Beautiful and wrecked.
She pulled her panties up, smoothed her dress down, and ran her fingers through her hair.
Then she looked at me.
And smiled.
Not the polite, professional smile from dinner.
A real smile. Satisfied. Knowing.
“Well,” she said, her voice still breathless. “That was unexpected.”
I didn’t know what to say.
She stepped closer, straightened my collar, brushed an invisible piece of lint from my shoulder.
“You needed that,” she said softly. “Didn’t you?”
I met her eyes.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I did.”
She nodded. “Good.”
She kissed me again—softer this time, almost tender.
When she pulled back, her expression had shifted. Still warm, but more guarded.
“We should get back,” she said. “Before someone notices we’re gone.”
“Alexis—”
“It’s okay.” She touched my face. “You don’t have to explain. I know what this was.”
Did she?
Because I wasn’t sure I did.
She took my hand and led me back down the hallway, back into the light and the noise and the world where we were just two people on a date at an art gallery.
But I could still feel her on my skin.
Could still taste her on my tongue.
Could still hear the way she’d gasped my name when she came.
And I knew—with absolute certainty—that I’d just made everything infinitely more complicated.
Because Alexis wasn’t supposed to be like this.
