Chapter 1: The Unexpected Visit
The buzz died with a pathetic, dwindling whir.
Andrea groaned, her face pressed into the pillow. The cheap vibrator slipped from her fingers onto the rumpled sheets. Of course. The one night she actually planned something for herself, the universe intervened with dead batteries. She lay there in the simmering quiet of her studio, the after-image of frustration painted in red behind her eyelids.
The room was a testament to her chaos. Half-formed sculptures of welded scrap metal and reclaimed wood cast long, twisted shadows in the amber glow of her single good lamp. The air smelled of turpentine, drying clay, and the sandalwood incense she’d burned hours ago, now just a memory in the dust. Canvases leaned against every wall, watching. She felt both held and judged by her own creations.
A sharp, sudden knock fractured the silence.
Andrea jerked upright, her heart vaulting into her throat. She clutched the sheet to her chest, as if the person at the door could see through the thick, painted wood.
Another knock. Firm, confident.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
The art supplies. She’d completely forgotten. The website said delivery was between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m., which was practically useless, but who delivered at… she glanced at the neon digits of her alarm clock… 9:47 p.m.
“Just leave it there!” she called out, her voice oddly high.
A pause. Then, a deep, calm voice filtered through. “Can’t. Requires a signature.”
She let out a slow breath. Right. The bronze powder. The toxic, expensive bronze powder she’d splurged on. She pictured the box sitting in the hallway of her dodgy walk-up, a neon sign for any passing thief. Swearing under her breath, she scrambled out of bed.
She yanked on a pair of jeans from the floor, zipping them over her bare skin, and pulled a paint-splattered sweatshirt over her head. She ran a hand through her short, messy hair, a futile attempt to look like a person who hadn’t just been interrupted mid-solo mission. She padded to the door, peering through the peephole.
The hallway’s grim fluorescent light framed a man who was decidedly not a uniformed delivery driver. He was tall, broad in the shoulders, wearing a dark jacket over a simple grey t-shirt. He held a flat, square box under one arm. His head was tilted down, looking at his phone, but she could see the clean line of his jaw, close-cropped dark hair. He looked up, as if sensing her scrutiny, and her breath hitched. His eyes were a cool, focused blue, even through the warped fish-eye lens.
Marcus.
The name clicked into place with a soft, definitive thud. The guy from the supply warehouse downtown. She’d special-ordered the powder through him last week. They’d chatted. He’d asked about her work, listened in a way most people didn’t. He’d been… interesting. She’d joked, “If you’re ever in my neighborhood with a box of toxic metal, you know where to find me.” It was just something to say. A flirty throwaway line.
He’d remembered her address.
He was here.
A cocktail of panic and a sharp, electric curiosity fizzed in her veins. This was not the plan. The plan was a dead battery and an early night. This was something else entirely.
She unlocked the door, the chain rattling, and opened it just enough to fit her face in the gap. “Marcus?”
“Hey, Andrea.” A small, easy smile touched his lips. He hefted the box. “Sorry it’s late. The shipment came in after closing. I was finishing inventory and saw your address on the label. I was headed this way, figured I’d save you the wait.”
His explanation was smooth, logical. But his presence here, now, in the intimate cave of her hallway, felt intensely deliberate. The hum of frustration that had been lingering in her body changed frequency, tuned to a new, more live wire.
“That’s… really above and beyond,” she said, her voice finding its normal register. She unchained the door and opened it wider. “Come in. I’m, uh, just battling some creative block.”
He stepped inside, his frame filling the doorway before he moved into the space. His eyes swept the room slowly, taking in the controlled pandemonium—the sculptures, the paints, the bed barely visible behind a folding screen. His gaze felt physical, like a soft brushstroke over everything, including her.
“Winning?” he asked, nodding toward her supposed battle.
“Not even close,” she laughed, a short, breathy sound. She took the box from him, their fingers brushing. A static spark jumped, or maybe she imagined it. She set the box on her cluttered worktable. “Can I get you a drink? As a thank you? I have wine. Maybe whiskey.”
“Whiskey’s good.”
She turned to her small kitchen alcove, her back to him, acutely aware of every movement. She could feel him standing in the center of her world, looking at the artifacts of her life. She poured two fingers of amber liquid into a relatively clean glass, then one for herself. When she turned, he was closer, examining a small piece on a shelf—a delicate bird she’d fashioned from coiled copper wire and shards of blue glass.
“This is beautiful,” he said, not turning around.
“Thanks.” She handed him his glass. He took it, his eyes meeting hers. The blue was even more striking up close, a clear, winter-sky blue.
He took a sip, nodded approval. “So, the creative block. What’s it about?”
She leaned against the worktable, mirroring him, putting a few feet of charged space between them. “The usual. Wanting to make something that feels true. Something that isn’t just clever assembly. Something with…” She trailed off, sipping her whiskey, the heat of it a comfort. “A different kind of pulse.”
He held her gaze. The air between them thickened, warmed by the lamp, the whiskey, the lateness of the hour. The silence wasn’t empty; it was full of the words they weren’t saying.
“And your solution was a dead battery?” he asked quietly, his eyes flicking, just for an instant, toward her rumpled bed.
Heat flooded her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. So he’d sensed it. The energy in the room when he knocked. The interrupted moment hanging in the air like dust. There was no point in denial. Honesty, even of the awkward variety, was the only currency that felt right.
“It was a flawed plan,” she admitted, a slow smile playing on her lips.
He set his glass down on the shelf with a soft click. The sound was final. He took a step toward her. Then another. He didn’t touch her, just stood within reach, letting the intention radiate from him. “What’s the plan now?”
Her pulse hammered in her throat. This was the adventure. This was the different pulse. It was standing right in front of her, asking a simple, devastating question.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “What do you think?”
“I think,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the base of her spine, “you should stop thinking for a minute.”
He closed the last of the distance. His hand came up, not to her face, but to the back of her head, his fingers tangling gently in her short hair. It was a possessive, grounding touch. He guided her down, slowly, until her knees met the worn hardwood floor.
The perspective shifted. She was looking up at him, the amber light haloing his form. He was immense from here. Real. Her artist’s mind catalogued the details: the worn grain of his jeans, the subtle bulge beneath the fly, the way his t-shirt stretched across his stomach as he breathed. This was no sculpture. This was living, breathing material.
He undid his button, his zipper. The sound was obscenely loud. He freed himself, and her mouth went dry. He was thick, already fully hard, the skin flushed and smooth. He held himself, offering, not demanding.
“Just this,” he said, the words a quiet instruction. “Just here. See what it feels like.”
She leaned forward, her eyes on his. She let her tongue trace the broad head, tasting salt and skin and him. A sharp hiss escaped his lips, his hand tightening slightly in her hair. The sound went straight to her core, a jolt of pure power. She did that.
She took him into her mouth, slowly, learning the shape and weight of him. Her world narrowed to this: the texture of his skin, the muffled sound of his breathing above her, the faint, clean scent of his body. She established a rhythm, one hand braced on his thigh, the other finding its own place between her legs, pressing hard against the denim. The frustration from earlier was gone, transformed into a focused, liquid need.
She lost track of time. There was only the push and pull, the building tension in his thighs under her palm, the soft, guttural curses he muttered. He was letting her lead, but she could feel his control fraying. It was in the way his hips began to make tiny, involuntary thrusts, the way his fingers tightened and relaxed in her hair.
“Andrea…” Her name was a warning, a plea.
She doubled her efforts, her own pleasure coiling tight as a spring, fed by his reactions. She wanted to feel him come undone. She wanted to be the cause.
His release was sudden, a sharp groan tearing from his throat as he emptied into her mouth. She took it, swallowing, a deep, primal satisfaction settling in her bones. She gentled her movements until he was soft, then sat back on her heels, looking up.
He was breathing heavily, his eyes dark, his face a mask of stunned release. He gently tugged her to her feet. Her legs were unsteady. He didn’t kiss her. Instead, he pulled her into a tight, silent embrace, his chin resting on top of her head. They stood like that in the lamp-lit clutter, the only sound their slowing breaths.
“I’m not done with you,” she says as she pulls him towards her bedroom.