Chapter 1: The Morning After the Dream That Wasn't Real
Kevin woke with a jolt, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. The familiar scent of Hope’s jasmine shampoo was missing, replaced by something warmer, sweeter. Vanilla and salt. His brain, thick with sleep and the residual fog of expensive Scotch, processed the weight of a body beside him, the heat of skin against his flank.
It wasn’t Hope.
Panic, sharp and acidic, flooded his throat. He was naked. The silk sheets were a tangled prison around his legs. Memories of the night flickered—laughter, too many glasses, Ashlee’s face illuminated by the city lights through his apartment windows. They’d talked on the couch for hours after she’d put the kids to bed. He’d been venting about the merger; she’d been imitating her call center customers with that deadpan wit of hers. They’d killed the bottle.
And then nothing. A blank, black space.
He turned his head, a slow, dreading movement. There she was. Ashlee. Her riot of red hair fanned across his pillow, her lips slightly parted. The sheet had slipped down to her waist, and the morning light pouring through the sheer curtains gilded her skin, catching on the soft, pale curves of her bare breasts. Perfect C-cups, as she’d once drunkenly described them to him in a bizarre moment of platonic oversharing. They rose and fell with her deep, sleeping breath, the nipples a soft pink. She was topless. He was naked. The universe held its breath.
Then, the details clicked. She was still wearing her black lace panties. The jeans and her vintage Back to the Future t-shirt were in a heap on the floor near the door, next to his discarded chinos. Two empty glasses sat on the nightstand. The bottle of Glenfiddich, bone dry, lay on its side like a fallen soldier.
They’d passed out. Just passed out. A wave of relief so profound it felt like a narcotic washed over him, leaving his limbs weak. Nothing had happened. His best friend, his quirky, brilliant, platonic fucking employee, was sleeping half-naked in his marital bed, and it was, miraculously, catastrophically, still platonic.
He let out a long, shaky breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Ashlee’s eyes fluttered open. Sea-green, cloudy with sleep and hangover. They focused on his face, inches from hers. She blinked once. Twice. Her gaze drifted down, noting his bare shoulders, the sheet clutched to his own waist, then flicked, very briefly, to her own exposed chest. There was no gasp, no scream. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face, highlighting the tiny, charming gap between her front teeth.
“Well,” she croaked, her voice rough with sleep. “This is a new tier of HR violation.”
Kevin barked a laugh, the tension snapping. “You’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me. I’m the only one who knows how to work the espresso machine. You’d perish within a week.” She yawned, stretching her arms above her head with a languid, unselfconscious grace that made her breasts shift. She still hadn’t covered up. It seemed to genuinely not occur to her, or she didn’t care. “Christ, my head. What did we drink? Paint thinner?”
“Eighteen-year-old single malt. You drank it like it was Gatorade.”
“It tasted like emotional regret and tree bark.” She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on her hand. The movement made the sheet dip lower. “Why are you naked, you massive pervert?”
“Why are you topless, you inappropriate lunatic?”
“Bra was a torture device. Had to liberate the girls. They’re singing your praises for their freedom, by the way.” She looked down at herself, then back at him, her expression pure, impish glee. “Don’t get a big head. They’re very fickle.”
Kevin ran a hand over his face. “We are the worst. The absolute worst. Hope’s flight gets in at three.”
“And we will have this room sanitized and blessed by a priest by two-fifty-nine.” Ashlee’s eyes sparkled. “Come on, Captain of Industry. Assess the damage. No sex, right?”
“Jesus, no. Of course not.”
“Just a wholesome, clothes-optional sleepover between a boss and his babysitter. My therapist is going to need a new boat.” She finally pulled the sheet up, tucking it under her arms, not out of modesty but seemingly as a conversational prop. “I remember you explaining arbitrage until I wept. Then I think I tried to show you how to line dance. The rest is a delicious blank.”
“The line dancing involved my coffee table. I think it’s wounded.” He sat up, the sheet pooling in his lap. The relief was now morphing into a giddy, hysterical sort of hollowness. They’d skated so close to a line that would have obliterated everything—his marriage, her friendship, their bizarre, essential little family unit. And they’d skated over it on a layer of stupidity and Scotch, landing in a pile of ridiculousness. “We are never drinking again.”
“We’ll drink next Friday. You’ll bitch about your board, and I’ll do my impression of Todd from Compliance.” She swung her legs out of bed, standing up in just her panties, utterly unabashed. She scratched her stomach, her red hair a magnificent disaster. “I need six ibuprofen and the greasiest breakfast known to man. I’ll start the bacon if you fish my pants out of the battlefield.”
She padded out of the room, leaving the door open. Kevin stared after her, at the freckles scattered across her shoulder blades, at the gentle swell of her hip above the lace. His friend. His ridiculous, wonderful friend. The last vestiges of the dream—the one where it wasn’t platonic, where her mouth was on his, where her laughter turned into gasps—dissolved completely, replaced by the solid, real, and chaotic comfort of her.
He got out of bed, found his boxers, and picked up her jeans. He shook his head, a slow, incredulous smile spreading across his face. They’d dodged a thermonuclear warhead with the grace of two drunken clowns.
From the kitchen, he heard the crash of a pan, followed by her cheerful curse. “Nothing to see here! Everything’s under control!”
He walked out, holding her clothes like a flag of surrender, ready to face the day, the hangover, and the glorious, nonsensical safety of the line they hadn’t crossed.
He walked out, holding her clothes like a flag of surrender, ready to face the day, the hangover, and the glorious, nonsensical safety of the line they hadn’t crossed.
The kitchen was a monument to Ashlee’s chaotic goodwill. Bacon sizzled violently in a pan, coffee brewed, and two plates already held slightly-blackened toast. She’d thrown on one of his old college hoodies, which drowned her frame, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips. She looked absurd. She looked like home.
“Your pants, milady.” He tossed them onto a stool.
“My hero. Coffee’s done. I made it strong enough to wake the dead, which is approximately what we are.” She poured two mugs, sliding one across the island to him. Their fingers brushed. A static jolt, tiny and insignificant. She didn’t seem to notice, already turning back to the bacon.
Kevin leaned against the counter, the steam from the mug fogging his vision. The rich, bitter scent was an anchor. He took a sip, the heat searing a path down his raw throat. He watched her, the way the oversized hoodie slipped off one shoulder, the deft flip of the bacon with a fork. The silence was comfortable, but his head, pulsing and tender, became a theater for a different kind of show.
His fantasy didn’t start soft. It ambushed him, vivid and crude.
She’d turn from the stove, that playful glint in her eye hardening into something hungry. She wouldn’t speak. She’d just walk over, her hands pushing the mug from his grip, coffee sloshing onto the quartz. Her fingers would go to the drawstring of his sweatpants. His sweatpants. In the fantasy, he was already hard, a thick, impatient ridge against the fabric. She’d yank the knot loose, her touch rough, not playful. The hoodie would gap open as she knelt, and he’d see those perfect tits, pale and heavy, swaying with the movement.
In his mind, her breath was hot through the cotton. A groan would rip from his throat. “Fuck, Ashlee…”
She’d look up, her green eyes holding his, that gap in her teeth appearing as she smirked. Then she’d pull the waistband down just enough to free him. His cock, thick and fully erect, would spring free, curving up against his stomach. In the fantasy, he saw it from her perspective: the flushed head, the prominent vein tracing the length, the sheer size of it that always seemed to startle, even in his own imagined scene.
“Jesus,” she’d whisper, not in fear, in sheer avarice.
Then her mouth. Wet and searing, taking him in one slow, inexorable glide. He could feel it in the fantasy, the tight, sucking heat of her, the way her tongue flattened against the throbbing underside. She’d take him deep, her nose burying in the coarse hair at his base, her throat working around him. He’d watch, mesmerized, as her lips stretched, shiny with saliva. His hand would fist in her red hair, not guiding, just holding, feeling the pull of her head as she began to move.
“Yeah, just like that,” his voice would be a ragged thing, scraping out of him. “Take it. You wanted it, didn’t you? All that talking. Now suck it.” The words were filthy, coaching,
coaching, degrading in a way that should have felt wrong but in the fantasy felt perfectly right.
Her fingers dug into his thighs as she took him deeper, her throat convulsing around the head. Gags, wet and noisy, erupted from her. She pulled back, a string of saliva connecting her swollen lips to his cock. She gasped for air, her eyes watering, but that fucking smirk never left her face.
“Christ, Kevin,” she rasped, her voice wrecked. “Did you swallow a crowbar as a child? This is anatomically suspicious.” She gave him a few lazy, teasing strokes, her thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum over the tip. “Hope never mentioned you needed a building permit.”
The mention of his wife’s name should have killed the mood. It did the opposite. His gaze flicked over Ashlee’s shoulder, to the digital picture frame on the nightstand. It cycled through photos: Hope smiling at the zoo with the kids, Hope in a sleek black dress at a charity gala, Hope blowing a kiss at the camera. In the fantasy, the frame was now showing a live feed, Hope’s face curious, amused, sipping a mimosa as she watched them.
Ashlee followed his look and snorted. “Oh, hey, Hope! He’s being a greedy bastard. You’re missing all the fun.” She waved with her free hand before diving back down, taking him to the root this time. Her nose pressed into his skin, her whole body shaking with the effort. The sounds were obscenely wet, choked, rhythmic.
He threw his head back, a guttural groan tearing from his chest. His hips jerked upward. “Fuck, just like that. Don’t stop.”
She gagged violently, pulled off with a pop, and collapsed into a fit of giggles, tears streaming from her eyes. “Sorry, sorry,” she wheezed, wiping her mouth. “It’s just… you look so serious. And your wife is literally right there.” She pointed a dramatic finger at the frame, where Hope’s image had now changed to her skiing in Aspen. “She’s judging your form. I think she’s giving you a six.”
“Shut up,” he growled, but he was laughing too, the tension broken and rebuilt into something stranger, hotter. He fisted his hand in her hair again, not gentle, and guided her mouth back. “Eyes on the prize, Red.”
She went willingly, her humor morphing back into a fierce, sloppy concentration. She used her hand to work the base he couldn’t fit, her cheeks hollowing. The combination was devastating. He could feel his orgasm coiling, a tight spring in his gut.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his voice ragged.
She made a muffled affirmative sound but didn’t pull away. Her eyes, glazed and watery, locked on his. The approval in them undid him completely.
With a final, shuddering thrust of his hips, he came. He spilled deep into her throat with a raw, broken shout. She swallowed convulsively, taking every pulse, a few stray drops escaping the corner of her mouth. When he was spent, utterly drained, she released him with a final, soft kiss to the tip. She sat back on her heels, wiping her chin with the back of her hand, looking utterly pleased with herself and completely wrecked.
“So,” she said, her voice hoarse. “On a scale of one to ‘oh god my jaw is dislocated,’ that was a solid ‘memorable.’” She glanced again at the digital frame. “Hope’s clapping. I think we get a participation trophy.”
The fantasy shattered.
The sizzle of bacon popped violently in the silent kitchen. Ashlee yelped, jumping back from the stove. “Shit! The crisping!”
Kevin blinked. The cool quartz of the counter was under his palms. He was leaning heavily against it, his knuckles white. His sweatpants were tented, painfully tight, a stark contrast to the mundane morning light and the smell of burning pork.
Ashlee scraped at the pan, cursing creatively. She tossed the blackened strips onto a plate of paper towels and turned to him, holding the greasy fork. “You okay over there? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or finally understood my 401k explanation.”
He couldn’t meet her eyes. A cold shame was washing over the fading heat of the fantasy. The digital frame in the bedroom was just a digital frame. Hope was on a plane over Nebraska, completely unaware. And Ashlee, his real, wonderful, platonic friend, was looking at him with simple, clear concern, a smudge of grease on his hoodie.
“Yeah,” he managed, his voice strangely thick. “Just… headache. Coming on strong.”
She nodded sympathetically. “I told you that Scotch was vengeful. Eat some grease. It’ll absorb the regret.” She loaded two plates with bacon and charred toast and slid one to him. “Fuel up. We’ve got a crime scene to clean and a priest to bribe.”
He took the plate. The fantasy lingered like a smell—vivid, crude, hilariously wrong, and intensely arousing. It sat between them at the breakfast island, a third presence. He wondered, with a jolt of pure terror, if she could somehow sense its echo.
She took a massive bite of toast, crumbs tumbling into the vast canyon of the hoodie. “So,” she said around the mouthful. “Weirdest platonic sleepover ever. Think we should make it a monthly thing?”
He forced a laugh, the sound echoing hollowly in the too-bright, too-real kitchen.
He forced a laugh, the sound echoing hollowly in the too-bright, too-real kitchen.
“Monthly might kill us,” Kevin said, finally meeting her eyes. The fantasy had left a film over everything, a sticky, shameful residue. He focused on the crumb on her lip, the familiar, friendly chaos in her expression. That was real. That was safe. “Let’s stick to quarterly financial reviews. Less property damage.”
His phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating against the quartz. Hope’s face flashed on the screen—a professional headshot, all straight teeth and sleek, dark hair. The sound was a klaxon in the quiet.
Ashlee’s eyes flicked to it, then back to him. Her grin didn’t falter, but something in her posture tightened. “The warden checks in. You gonna get that?”
“I have to.” He swiped answer, putting it on speaker. A tactical choice. Proof of innocence. “Hey, honey. You’re up early.”
“Kevin! Good, you’re awake.” Hope’s voice was tinny through the speaker, layered with airport terminal echoes. “I have amazing news. The Denver meetings wrapped faster than a Formula One pit stop. I caught the red-eye. I’m at baggage claim right now. I’ll be home in like, forty minutes. Isn’t that fantastic?”
The words landed like a physical blow to his sternum. The air left the room. Forty minutes.
Ashlee’s eyes went wide. She slowly put down her piece of bacon.
“Kevin? You there? I said I’m coming home early.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I heard.” His voice sounded detached, even to himself. “That’s… that’s great news. A day early. Wow.”
“I know! I can’t wait to see you and the kids. Is Ashlee still there? I need to thank her for holding down the fort.”
Ashlee mimed slitting her throat, then pointed frantically at the bedroom, at her clothes, at the entire incriminating scene.
“Uh, she’s here. We’re just… having coffee. Going over the weekend schedule.”
“Perfect. Put me on with her, will you?”
Ashlee shook her head violently, mouthing No, no, no.
“She just ran to the bathroom. Upset stomach. Too much bacon grease, I think.” Kevin said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, poor thing. Well, tell her I said a huge thank you. I’ve got my bag. Gotta run, Uber’s here. See you so soon, baby! Love you!”
“Love you too,” he muttered, but the call was already dead.
The silence that followed was absolute, pressurized, screaming.
Then chaos erupted.
“FORTY MINUTES?” Ashlee exploded, launching into motion. She spun, clutching the hoodie around her. “Okay. Okay. We need a system. A triage. What’s the biggest crime scene? The bedroom. The bedroom is a war crime.” She was already sprinting down the hall.
Kevin followed, his mind clicking into a cold, analytical gear. Shame and panic were luxuries they couldn’t afford. This was logistics. Damage control.
The bedroom was worse than he remembered. The tangled silk sheets smelled distinctly of two people—Scotch, her vanilla, his sweat. Two glasses. The empty bottle. Her clothes in a heap. His clothes in a heap.
Ashlee was a whirlwind. She snatched her t-shirt and jeans from the floor, dressing at a speed that was almost comic. “You strip the bed. I’ll gather the evidence. Bottle, glasses. Open a window. For the love of God, open a window.”
He ripped the sheets off, bundling them into a massive, illicit ball. He threw open the window, the cold Salt Lake City morning air slicing into the room’s intimate fug.
She reappeared, now fully dressed, her hair a wild halo. She had the glasses and bottle clutched to her chest. “Laundry. Now. Down the service chute. I’ll run these through the dishwasher on sanitize.”
They passed each other in the hallway, a silent, efficient relay team of guilt.
Back in the kitchen, Kevin stopped, the bundled sheets in his arms. Ashlee was at the sink, scrubbing the glasses with a ferocious intensity. The breakfast plates sat abandoned. The normalcy of the scene they’d created minutes ago was now another layer of the lie.
“Ashlee.”
“Not now. We have thirty-seven minutes. Maybe less if her Uber driver is a former NASCAR pilot.”
“Ashlee, look at me.”
She turned off the water. Her shoulders were rigid. She didn’t turn around.
“What we did,” he started, then corrected himself. “What we didn’t do. It’s okay. We just… slept. We got drunk and we slept. That’s the truth.”
“Is it?” Her voice was quiet, strained. She finally looked over her shoulder, her green eyes searching his. “Is that the whole truth, Kevin?”
The fantasy roared back. Her mouth, her hands, the filthy, perfect things he’d imagined her saying. The line they hadn’t crossed physically felt paper-thin, almost irrelevant. They had crossed miles of territory in their heads, in that charged, waking space between them.
The distance between the sink and where he stood felt infinite and infinitesimal. The pulse in his throat hammered against the bundle of sheets he held.
“What do you want the truth to be?” The question left him, low and raw.
It hung there. The ticking clock was a physical force, pushing them, compressing them.
She turned fully, leaning back against the sink, water dripping from her fingers onto the hardwood. She studied him—the man she worked for, the friend she told everything to, the married man whose bed she’d just vacated. A slow, shaky breath escaped her.
“I want the truth to be that we’re not about to panic-clean my existence out of your apartment like I’m a fucking crime scene,” she said, her voice cracking. “I want the truth to be that last night wasn’t just a mistake we’re erasing. I want…” She trailed off, her gaze dropping to the floor, then back up, blazing. “I’m so tired of being the quirky friend, Kevin. The platonic employee. I’m standing in your kitchen, and my mouth still tastes like the Scotch you bought, and my skin still smells like your sheets, and Hope is thirty-five minutes away, and all I can think is…”
She didn’t finish.
She didn’t have to.
The bundled sheets dropped from his hands, landing in a soft heap at his feet. He crossed the space in three long strides. He didn’t hesitate. There was no time for it.
He cupped her face, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. Her skin was so warm. She gasped, her hands coming up to clutch his wrists, not to pull him away, but to hold on.
“This is insane,” he whispered, his forehead dipping to touch hers.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “So do something insane.”
He kissed her.
It wasn’t soft or questioning. It was a collision—a release of every unsaid thing, every glance held too long, every joke that hid a pulse of want. Her lips were soft and yielded instantly, opening under his with a small, desperate sound. The taste of her was coffee and bacon and something uniquely Ashlee—sharp and sweet.
His hands slid from her face into her hair, fisting in the thick, red waves. He walked her back until she was pinned between his body and the edge of the cold quartz counter. She kissed him back with a frantic, equal hunger, her hands scrabbling at his shoulders, then dragging down his back, pulling him tighter against her. The hard ridge of his erection pressed into her stomach through his sweatpants and her jeans.
“Fuck,” he growled against her mouth, tearing his lips from hers to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw to her throat. She arched into him, a whimper escaping her. “Fuck, Ashlee.”
“Yeah,” she panted, her head falling back. “That. That’s the idea.”
He yanked the hem of her t-shirt up, his hands sliding over the smooth skin of her stomach, up to the lace of her bra. He fumbled with the clasp at the front, a curse on his lips, until it sprang open. He pushed the fabric aside, and her breasts spilled into his hands. Full, heavy, perfect. He bent his head, taking one taut nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.
“Oh, God!” she cried out, her fingers tunneling into his hair, holding him to her. Her hips rocked against him, seeking friction. “Kevin, please…”
He switched to her other breast, lavishing it with the same rough attention, his tongue circling, his teeth grazing. She was writhing, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He straightened, his hands going to the button of her jeans. Their eyes locked. Her pupils were blown wide, her lips swollen and glistening. There was no hesitation in her, only a wild, defiant need that mirrored his own.
He popped the button, dragged the zipper down. He shoved her jeans and panties down her thighs in one rough movement. She kicked them off, and they landed on top of the discarded bedsheets.
“You’re sure,” he demanded, his voice a ragged scrape. It wasn’t really a question. It was a last, thin filament of morality.
In answer, she reached for the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, pushing them down over his hips. His cock sprang free, thick and painfully hard, the head flushed and leaking. Her eyes widened, just for a second—a flicker of awe and apprehension before it was consumed by pure want.
“Fuck me,” she said, the words clear and desperate. “Right now. Before I remember how to be a good person.”
He lifted her, his hands under her ass, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms locking around his neck. Her heat was searing against his stomach. He turned and carried her the few steps to the kitchen island, clearing a space with his elbow, sending a fruit bowl clattering. He laid her back on the cold quartz. She gasped at the temperature, her back arching.
He positioned himself between her spread thighs. The head of his cock nudged against her entrance. She was slick, ready. He looked down at her, sprawled across his kitchen counter, her red hair fanning out, her breasts heaving, her body open and wanting for him. The digital clock on the oven read 8:47 a.m. Hope was in an Uber, crossing the city.
He drove into her.
It was one long, brutal, perfect stroke, filling her completely. She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound of shock and pleasure, her nails digging into his forearms.
“Jesus Christ,” he choked out. She was impossibly tight, hot, wet velvet clamping around him. He held still, buried to the hilt, shuddering with the effort of control.
“Move,” she begged, her hips lifting. “Don’t you dare stop. Fucking move.”
He pulled out almost all the way, then slammed back in. The sound was obscenely wet, flesh meeting flesh. He set a punishing, relentless rhythm, each thrust jarring her body on the hard surface. The kitchen filled with the sounds of them—grunts, slaps, her high, keening cries, the squeak of her skin on the quartz.
“Is this what you wanted?” he ground out, his hips pistoning. “This what you thought about? In my bed? Waking up next to me?”
“Yes! God, yes!” she sobbed, her legs tightening around him. “Just like that. Harder. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—”
He leaned over her, capturing her mouth again, swallowing her cries. The angle changed, and he hit a spot that made her eyes roll back. Her inner muscles clenched around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse.
“I’m gonna come,” she gasped, breaking the kiss, her face contorted in ecstasy. “Kevin, I’m gonna—”
“Come,” he commanded, pounding into her. “Come all over my cock. Do it.”
The order undid her. Her body bowed off the counter, a broken, silent scream on her lips as the orgasm ripped through her. She clenched around him, wave after wave of delicious, milking pressure that stripped the last of his control.
With a final, guttural roar, he followed her over. He slammed home one last time and spilled into her, his release hot and deep, pumping into her in thick, endless pulses. He collapsed over her, his forehead on her shoulder, both of them slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, shattered unison.
The cold reality of the quartz beneath her, the smell of sex and bacon grease, the glaring morning light—it all came flooding back, louder and more damning than before.
And underneath it, vibrating on the floor near the discarded sheets, his phone lit up once more.
A text notification from Hope.
Hope: Turning onto our street! See you in two! xoxo