Chapter 1: The Fake Emergency
The thud from next door was followed by a sharp curse. Soren Vance froze, his pencil hovering over the tablet. He knew that voice. Mia. For a few seconds, there was silence, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Then his doorbell rang.
His heart did a stupid, lurching thing against his ribs. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He never was. He padded to the door, peering through the peephole.
The world narrowed to a fisheye lens of her. Mia stood there, backlit by the afternoon sun from her own open doorway across the hall. She was wrapped in a robe of sheer, pale grey silk. It was tied loosely at her waist. He could see the dark shadow of her nipples, the curve of her hip. She was breathing a little heavily.
He wrenched the door open. “Mia? Everything okay?”
“Soren.” His name was a sigh of relief on her lips. “Thank god you’re home. My sink—it’s just… it’s flooding. I turned the valve but it’s still spraying. I think I need a wrench? Or just… a taller person.” She gave a helpless little shrug, and the robe slipped off one shoulder. She made no move to pull it back up. The skin there gleamed, smooth and tawny.
“Uh. Yeah. Sure. Of course.” He sounded like an idiot. He was an idiot. He’d been watching her for weeks through the window that faced his own, stealing glances he had no right to, fueled by a guilt that only fed the heat in his gut. And now she was here, at his door, practically glowing.
He followed her, his eyes glued to the sway of the silk knot at the small of her back. Her apartment was always warmer than his, smelled like vanilla and jasmine. Sunlight poured through the sheer curtains, landing on half-unpacked boxes and a purple yoga mat. The sink in the open-plan kitchen was dry.
“It’s… not flooding,” he said, his voice low.
“No,” she agreed. She turned to face him, leaning back against her kitchen counter. The sunlight caught the auburn strands in her curly hair, lit her green eyes from within. “It’s not.”
She let the silence stretch. He could hear the faint hum of her refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic. His own pulse, loud in his ears.
“You’ve been watching me,” she said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, flat and calm.
All the air left his lungs. “Mia, I—”
“Don’t.” She held up a hand, a faint smile playing on her mouth. “Don’t apologize. Don’t lie.” She pushed off the counter and took a step toward him. “I know. I’ve known for a while.”
He wanted to melt into the floor. The shame was a cold, sharp thing. But beneath it, coiling and insistent, was something else entirely. A reckless hunger.
“Why?” was all he could manage.
“At first, I was going to close the curtain.” Another step. The scent of her, warm skin and clean sweat, enveloped him. “Then I thought… why should I? It’s my apartment. And you looked so… invested.” She was close enough now that he could see the faint freckles across her nose, the flecks of gold in her irises. “You like watching, Soren?”
He swallowed, his throat tight. His hands clenched at his sides. “I shouldn’t have.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Her voice was a soft challenge. She reached out, didn’t touch him, just let her fingers trace a path through the air an inch from his chest. “Do you like it?”
The last of his resistance snapped. “Yes.”
The word hung between them, raw and honest. Her smile widened, turned victorious. “Good.”
In one fluid motion, she untied the silk belt. The robe fell open. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Her body was exactly as he’d imagined in his most fevered, guilty dreams—long, toned legs, the gentle flare of her hips, a flat stomach. Her breasts were full, the tips dark and peaked. And they were glossy, slick with some kind of oil that caught the light, making her skin shimmer with every slight movement.
He made a sound, a low groan from deep in his chest.
“You see something you want?” she whispered, her gaze dropping to the obvious bulge in his jeans.
He didn’t answer with words. He moved. One hand snapped out, circling her wrist. The other went to the small of her back, pulling her hard against him. The feel of her, solid and warm and slick, against the rough denim was electric. She gasped, but her eyes blazed, meeting his without a trace of fear.
“No more games, Mia,” he growled, his voice unfamiliar to his own ears.
“Who’s playing?” she breathed.
He walked her backwards, not to the bedroom, but to the front door she’d just lured him through. He pinned her against it, the wood cool against her heated skin. He brought her captured wrist up, pressing it against the door above her head. Her other hand came up to push at his shoulder, but the force was a joke. He caught that one too, imprisoning both with one of his hands. She was strong, but he was stronger, and the realization seemed to thrill her. A shiver ran through her.
He lowered his head, his mouth hovering over the oil-slick curve of her breast. Her breath hitched. “Please,” she said, and it was the first genuine plea he’d ever heard from her.
He took her nipple into his mouth, hot and hard. She cried out, her back arching off the door. He laved it with his tongue, the taste of her—sweet almond oil and salt—flooding his senses. He sucked, deeply, and her legs buckled. He held her up, his body caging hers, as he switched to the other breast, giving it the same relentless attention. He played her nipples with his tongue and teeth until they were tight, aching peaks, and her pleas dissolved into mindless whimpers.
“Soren… god, just… don’t stop.”
He released her wrists. Her arms fell around his neck, clutching him. He fumbled with his own jeans, shoving them down just enough. He hooked a hand behind her knee, hiking her leg up around his hip. He was throbbing, aching. He looked into her eyes, her face flushed, lips parted.
“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice rough.
She understood. “Take me.” The words were a ragged whisper. “Now.”
He pushed into her in one deep, claiming stroke. She was tight, wet, searing heat. She threw her head back against the door with a thud, a ragged cry tearing from her throat. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting them both feel the full, shocking reality of it.
Then he began to move. Short, sharp thrusts that knocked the breath from her. The door rattled in its frame. He reclaimed her mouth, swallowing her moans, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his hips. He was everywhere—his hands on her ass, lifting her, his chest rubbing against her slick, sensitized breasts, his mouth devouring hers. He was no longer the shy neighbor. He was pure need, and he was taking what she had so deliberately offered.
Her climax built quickly, violently. Her internal muscles clenched around him, a rhythmic pulsing that milked him desperately. She screamed into his mouth, her body seizing. The sight of her coming apart, the feel of it, shattered his own control. He drove into her one last, deep time, his own release crashing through him like a wave, leaving him shaking, his forehead pressed against the trembling wood of her door.
For long moments, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. The scent of sex and jasmine hung heavy in the air. Slowly, carefully, he lowered her until her feet found the floor. She swayed, and he kept his arms around her, holding her steady.
She looked up at him, her green eyes hazy, sated. A slow, smug smile touched her swollen lips. She traced the line of his jaw with a finger. “So,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Not so shy after all.”
He stared at her, the enormity of what just happened settling over him. The game had ended. But as he looked into her knowing, triumphant face, a chilling and exhilarating thought occurred to him.
It had only just begun.
It had only just begun.
Their breathing slowly leveled out, the only sound in the sunlit apartment. The wood of the door was cool and solid against Soren’s back. Mia’s forehead rested on his collarbone, her fingers splayed over the frantic beat of his heart beneath his t-shirt.
“Well,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. “That was a hell of a plumbing fix.”
A startled laugh escaped him. It felt strange in his throat. He was still buried inside her, still trembling with the aftershocks. He carefully eased out of her, and she made a small, wounded sound at the loss.
Her legs gave way completely then, a controlled collapse. She slid down the length of him until she was sitting on the polished floorboards, leaning against the door. She looked up at him, her curls a wild auburn halo, her green eyes dark and satisfied. The oil on her breasts had smeared across his grey t-shirt.
He sank down beside her, his back against the wall, their legs tangled together in the puddle of her silk robe. The reality of what he’d just done—the force of it—was beginning to seep in past the haze of lust. He’d pinned her. Taken her. He’d been rough.
“Mia, I… was I too—”
“If you apologize,” she interrupted, her voice low but firm, “I will actually throw my wine glass at your head.” She reached over to the nearby console table, grabbed the half-full glass she’d left there earlier, and took a slow sip. She offered it to him. His fingers brushed hers as he took it. The wine was cool and tart.
They sat in silence for a moment, passing the glass back and forth. The tension wasn’t gone. It had just changed shape. It hummed between them, a live wire.
“Come upstairs,” she said finally, not looking at him.
“We are upstairs.”
“My bedroom is upstairs,” she clarified, nodding toward the open spiral staircase in the corner of the loft-style apartment. A mischievous glint returned to her eyes. “I’m sticky. And you have almond oil all over your shirt. We should shower.”
He followed her up the narrow iron steps, his eyes on the shift of muscles in her bare back, the delightful curve of her ass. Her bedroom was awash in late afternoon light, bigger than he’d imagined, dominated by a large, unmade bed. She walked into the adjoining en-suite without a backward glance.
The shower was a large, tiled stall with a rainfall head. She turned it on, steam beginning to billow. She stepped in first, tilting her face up into the spray, slicking her hair back. He shucked his jeans and boxers, left the oil-stained shirt on the floor, and joined her.
The water was hot, sluicing over them. She handed him a bar of soap. It smelled like her—jasmine and vanilla. He started with her shoulders, working the lather over the smooth skin, his touch firm, purposeful. Not tentative. Not anymore. He washed her back, the dip of her spine, the glorious swell of her ass. He knelt, soaping her legs, her calves. She braced a hand on the tile wall, watching him over her shoulder, her expression unreadable.
When he rose, she took the soap from him. Her hands on his chest were exploratory, sliding over his pectorals, the defined planes of his stomach. He was lean, but fit—the result of anxious energy spent on a home rowing machine. Her touch was deliberate, claiming him just as thoroughly as he had claimed her. She washed him everywhere, her fingers clever and thorough, until he was hard again in her hand.
She turned off the water. They stepped out, dripping, and she grabbed a large, soft towel. She dried him slowly, with the same focused attention, before patting herself dry.
“Here,” she said, leading him by the hand back into the bedroom, to a long, free-standing mirror in the corner.
She positioned him behind her, her back to his front. The mirror showed everything: the water droplets still caught in the hollow of her shoulder, the flush on her skin, the intense dark of his eyes over her shoulder. He looked like a stranger to himself—all sharp angles and focused hunger.
He kissed the side of her neck, his wet hands sliding around to cup her breasts, rolling her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. She whimpered, her head falling back against him.
“Watch,” he murmured against her ear, his voice a rough vibration.
He guided her to bend forward, placing her hands on the low dresser in front of the mirror. The angle was perfect, exposing her completely to his gaze, and to hers in the reflection. He entered her in one slow, deep push, and her mouth fell open in a silent gasp, her eyes glued to the sight in the glass.
He started to move, a steady, relentless rhythm. One hand anchored on her hip, the other came up and slowly fisted in the damp mass of her auburn curls. He didn’t yank. He pulled, gently but inexorably, tilting her head back, forcing her to keep her eyes open, to watch.
“See?” he whispered, his breath hot on her ear. “See who’s taking you?”
Her answer was a moan, her hips pushing back against him. The visual was devastating—the powerful line of his body driving into hers, the possessive grip in her hair, the utterly wanton expression on her own face. He watched her watch them, and the filthiness of it, the intimacy, drove him faster.
His fingers on her hip slid down, through the slickness, past where they were joined. He rubbed slow, firm circles against the tight, forbidden furl of her asshole.
She jolted as if electrified. “Soren—”
“Just teasing,” he gritted out, the effort to keep his rhythm steady immense. The pad of his finger pressed, just enough, a hint of a promise. “Unless you want more.”
The thought of it—the thought of him, the flustered man who blushed when she said good morning, doing this—unraveled her. Her control shattered. A scream was ripped from her throat, long and raw, as her orgasm slammed into her. Her inner muscles clamped down on him in frantic, fluttering pulses, milking him violently.
The sensation was too much. He gave one final, deep thrust, his own release tearing through him with a guttural shout, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, his hand still tight in her hair.
In the mirror, their reflections wavered, blurred by steam and spent passion. Two strangers, utterly known.