7. Dean
DEAN
Colin’s ringtone bleats from somewhere deep in the suite, jarring the pleasant afterglow thrumming beneath my skin.
His hand slides off Thalassa’s thigh as he mutters an apology and pads toward the guest bedroom, already fielding the call.
From the fragments that drift back—“load-balancer,” “timeout stack”—I know our network just sneezed.
Only a tech emergency could pull him away right now, which means the outage is real.
Across the massive bed, Atticus stretches, murmurs something contented, then conks out face-first into a pillow like a felled oak. Typical Tic—conquer the world, then hibernate.
That leaves me and Thalassa, bodies warm, sheets tangled, city lights flickering through the open drapes.
I prop on an elbow and study her in the hush.
Her hair has come mostly undone, and small curls halo her temple, damp with exertion.
She has that boneless post-bliss sprawl, but her eyes are alert, hazel bright under low lamplight.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“I could drink a lake,” she says, voice husky.
“Lake’s not on the menu. How about hot chocolate?”
Her face lights up. “Real hot chocolate or powder plus tepid water?”
I smirk, reach for the phone, and dial room service. “Valrhona, two mugs, extra whipped cream, balcony setup.” I add a tip that would scandalize our CFO and hang up.
She sits, clutching the sheet to her chest, suddenly shy. The motion shouldn’t be adorable after everything we just did, but it is. I toss her a hotel robe—white terry, gold trim—and shrug into its twin. She threads her arms through, cinches the belt twice, like the robe might fly away otherwise.
Outside, November air greets us, brisk but not biting.
The full moon parks itself above the skyline like a spotlight, washing the city in silver.
Traffic hums below, a restless lullaby. From here, Atlanta looks orderly—straight avenues, punctuated by towers—nothing like the operational chaos I wrestle every day.
I breathe deep, let cool night fill my chest.
Thalassa grips the railing and leans out, eyes wide. “I keep forgetting cities can be pretty. Atlanta from ground level is just…potholes and Waffle House neon.”
“You say that like Waffle House neon isn’t a national treasure.”
She laughs, and I file the sound away. High, spontaneous, impossible not to echo.
Room-service staff arrive like stagehands—rolling cart, silver carafe, two mugs as wide as cereal bowls. They vanish before I finish thanking them. The chocolate is as thick as velvet paint, steam curling into the breeze.
We clink mugs. She takes one sip and sighs. “I might marry this.”
“Not jealous,” I say, “but noted.”
She nudges my shoulder with hers. We stand in comfortable silence for a minute, moonlight glancing off adjacent glass facades—Bank of America Plaza glowing orange, a Ferris wheel’s LED spokes blinking rainbow miles away.
It hits me how bizarrely easy this feels.
I’ve hosted dates up here before—sugar babies, models, influencers, a senator’s divorced niece, a congressman’s wife (I thought they were divorced)—but conversation always bobbed in shallow water—brand launches, follower counts, aspirational travel lists. Nothing personal, nothing real.
With Thalassa, depth appears without coaxing. The first round of sex should have drained all novelty, but instead, curiosity swells. To test it, I flick a playful finger at her robe tie. “There’s a whirlpool tub upstairs the size of a small swimming pool,” I say. “We could christen it.”
Her laughter cuts off mid-breath. She freezes, mug halfway to her lips. A shadow clouds her irises—a fast eclipse. Not just hesitation. A full recoil hidden by a polite smile.
I set my mug down carefully. “Hey. Too much?”
“I’m more of a shower person.”
No elaboration. Walls drop like crash doors. Instinct says to dig—my nature is root-cause analysis—but intuition screams at me to leave it alone. Everyone’s got fault lines. You don’t tap them with a jackhammer on day one.
“Copy that,” I say lightly. “There’s something to be said for standing sex beneath a hot shower.”
Relief flickers across her features, mixed with possible arousal if her naughty smirk is any indication. Crisis averted.
I pivot. “Tell me about your degree. Biology, right?”
She relaxes another notch. Victory. “Yeah, BS in Biology, concentration in aquatic ecology.” She sips chocolate, and the whipped cream paints her upper lip. “I want to study population genetics of endemic species, but right now it means endless PCR and not enough sleep.”
I hand her a napkin. “Endemic species—give me your elevator pitch.”
She wipes, smiling at herself. “You can’t take me anywhere.”
“No worries. I like you messy.”
Her cheeks flare bright pink; no doubt I’ve reminded her of our little painting session.
Good.
“Okay, picture an island—small, isolated. Over time, species there adapt uniquely due to their unique circumstances. Studying their genes tells us about evolutionary bottlenecks, resilience, maybe even how to engineer crops for climate change, all kinds of things.” Her hands animate the space between us, mug precarious in one.
“It’s like reading a time-capsule diary written in DNA. ”
I listen, genuinely fascinated. Data, but alive. “Why population genetics, not, say, marine biology?”
She hesitates. “I have experience in the field. Plus, genetics is like coding. Swap a base pair, watch the system crash—or run better.”
“You’ll have to mention that to Colin,” I say. “He thinks biology is coding with wetter error messages.”
She giggles, then squints at me. “You seem…surprised to be enjoying this conversation.”
I shrug, unembarrassed. “Usually by this hour, I’m comparing vendor quotes or arguing with auditors. Talking science with a woman who can pronounce ‘archipelago’ is exotic.”
She laughs, rolls her eyes. “Your bar is low.”
“It is. But you surpass it.”
Silence again, this time warm. City sounds recede under the night wind. She leans sideways, and her shoulder touches my biceps, tentative. I turn to face her fully.
Moonlight sketches every freckle across her nose.
A breeze lifts her hair at the ends, making her look as wild as I suspect she truly is.
I cup her jaw—not rushing, just framing—and stroke a thumb under her lower lip, erasing the last of the whipped-cream residue.
Her eyes flutter half-closed, lashes catching pale light.
“Whipped cream moustache crisis averted,” I murmur.
“Tragic,” she says, breath ghosting my thumb.
I tilt in. The kiss starts soft—testing fit, mapping edges—but deepens quickly. She tastes of cocoa and adrenaline. Her hands slide up my chest and clutch my robe’s lapels. My palm spreads over the small of her back, and I anchor her to the rail. The city view spins in my peripheral.
Her tongue flicks into my mouth—curiosity turned bold—and sparks shoot down my spine. Desire coils again, threatening my restraint. I break the kiss, rest my forehead to hers, and inhale her exhales.
She smiles, eyes closed. “You’re a good kisser.”
“As are you.” My voice is lower than usual, rough.
“Well,” she says, cheeks pink under moon-silver, “that’s good to hear.”
“Were you unsure?”
She chuckles, stealing another sip of cocoa. “I don’t do a lot of kissing.”
“Damn.”
“What?”
“I should have graded on a curve.”
She snorts. “What do you mean by that?”
“If you don’t do a lot of kissing, then I have to change your grade from good to excellent.”
Her laughter sets me at ease. “I suppose I’ll have to do some extra credit work to keep that grade up.”
“I’m sure I can figure out an appropriate assignment to ensure you stay on the honor roll.” I love how playful she is. Some sugar babies can feign that carefree nature for a short while, but Thalassa is different. There isn’t a fake bone in her body.
“Favorite film genre?”
I wince and take a breath. I don’t want to lie to her about this, but I’ve gotten some bad reactions when being honest in the past. “Next question.”
She pauses. “I like things set in the desert. Dune —the movies and the TV shows—are great.”
“Sci-fi is good…”
The silence between us isn’t comfortable this time.
She pins an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry—did I cross a line?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. Truth is, I like love stories that make you cry.”
“Oh, you’re a big softy?”
“I promise you no man ever wants to be called that.”
She snorts as she laughs, and it’s precious. “Sorry. But I think it’s sweet that you like those movies. Favorite food?”
We linger, trading biography fragments. I confess I ran away to join a commune for exactly forty-eight hours at nineteen before Dad’s head of security retrieved me.
She wheezes laughing. I promise to tell the full story tomorrow if she explains how she once rescued a hamster in her dorm bathtub—which prompts a horror-amazed retelling that makes me snort hot chocolate out my nose.
Where has this girl been my whole life?
Time warps. The moon arcs lower, and downtown traffic thins to random pulses. My phone buzzes—but I mute the notification, unwilling to let the outside world breach the bubble.
At some point Colin texted goodnight—server glitch resolved. Tic’s still out like a light. Responsibility tries to tug my collar, but I shrug it off.
“Cold?” I ask when she shivers.
“Just a little.”
I drape an arm around her, robe edges overlapping, sharing heat. She relaxes into me, and it’s…comforting. I imagine this moment replaying years from now—same balcony, but we’re discussing grocery lists. The image stings sweet and scary.
Not in the cards, Copeland. Don’t scrapbook futures.
The truth is, it won’t be her. But I want it to be someone. I want the domestic bliss thing, with a partner, babies, dogs, cats, the whole menagerie. Thirty-seven means I have to stop playing around about this. Eventually.
She tilts up. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Listening. Not…pushing.” She draws an invisible shape between us—the topic of tub trauma avoided. “Tonight’s already more than I imagined. In the good way.”
I brush a knuckle down her cheek. “Pleasure, Thalassa. In every sense.”
Her answering gaze is open, trusting in a way I rarely earn.
The temptation to promise more blooms fierce, but that’s reckless for both of us.
We have a deal, and that deal does not include promises or a future.
We both know it. So I kiss her again, softer, to let my actions convey what words shouldn’t.
She breaks the kiss, smiling. “I should soak up this view. I won’t see it ever again.”
“Then come here…” I rearrange us so she’s wrapped up in my robe entirely, her back against my chest as she leans forward to look down over the railing.
Which presses her magnificent ass against my cock. Firm muscles, silky skin, the crevice that sandwiches me, I can’t help the reaction she causes. Right now, I have no more blood in my head.
Her startled gasp catches in her throat. “Again?”
“Your ass begs for attention. Of course I’ll pay it.”
To my surprise, she rubs herself against me. “Don’t start something you’re too tired to finish.”
This girl is trouble.
“I’ll show you exactly how tired I am, if you fish into the pocket of my robe and grab what you find.”
She does so, producing a condom. “You boys put these things everywhere, didn’t you?”
“No sense in wasting time. There’s also some beneath all the pillows.” I apply the condom. “Are you sure you want more, pet?”
“Mm, I like it when you call me that.” She takes my hand and puts it between her legs. Slick and needy. “Don’t I feel like I want more?”
I’m game, but in case she worries, I should mention it. “We could get caught…”
“I know.” She says it like that’s a selling point.
I nuzzle against the shell of her ear, and keeping my voice low, I murmur, “Brace yourself on the railing.”
She grips the cold top as I pull her hips back to angle her for me. Tight. So damn tight and hot, and when I breach her entrance, she mewls for me.
“Too sensitive?”
“No, god, keep going!”
She might think she’s ready, but still, I take my time. I don’t want to truly hurt her, and I like teasing us both. My sadomasochistic side is cruel in the best and worst ways.
When I’m finally seated, I get going. Our bodies smack together, and to her credit, Thalassa gives as good as she gets.
Her exuberant cries send me into overdrive.
The balcony has privacy walls on both sides, but it doesn’t take a genius to know what you’re hearing.
The building across the street has a full view of us.
So be it.
I bar an arm across her shoulders to hold her to me, slamming upright into her pussy.
She meets me thrust for thrust, like she can’t get enough.
Maybe she can’t. When I reach my other hand down for her clit, she comes undone in my arms, crying out in triumph like an animal rutting in the forest. Her climax brings me over the edge with her, and I lose control, slamming home like never before.