Chapter 23
Piper
T hanksgiving break looms like a finish line, and those of us still here are the stragglers, the ones with one more paper to submit, one more deadline to meet. Mine is part of my thesis, and I’ll have to defend it in front of my class before Christmas.
Lena walks beside me, her backpack slung over one shoulder. Two orange streaks frame her face—her personal celebration of Thanksgiving—and they catch the weak November sunlight like warning flares.
“Professor Donovan actually asked for a printed copy. With a staple,” I say, shaking my head as we cross Red Square, dodging the few remaining students hurrying toward freedom.
“Mine wanted three copies. Three.” Lena raises her fingers for emphasis. “Said his dog ate one last semester, so now he needs backups.”
“That’s not even a good lie.”
Relief blooms in my chest, loosening something that’s been tight for weeks. With the paper submitted, the pressure valve is released. There’s something about finishing a project that feels like taking off shoes that have been too tight all day.
Lena nudges my shoulder with hers. “Let’s go off campus for coffee. I need to be around people who aren’t obsessing over exams, papers, and anything else remotely intellectual.”
The café she chooses is three blocks away, a little place wedged between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop.
Inside, it’s warm and fragrant with spices; cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove.
The holy trinity of fall. Most of the tables are empty; the rest of Georgetown seems to have already fled for break.
While I secure us a place to sit, Lena orders for both of us. She returns to our table with two oversized mugs of pumpkin spice lattes and a single slice of pumpkin pie with two forks.
“I got whipped cream on yours,” she says, sliding my mug toward me.
“Thank you.” I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.
Lena tilts her head, those orange streaks falling across her face. She wears gold hoop earrings that catch the light when she moves, and a loose-knit sweater dress in burnt orange that somehow makes her look both disheveled and perfectly put together.
“So.” She leans forward, elbows on the table. “We haven’t really talked in, what, two weeks? Three? I know I’ve been MIA, but so have you.” She stabs her fork in my direction in an accusatory motion.
“I’ve been busy.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either.
But I have been busy with papers, classes, and my internship. I’ve also been pretty preoccupied on my knees for hours at a time, getting intimately acquainted with the carpet in Enzo’s office, and the marks it leaves on my skin.
“Mhmm.” Lena takes a sip of her latte, leaving a crescent of foam on her upper lip. “Busy with school, or busy with something else? Maybe someone else?”
Heat creeps up my neck. I reach for the pie, then the coffee, doing anything but looking at her, using the mug to hide my smile. “It’s nothing like that.”
“You’re lying,” she states. “Your left eyebrow does this little twitch when you lie. And right now, it’s dancing the Fandango.”
I touch my eyebrow automatically. “It does not.”
“Does too. You’re also avoiding eye contact.” She pauses, then grins as she leans even closer, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. “And you’ve been walking like your soul’s been rearranged.”
The coffee stops halfway to my mouth. “Shut up.”
“Oh, my God, Pipes.” Her eyes widen, fork clattering against the plate. “I was just teasing. But… there totally is someone. Spill it!”
“Lee!” I glance around, but no one’s paying attention to us. The barista is scrolling on her phone, and the only other customers are an elderly couple by the window.
I take a long sip of coffee, using the mug to hide my smile.
“Are you seeing someone or not?” Lena asks directly, her playfulness giving way to genuine curiosity.
“Yes,” I say before I can think better of it. The word hangs between us like a confession.
Lena’s eyes go wide, then narrow with suspicion. “And you weren’t going to tell me? Your best friend? The keeper of all your secrets? The woman who held your hair back when you puked after drinking too much tequila, and—”
Laughter bubbles up my throat and out of my mouth. “Okay, okay, drama queen.” Taking a deep breath, I prepare myself. “It’s new, and compli cated.” An understatement so severe it might qualify as perjury.
“New and complicated.” She nods sagely. “So like, what? Married? Your professor? Ooh, is it that TA from your Political Theory class? The one with the forearms?”
I snort at the way she describes my TA. I mean, everyone has forearms, so it’s a ridiculous description. “No, none of those. Just... someone I wasn’t expecting.”
“Piper Harrington!” Lena almost shouts. “Do not play coy with me here. I want the deets, and I want them now.”
Smirking, I lean back in the chair and slowly cross one leg over the other. “Okay,” I relent. “His name is Enzo, and he’s… I don’t even know how to describe him.”
“Do I know him? Where did you meet? How did you meet? When do I get to meet him?” The questions come in rapid-fire.
“Calm down,” I laugh. “No, you don’t know him. I met him when I interviewed at Blackwood for my internship, and… umm… he was one of the men interviewing me.”
Hurt flickers across Lena’s features. “You’ve known him that long and I’m only just finding out…” Trailing off, she frowns. “Wait a damn second. Is he the secret you mentioned just before Halloween?”
My breath saws out of me, and I reach for her hand, holding it between both of mine.
“Hey, I wanted to tell you. I just didn’t know how.
” Biting my bottom lip, I deliberate how to best explain it.
“I… well, the fact we met during the interview made me feel like I earned my internship the wrong way. That’s why I didn’t say anything at first.”
It’s not the complete truth, but it’s close enough that I don’t feel like I’m lying.
“Ohh!” Lena squeals. “That totally makes sense. Okay, I forgive you. But only if you tell me everything right now.”
“What do you want to know?”
“How’s the sex?” she asks, unashamedly waggling her eyebrows suggestively.
The urge to deny having sex is on the tip of my tongue. But the memory of Enzo spanking me for saying I wasn’t sexually active comes to mind. God, wrong as it was, I fucking loved it. My thighs press together under the table.
“It’s…” I search for a word that won’t give too much away. “Intense.”
“Intense.” Lena repeats the word like she’s tasting it. “Intense like romantic candles and deep conversations? Or intense like he’s rearranging your organs?”
I almost choke on my coffee. “The second one.”
She squeals again, this time it’s loud enough that the elderly couple glance our way. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. You have that glow. That ‘I’ve been thoroughly fucked’ glow.”
“Can you lower your voice?” But I’m laughing too, the relief of sharin g even this small part of my secret lightening something in my chest. “And if you must know, we haven’t actually fucked.”
This makes her pause, and I can practically hear the gears turning in her brain as she just stares at me, uncomprehending. “You haven’t? But why not?”
Images flash through my mind; his cigar between my legs, tie around my eyes, his palm striking my ass. I feel my cheeks flush.
“We’re exploring,” I admit. “He’s showing me things I didn’t even know I wanted.”
Lena’s eyes light up. “Oh my God, he’s kinky. All the best ones are.” She leans forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “You should make a list.”
“A list?”
“A kink list. Things you want to try, things you’re curious about, things that are absolute no-gos.” She shrugs. “I did it with Derek last year. It was actually super helpful. Got us talking about stuff we’d never have brought up otherwise.”
“I don’t think we need a list.” I think of the way Enzo seems to read my mind, how he knows what I want before I do. How he pushes me past what I think I can handle, into territory I never knew existed.
“Everyone needs a list,” Lena insists. “It’s like sexual homework. But the fun kind.”
I laugh, imagining Enzo’s face if I presented him with a list. Would he be amused? Intrigued? Would he punish me for being so presumptuous? He’d probably read every line without blinking—and then make me prove it. The thought sends a shiver down my spine.
“Fine, maybe I’ll think about it.” I take another bite of pie. “But I’m not showing you what’s on it.”
“Spoilsport.” Lena pouts. “I bet it would be educational.”
“For whom?”
“For me, bitch. I could use some inspiration. My sex life’s been drier than the Sahara lately.” She sighs dramatically. “The last guy I slept with asked if I came when he clearly hadn’t touched anything remotely orgasm-adjacent.”
I burst out laughing, nearly snorting coffee through my nose. Lena joins in, and for a moment, we’re just two friends in a café, laughing about bad sex and the absurdity of dating in our twenties. For a moment, there’s no Enzo, no secrets—just us.
But even as we move on to other topics—her disastrous PR project, my thoughts on graduation next spring, the latest campus gossip—I can feel him there, a shadow at the edges of my consciousness.
His absence is a presence all on its own. A hunger shaped like him that shadows everything else. Like a negative space carved into my day.
I catch myself touching my throat where his fingers have been, running my tongue over my bottom lip where he bites me. There’s a kind o f hunger that lingers even after you’ve been fed. He leaves me wrecked and still wanting more.
“Well,” Lena says when she returns from the bathroom. “I really need to go if I want to catch my train.”
We hug goodbye, and she promises to text me tomorrow when she’s knee-deep in Thanksgiving with her family. “And I’ll be back the day after tomorrow,” she reminds me. “This year, I don’t have time to stay as long as I usually do.”
“Let’s go out when you come back,” I suggest.