Chapter 3
Avery
Sunday morning light slipped through the curtains in soft streaks, warming the edge of the hotel bed where Avery stirred.
Her limbs were tangled with Quinn’s, her body still humming from the night before.
Their skin was still pressed together, warmth lingering where it mattered.
She smiled before she even opened her eyes.
Quinn was still asleep, hair tousled, one arm draped over Avery’s waist like it belonged there. Avery leaned in and kissed the bare curve of her shoulder, unhurried and soft.
Quinn made a quiet sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan.
“Morning, beautiful,” Avery murmured.
Quinn smiled without opening her eyes. “Morning, you.”
They kissed again, lingering like there was nowhere else to be. Avery’s fingers traced the curve of Quinn’s spine, and Quinn’s hands slid to her waist, steady and sure.
“We should get up,” Quinn murmured between kisses.
“Yeah,” Avery agreed, but she didn’t stop.
Neither did Quinn.
Their mouths kept finding each other. They didn’t talk about what it meant, that Quinn didn’t live here, that this wasn’t going to be more than one night. It wasn’t love or a future. It was just sex.
Really good sex.
Quinn pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Do you want to shower before you go home?”
Avery smirked. “With you?”
Quinn nodded, voice low. “Mhm. I want to taste you one more time before you leave me.”
Something about the way she said it sent heat curling low in Avery’s stomach. She knew it was temporary. They both did. But right now, none of that mattered.
Avery leaned in, lips brushing Quinn’s ear. “Only if you do as I say.”
Quinn let out a soft moan, eyes darkening. “Whatever you want.”
They got up and padded to the shower, bare feet against cold tile. The glass fogged instantly as the water turned on, steam curling around them, the room filling with heat again. Quinn stepped in first, holding a hand out for her.
After that, time stopped behaving normally.
* * *
After a lazy morning and a goodbye make-out session that might’ve ruined her for all future partings, Avery finally slipped out of Quinn’s hotel room just before noon.
Her lips still tingled.
Her thighs still ached in the best way possible.
She stepped onto the subway platform wishing she had her sunglasses and earbuds; they would have made it easier for her to blend in with the blur of Sunday city dwellers who somehow looked more awake than she felt.
A man in a denim jacket was strumming a guitar near the stairs, something bluesy and moody that matched the pleasant hum in her chest. The train screeched into the station, wind whipping her hair as she stepped on and found a spot against one of the center poles, the metal cool against her palm.
The car carried its signature smell: coffee and city grime, with a trace of last night’s beer. But she didn’t care. She pulled out her phone.
Thirty-two unread messages.
She laughed before she even opened the thread.
Gabby: Are you alive, Av?
Noella: Do we need to send the authorities?
Natalie: Did she end up being a murderer?
Andrea: I hope the only thing that got murdered was your pussy.
Avery snorted, ducking her head, cheeks warming as a woman across the aisle caught her expression and raised a knowing brow.
Gabby: ANDREA!!!
Natalie: That was so good!! Ahahaha
Gabby: Text us so we know you’re okay… alright!
She smiled and typed back fast.
Avery: I’m on the subway heading home. She’s definitely not a murderer. Probably the best sex of my life though. So hot. Her body is perfect. I barely slept. But god, so worth it.
Her thumb hovered. Do I sound insane? She hit send anyway.
A guy next to her in a red Bulls hat chewed his gum loud enough to be annoying, but nothing could kill her mood after the night she’d just had.
Natalie: Yasss queen. So happy for you.
Gabby: Jesus, you just lived a sexy smut novella, didn’t you?
Avery bit her lip, grinning.
Avery: Guilty.
A woman with a stroller got on at Union Square. The baby yawned, big and dramatic, and Avery couldn’t help but feel like they were on the same wavelength: wrecked, and ready to crash.
Andrea: Drinks later so you can tell us everything.
Avery: Sure! Birch and Vine at 7?
Gabby: I’m in.
Noella: Same.
Andrea: Works for me.
Natalie: See you whores there.
Avery: Sounds good. I’m going to nap for a few hours when I get home. See you guys tonight.
She locked her phone, leaned her head back against the wall, and let the rhythm of the train lull her. Her lips still tasted like Quinn. Her thighs still throbbed faintly.
Just sex, she reminded herself.
Really fucking good sex.
She closed her eyes and smiled, letting herself replay every second.
* * *
When Avery stepped into her apartment, the first thing she heard was a long, dramatic meow from the living room.
Henrietta, her massive grey floofball of a cat, was sprawled across the center cushion of the couch like she paid rent.
She didn’t even bother lifting her head, just shot Avery a death glare that screamed excuse me, where the hell were you?
“Oh my god, you drama queen,” Avery muttered, kicking off her boots and toeing them neatly to the side.
She dropped her keys in the dish by the door and padded into the room, her voice softening into the singsong tone she reserved only for her cat.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but you have an auto-feeder and at least two water bowls. Don’t act like I abandoned you in the wilderness. ”
Henrietta yawned theatrically.
“I bet you loved having the whole bed to yourself, huh?” Avery said, lowering herself onto the couch with a groan and scratching behind Henrietta’s ears.
The fur was impossibly soft, and she could already feel her stress melting away just from the rhythmic motion of petting her.
“I missed you too, though. Even your loud-ass meows.”
Henrietta purred, just once, then huffed and hopped down, tail flicking as she strutted toward the kitchen. She made a show of leaping onto the counter and staring down at Avery like a queen awaiting tribute.
“Okay, okay, Jesus,” Avery muttered, dragging herself upright and heading to the cabinet. She shook a few treats into her palm and offered them up, petting Henrietta’s head.
“I’m gonna take a nap,” she said, like her cat understood. “Meet me in bed when you’re done bossing me around, hmm?”
Henrietta didn’t respond. Just crunched her treats like Avery owed them.
Avery slipped into her bedroom, stripping off her jeans and the remnants of last night, pulling on a pair of soft cotton shorts and an old NYU tee. The bed was unmade, but the sheets were cool and familiar. She climbed in and exhaled like she hadn’t breathed since she left the hotel.
Her phone was still in her hand. She stared at it. Would Quinn even want to be found? They hadn’t exchanged numbers. Hadn’t talked about anything beyond the immediate chemistry and a few clever one-liners between orgasms. Hell, Avery didn’t even know her last name.
She opened Instagram. Typed in Quinn and stared at the thousands of results. Nope. She tossed the phone onto her nightstand. It was just sex. Really fucking good sex. But just sex.
She rolled onto her side and grabbed the remote.
Flicked on the latest Dateline rerun. The low hum of ominous narration filled the room, and she smiled to herself.
Murder was her comfort show. Her ex had always found it weird, but there was something soothing about Keith Morrison describing someone’s downfall in that calm, eerie voice.
Avery pulled the comforter up over her shoulder, curled up tight, and finally let herself drift. She slept deeper than she had in months.
* * *
When Avery woke up, she felt like it had been the kind of nap that put her back in her body and regained her sense of time.
She blinked at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented, like she wasn’t sure if it was morning or midnight, if she was in her own bed or still tangled in hotel sheets with Quinn.
But no. This was home. Her bedroom. The familiar weight of the comforter, the faint hum of the air purifier, and the quiet, judgmental stare of Henrietta from the foot of the bed confirmed it.
She groaned, stretching until her back cracked, then stumbled out of bed like she was shaking off a hangover made of orgasms and lost hours.
In the kitchen, she grabbed a wineglass not for wine, but for the LaCroix she kept stocked in the fridge.
Bubbly water always tasted better in something stemmed and unnecessary.
She took a long sip, leaning on one hip against the counter as the cool fizz brought her brain back online.
Her laptop sat closed on the island. Waiting.
Mocking her. She sighed, padded over, and opened it.
The calendar popped up with the bright red reminder she’d been dreading since Gabby scheduled it:
Monday 10:30 AM: Meeting w/Lifestyle Rep (CONFIDENTIAL).
Avery rolled her eyes. “Fucking mystery exec,” she muttered.
Some bigwig from the West Coast was flying in just to “talk” about acquiring her company. Her company. Her dating app. Lilith.
She and Gabby had started Lilith two years ago.
They built it from scratch. The code? Avery wrote it.
The infrastructure? She designed it. The safety features, the moderation system, the sleek interface with optional softness mode and customized queer identities that made users actually feel seen. All hers.
And it worked. Really fucking well.
Lilith was now the biggest dating app for queer women on the market. Bigger than anything else, even the ones with billion-dollar budgets and mainstream coverage. Lilith had heart. Tech with a soul. A community that mattered.
And now some mysterious suit with an unnamed lifestyle platform wanted to “merge” with them. Merge.
Avery scoffed into her drink and took another sip. “Right. Merge. Translation: buy me out, gut everything I built, and slap your logo on it.”