12. Natalie
NATALIE
It’s the next night, and I show up at the bar a couple of minutes late, still in my work clothes. My white blouse feels too formal, the black pants suddenly stiff and corporate under the dim lighting.
I’d said somewhere low-key, somewhere no one would recognize us. He nailed the brief. Maybe too well.
It’s perfect. And awful. Exactly the kind of place where no one from our world would be caught dead.
“You’ve got me here. Now what?” I say once we’re settled in a booth. He’s got whiskey. I’ve got a glass of white wine that probably came from a box.
“Now I see if you’re as impossible as advertised.” He leans back, studying me. “Fair warning, I’m very good at impossible.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
Henry leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Three people check into a hotel room that costs thirty dollars. They each pay ten. Later, the manager realizes the room only costs twenty-five, so he gives the bellboy five dollars to return. The bellboy keeps two dollars as a tip and gives each person one dollar back. So now they’ve each paid nine dollars—twenty-seven total.
Plus the bellboy’s two dollars makes twenty-nine. Where’s the missing dollar?”
I blink at him. “Seriously? A riddle?”
“Humor me.”
I swirl my wine, thinking. “You’re adding wrong. They paid twenty-seven total, which includes the bellboy’s two-dollar tip. The room cost twenty-five. Twenty-five plus two equals twenty-seven. There’s no missing dollar. You’re just mixing up what money goes where.”
His grin spreads slow and wide. “Knew you’d get it. I had to explain it to Max twice and he’s still not sure.”
“You’re testing me?”
“Maybe.” His eyes hold mine across the table. “I like watching your brain work.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “And what exactly did I just prove?”
“That you’re as sharp as I thought you were.” He takes a slow sip of whiskey, still watching me over the rim. I lean forward.
“Alright, hotshot. Let’s see if you’re as sharp as you think you are.”
“Try me.”
I tap my finger against the stem of my glass, thinking. This one took me forever the first time I heard it. “I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes drift up like he’s running through possibilities.
“Don’t overthink it,” I say, enjoying this.
“An echo. The wind part gave it away.” He takes a sip of whiskey, watching me over the rim.
That was quick. Quicker than I got it, but I’m not about to tell him that.
“Congratulations.”
He smiles, lazy and self-satisfied. “So I’m not a total idiot, then?”
“I never thought you were,” I admit.
His grin deepens, and something about it cuts right through me. Before I can stop it, I’m smiling back. My shoulders drop. I breathe a little easier. For the first time, I’m not bracing for the next move. I’m just here. With him.
Time slips by as we talk. The conversation flows easily. When he lets go of the ego, he’s surprisingly down-to-earth, funny in this quiet, dry way, and he actually listens. He makes these quick, sharp comments that catch me off guard and have me laughing before I even realize it.
We talk about everything but work. Favorite cities. Books we half-finished. The most questionable thing either of us has ever eaten. I order another drink without meaning to, and suddenly my smile is a little looser.
It’s disarming, how normal he is. He tells me stories about old boarding school pranks, a party in Ibiza when he was 21.
I’m more careful. Sparse with my own stories, trimming away anything that might trace back to the neighborhood I grew up in. It’s not exactly a secret, but it’s not something I want laid bare here. Not to him.
“So, you’re close with your parents?” he asks.
“I see them every few weeks. They’re…good people.”
He studies me for a beat, nods and lets it go.
Somewhere between the teasing and the quiet honesty, I stop guarding myself. For the first time in months, I feel light. Laughed-out. Talking to him is effortless, and for a while, I forget who he is and why I should know better.
Then he glances at his watch, and something tugs tight in my chest. I don’t want this to end. I can’t even remember the last time I felt like that.
“It’s getting late,” I say, reaching for my glass. Like I’m not secretly hoping he’ll disagree.
Henry tilts his head, that maddening half-smile curving his lips.
“It’s still early,” he says, his gaze drifting down my body. “I was thinking…maybe I could try for a new personal best.”
Heat flares in my chest and creeps up my neck, and before I can stop it, it’s already blooming in my cheeks.
He leans in, just enough for me to catch the faint trace of his cologne. His voice drops, quieter now. More intimate.
“But let’s skip the corporate setting this time.” There’s a glint of humor in his eyes, but beneath it, something heavier.
I take him in. His dark hair is a little tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it. There’s a shadow along his jaw. His shirt fits too well, open at the collar, sleeves rolled. Everything about him looks effortless, tempting in a way that feels unfair.
I want him. I know that. But I’m not ready to let him know. Not completely. I don’t want him thinking I’m easy. But I also don’t want to say no.
“My place,” I say, standing. My voice is calm, even. Like I haven’t spent half the night wondering what he’d do if I kissed him first.
“Lead the way.”
Henry’s car stops outside my building. It’s a dark gray BMW M8. Inside it smells like leather and something I can’t quite place.
His hand has been on my thigh since we left the bar. Not moving, just resting there. I’m not sure when I stopped pretending I wasn’t interested. Somewhere between the first drink and now, but here we are.
“Street parking,” he says, eyeing the curb like it’s beneath him.
“You don’t have to—”
He cuts the engine before I finish. Then he’s out of the car, coming around to my side, pulling my door open before I can reach for the handle.
I step onto the sidewalk and glance down the street.
Half-expecting to see Cosmo or someone from work walking past. But it’s late and this neighborhood is miles from the office.
Still, I move quickly toward the entrance.
Maybe because some part of me knows this is a mistake.
The sensible part that can already see how this ends.
When my apartment door clicks shut behind us, the air seems to thicken.
Every sound feels louder, the soft rustle of clothes, the muted hum of the city outside.
Henry steps in, and I barely register the wall at my back before his body presses into mine.
His hands come up slowly, fingertips brushing my cheek before settling at my jaw, his thumbs tracing soft arcs along my skin.
There’s something careful in the way he touches me, that makes it hard to breathe.
Then he pauses, his mouth hovering just above mine, breath warm and close.
“Our first kiss,” he says, like it means something. His eyes hold mine, waiting for me to admit it means something to me too.
It does but I’m not about to let him know that.
So I pull him down by the back of his neck and kiss him, because that’s easier than answering.
He lets me lead at first. It’s slow, careful.
Just a brush of lips. I hesitate, and his hand slides into my hair.
His mouth opens over mine, and his hips press forward, pinning me against the wall.
There’s no space left between us. No room to think.
Just the heat of his mouth and the way my pulse kicks up in response.
The kiss turns urgent. He kisses like he’s been starving for it, like I’m air and he’s been holding his breath.
I match him without thinking, my fingers twisting into his hair.
It’s too much, and somehow not enough. I taste whiskey on his tongue.
Feel the scrape of his stubble against my cheek.
My skin burns under his hands, every nerve alive and waiting.
He pulls back, just far enough to breathe. Our foreheads rest together. We’re both breathing heavy, hearts pounding, lungs barely keeping up.
“Bedroom?” he asks.
I nod. He catches my wrist and leads me down the hall like he’s been here before.
Then I’m on my back. The mattress catches me, his weight settling over mine.
His mouth finds my neck. He kisses lower, slow and focused.
Then he tears the buttons of my blouse open.
My bra’s gone a second later. His mouth finds my nipple and my back lifts off the bed. I’m already unraveling.
His mouth moves lower, skating down my stomach, inch by inch. Too slow. I reach for him, trying to push him where I need him but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he grabs my wrists and pins them high above my head. His grip is firm and unyielding.
“Patience,” he says. “Or I stop.”
I nod. Swallow hard. Let him have it.
He keeps going, lips soft on my skin, his mouth dragging heat with every pass. When he reaches my thighs, he slows even more, kissing the inside gently, close, but never where I want him. Every time I think he’ll give in, he pulls back, teasing and holding off until I’m shaking.
“Henry,” I whisper, breathless. “Please.”
He lifts his head and looks at me. That confident, focused stare that makes my stomach feel funny. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Finally, he hooks his fingers under the lace and pulls. When his tongue touches me I gasp. My hips lift off the bed like they’re his now. He groans into me, and I feel it everywhere. I’m right on the edge when he pulls back.
I bite down a curse.
He watches me. Lips wet. Breathing hard. He wants me to feel every second of it. The ache. The need. To know he’s the one holding it all in his hands. And I do.
Then his mouth is on me again. My thighs start to shake.
Just as I start to fall apart, he stops.
My hips lift, chasing him, but his hands hold me still.
He watches. Then starts again. He brings me to the edge.
Backs off. Again. And again. Like there’s a rhythm only he can hear.
Like I’m something he’s playing on repeat.
Each pass sharpens it. Each pause makes it worse.
My thoughts are gone. Words, gone. I’m nothing but sensation.
I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.
Just breathless sounds. Pleading. Begging.
He hums against my skin like that’s what he’s been waiting for.
Then his fingers slide inside me. They curl, finding that perfect spot like he’s done it a hundred times.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
Everything tightens in a single, blinding snap. It hits fast and hard. My body jerks. My thighs clamp around him. Then the world drops away. His fingers keep going until the last wave runs through me. Then I go still. Breathless, skin damp, my muscles twitching.
Time slips. When I finally come back to myself, Henry sharpens into focus beside me. At some point, a sheet’s been pulled halfway over me. I don’t remember doing it. I’m still half-dressed. My blouse open, slipping off one shoulder; bra lost somewhere on the floor.
Henry, on the other hand, hasn’t taken off a single thing. He’s still in his white dress shirt, slightly rumpled now, the collar askew. His expensive leather belt is still fastened but he’s hard. His cock is thick, straining against the fabric.
He hasn’t made a move. Hasn’t asked for anything. Just lies there, quiet. I reach for him, but he catches my hand before I get there, gently guiding it to his stomach instead.
“I want to wait,” he says.
“Wait for what?”
He hesitates, and for the first time tonight, he won’t meet my eyes. His jaw works like he’s trying to find the right words.
“I don’t know,” he says finally, quieter than before. Almost shy. Something in me softens. I settle on top of him, cheek to his chest. He exhales, then wraps an arm around me, hand splayed warm between my shoulder blades. His heart’s still racing. So is mine.
We lie there in silence. His other hand drifts up, fingers lazily threading through my hair. I don’t know what this means. Or what happens next.
“So, did I pass the audition for date two?” he says.
I lift my head just enough to see his face. He’s trying not to look nervous and failing. Henry and I can’t date. If anyone saw us together, it’d be over. My job, my reputation, all of it. And even if it weren’t, dating him would still be a disaster. Falling for him? Out of the question.
…but a repeat of this? That, I might survive.
Maybe.
“We can’t date,” I say quietly. “But this could happen again. If no one finds out.”
He doesn’t answer right away, just slides his hand lower, fingers brushing the inside of my thigh, like he’s already thinking about next time.
“So this is just physical for you?” he asks.
“Strictly physical,” I say.
“Sure,” he says, he moves down and pecks my forehead. “We’ll start there.”
I don’t bother arguing. I just sink into his chest and let myself have this for a moment.
“Come over tomorrow night,” he says after a while, fingers tracing lazy circles on my arm. “I’ll make dinner. Then we can get strictly physical.”
I consider it.
“If we do this, you can’t tell anyone. Not a soul.”
“Keeping me a secret?” His mouth quirks. “That’s new. Usually it’s the opposite.”
“Henry—“
“Relax. I won’t say a word. I promise.”
His arm tightens around me and I sink into his chest again. It’s comfortable in a way I didn’t expect. Easy, when it should feel anything but.
“You ready?” he says after a moment.
“For what?”
“Round two.” His mouth quirks. “I stopped because I wasn’t sure you could handle more. Figured you needed a minute.”
“I’m fine—”
“Yeah?” He shifts, leaning in to kiss me slowly. His hand slides up my side. “You sure about that?”
No. I’m not.
I arch into his touch, fingers curling into his shirt to pull him closer. His laugh is quiet against my mouth. Then he kisses me deeper, and I stop thinking altogether.