Good Until Morning
Thursday. 8:04 PM. Erinvale.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made you hear your thoughts —
and feel them.
Christopher leaned back in the leather chair in his study, still in his office shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. A glass of sauvignon blanc rested on the windowsill beside him. His phone lay facedown on the desk, but it was buzzing again.
Three new messages. Three names. Three shadows that hadn’t left him since last weekend.
He exhaled slowly. Stillness had never been so loud. The first message lit the screen.
LINDY:
You miss me yet, big guy?
Because I haven’t stopped thinking about how you tasted.
[Photo: A bathroom mirror selfie. Towel wrapped low. Lips parted. Neck flushed. Her hand caught mid-motion, removing the towel.]
His thumb hovered. He stared. Then typed without blinking:
CHRISTOPHER:
Still remembering the way your body shuddered.
Still thinking about how loud you got before I even took my belt off.
Soon.
He set the phone down. Walked to the kitchen.
Opened the fridge. Closed it again.
He wasn’t hungry. Just restless. Horny. Frustrated in a way that wasn’t about sex —
but sex was always where the tension settled. Back in the chair. Another buzz.
AUBREY:
Just poured a glass of wine. Listening to that playlist you made me.
Why do you feel so far away, even when you’re right here in my chest?
He sighed and leaned his head back.
She meant it.
That’s what cut the deepest.
CHRISTOPHER:
I hear the song too.
And I haven’t stopped playing you in my head either.
I just don’t want to break the way you hold me.
No image. No tease.
Just silence after that. It stung. Then, like clockwork, the third.
MELANY:
Tell me one thing.
When you closed your eyes last night, was it my face you saw…
or the way I looked without panties under that dress?
[Photo: Full-body mirror selfie. Black silk robe barely tied. The shadow of her nipple visible through sheer fabric. Captioned: “Choose wisely.”]
He closed his eyes.
She knew exactly how to bait him —
because she knew he liked the game.
CHRISTOPHER:
I see your eyes.
But I remember the heat between your legs more.
And now I’m hard, sitting here doing absolutely nothing about it.
He set the phone down. Breathed. Waited. They all wanted something from him.
Melany wanted to win.
Lindy wanted to burn.
Aubrey wanted to feel.
And him?
He just wanted peace. Or maybe he wanted to come so hard he forgot everything. Or maybe — just maybe — he wanted someone to ask him what the fuck was wrong and not stop until he answered. But he wouldn’t let that happen.
So he gave them what they needed to stay close — and kept them just far enough away that they couldn’t see him fall apart.
LINDY:
Don’t make me come knock on that damn door. You know I will.
He laughed under his breath. Took a sip of wine. Didn’t answer.
Buzz.
But not a message. A call.
Dean.
The screen lit up again, vibrating across the desk.
He stared at it. Thought about ignoring it. But it didn’t stop.
“You alive, bru?”
Dean’s voice was too loud — always too loud — and exactly what Christopher needed.
“I’m home,” he replied, flat.
“Yeah, no shit. But are you alive? Like… among the breathing? Because you haven’t replied to anything all week.”
“Been busy.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been brooding. And I’m not letting you do it again. We’re going for beers. Pool table’s open. You’re buying the first round.”
Christopher didn’t answer immediately. His eyes drifted to the phone, then to the unread messages still sitting in his tray.
“You still there?”
“I don’t really feel like—”
“Nope. Not asking. This is a friendship hijack. You’re putting on a shirt and meeting me at The Thirsty Oak in twenty minutes. Or I’m coming to your gate, climbing over it, and dragging your ass out with your golf cart.”
A pause. Then, a reluctant laugh.
“Fine,” Christopher said. “But I’m not staying late.”
“You always say that. And yet… you always do.”
“Shut up.”
“There he is! Welcome back, dickhead. Wear something unbuttoned. You’ve got that ‘I’ve been sexted by three women and still hate myself’ look.”
The line clicked dead. Christopher stared at the screen a moment longer, then stood. He drained the rest of his wine in one long pull and headed upstairs.
Dean knew too much — but he never pushed past what Christopher let him show.
Just enough noise to drown the quiet.
Just enough normal to forget what he was pretending not to feel.
And for one more night…
That might be enough.
Thursday. 8:47 PM. The Thirsty Oak
The pub smelled like hops, fryer oil, and bullshit — in the best way. Dim lighting. Worn leather booths. Pool balls clinking in rhythm with the indie rock humming through the speakers. And the beer taps? Glorious.
Christopher stepped inside, jeans and a navy shirt fitting him like armor, sleeves rolled just enough. His face wore that practiced expression — don’t talk to me, but look all you want.
Dean was already there. Beer in hand. Cue chalked. Grinning like a man with no shame and fewer secrets.
“Look who finally decided to rejoin the land of the mediocre,” Dean smirked, handing him a cold one. “Thought you might’ve ascended or self-destructed by now.”
Christopher clinked the bottle lazily. “Neither. Still stuck in between.”
“You and every man who’s ever sent a ‘you up?’ text and meant it spiritually.”
They laughed — the kind of laugh that finally broke tension. It felt good. Easy. The first real exhale in days.
They played a game. Dean sank the first two balls and started talking shit. Christopher sank the next three and didn’t say a word. The rhythm was familiar, almost therapeutic — one shot at a time, no stakes, no filters.
“So,” Dean said, lining up a bank shot, “how’s the harem?”
“I don’t have a harem.”
“You had three women wrapped around you last weekend like a bloody vineyard. And don’t tell me nothing happened, because I saw that smug post-sex beard shadow in your gym selfie.”
Christopher sipped his beer. “It was… a lot.”
“A lot of what?”
“Touch. Want. Need. I don’t know. Intensity.”
Dean paused, eyeing him over the cue, then smirked. “So… like rugby. But with more lube.”
“You’re a poet, Dean.”
“No. I’m your only honest friend.”
They drank, laughed, teased each other the way only men who’ve seen each other broken can. Christopher checked his phone once — a missed message from Melany. Another photo. He didn’t open it.
Dean noticed. “Still can’t decide if you’re lucky or doomed.”
“Probably both.”
Two girls walked past their table — mid-twenties, one blonde, one brunette, crop tops and denim shorts. They moved with easy confidence, the kind born of knowing eyes were watching. The brunette glanced back twice.
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Nothing?” he asked.
“Nah.”
“Even after that brunette looked back twice?”
“I noticed.”
“But?”
“I’m… not empty. Just not hungry.”
Dean nodded slowly. “Heavy.”
“Truth.”
He didn’t press. Just lifted his beer, holding it between them like a peace offering. “To women we can’t forget.”
Christopher clinked his bottle gently. “And the versions of ourselves we’re pretending not to miss.”
Dean grinned. “Now that was poetic.”
Two more beers disappeared. The pub felt warmer, the world outside farther away. Christopher leaned back in the booth, eyes flicking from the pool table to the glowing notifications on his screen. Dean, now on his third beer, was shifting into full social mode.
“All right, soldier,” he said, standing. “Time for a public service.”
Christopher looked up. “Please don’t say—”
“I’m buying them a round. It’s only right.”
Dean was already halfway to the bar. The girls — now back at their table near the jukebox — were laughing too hard at something on a phone screen. The brunette glanced over again as Dean approached. Smile flickered. She remembered him.
Christopher watched from the booth. Not jealousy. Not interest. Just distance — like watching a movie he used to star in.
Dean returned ten minutes later, smug and self-satisfied.
“You’re welcome.”
Christopher raised an eyebrow. “What did you say?”
“That I’d pay for their next drinks if they guessed what sport you played in varsity.”
Christopher smirked. “Let me guess. Water polo?”
“Nope. Told them you were a competitive ballroom dancer.”
“You’re insufferable.”
They sipped in silence. The night slowed, stretching comfortably. The next pool game started.
A server arrived with a tray — two shots, whiskey with lime. The girls had sent over a thank-you.
Dean winked as the drinks were placed in front of them. “Cheers to being memorable.”
Christopher nodded politely in the girls’ direction, then tossed back the shot. It burned, but in a good way.
“Not your type?” Dean asked.
Christopher shrugged. “They’re lovely.”
“But?”
He ran his thumb along the rim of his glass. “They don’t pull gravity like they did.”
Dean studied him for a moment. The grin faded slightly, giving way to something more real.
“All right. No more jokes.” He set his glass down. “You good, man? Like… really?”
Christopher’s gaze dropped to the table. “I’m here.”
“I know. But half of you still looks like it’s lying in a hotel bed in Stellenbosch, staring at the ceiling and wondering why she kissed you the way she did.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it was honest. A space held open.
“And I don’t mean one of them,” Dean added. “I mean all of them.”
Christopher didn’t respond.
He just took the second shot.
The girls were laughing again near the jukebox. Dean glanced their way, then back.
“You wanna head out?”
Christopher exhaled, slow and steady. “Not yet.”
Dean gave a small nod. “All right. Then rack ’em. And stop thinking about her.”
“Which one?”
Dean raised a brow. “Exactly.”
Dean was lining up a shot when the brunette — the one who’d been glancing over all night — slid past their table with deliberate slowness.
She walked like she knew the song playing. Like she knew you were watching.
Christopher caught Dean’s grin before he even turned.
“Right,” Dean said, chalking the cue. “Game plan.”
Christopher raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”
“Brunette. Ten o’clock. Absolute smoke. She smiled. I’m in. You’re on blonde duty. Please be charming.”
“You think she needs a babysitter?”
“I think you need to take your dick and your self-pity for a walk, bru. Come on. It’s just pool.”
“And beer.”
“And legs for days.”
Christopher exhaled. “Fine.”
Ten minutes later, they were mid-game. Dean and the brunette — Kara — versus Christopher and the blonde — Jess.
The girls flirted easy. Laughed easier. Jess leaned into Christopher’s arm every time he lined up a shot. Her perfume was sweet — something beachy. Her laugh made the room brighter.
And for a while, he didn’t think about Melany’s stare.
Or Lindy’s mouth.
Or Aubrey’s soft voice whispering I miss you.
He thought about Jess.
She leaned over the table, cue in hand, pretending to line up a shot — but it was an excuse, and they both knew it.
The black cotton crop top clung just enough to frame her waist, the swell of her breasts. Tight. Intentional. She moved with the slow grace of someone in full control of her effect.
Her ass — round, high, unapologetically sculpted — peeked beneath frayed denim shorts. Just a hint of cheek. Just enough to make you look again.
It wasn’t the showiness.
It was the control.
She moved like someone who didn’t need permission to be watched.
When Jess stood and turned to face him, cue in one hand, the other resting on her hip, Christopher’s gaze didn’t rise to her smile immediately.
His eyes lingered on the space between her thighs — on the subtle sway in her stance when she shifted her weight. A dancer’s grace. A fuck-me dare wrapped in golden skin and easy charm.
She walked toward him, hips swaying like they were tuned to a private rhythm only she could hear.
“Your turn,” she murmured, handing him the cue. Her fingers brushed his — light, deliberate, like the first note of a song he hadn’t heard in years but still knew by heart.
He took it, saying nothing.
“I like the view,” he said finally. Cool. Measured.
Jess laughed, then bumped her hip into his. “Dangerous compliment. I might get ideas.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
At the other end of the table, Dean was in full form — cue in one hand, beer in the other. Kara sat on the edge of the table, legs swinging. Her eyes tracked Dean’s movements with a smirk that suggested she liked what she saw.
“You always hustle like this?” she asked.
“Only when the prize is worth it.”
She laughed, hooked a finger in his belt loop. “Then you better win.”
Christopher watched them for a moment. There was something about Dean in these moments — loose, electric, effortlessly alive — that he almost envied. Then Jess laughed again beside him, and the feeling passed.
They lost the game. Maybe on purpose.
The girls bought the next round.
Shots. More beer.
The music was louder now — something retro-pop with too much bass.
At the booth, Jess leaned closer, voice low in his ear. Her hand was already on his thigh.
Jess leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. Her hand rested on his thigh now — casually, but not accidentally. Her fingers toyed with the seam of his jeans, drifting just enough to be felt, not enough to be stopped.
“I like your energy,” she said softly. “You feel… still. But not quiet.”
He turned slightly, meeting her eyes. There was nothing playful in his gaze. Just interest. Controlled. Caged.
“That’s one way to say I’m broody.”
“I don’t mind broody,” she murmured. “As long as it bites back.”
He leaned in a little, his voice low and confident. “Oh, I bite.”
At the next table, Dean was already making plans. He mouthed something obscene. Christopher flipped him off with a half-grin.
The girls laughed. Another round of glasses clinked. And for a little while — just a little — Christopher didn’t feel split in three.
He just felt wanted.
And free.
The fourth pool game never finished.
Dean was pressed against Kara at the jukebox, pretending to scroll through songs while her hand played with the back of his neck. They weren’t looking for music. They were negotiating how long they could wait.
At the booth, Jess traced her fingers along Christopher’s wrist, then slid up the inside of his forearm. Her touch was confident, unhurried, and not the least bit subtle.
“You’ve been watching him all night,” she said, glancing toward Dean.
“Just making sure he doesn’t crash and burn.”
“He’s doing fine.”
Her hand stopped at his bicep, squeezing lightly. The message was clear.
“And what about you?” she asked.
Christopher met her gaze. “I’m five beers and two shots in.”
“I noticed.” She smiled — soft but charged. “And I’m thinking… if you keep touching me like that, I’m going to bend you over something before we get out of here.”
Jess bit her lip, the corner curling with mischief. “What’s stopping you?”
Christopher didn’t rush. He leaned in, voice brushing her ear with quiet intent. “Not a thing.”
He stood — smooth, unhurried — and walked to the bar. Settled the bill in cash. Tipped big. Nodded to the barman without a word.
When he returned to the table, he didn’t ask. He tapped Dean once on the shoulder, never interrupting the moment.
“I’m heading out,” he said.
Dean didn’t break eye contact with Kara. Just smirked. “Safe travels, bru.”
Christopher grabbed Jess’s jacket and held it out to her.
“Come.”
No question. Just a tone.
She was already on her feet before he’d finished thanking the waitress. Her hand brushed his back as they stepped outside into the night.
Outside, the air was sharp — the kind of cold that sobered the edges without dulling the heat still thrumming between them.
Christopher didn’t say a word. He just walked, purposeful and silent, trusting that Jess would follow.
She did.
He unlocked the Land Cruiser, pulled open the passenger door, and looked at her — one final glance, not asking, just confirming.
“You sure?” he asked, voice low.
Jess stepped closer, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
“If you don’t fuck me tonight,” she whispered, lips brushing his collarbone, “I’ll still be thinking about it on Monday.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t kiss her. He just nodded once.
“Get in.”
She climbed in without hesitation.
He rounded the front, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. The diesel rumble filled the quiet like breath drawn through clenched teeth.
Neither of them spoke as the vehicle pulled out into the night.
He took the long way — down backroads and out of sight. It wasn’t about caution. It was about space. Giving the air time to thicken. Letting the anticipation settle somewhere deep in the gut.
Jess shifted in her seat, slowly crossing her legs. Her skirt slid higher, exposing smooth thigh. She didn’t adjust it.
He saw it. Let his eyes linger for a second. Then placed his hand on her leg — deliberate, warm, unshifting.
Her breath caught.
“You always this… composed?” she asked.
His fingers squeezed, just slightly.
“Only when I’m about to be the opposite.”
Jess looked over, hunger already blooming in her eyes. “What happens when we get there?”
“You’ll be stripped. Bent. Fucked,” he said, still looking ahead. “Hard enough to forget tonight. Soft enough to remember it tomorrow.”
She exhaled, the sound shaky. Her knees parted instinctively beneath his hand.
He didn’t look over. Just squeezed again. Firmer this time.
“Good girl.”
Friday. 00:31 AM. Erinvale
The door closed behind them with a soft, final click.
The house welcomed them in silence — not the kind that begged to be broken, but the kind that held its breath. Low lighting spilled across polished floors. The scent of cedarwood and leather lingered like memory.
Jess turned toward him, lips parting, but she didn’t get a word out.
Christopher was already there.
One hand gripped her jaw, the other wrapped around her waist. He pulled her into him, bodies colliding with a thud of breath and need. His mouth claimed hers — hard, raw, unapologetic. Not a kiss. A warning. A promise. A possession.
Two weeks of silence, of restraint, of control.
And now — release.
He spun her around in one swift motion, pressing her chest into the back of the leather couch. Her hands shot forward to brace herself.
“Don’t move.”
The words came low, measured. Sharp-edged steel wrapped in velvet. He didn’t need volume. Not with hands like his. Not with that voice.
She didn’t move.
He knelt behind her — not to worship, but to inspect. Lifted her skirt slowly, folding it over her hips, exposing her completely.
No underwear.
He let out a breath, half-laugh, half-growl. “You knew, you little slut.”
She looked back, a grin curling at the corner of her mouth. “I had a feeling.”
He said nothing.
Instead, he pressed a hand into the small of her back, guiding her into a perfect arch. His other hand hovered — then landed hard across her ass. The sharp crack echoed like punctuation.
She gasped. Not in pain. In recognition.
“That’s for teasing,” he said, breath hot against her neck.
For a flicker of a second, he saw every message. Every photo. Every night he’d had to fuck his own hand thinking about them. But this was now and then instantly he was back in the room, now.
He didn’t wait.
The zipper rasped open, jeans shoved halfway down, and his cock — hard, hot, already leaking — pressed between her cheeks. Not inside yet. Just resting there, pulsing with promise. She gasped when she felt it, that silent surrender threading through her breath.
“You’re going to take all of it,” he said. “Every fucking inch.”
Then he slammed into her. No warning. No preamble. No teasing. No easing in. Just one brutal, dominant thrust that filled her in a single, merciless stroke.
Jess cried out — loud, sharp, her body jolting against the couch, fingertips scrambling for something to hold onto. The sound echoed through the room like confession.
Every movement was a purge.
Of restraint. Of silence. Of all the shit he’d refused to feel.
Her body welcomed him with heat and slick friction, her walls clenching around him, like she didn’t know whether to surrender or hold on.
Her walls clamped around him, tight and slick, and the heat of her — god, the way she gripped him — made something primal snap in his spine.
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Dominant deep thrusts that forced a cry from her lips as her hands clawed at the leather for grip.
Every movement was raw efficiency. The slap of skin on skin, the creak of the couch, her soft gasps becoming strangled moans — it all blurred into rhythm. Into need.
His hands gripped her hips hard, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he drove himself into her over and over. Not for her. Not even for release. For the silence it gave him.
Her legs started shaking. Her voice cracked into breathless cries, each one quieter, deeper, as her body surrendered completely.
“Fuck—Christopher—”
He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back, exposing her throat, her jawline, the curve of her parted lips, her mouth opened in another gasp.
“You wanted this,” he growled, teeth brushing her ear. “You fucking begged for it.”
“I did—please—I still do—”
He buried himself deeper. Drove her forward. Harder, faster!
Her knees buckled. Her breath caught. She screamed. Not from pain — from being overwhelmed. From being owned.
And when she came, it wasn’t pretty. It was raw. Guttural.
Her body clenched and shuddered and shook as she cried out again, thighs quaking, muscles spasming around his cock like she didn’t want to let him go.
But he was gone now — jaw clenched, eyes half-shut, chest slick with sweat. His rhythm was merciless, hips snapping with purpose, every movement rough and necessary.
He didn’t want pretty. He wanted collapse. He wanted to see her unravel. To hear his name ripped from her throat.
Her walls tightened further around him — fluttering, pulsing, begging — he gave her no reprieve. Her orgasm continued to hit her like a live wire, sharp and sudden, her body wracked with trembling spasms as she cried out, shaking under him.
Still, he didn’t stop.
He pulled out, only long enough to grab her by the waist and flip her around.
Her body collapsed backward into the couch, chest heaving, hair wild, mascara smudged in soft streaks. She looked up at him with dazed eyes — wrecked and radiant — like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to breathe or beg.
She didn’t need to move.
He took care of the rest.
“Spread your legs,” he said, voice thick.
She did — slowly, shakily — her inner thighs still wet, glistening with sweat and slick and him. She opened for him like instinct, like muscle memory, like prayer.
He slid back inside her.
This time slower.
But no less deep.
The angle changed everything — the drag, the pressure, the closeness. He settled fully against her, his hips meeting the backs of her thighs, her breath catching as he filled her again.
She whimpered, arms wrapping around his neck, her chest pressing to his, skin hot and slick where they touched. Her legs curled around him, heels locking behind his back as if her body already knew she couldn’t let him go.
His rhythm shifted — still strong, but steadier now, like a tide rolling in, and she rose with it.
He cupped her jaw with one hand. The other slid behind her back, lifting her slightly off the cushions, pulling her closer still. Their bodies moved together like choreography — friction and fire, sweat and sound.
Her mouth found his neck.
She moaned into his skin.
Every thrust made her cling tighter.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “I’m on birth control. I want to feel you.”
He tensed. His eyes locked on hers — dark, burning.
“Not a fucking chance,” he growled.
But she clenched around him like she was trying to change his mind.
And god — she almost did.
He was close.
Too close.
Her body was too tight, too wet, too fucking perfect — and she moved with purpose now, hips grinding against him like she wanted to consume him whole.
Her breath came in sharp little gasps that turned to deeper moans with every thrust. She angled her hips just right, chasing friction, chasing fire, and he gave it to her — over and over — jaw clenched, muscles coiled.
His hands gripped her waist, then her hips, then her ass, desperate to anchor himself to the feeling of her. To the heat. The pull. The way her body was begging him not to leave.
She rose to meet him, every motion a plea.
Her moans built into something wild.
Unraveled.
Her pace faltered. Her hands clawed at his back. Her thighs clenched.
He felt it before she did — the way her walls fluttered, her body tensed.
She gasped — a small, broken sound — and then her whole body locked up, spine arching, mouth falling open.
“Fuck—Christopher—”
Her orgasm tore through her like a current. She shook against him, legs trembling, arms locked around his neck as she cried out, loud and breathless, her voice cracking in his ear as she shattered in his arms.
He held her through it — one hand on her lower back, the other cradling her head, letting her ride every last wave, every aftershock that pulsed through her slick, twitching body.
And still — he didn’t finish.
Not yet.
His breath was ragged. His body shaking.
He needed more. Just a little more.
Jess, still panting, lifted her head from his shoulder, eyes glazed and shining. She looked right at him.
“Don’t pull out,” she whispered. “I want to feel you.”
It broke something in him.
There was no tease in her voice.
No performance.
Just need. Hunger. Permission.
He sat up, wrapped his arms around her, thrust once — deep, hard — and held.
The pleasure hit like an explosion.
His entire body locked. His breath caught in his throat.
And then he snapped.
A growl ripped from his chest, low and guttural. His eyes squeezed shut, head falling back as wave after wave of orgasm pulsed through him, violent and hot, each thrust an involuntary spasm of release.
His cock twitched deep inside her, every pulse flooding her with heat.
Not just cum — but everything.
Frustration. Lust. Silence. Surrender.
He emptied himself into her until there was nothing left.
Then held still.
Chest pressed to chest.
Breath syncopated.
Hearts hammering against skin.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Just breath.
Just sweat.
Just the soft, lingering tremble of two people completely used and finally quiet.
Her breath was still catching when he finally moved.
He shifted, lifting her with careful hands, her skin sticky and flushed, her chest rising and falling against his. She blinked slowly, still dazed — glassy-eyed and glowing, like she hadn’t come down yet.
He kissed her once. Not on the mouth — not yet.
On her collarbone.
Then her shoulder.
Then the soft dip of her belly.
Each kiss was slower than the last, a quiet contrast to what had come before.
Then, without a word, he began to undress her — piece by piece.
Her crop top peeled over her head.
Bra unhooked, slid down her arms.
Necklace unclasped and set aside like something sacred.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t rush.
Just watched her — took her in like she was something he hadn’t earned but needed to honour anyway.
She didn’t protest.
When he lifted her in his arms, her limbs folded against him easily, her face resting against his chest. She let him carry her, soft and quiet and satisfied, as if the fight in her had melted into something slower. Trusting.
The hallway was dim as they moved, the air thick with the smell of sex and skin, the silence between them full of everything that hadn’t needed words.
He laid her down gently.
The sheets were still cool beneath her as she stretched out, legs folding to the side, hair a mess of heat and shadows.
She watched him from beneath heavy lashes, her body spent but open, her lips curved in something close to disbelief.
And then — she moved.
Climbed over him like it was instinct.
Like it was where she belonged.
She didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate.
She just mounted him — slow, certain — as if her place was there, on top of him, wrapped around him, owning him.
She climbed over him without a word.
No hesitation. No question.
Just slow, liquid movement — the kind that came from a body that knew exactly what it was doing. What it could do. What it was worth.
Her thighs straddled his hips with quiet command. Her palms braced against his chest, fingers splaying, anchoring herself like she was claiming territory. She didn’t rush. She didn’t pose.
She just moved.
A goddess in human skin.
Every inch alive with intention.
Her breasts swayed as she adjusted her position, full and flushed, nipples still peaked from the leftover electricity between them. Her stomach — lean and trembling — flexed with each breath, her navel tightening as she hovered over him, poised just above his cock.
Christopher looked up at her — really looked.
Her hair was damp and wild, clinging to her shoulders in tousled waves. Strands stuck to her collarbone and jaw. Her lips were parted, still kiss-bruised and slightly swollen. Her skin glistened in the dim light — flushed across her chest, a light sheen of sweat catching on her curves.
She was wrecked.
Utterly.
Beautifully.
And still, she looked powerful.
There was nothing submissive in the way she settled her weight over him. Her hips rolled forward, slow and deliberate, dragging her slick folds against the head of his cock. Spreading their combined juices over is quickly hardening cock. She teased him with the motion — once, twice — before finally guiding him inside her.
Her head tipped back the moment he entered her.
A low gasp escaped her lips, and her body went taut for a heartbeat — as if she needed to feel every inch stretch her again before letting it go.
Then she exhaled.
Settled.
And started to move.
Not rushed. Not frantic.
With purpose.
Her hips rolled in slow circles, grinding down as she found her rhythm. She used every part of herself — her weight, her shape, her angles — to claim him.
Christopher groaned, hands finding her waist, fingers digging into the softness there as she began to ride him properly. Not bouncing. Not frantic. But deliberate. Erotic. Devastating.
She moved like she’d done this before — not with him, but in her mind. Like she’d imagined this. Like she’d waited for it.
And now?
She was taking her time.
Her thighs flexed with every rise and fall, gliding over him with that perfect, wet heat. Her hands shifted to his shoulders for leverage, nails leaving faint trails in his skin as her rhythm built — slow at first, then a little faster, a little deeper.
Christopher’s jaw clenched as he watched her move.
Her full round breasts bounced in time with her grind, her stomach tightening with every downward stroke. Her skin was so warm, so flushed, and the way she clenched around him made it impossible to focus on anything but the now.
She looked down at him, eyes dark, lips curved in a dangerous smile.
There was no doubt in her face.
Only desire.
“You feel…” she gasped, riding him harder now, “…so fucking good.”
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
He just held her, letting her take what she needed, letting her use him — watching, feeling, giving in.
Her breath began to stutter again. Her rhythm faltered just slightly — a slip, a tremble, a breaking point.
He could feel it — her orgasm coiling in the way her muscles tightened, the way her thighs quivered.
She let out a moan that barely sounded human. One hand slapped flat against his chest. Her head dropped forward, hair falling over her face. Her whole body tensed.
And then — she shattered.
Her moan tore through the room, sharp and broken. Her thighs seized around him. Her hips bucked, erratic and beautiful, as waves of pleasure ripped through her.
He held her through it, arms wrapping tight around her back, hands stroking her spine as she rode out every convulsion.
Her breath hitched. Then slowed. Then stopped altogether for a long second, her body frozen in the kind of stillness that only comes after falling apart.
Then — slowly — she melted.
Collapsed against his chest. Breathless. Boneless. Whispering something into his neck that wasn’t a word, just the aftershock of surrender.
And still — he wasn’t done.
She was still wrapped around him — trembling, spent, silent. Her cheek rested against his collarbone, breath hot and shallow against his skin. Her arms were limp around his shoulders, but her body hadn’t let go.
Not of him.
Not yet.
He felt her pulse flutter where her chest pressed against his.
Felt the slick heat between her thighs still hugging him tight.
Felt the echo of her orgasm in the way her body twitched softly, rhythm fading but not forgotten.
And something inside him cracked.
She’d taken everything — his tension, his dominance, his control — and turned it into stillness.
But now, he needed to come.
Hard.
With finality.
Christopher shifted his weight, pulling her hips forward just enough to find that angle again. She whimpered — not in protest, but in readiness.
Her eyes opened, barely.
She looked up at him.
“Finish in me,” she whispered. “I want all of it.”
There was no teasing in her voice. No seduction.
Just truth.
It shattered the last wall he had left.
He gritted his teeth, thrust up into her once — deep, brutal, everything at once. Her body jolted. She gasped, eyes wide, lips parting on another sharp exhale.
And then — he let go.
His whole body tensed. His head fell back into the pillow as the first wave tore through him, his breath stalling in his throat as his cock pulsed inside her, hard and unrelenting.
He held her down against him, every twitch of his orgasm emptying deeper into her, flooding her with everything he hadn’t said, everything he hadn’t admitted he needed to give.
Another thrust.
Another wave.
Another growl torn from deep in his chest.
She felt all of it.
Every hot surge.
Every tremor in his body.
Every gasp as control gave way to need.
And when it was done — truly done — he held her there, still inside, both of them slick and shaking, chest to chest, heart to heart.
For the first time in weeks, the noise inside him went quiet.
Not because it was gone.
But because she’d given him something louder.
Breath.
Weight.
Warmth.
Jess didn’t move. She just rested there — eyes closed, lips brushing his neck. Her body soft, pliant, satisfied. One arm draped over his shoulder. One leg still wrapped around him. Her skin stuck to his. Her pulse still fast beneath her breast.
Neither of them said a word.
There was nothing to say.
This wasn’t about love.
Wasn’t about tomorrow.
But it was real in the now.
And for Christopher, real was rare.
She didn’t speak.
She just rested against him, half-asleep already, lips against his shoulder, one leg tangled between his. Her skin stuck where it touched him — sweat, arousal, everything still fresh and warm.
Her palm lay flat on his chest, just over his heart, as if she was trying to feel more than just the rhythm. As if she was checking if he was still there.
He reached toward the nightstand, grabbing the water bottle with one hand. Uncapped it. Took a long sip.
Then, without a word, he held it to her mouth.
Jess drank slowly — eyes closed, lips parting just enough, body still trembling faintly with aftershocks.
When she was done, he placed it down beside them, adjusted his back against the headboard, and let his arms fall open.
She stayed where she was.
No need to move.
No need to speak.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was full — dense with sweat and satisfaction, weight and warmth. But under it, Christopher could already feel something loosening. That slippery retreat back into himself. Back into the space where nothing reached him.
She was still here.
But he was starting to drift.
Not out of boredom.
Not out of rejection.
It was habit. Armor.
The silence always came back.
He glanced down at her.
Her hair was a mess — tangled, damp, clinging to her cheek. One breast was pressed to his ribs, the other rising and falling with each slow breath. Her thighs were streaked with him. Her skin still flushed in places. Wrecked, but glowing.
And she looked peaceful.
That peace didn’t belong to him.
Not really.
He stared at the ceiling.
Not thinking.
Just existing.
That quiet moment where your body is emptied, but your mind hasn’t caught up.
Where the ache you were running from starts to whisper again — not loud, but insistent.
It wasn’t regret.
Wasn’t guilt.
Just that slow, familiar pull that said:
This isn’t enough.
But it’s all I’ll allow.
The alarm split the silence like a blade.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Christopher silenced it with a single movement — thumb to button, eyes still closed. The house was cool. The sheets tangled. The scent of her still heavy in the air.
He lay still for a moment longer.
Then swung his legs out of bed and stood.
The floor was cold.
So was he.
Behind him, Jess stirred.
One arm thrown across the pillow.
One leg bent at the knee.
Her mouth open slightly in sleep.
Hair wild across his pillowcase.
She looked ruined in the best way.
Wrecked and softened.
Like sex and satisfaction had melted into her bones.
He smirked — briefly — then shook his head.
There was no room for sentiment now.
Time to move.
He padded down the hallway, body still loose from the night before, but the stillness already giving way to habit. Routine.
In the kitchen, the coffee machine hummed to life. Two cappuccinos. Strong. No sugar. The smell filled the space like muscle memory.
Reset.
When he returned, music was drifting softly through the speakers — moody, acoustic, heavy with quiet meaning. Probably Mumford. Or something worse.
Jess blinked into the light, the sheet pulled halfway up her chest, her skin kissed by it. Her thighs were sore. Her lips dry. Her hair wild.
And she smiled.
The kind of smile that said her body remembered everything.
Christopher walked in wearing black gym shorts and a grey fitted tee. Damp hair. Clean trainers. Coffee in hand — one for him, one for her.
He handed it to her. “Up, sunshine.”
She groaned. “What time is it?”
“Time to go. You’ve got fifteen minutes. Where am I dropping you?”
Jess sat up slowly. The sheet slipped lower. She caught it, then dropped it again, smiling as she took the cup. “De Velde. Entrance 3. Just inside past the circle.”
“Got it.”
She sipped.
Watched him.
Watched the man from last night — the one who’d fucked her without restraint — move through the room like she wasn’t even there. Efficient. Armoured. Back in control.
“You always shift gears this fast?” she asked.
He didn’t look up. Just sipped his coffee. “What do you mean?”
Jess tilted her head, eyes studying him.
“I mean… you were inside me three hours ago. Now you’re in a dry-fit shirt like you never touched me.”
He paused. For just a beat.
Then: “I don’t do messy mornings.”
She smiled, but not with her eyes.
“You already left, didn’t you?”
“I’m still here.”
“Sure.”
But she already knew.
The softness from the night before — the warmth in his eyes, the gentleness in his hands — was gone.
What was left was the machine.
Shoulders squared.
Eyes alert.
Routine restored.
And the door already closing behind him.
The Cruiser glided through early morning , its engine a low hum against the backdrop of a waking city. Outside, the sky shifted between soft orange and slate grey.
Inside, the silence thickened.
The radio was off. So was Christopher.
Jess sat beside him, one hand wrapped around the travel mug, the other adjusting her tangled hair. His gym shirt hung off her frame — oversized and soft — her bare legs crossed neatly, but still carrying the memory of how they’d been spread across him hours before.
“You heading to work now?” she asked, voice soft.
“Gym first. Then office.”
“Of course. You’re that guy.”
“Today’s HIIT. Kettlebells. Incline treadmill sprints. Regret already loading.”
She smiled at that — because it was something real, something human. “Sounds like hell.”
“That’s the point.”
He didn’t look over.
Didn’t reach for her hand.
Didn’t fill the silence with anything more than that.
She sipped her coffee and leaned back in her seat. Her body still ached, in all the right places. Her thighs were sore. Her chest was tight. Her skin smelled like him — clean sweat, his cologne, and bourbon from the night before.
She liked the way it lingered.
They rolled through the final traffic circle before her estate. Jess shifted slightly in the seat.
“Entrance 3,” she said. “Just inside past the circle.”
Christopher turned the wheel smoothly, nodding.
Didn’t ask for more.
As the Cruiser slowed, Jess gathered her bag, her shoes, and what was left of the emotional pieces she’d left scattered across his bed.
She paused with her hand on the door. Looked over.
“Hey…”
He glanced at her, just enough to show he was listening.
“I don’t usually do this. But I also don’t usually feel like that… after.”
He raised a brow. “Like what?”
Jess smiled, almost shy now. “Like I should maybe know more of you than just your name. Not just your body.”
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t smirk.
Just pulled out his phone and handed it to her.
“Number.”
She typed it in. Then texted herself with one word:
Jess 😉
“Now I exist,” she said lightly.
“You do.”
She opened the door and stepped out — then leaned back in, one hand resting on the open window.
“If you ever want to repeat history…”
“I’ll let you know.”
Jess grinned. Two fingers to her temple in a playful salute.
“Later, Mister.”
Then she turned and walked off — hair wild, legs bare, hips moving in the kind of slow, confident rhythm that only came from good sleep. Or great sex. Probably both.
Christopher didn’t watch her walk away.
He just shifted into drive. And left.
The Cruiser idled in the gym parking lot, its diesel engine ticking softly as it cooled.
Christopher sat still for a moment, the weight of silence settling over his shoulders like a familiar coat.
The night was gone.
Jess was gone.
And he was back inside himself.
He finished the last sip of his protein shake, jaw tight, staring through the windshield like the building in front of him had challenged him to a fight.
It had. And he intended to win. He unlocked his phone.
To: Klara
Running late. Be in just after 9.
Push my 9AM to Monday, please — and remind me about the Kenya pricing model.
Thanks.
Sent. Efficient. No fluff.
Then he held down the mic button and recorded a voice note.
To: Dean [Voice Note, 13s]
Dropped her off. She’s got the number. Heading into the gym now. Kettlebells, incline sprints, and poor life choices. Text me later if you’re still alive.
He smirked — just barely — then tossed the phone into the center console and stepped out.
The morning air was crisp. His muscles already ached. Good.
Pain was predictable.
Pain was earned.
The workout hit like a freight train.
Kettlebell swings, dead rows, burpees, incline sprints. Every rep burned. Every lift felt heavier than it should have. His body was low on sleep and lower on patience, but he didn’t stop.
If anything, he pushed harder.
Three hours of sleep and a night of hard sex weren’t performance enhancers — but they stripped him bare, made the pain honest.
He didn’t want escape.
He wanted consequence.
Fifteen minutes in the sauna followed. Not his usual twenty.
The heat was too much. Or maybe it was the weight of everything he hadn’t quite sweat out.
He left the gym without speaking to anyone. No locker room chatter. No lingering. Just sweat-soaked clothes, a cold rinse, and the rhythm of motion.
Outside, the world was already wide awake.
Cars. Horns. Pedestrians crossing on red.
Life rushing forward whether he wanted it to or not.
He didn’t fight it.
He just folded into it.
Kuai – 9:07 AM
He ordered without thinking.
“Breakfast wrap. No sauce. One mango smoothie. One chocolate muffin.”
The girl behind the till — mid-twenties, nose ring, hair tied high — smiled as he spoke. She’d seen him before. Enough times to remember his voice.
“PA again?” she asked, grinning.
“She deserves a bakery,” he replied. “But I’m running late.”
The answer was automatic, smooth, a practiced mix of charm and distance.
She handed over the bag, fingers brushing his just slightly — maybe by accident, maybe not.
He nodded once. “Thanks.”
Then he was gone.
No pause.
No looking back.
The bag warmed his hand as he crossed the sidewalk toward the parking lot, the smell of egg and toasted wrap bleeding through the paper like comfort he didn’t ask for.
Christopher didn’t eat on the drive.
The food wasn’t for him.
It never was.
It was routine.
Courtesy.
A promise kept without words.
He took the long route again — not to stall, but to breathe. The silence in the cabin was easier than the silence in his head. At least in here, he could control the volume.
He drove like he lived — efficiently, quietly, and always slightly faster than necessary.
By the time the glass and steel of his office building came into view, the city felt a few layers removed.
Like it belonged to someone else.
The elevator doors opened directly into the top floor.
Glass walls. Dark flooring. Clean lines.
Minimalism built to impress — and to warn.
Christopher stepped out, smoothie in one hand, the paper bag in the other. Sunglasses still on. Jaw set.
He moved through reception without speaking. People greeted him with nods, quick smiles, a few rising from their desks in reflex.
He didn’t break stride.
Didn’t need to.
At the far end of the corridor, his office door was already open.
Klara was there, mid-call, standing with one hand resting on the edge of her desk and the other scrolling through a spreadsheet. Her headset was on, her voice smooth and unhurried as she closed out the conversation.
He waited. Didn’t interrupt.
She clicked the call closed and turned, spinning in her chair with a precision that matched his own.
“Morning, Boss.”
“I come bearing peace offerings,” he said, placing the smoothie and muffin on her desk.
She raised an eyebrow. “Is it peace if you were meant to be here forty minutes ago?”
“It is if it comes with chocolate.”
Klara smirked, already sliding the items aside as she switched tabs.
“Kenya model pushed to Monday. Boardroom’s prepped for 10:15. I moved the freight quote review to next week. And yes — I’ve already confirmed dinner with Dean tomorrow.”
He lifted a brow. “Didn’t even know I had dinner with Dean tomorrow.”
“You do now. Don’t cancel. He said you’d try.”
Christopher exhaled slowly, leaning one hand against the doorframe. She knew his rhythms too well. Anticipated his avoidance before he even considered it.
“You’re too good at this,” he murmured.
“That’s why you pay me double and let me swear at you in Afrikaans.”
He gave a small nod.
“Klara…”
She looked up.
“Thanks.”
“Always.”
For the next three hours, Christopher Schwartz was untouchable.
No residue. No hesitation. No trace of the man who’d moaned into someone’s throat six hours earlier. The switch had flipped the moment he stepped through the glass doors — and now, he was locked in.
He moved through back-to-back meetings with brutal efficiency.
One strategy review.
One supplier escalation.
Two freight margin quotes rewritten on the spot — red ink slashing through line items, recalculating figures mid-discussion while everyone else scrambled to keep up.
There were no pauses. No wasted breath.
His voice was calm, but final.
Every decision delivered like a closing argument.
He didn’t posture.
Didn’t need to.
He commanded a room by not filling it — by being the stillest thing inside it. Everyone else moved around him, adjusted to him, responded to his pace, his tone, the way he leaned back slightly when bored or leaned in when about to destroy someone’s margins.
Klara moved around him like clockwork.
She handed him printouts without being asked. Refilled his coffee as he passed her desk with barely a nod. Shifted calls forward or back the second she saw him rub his temple or glance at his watch.
They didn’t need to speak.
They rarely did during the day.
She knew when to stay close.
She knew when to stay out of range.
By the time noon came and went, Christopher hadn’t touched the wrap he’d bought. It sat on the side table in his office, untouched, cooling beside his third black coffee.
His mind was sharp, but running hot — too fast, too tight.
And it wasn’t just the numbers.
Somewhere beneath the layers of performance and protocol, Jess’s voice still echoed — not the words, but the tone. The softness. The way she’d said I want to feel you like it wasn’t a request, but a right.
He didn’t have time for that.
Not now.
Not here.
So he leaned back in his chair. Stared at the skyline through the glass. Let the burn settle in his chest like caffeine and silence trading places.
And just like that — he pushed her away again. He pushed them all away.
By the time the last meeting wrapped, the light outside had shifted — warmer, lower, casting gold across the floor of his office.
The boardroom was quiet now.
The caffeine had worn off.
And the silence, that old companion, had crept back in.
Christopher leaned back in his chair, fingertips tapping idly against the armrest.
For three hours, he had been pure edge — precise, unreadable, effective. But now, with no more calls, no more printouts, no one watching, something else began to stir.
He unlocked his phone.
Ten notifications.
All waiting.
All personal.
He swiped up slowly.
Melany
Photo: Her bare legs, crossed at the ankle. A book open on her lap. The caption read: “Still thinking about last Saturday? Because I am.”
He stared at it for a moment.
Not the image — the way she knew exactly what to send.
Melany always framed her want like a dare.
Lindy
Voice Note: Five seconds. A soft inhale… then a whispered “Just say when.”
He didn’t need to play it twice.
He could already hear the smile in her voice.
Lindy didn’t flirt.
She provoked.
Aubrey
Text: “My lecture ended but my thoughts didn’t. Missing you today. Just… putting it out there.”
That one hit different.
Aubrey didn’t reach for attention. She just opened her chest and handed it to him. Quiet. Brave.
He held the phone a little longer than necessary. Not out of indecision — but out of weight. These weren’t distractions. They were echoes of a weekend that hadn’t finished saying what it needed to.
At the bottom of the thread, a message from Dean.
Emoji only — a devil face and a beer mug.
Christopher smirked. Briefly. Then started typing.
To Melany:
That dress. No panties. Still the sharpest image in my head. I’ll let you know if I plan on sharpening it.
To Lindy:
I always say when. You just don’t always listen.
To Aubrey:
Some thoughts aren’t meant to stop. You’re in more of mine than you probably realise.
To Dean:
Last night nearly killed me. We’re doing it again, soon. First round’s on me.
Then he sat back.
Phone on the desk.
Fingers interlaced behind his head.
Outside the window, the town moved — but in here, it was still. And for a moment, he just watched it. Not reacting. Not escaping. Just breathing. And wondering if maybe, one of these days, the silence would finally be enough.
The thought came as he watched the skyline shift from amber to pale blue.
It wasn’t planned.
Wasn’t on the calendar.
But something inside him leaned toward it anyway.
A Friday exhale.
He grabbed his phone again. Swiped to a shared group. Four names in the thread — Klara, one of their supply chain heads, Lisa from finance and Callum from legal. The core.
Christopher
Fancy Franks. 4:15. I’ll get the booth. You bring the teams and the sarcasm.
He stared at the message.
Then added:
Dress like you’re not depressed.
Callum replied immediately.
Callum
Already halfway to the bar. Tell the bartender I want something aged, expensive, and willing.
Klara followed.
Klara
If you make me wear heels again, I swear to God—
Christopher
Flats. But if you’re not wearing black, I’m sending you home.
Klara
That’s why I own six identical black dresses, Boss.
He smiled. Genuinely, this time.
It caught him by surprise.
He stood and stretched, the fatigue setting in just behind the buzz. His muscles ached. His mind was still too sharp. But the thought of leaning into the booth at Franks, drink in hand, music humming under conversation — it didn’t sound like escape. Not tonight.
It sounded like pause. Like breathing room between the chaos and the quiet. He packed his things slowly. No rush. Just movement with intention.
The drive down into town was smooth, traffic just beginning to swell with the pulse of people shedding their Friday skins.
He arrived just before sunset.
Fancy Franks was alive already — warm lighting spilling through tall windows, the clink of glassware behind the bar, jazz on the speakers. Not loud. Just enough to remind you you were somewhere meant for adults who still remembered how to unwind.
The hostess saw him and nodded.
“The booth’s yours, we have 3 next to each other ready for you.”
Of course it was. He slid into the leather curve of the booth, ordered the first round, and sat back.
For now, there was no tension.
No calculation.
Just the slow pour of whiskey, the low glow of evening light, and the distant footsteps of those who might still surprise him by showing up.
Christopher was already two sips into his first whiskey when Klara arrived.
She moved through the restaurant like someone used to being underestimated — dark slacks, black silk top, boots that made her taller than most men in the room. She carried a leather laptop bag slung casually over one shoulder, and her red lipstick was the only loud thing about her.
“Boss,” she said, sliding into the booth without waiting for an invite. “You’re three minutes early. That either means you’re drinking off something or planning something.”
He handed her the second glass, no words, just that half-nod that said both.
“Perfect,” she said, lifting it. “Here’s to functional alcoholism.”
Before she could take a sip, Callum appeared — always the last to arrive, always dressed like he’d spent the afternoon in a boardroom and the evening in an overpriced divorce.
Navy blazer. White shirt. No tie. Wedding ring absent for the first time in three months.
He slid into the booth beside her, unbuttoned his cuffs with slow fingers, and looked at Christopher.
“Are we allowed to talk about anything real,” he asked, “or is this one of those ‘pretend we’re fine’ Fridays?”
Klara raised a brow. “Bold of you to assume we ever pretend.”
Christopher didn’t answer right away. He sat back, letting the whiskey roll across his tongue before setting the glass down with quiet finality.
“Talk about whatever you want,” he said. “But I’m not explaining myself tonight.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Callum replied. “I just came for the scotch and to not be at home.”
Klara sipped her drink. “You’ll find both here in abundance.”
They sat like that for a few moments — three people who worked together, trusted each other, but rarely sat still long enough to act like it.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was earned.
Klara broke it first.
“So,” she said, glancing between them. “Are we talking about the Q4 burn rate… or the girl you dropped off this morning wearing one of your gym shirts?”
Callum leaned forward, interested. Christopher’s jaw flexed once.
“Both topics are dangerous,” he said, deadpan.
“Exactly,” Klara replied. “That’s why I brought backup.”
“And now I am shutting it down.” Christopher responded with a tone of finality.
The first round was nearly gone when the rest of them started trickling in.
Anel from logistics arrived with a ponytail, a half-buttoned shirt, and a story about traffic on the Main Road that no one cared about but everyone listened to anyway.
Marius from freight followed — sunglasses still on indoors, chewing on biltong like he’d never left his bakkie. Behind him came Tash from admin, two beers already in hand, one of them not even hers.
And just like that, the table changed. Laughter grew louder. Coats were tossed across extra chairs. Someone ordered a round of tequila without asking.
Klara looked over at Christopher and raised her glass. “There goes the budget.”
“Only if they remember it on Monday,” he replied.
Callum chuckled, loosening his cuffs completely now. “We’re going to pretend that email from finance doesn’t exist, aren’t we?”
“Already deleted it,” Klara said.
“Twice,” Christopher added.
The next hour blurred into a familiar kind of chaos — loud, messy, oddly therapeutic. Someone played bartender at the booth. Someone else started a debate about whether whiskey counted as a health expense. The music got louder, the lighting softer, and the table took on a rhythm of its own.
There was no hierarchy here.
Just the core. The ones who stayed late, fixed what others broke, made deals work when they shouldn’t have. These were the people who took the punches and still laughed the next day.
And tonight?
They were drunk enough to not care.
But still sharp enough to remember who had each other’s backs.
Klara leaned into Christopher’s shoulder halfway through her second cocktail. “You never stay this long.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he murmured, sipping slow. “I’m actually enjoying myself.”
She grinned. “You should do it more often.”
“I’d ruin it.”
“Maybe,” she said, eyes flicking toward the laughter at the far end of the table. “But tonight? You brought the right people.”
He looked around — the clinking glasses, the head-thrown-back laughter, the momentary blur of work titles replaced with nicknames and inside jokes.
For once, he didn’t feel like the storm in the room. Just part of the weather.
He watched them quietly, a look on his face that didn’t quite qualify as a smile — but something softer. Something close.
And he thought:
I built this.
Not just the business.
The space.
The culture.
The feeling of a Friday at 5 p.m. when people still want to be around each other.
It wasn’t love.
It wasn’t lust.
But it was good.
And right now?
That was enough.
