NICK

The way these things usually started with Lila was gradual, then suddenly not gradual at all. One minute we were still on the couch, the half-empty cartons of barbequed chicken cooling on the coffee table.

The next, her hand had drifted across the distance between us and settled high on my thigh, fingers tracing the seam of my sweatpants with casual ownership.

It belonged there, in a way. We had done this dance enough times, weeks, months, however long this arrangement had been running, that the choreography felt automatic.

No awkward pauses, no second-guessing. Just the quiet click of two bodies that had learned each other’s shortcuts.

It wasn’t romance. It was never romance with Lila, and we both preferred It that way. Romance implied expectations, softness, futures.

This was simpler: two people using each other’s proximity for the same thing we always used it for. A pressure valve. A reliable escape hatch from whatever the day had left clinging to our skins.

For me, it was the hospital, the project, the bruise still blooming along my jaw. For her, it was whatever fresh layer of corporate bullshit had stacked itself on top of last week’s. We never talked about it in those terms. We just let our hands do the negotiating.

At first, it worked the way it was supposed to. My body responded with the kind of mindless obedience I appreciated.

Blood rushed south as her palm pressed firmer, stroking me through the soft fabric until I hardened under her touch. The low, steady heat built in my groin, spreading outward in slow waves. My mind finally went.

The persistent throb in my jaw, the one I’d been pretending didn’t exist since I got home, faded into background static. The deeper itch, the one that had been crawling under my ribs all evening, receded.

For a few merciful minutes there was only the slick, rhythmic drag of her hand, the soft hitch in her breathing, and the faint scent of soy sauce and her perfume mixing in the warm air of the apartment.

Then it stopped working.

Without invitation, the files opened. It was a mental breach I hadn’t authorized. Noah, standing on the sun-bleached pavement outside the XUM building, his face a flickering map of defiance and terror.

The memory of the impact... the sharp, sudden crack of bone against my jaw. And the face. The one that refused to blur into the static of the city. Pink hair, silver rings, and a gaze that held absolutely no fear of the consequences.

Fucking hell?

The Itch returned, sharper than before, slicing through the fog of Lila’s ministrations.

Irritation flared hot and sharp behind my sternum. I was good at controlling my mind.

Had been since I was a child and learned, early and brutally, that control was the only thing nobody could take from you if you guarded it properly.

Thoughts could be boxed, labeled, filed.

Emotions could be observed from a distance like interesting specimens under glass.

This was different.

This was my own mind refusing instruction, looping back to the same unwanted frames. New. Deeply unwelcome.

"Stop." I reached down mid-stroke, fingers closing around her wrist, and removed Lila’s hand with deliberate calm.

She stopped immediately, sitting back on her heels. Her head tilted, that familiar questioning look sliding across her features, the one that said she was already cataloging the deviation for later dissection.

"Did I do something wrong?" Her voice was low, a little husky from the quiet of the room. "Is something—?"

"Get on your knees."

I didn’t bother answering the question. The question wasn’t interesting. The answer wouldn’t change anything.

Lila studied me for half a second longer, then gave me the look that meant she was filing the unanswered question away for a more convenient time.

Without another word she slid off the couch and settled between my spread knees on the carpet. Because this, too, was part of the choreography, and she knew her part perfectly.

She looked up at me through her lashes, deploying that seductive quality she could switch on like flipping a setting, slow blink, lips softly parted, the corners of her mouth already curving with anticipation.

"You seem distracted tonight," she murmured, the knowing tone threading through the words like velvet over steel. It was an invitation, subtle but clear: tell me what’s going on. Let me in, just a little.

I didn’t explain. Instead my hand found her jaw, thumb pressing with light pressure against the fullness of her lower lip, tilting her face exactly where I wanted it.

"Open."

The corner of her mouth curved into a small, pleased smile before she obeyed. It was the expression of someone who genuinely enjoyed the specific dynamic we had and knew I enjoyed it right back, which was exactly why it worked for both of us. No illusions. No performance beyond the one we both consented to.

Her mouth was warm, almost hot, and slick with saliva as she took me in. She started slow, lips stretching around the head, tongue pressing flat against the underside as she sank down inch by inch.

The wet heat enveloped me completely, her throat relaxing to take more until I felt the tight ring of muscle at the back constrict around me. She held there for a moment, humming softly so the vibration traveled straight down my shaft.

Then she began to move, smooth, practiced glides, hollowing her cheeks on the upstroke, swirling her tongue on the down. Saliva coated me, making every slide obscenely slick. The sounds were quiet but unmistakable: soft, wet suction, the occasional faint gag when she pushed herself deeper than usual.

I watched the ceiling for a while, counting the faint cracks in the paint I’d never bothered to fix. Then I watched my own hand as it slid into her hair, fingers threading through the strands, not gentle, not cruel, just present. Anchoring.

The physical sensation was more complete this way, more consuming. The mind quieted more successfully. Each deliberate bob of her head pushed the unwanted images a little further back. For the first time since I’d walked through the door, the day felt distant.

It was working better than the hand had.