Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The club feels like desperation draped in velvet. It’s wrapped in shadows and cigarette smoke, permeating with the kind of heat that clings to skin and makes it slick. The air is tinged with spilled whiskey, sweat, and expensive perfume—floral and debauched all at once. Desire simmers in every corner like an offering, thick and slow-burning.

It hums with neon-lit hunger—low and constant, like the purr of something feral just beneath the surface.

It’s the kind of place people come to lose themselves. To be looked at. To look without consequence. There’s a rhythm to it all, sharp and heady, something that’s taken root in Nesta’s veins ever since the first time she stepped onto the stage and let the music carry her away.

Nesta knows how to make men forget their names.

The stage glows pink, blue and golden. Her body aches from the grind of heels and the pull of overworked muscles, but her face is carved from ice. Always is. The mask helps. It’s all she has.

She twists on the pole like a ribbon unwinding, letting her mind go blank, letting the music thrum through her like a second heartbeat. When she lands on the ground in a split, she slowly rises, body undulating.

She stalks the stage in stilettos like they’re an extension of her body, nothing but legs and glittering skin beneath the low lights. The music throbs low, dark and sensual. She’s not dancing for them. Not really.

She dances like she’s above them. Untouchable. It’s what keeps them coming back.

She grips the pole with one hand and twists, spine arched, the movement smooth as honey. Her hair whips over her shoulder as she slides down with a slow roll of her hips, catching the eye of every man near the edge of the stage before deliberately looking away. They don’t get her gaze. They haven’t earned it.

She doesn’t speak unless she has to. That’s part of what makes her popular. That and the way she never fakes it—not the smile, not the moans. Men pay for her distance. Her disdain. They want to believe she’s unattainable.

She lets them.

The bills rain like confetti, a mockery of reverence.

When the set ends, Nesta doesn’t linger. She’s done for the hour. Behind the curtain, everything is cooler. The world softens into the backstage haze of too much hairspray and too sweet giggling. She weaves through the tangle of satin and glitter, brushing past dancers pressed close to mirrors, adjusting straps, powdering flushed skin.

In the dressing room, she downs a shot of cheap vodka and wipes the sweat from the curve of her neck. Her lipstick is still perfect—red, seductive. Her reflection meets her gaze with a look she can’t quite name. Tired. Unmoved. Beautiful in a way that’s sharp enough to wound.

She checks the time.

Ten thirty.

Still three more hours to go.

Emerie opens the door to the dressing room, a clipboard in hand and dark eyes lined with kohl.

“Private room,” she says, her voice smoky and low. “Guy dropped a small fortune and asked for you.”

Nesta raises a brow as she dabs some more sweat from her collarbone.

That doesn’t happen. Not unless it’s someone who’s seen her before.

“I don’t do repeats.”

“He’s not a repeat. Said he saw you on stage just now.”

“He’s not a regular?”

“Nope. But get this—he tipped the host five hundred just to see you tonight. Skipped the entire queue.”

Nesta narrows her eyes. That kind of cash doesn’t usually walk in without an announcement. “Name?”

“He didn’t give one. But he’s in Room Four.”

“Did he seem like the grabby type?”

Emerie grins. “Didn’t even look at the other girls. Just saw you on stage, pulled out a wad of cash like it was pocket change, and said, her. I want her.”

“What’s he look like?”

Emerie snorts. “Like someone who’s never had to pay for anything in his life, including sex.”

Nesta arches a brow.

“Big,” Emerie adds. “Pretty. You’ll see.”

That earns a flicker of curiosity. Dangerous.

Still, money’s money, and the rent is due.

With a sigh, Nesta gets up, makes sure her thong sits just right before pulling a mini skirt over it, and slips her heels back on. She tosses her hair back and reapplies her lipstick just to be sure, deepening the red. She slides a touch of glitter over her collarbone for good measure.

When she steps into the corridor, everything narrows. The light goes red, the air turns thick, and her heartbeat starts to pace the beat of the bass. Her heels click against the tile like a countdown. The air tastes different here, sinful. She walks slowly, letting the anticipation build like she always does. That’s part of the act—making them wait.

Room Four is dimly lit, walls upholstered in dark velvet, the couch wide enough to lie down on. It’s the nicest of the lot. Usually reserved for the CEO types—gray-haired, greasy-fingered, whispering things they’ll pretend to regret in the morning.

But the man waiting for her now doesn’t look anything like them.

The first thing she notices is that he takes up too much space. The man is massive. All broad shoulders and carved angles, his body pouring across the couch like he was built for both sin and violence. His muscles are straining against a shirt that’s probably tailored. It’s the color of charcoal, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms inked in a language she doesn’t speak. The tattoos seem to run up his body, peaking over the collar of his shirt. His black slacks hug his muscular legs just right. His hands rest wide on his thighs—big hands, working man’s hands, not soft and pampered. His hair’s long and dark, curling behind his ears.

He looks up.

And fuck. 

His eyes are sharp, hazel and golden-brown, cutting through the low lights with a focus so absolute it’s like being struck. He doesn’t leer. Doesn’t rake his gaze down her body like most do. He just looks. Slowly. Like he’s already memorizing her. Like he’s starving.

Nesta’s pulse skips just once, before she snaps out of it.

She closes the door behind her, smooth as silk, and lets her hips sway as she moves forward. Every step is deliberately seductive.

“I’m Nesta,” she purrs, voice low and laced with something heady. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

He leans back, a small smirk pulling at his lips, eyes not leaving hers. “I did.”

She studies him. His face is all roguish beauty—crooked nose, strong jaw with a scruff, full lips, a scar running through one of his eyebrows. He’s gorgeous in the way thunderstorms are.

“You always throw five hundred around like it’s nothing?”

His mouth twitches. “Only when I want someone to know I’m serious.”

She tilts her head, pretending to consider. “And what are you serious about, exactly?”

“You.” The word is a low rumble. “Giving me a private dance.”

She steps between his knees, close enough that his scent hits her—something earthy and warm. Leather, pine, a hint of cologne.

“You want a lap dance, or just look?”

“Whatever you want to give me.”

Gods. Dangerous. The usual response is lap, obviously. Most of them want to feel her, even if they don’t know what to do with her when they do. But this man gives her the reins like it costs him nothing. That confidence—relaxed, self-assured, like he could crush a man with his bare hands and still hold her gently—will be her ruin if she isn’t careful.

Nesta places her palms on his thighs, feeling the hot, solid muscle beneath the fabric. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. She can feel the heat coming off him, the way his eyes don’t roam. They stay on hers, steady and unreadable.

“What’s your name?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper as she leans in.

“Cassian.”

She tastes the name on her tongue. Feels it settle in the space between them like an open invitation.

“Well, Cassian,” she says, dragging her nails down his thighs, “just relax and enjoy your price.”

The music starts—low and sensual, a sultry throb that makes her blood thrum. She turns, her back to him, and lowers herself until she hovers above his lap , just shy of touch , her body a breath above his. Her hips roll slowly, teasingly, the hem of her mini skirt brushing his trousers. She bends forward, exposing her ass, and bends her knees, gliding down. Then she stands up and steps back, unbuttoning her miniskirt and tossing it away.

She lets her hips sway slowly, arms above her head, eyes half-lidded, watching him through her eyelashes. His gaze never drops to her chest or lower, never strays from her face. That unnerves her more than she’ll ever admit.

She dances close, but not too close. Bends backward until her hair brushes the floor, then rises like smoke.

When she turns, his jaw is clenched. His fists tight, knuckles white.

She likes that.

He wants to touch. He doesn’t.

Nesta moves with intention, her spine liquid, hips undulating in a suggestive rhythm. She writhes, every inch of her skin thrumming with awareness. His breath deepens, but his hands remain on his thighs. Not even a twitch.

“You’re disciplined,” she murmurs, glancing back at him over her shoulder.

“I’m patient.”

“You’re hard.”

His mouth curves. “You make it impossible not to be.”

Her laugh is low, velvet and wicked. She shifts, lets her ass brush his groin fully this time, slow enough to make him curse under his breath.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispers, grinding once—gently, expertly.

“I want,” he says, voice rough with control, “for you to do whatever you want to do to me.”

She freezes for just a second. Then she turns around, straddling him fully, her knees caging his hips. Their faces are inches apart. She cups the back of the couch, her body swaying to the rhythm.

“So this is a game, then?” she asks.

“It might be,” he says, low. “Or maybe I just like to watch you wreck me.”

Nesta doesn’t know what to do with that. The way he says it—like she’s not an object, but a goddamned phenomenon. She leans close enough to make him feel it, breathes against his ear, trails her fingers just above his shoulder.

He doesn’t reach for her. Doesn’t move. Just watches. She drags her fingers down her own body, over the swell of her breasts, grabbing the lacy cups covering her nipples, down her stomach, slow and sensual. His eyes track every movement.

She grinds down onto him, deliberate. One slow circle of her hips, her breath brushing the side of his neck. Her hands skim his chest, fingers curling in his shirt just enough to threaten a wrinkle. His thighs are hard beneath her, his large cock thick against the thin strip of fabric between her legs.

He still doesn’t touch her, but he’s breathing hard now.

“Does this do it for you?” she murmurs against his throat. “Do you like me teasing you?”

“I like watching you take control,” he says.

Nesta stills.

There it is again. That sharp tug in her chest. Unexpected. Unwelcome. Nesta exhales slowly. He’s good with words. She should hate that.

But there’s something else.

Something coiled between them like the static before a storm. She doesn’t know anything about him except his name, and yet her pulse has picked up. Her skin feels tight, every movement sharper.

The song begins to wind down, but Nesta doesn’t stop.

She leans in. Lets her breath ghost over his mouth. Lets her lips almost touch his.

“Do you want more?” she whispers.

His voice is gravel. “Yes.”

“It’ll cost you.”

“Good thing I brought cash.”

She slides off him in one sinuous movement, her thighs trembling, heart hammering in her throat.

He doesn’t hesitate. Pulls a thick roll of bills from his pocket and peels them off one by one—twenties, fifties, hundreds. They drop like feathers to the floor between them. “Tell me when to stop.”

Nesta smiles, all seductive and sultry.

“I don’t come cheap.”

“As is only right,” he murmurs.

Something in her shudders. She stands up and takes a few steps back. She puts on another song and lets the bass guide her, lets it pull her into the sensual rhythm. She moves just out of reach, her body winding like smoke, skin gleaming under the low lights.

And he watches.

No words. No reach. Just those eyes tracking every slow roll of her spine, every arch, every deliberate sway of her ass as it brushes just shy of his lap.

Until she straddles him and grinds down.

No more teasing. No more distance.

Her knees bracket his thighs as she lowers herself slowly into his lap, just enough for the heat of him to line up exactly where she wants it. His hands stay planted beside him, disciplined, but his breath changes.

Nesta starts to move.

She lets her body become something filthy and sacred all at once. Her hips grind into him with slow precision, like she has all the time in the world to undo him. She lets her hands slide down his chest, slow, fingers trailing over the hard ridges beneath that damn shirt.

Cassian’s head tilts back against the couch, jaw clenched tight. But his eyes— gods,  those eyes—remain fixed on her. All gold and green and blown-out pupils.

“You sure you don’t want to touch me?” she whispers, her lips a breath from his. “I’d let you. Just this once.”

His hands twitch.

But still—he doesn’t move. He shakes his head.

“You have rules? Or are you scared?” she asks, grinding just slightly harder, just enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

“No. I have restraint.”

“It must be painful,” she says, hips dragging down just to emphasize her point.

“You’re dangerous,” Cassian huffs.

The words hang in the air like a thick fog.

Nesta leans in. Her breath ghosts over the shell of his ear. “I think you like it better when I’m bad, big guy.”

Cassian groans softly, and that sound—it’s everything. It’s hunger and frustration and something raw under the surface.

She slows, dragging it out until the song winds down to silence, until the air is thick with heat and unspoken things.

Then, finally, she sits. Right in his lap. Her hands on his chest. Her breath on his lips.

He swallows hard. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

Nesta blinks. She’s never said yes to a repeat client. Not once.

“That’s not how this works,” she says, voice cool. “You come. You pay. You leave. You don’t come back.”

His eyes burn into her. “Why not?”

“Because people get ideas,” she says, rising from his lap with a practiced sway. She grabs her skirt and fastens it around her. “And ideas get messy.”

“I’m pretty sure I won’t get any ideas,” he says simply. “I just want you. Again.”

That makes her pause just a second too long.

He sees it.

“You don’t want to dance for anyone else tomorrow night,” he says, and it’s not a question. “Not after this.”

Nesta exhales. “Cocky.”

“Truthful.”

“I don’t make exceptions.”

“I think you just did, sweetheart.”

And fuck—he’s right. Her heart is hammering and her skin is hot and she’s never said this to anyone before but—

“Fine,” she says. “One more night.”

He smiles, slow and devastating.

“I’ll be here.”

Emerie meets her at the exit, leaning against the wall with her jacket slung over one shoulder. “That took a while.”

Nesta doesn’t respond.

Emerie falls into step beside her. The walk back is quiet, save for the occasional honk, the drunk laughter of someone stumbling out of a bar, the whine of sirens too far away to matter.

“He that good?”

Nesta shrugs.

“You look flushed,” Emerie says. “And kinda pissed about it.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying—maybe you liked it.”

“I don’t like anything.”

“That,” Emerie murmurs, “might be your problem.”

They walk home in silence for a few blocks, heels in hand, tights balled up and stuffed into the same sequined tote Emerie always brings to the club. It’s past two in the morning, the streets slick from a summer drizzle, the pavement still warm beneath their bare feet.

The city feels different at this hour—quieter, softer. No one’s watching them, for a change.

“I saw him leave,” Emerie finally says, cutting a glance sideways. “Your own personal warlord.”

Nesta exhales a laugh through her nose. “He’s not mine.”

“He looked like he was going to punch a hole through the wall when his time ended.”

She doesn’t answer.

“You gonna tell me what happened, or am I supposed to assume you finally discovered your romantic side and fell in love mid-grind?”

Nesta lets her head tilt back, the city lights spinning in fractured constellations above. “He bought a second dance.”

“Oh?” Emerie’s brows rise. “You let him touch?”

“I would’ve let him. But he didn’t. Out of restraint.”

Emerie whistles. “So you just melted into each other’s souls without physical contact?”

Nesta shoots her a look. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I am not—”

“You look like you’re burning up, babe.”

“He asked to come back.”

Emerie stops walking.

“Wait. What?”

Nesta doesn’t meet her eyes. Just keeps walking, her voice cool and clipped. “He asked to see me tomorrow.”

“You don’t do repeats.”

“No, I don’t.”

Emerie falls into step beside her again. “And?”

“And I didn’t tell him no.”

She expects teasing. A smirk. But Emerie’s quiet.

When Nesta glances over, her best friend is looking at her like she’s something cracked open.

“So what are you going to do?” Emerie finally asks.

Nesta shrugs, even though her heart hasn’t stopped racing since she left that room. “Dance for him.”

Emerie hums. “You always say that line about not getting involved.”

“It’s not a line. It’s a rule.”

“Yeah.” Emerie nudges her shoulder. “And it sounds like you’re in the process of breaking it.”

Their apartment smells like lavender and vanilla and the faintest trace of tequila. It’s nothing special—just a one-bedroom with a pullout couch and a view of another building’s fire escape—but it’s theirs. Nesta peels off her top and her skirt, tosses them somewhere near the laundry bin, and walks barefoot into the bathroom.

She doesn’t look at herself in the mirror. Instead, she turns the faucet on full blast and lets cold water run over her wrists.

Her body still hums with the memory of his eyes dragging over every inch of her skin.

The way his breath hitched every time she moved just so. The heat of his thighs between her knees. The way his eyes never left hers for long, like he was trying to burn the sight of her into memory.

Nesta wipes her face clean, brushes her teeth. Tries to focus on the mundane. The normal. But when she finally glances in the mirror, her reflection won’t let her go.

She’s glowing.

Not from makeup. Not from sweat.

From something else entirely.

Her pullout bed is cool and soft beneath her, the sheets kicked down to her calves. Her body aches. Not from the dancing, but from the tension still coiled low in her belly—a restless, simmering ache that won’t let her sleep.

Cassian.

Gods, even his name feels too intimate now. She shouldn’t have asked for his name.  Should’ve kept her armor on.

But the way he looked at her—like he saw her, past the mesh and the straps and the glitter and the practiced seduction—left something jagged behind.

She presses her thighs together. Closes her eyes.

Remembers the heat of his breath, the gravel in his voice when he said she was dangerous.

He wasn’t wrong.

And yet, the way her body had reacted, like it had been waiting for him to speak that word, makes something sharp twist deep inside her.

She turns onto her back.

Stares at the cracked ceiling.

Tells herself this is nothing.

Just a dance. Just a man.

Just one more night.

But even as she thinks it, she knows she’s lying.

Morning stumbles in on quiet feet.

Nesta lies in bed long after waking, her eyes unfocused on the world outside her window, limbs still tangled in sheets.

She keeps telling herself he’ll be just another customer. One more faceless man who wants a fantasy and pays for it in cash. But he isn’t faceless. He isn’t forgettable. His presence’s a gravity she hadn’t expected—and she still feels pulled toward it.

Her limbs are too heavy, her thoughts too tangled. The impression of last night still clings to her skin, like cheap glitter she can’t scrub off. She can still feel the weight of his stare. The heat of it. The steadiness. That damned patience and restraint.

She’s had plenty of men look at her like they wanted her. None have looked at her like him, though.

And somehow, it makes it all worse.

Her thighs squeeze together of their own accord. She hates that.

Nesta throws off the covers and climbs out of bed like she’s marching towards the front. The apartment is still. Emerie’s door is cracked but the room is quiet. Probably already at the gym, because she’s disciplined and Nesta’s not. Nesta pads to the kitchen barefoot, pours yesterday’s coffee over ice and drinks it like medicine. She reads the post-it on the counter, Emerie’s handwriting familiar and looping. Don’t forget to eat, babe. And more than just this protein bar!

She scoffs and slips the bar into a tote, leaving it on the counter. She needs something to do. Distraction is her religion. Routine, her salvation.

She showers, washing her hair twice. She stands under the spray too long, remembering the way Cassian’s eyes never left her body as she moved, the way he held back like he was yanking at the leash around the animal inside of him clawing for the surface. The memory makes her breath catch, so she shoves it down and scrubs her skin harder.

She puts on a long summer dress and sneakers, grabs her tote and walks to the used bookstore on the corner of her street. After roaming the shelves for half an hour, she buys a novel with a broken spine she’ll take forever to finish. She wanders to a grocery store just to keep her feet moving, buys a paper bag filled with cherries she won’t eat and almond milk she doesn’t drink. After that, she goes home, changes into yoga pants, does a half-hearted routine in the living room, and gives up midway through.

She checks the time.

Too early.

She sits on the fire escape reading her new book she can’t seem to focus on. Calls Feyre and lets her baby sister talk about her newest painting commission. Doesn't say a thing about the man who paid half her month’s rent just to watch her dance for a couple of hours.

When the call ends, it’s six. Still too early.

She lies on the couch, arms folded beneath her head, eyes closed, body simmering like a storm. She should refuse him tonight. She promised herself no repeats. She tells herself again now.

But by seven o'clock, she’s already in front of the mirror, dragging red across her lips and black across her eyelids.

The club glows. It pulses low with bass and breath, always waiting, always hungry.

It smells the same. It always does.

Expensive perfume, heated skin, disinfectant, sin.

It’s a Thursday, quieter than usual. Only the regulars and the ones who think they’re too at risk when they show up on weekends are here, searching for their fun for the evening. The lighting is low, the music slow.

Nesta checks in, and receives the message that someone’s already waiting in one of the private rooms for her. She smiles just enough, and heads to the dressing room where Emerie is already stretching in front of the mirror, her toned body folded in half like it’s nothing.

“Did he come back?” Emerie asks, like it’s an afterthought.

Nesta doesn’t answer.

Emerie straightens, grins. “He did.”

Nesta shrugs, pretending to smooth her bodysuit over her hips. It’s new—deep wine red, high-cut with a plunging neckline and velvet straps. Expensive. It clings like a second skin. She knows what she looks like. She tells herself she didn’t put it on for him.

Nesta walks through the hallway slowly, steeling herself, swathed in a sheer black robe over the bodice that barely counts as fabric. Her heels click in a steady rhythm—commanding, controlled.

But her pulse is chaos.

She sees him before he sees her. He’s sitting on the couch, dressed in all black—shirt rolled up to the elbows, fitted pants, watch glinting on his wrist. His hair is tousled like he ran his hands through it a dozen times.

Her stomach tightens.

He lifts his head the moment she closes the door.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says.

Nesta tilts her head. “You paid.”

He smiles slowly, like he hears everything she’s not saying.

“So you come when you’re paid?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” she fires back. “To own me for a night?”

“No.” He steps closer. “I’m here because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since last night.”

Dangerous words. Too soft in this room.

Nesta steps into the light, a slow beat pulsing through the speaker hidden in the wall. “Do you want another dance?”

He nods once, and she begins again.

This time, it’s different.

She doesn’t start on the floor, doesn’t tease from a distance. She climbs directly into his lap, straddling him with precision, her thighs bracketing his hips.

He’s warm. Solid. Bigger than anyone she’s ever danced for. She rolls her hips once, slow and sharp, and watches his jaw tighten.

“You came back for this?” she asks, voice husky.

He meets her gaze. “No. I came back for you.”

Her body tenses. Just slightly.

She lets her hands trail up his chest, fingers brushing the bare skin at his collar, letting herself feel the thrum of heat beneath. “Then maybe you should be careful,” she whispers. “You might get addicted.”

He doesn’t blink. “Who says I’m not already.”

Nesta laughs, low and wicked. “Sweet words for a man who paid to see me naked.”

“Well, you haven’t taken anything off yet.”

“Do you want me to?”

He doesn’t answer.

So she does.

Slowly, she slides one strap off her shoulder. Then the other. Her bodysuit peels down her torso, baring soft skin and curves sculpted like sin. She moves in time with the music, arching into his body, letting her mouth hover just a breath from his.

But she doesn’t kiss him.

That’s the game. Always the same game.

No kissing.

No intimacy.

Except, this already feels like more than it should.

Cassian’s breathing hard. His hands stay clenched at his sides, knuckles white.

Nesta smiles.

“Why did you really come back tonight, Cassian?”

“You know why. I like the way you move,” he says, his voice quiet. “Like you know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

She smiles. “Maybe I do.”

She places her hands on his shoulders, leaning in just enough to let her breath graze his neck. “Say it.”

Cassian turns his head slightly, his mouth near her ear now. “Because I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I want you.”

The words are fire down her spine.

She rolls her hips—slowly, deliberately—dragging the delicate friction of her body over him. He’s hard. Already. Again. She bites her bottom lip to keep from smirking.

“Can I touch you tonight?” he asks, voice raw.

“No, I don’t think you can,” she whispers. “You had your chance yesterday.”

He exhales harshly. “Please.”

Nesta leans back just enough to meet his eyes. “Do you always beg?”

He grits his teeth. “Only when I’m desperate.”

She tilts her head. “And you’re desperate now?”

Cassian’s fingers twitch. “Yes.”

Good.

She begins to move in earnest then—rocking against him in time with the music, her body a slow burn of sin and silk. Her thighs flex with every movement, her back arching, pushing her naked breasts up just so, mouth parted, eyelids heavy. She watches him the whole time—every restrained breath, every second he doesn’t touch.

He doesn’t look away.

“I could let you,” she murmurs, dragging her fingers down his chest. “I could let you touch. Could let you pin me against this wall. Could let you see how wet I am for you.”

Cassian’s groan is low, pained.

“But I won’t,” she says.

He breathes her name like a prayer. “Nesta.”

She freezes.

That’s the first time he’s said her name, and it wrecks her more than anything else he’s done. Than anyone has ever done.

His voice is gravel, heat, reverence. She should stop this. Pull back. But instead, she leans in, brushing her nose against his, her mouth just a breath from his lips.

“You’re not allowed to kiss me,” she says.

“I know.”

“Then why are you looking at me like you’re about to?”

He huffs a dark laugh. “Because I want to. So fucking badly.”

She swallows.

And then, slowly, purposefully, she sinks down again, grinding against him so hard she feels the sharp, uncontrollable flex of his thighs beneath her.

“Would you like to watch me come like this?” she whispers in his ear.

He groans. “Yes.”

“Would you want to come like this?”

He closes his eyes. “No.”

“No?”

“I’d ruin it.”

“Good boy,” she breathes.

He jerks like she slapped him. His eyes fly open.

The power crackles between them. She sees it—feels it—like lightning just beneath the surface of his skin. He could take control. Could flip the switch and pin her down and show her what he’s capable of.

But he doesn’t.

He gives her the reins, and it devastates her.

Cassian watches her like a starving man.

When she finally stills—sweat-slick, trembling—he only whispers, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

She looks at him, stunned.

“I should go,” she says.

But she doesn’t move.

He lifts one hand—slow, careful—and brushes a single finger over her knee. Nothing more.

Nesta shudders. It makes her snap out of the haze. She rises without a word, refastens her bodysuit, smoothing the fabric like armor. Her pulse is erratic.

Cassian reaches into his wallet and lays down more bills than she can count with one glance.

She stares at them.

“You want another dance?” she asks, already breathless.

“No.” He looks up at her. “I want to see you again. Tomorrow.”

Her throat tightens.

“No repeats,” she says again, mechanical now.

“You said that yesterday.”

“I mean it.”

“Why?”

“It gets messy.”

“I don’t mind messy.”

“I do.”

Cassian leans forward, rests his forearms on his knees. “Then tell me no.”

She hesitates, and he smiles like a predator that’s just caught his prey.

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” he says, rising to his full height, all power and heat and presence. “Same time. Same room. Unless you tell me to stay away.”

She doesn’t.

Chapter Text

He’s not used to waking up hard and unsatisfied. Not anymore.

That was a younger man’s curse—restless nights and teenage dreams. But now? Cassian has money. Access. Power. If he wants something, he gets it. Always. That’s how the world works for men like him. When you carry yourself like you own it. When you can afford to burn money like paper.

But this morning—

Gods, this morning.

He wakes up hard as stone and aching like he’s been starved. The image of Nesta is still burned into his retina’s. The heat of her straddling him, the drag of her hips over his lap, her voice like smoke in his ear.

Good boy.

Fucking hell.

He palms himself through the sheets, exhales raggedly, but doesn’t move. Doesn’t finish. There’s a tightness in his chest he can’t fuck away, not like this.

It’s not just the need to bury himself in her until he forgets his name. No, this is worse. He wants to know what she dreams about. What her voice sounds like in the morning. What she'd do if he made her laugh before her first coffee.

It’s been two nights.

Two nights of watching Nesta dance for him, bare herself for him, and Cassian doesn’t feel sated. He feels haunted. Like some part of her is under his skin now, electric and insatiable.

He goes for a run to clear his head.

Five miles. Then another three. Still, the image of her trails him like a shadow—those blue-gray eyes, golden-brown hair, full lips, that unreadable look in her eyes when she looks at him too long.

He wants her again.

But not just her body. Not just her skin, her warmth and the way her thighs clench around him. He wants the way she looks at him like she knows. Like she sees everything.

Cassian drags himself into work wearing yesterday’s tension like a second skin.

It clings to him—between his shoulders, in the grinding set of his jaw. There’s a rhythm to it now. He goes though the day with nights that end without closure, and mornings that start with her burned into the inside of his eyelids.

Her eyes, her curves, her mouth, the sounds she made, the way her body moved. The way she went still.

The way she vanished behind that wall of ice again, jaw set, gaze unreadable. She'd left him with her scent as a taste on his tongue and something raw splintering in his chest.

The elevator deposits him into the thirty-second floor of their downtown office like a coffin lid peeling open. The hallway gleams. Steel and glass and clean, masculine design. Cold in that curated, high-end way. The summer heat outside simmers against the windows, but in here, the air-conditioning is sharp and surgical.

Azriel’s already at his desk when Cassian trudges in. Quiet and composed, the kind of focused that unnerves most people. He doesn’t glance up, just scrolls through a case on one of his three screens. Probably some merger or takeover or whatever else rots the brain.

Cassian ignores him. Tosses his worn leather bag beside his desk. His inbox pings with unread messages. There are documents needing review. Depositions and investor calls and a contract Rhys wants eyes on.

He stares at the computer screen but can’t make the words stay still long enough to make sense.

He’s not sure if it’s sleep deprivation, guilt, or frustration, or just her. Her skin. The way she can undo him with a glance, a breath, before she walks away like none of it matters.

Rhys saunters in five minutes later, coffee in one hand, sunglasses still on. Tailored and silver-tongued, as though the world had been made just to set a spotlight on him.

He leans in the doorway with the easy grace of someone who’s always had everything handed to him. Even if he hasn’t.

“You look like hell,” he says, pulling off his sunglasses. “Late night?”

Cassian grunts without looking up. “Working.”

“Sure.” Rhys sips his drink, then glances at Azriel. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Azriel smirks, but doesn’t look up from the file on his desk.

“Not that kind of working,” Cassian mutters, flipping through a stack of papers he won’t read.

“Pity,” Rhys muses. “Though I did notice you’ve been less... available lately. You’ve been ignoring your brothers.”

Cassian’s silence hangs heavy.

He used to be the wild one, the distraction-seeker. Bars, brawls, nameless women in high-rise apartments with expensive sheets and nothing to say. But that’s all different now. Has been for some time.

“Let me guess,” Rhys continues, “our Cassian’s found another pretty thing to distract him. Short skirt, empty head, a sweet little—”

“Don’t,” Cassian says, voice too sharp. “Don’t talk like that.”

The air stills. Even Azriel looks up now.

“Oh?” Rhys hums. “So it’s serious, then.”

Cassian’s jaw works. “It’s not— It’s none of your damn business.”

Rhys raises a brow. “What happened, Cass? Did she hurt your feelings?”

Cassian’s head snaps up. “There’s no she.”

Azriel gives him a look that says, sure, and I’m a motivational speaker.

“Right,” Rhys drawls. “So it’s just pure coincidence that you’ve been walking around like you got kicked in the ribs and haven’t fucked anything in weeks these last two days.”

“I don’t measure myself by how many women I sleep with.”

Rhys’ grin is all teeth. “You used to.”

Cassian says nothing.

He sinks back in his chair, running a hand over his face. His body is tight with the memory of Nesta, her name like a bruise on his tongue even if he won’t speak it here. The way she teased him, only to pull back and rebuild the wall brick by brick right in front of him.

He’s never wanted someone he couldn’t have. Never wanted to earn it. But she makes him want to deserve her.

It terrifies him.

“Look,” Rhys says, slipping into the room now, always too good at sniffing out weak points, “I’m not judging. Just concerned. You look like you’ve been sucker punched by something. Or someone.”

Azriel finally speaks, soft but steady. “You’re not yourself.”

Cassian shrugs. “Maybe I’m just tired of this place.”

“The job or the office?” Rhys asks lightly.

“Both.”

Cassian’s desk is chaos. Files half-open, Post-it notes curling at the edges, half a protein bar from yesterday still in its wrapper. His inbox pings again. Another board meeting he doesn’t want to attend.

He used to get off on this. The fire. The power. Beating the odds, out-talking a room, going toe-to-toe with bastards in a suit who thought they could best him based on his looks.

Now it all tastes like ash.

“You don’t have to talk to us,” Azriel says. “But if you’re in over your head—”

“I’m not,” Cassian snaps.

A beat of silence. Then Rhys holds up his hands, all faux diplomacy. “Alright. We’ll back off. Just know that if you do end up breaking something—like, say, your restraint or your sanity—we’ll be here to clean up the pieces.”

Cassian laughs, but it’s hollow. “Thanks, brother. Really makes me feel supported.”

“Oh, we support you,” Rhys says easily. “Especially if you finally snapped and fell for some sharp-mouthed woman who won’t let you get past her guard.”

Cassian’s breath stills—but only for a second. He hides it.

Azriel watches him, impassive.

“Enjoy your meetings,” Cassian mutters, standing up and grabbing his phone. “I’ve got things to do.”

“Do those things include stalking the same club for the third night in a row?” Rhys calls after him. “Because that’s definitely what Az and I have wagered on.”

Cassian doesn’t respond.

He steps into the hallway. The doors slide shut behind him, glass sealing away the noise. But their words cling to him, slinking into the crevices she left open.

He only wants the attention of one.

Nesta is not the kind of woman who lets herself be held. She gives heat, skin, pleasure. Then she walks away before breath can return to normal.

He counts the hours.

He shouldn’t be here again.

Not three nights in a row. Not pacing in the alley behind the club before they even open the doors, cigarette between his fingers even though he quit two years ago. The air smells like wet pavement and perfume. The kind of scent that clings. The kind of night where anything could happen, and none of it would be clean.

He tells himself it’s curiosity. Fascination. He’s been with gorgeous women before—models, actresses, high-end disasters. He’s had more than most men dream about.

But this isn’t about what he’s had. It’s about what he can’t get.

It’s about her.

He walks in just after ten, jaw tight, heartbeat louder than the bass thumping through the walls. His pulse has been climbing steadily from the moment he buttoned his black shirt in front of the mirror. He could only eat a few bites of dinner. His mouth is dry. He feels awful and incredible all at the same time.

He tips the bouncer too much without thinking, ignores the hungry glance from a redhead near the bar. He doesn’t even pause at the lounge. He moves like a man being summoned, like he’s already halfway gone.

The dark haired woman from yesterday—Emerie—is behind the bar, counting bills. She looks up as he approaches and gives him a smirk, her brow arching knowingly. “You’re addicted.”

Cassian doesn’t deny it. Can’t.

“I’m sure you’ll like this. Main floor,” she says, tossing her chin toward the dark open mouth of the club’s centerpiece. “She’s up in five. She’s wearing silver tonight. Try not to combust.”

He’s already halfway to the stage.

The room opens around him, velvet-draped and crimson-lit, shadows curling at the corners. It’s packed, but none of it matters. Not the men hunched at the edge of the platform, not the glittering bodies on the smaller stages.

He only has eyes for her.

The main stage is bathed in moody colors—purple shifting to violet, red pulsing beneath it like a heartbeat. The pole in the center gleams under the lights. Music starts low, a bassline that rolls through his ribs.

And then she walks out.

Cassian’s breath punches out of his lungs. The silver set she’s in tonight shimmers like liquid steel and clings like a second skin. There’s a matching collar and delicate cuffs glinting under the lights. Her breasts rise and fall beneath a nearly nonexistent scrap of fabric. Her hair spills over one shoulder like a waterfall of silky curls.

She doesn’t smile.

She doesn’t acknowledge the men pressed to the stage like beggars.

She doesn’t need to.

She owns them without a single glance.

Cassian grips the edge of his seat, knuckles whitening.

Her heels make her legs go on for days, the curves of her body deadly, and the look in her eyes is designed to ruin men.

She wraps her hand around the pole, rolls her hips once, and then pulls herself upward—legs curving, body arched, strength rippling beneath that perfect skin. Like gravity is working for her, not against her. There’s music playing, but he doesn’t hear it. Not truly.

She moves like sin made flesh. Like she’s meant to be there—suspended above them, legs spreading into a slow, liquid split that makes someone down the row groan aloud.

Cassian doesn’t even blink. He can’t.

Her thighs tremble slightly with control as she lowers herself inch by torturous inch. Every movement is precise, hypnotic. Her muscles flex beneath her skin, sleek and powerful and sinuous. Her body bows backward, legs circling the pole, her hair catching the light as it brushes the stage.

He feels it in his chest. A slow, molten pull of something he doesn’t have a name for. Lust, yes—but something hungrier and more aching beneath it. Something dangerous.

And all he can do is watch.

A man at the edge of the stage leans forward with a bill in hand.

Cassian almost breaks something.

She dances like a goddess, accepting offerings and deciding who lives.

When her feet touch the stage again, the men around him lean forward instinctively, like she might descend into their laps.

But she doesn’t.

Nesta doesn’t even look. She turns her back and grips the pole again, upside down now, her legs split in a slow, teasing descent. It’s athletic, powerful, elegant.

You can look.

But you can’t touch.

For Cassian, who’s touched—who’s felt the way she rolls her hips over him like she owns his bones—it’s pure torture.

Because he knows. Knows he can’t truly have her, but wants her anyway.

She circles the pole one last time—slow, drawn-out, her hips shifting like a challenge—before slipping off the stage and disappearing behind the curtain.

He doesn’t move.

His body is tight, aching. His cock presses hard against the front of his slacks.

It takes him minutes to gather himself. Ten minutes later, he’s waiting in the private room, palms sweating, hair tousled. The low amber light catches on the edges of the furniture. His knees are spread, elbows braced. He’s not thinking anymore. He’s aching.

His mood is darker this evening. Maybe it’s Nesta’s routine on the pole. Maybe it’s the way he feels walking into this private room, like a dog returning to the hand that struck it. He hates himself for needing it. For needing her . But gods, he does.

Every sound outside the door makes him twitch. Every second drips with anticipation like molten wax against his ribs.

When she finally finds him in the private room, he’s wound tight enough to snap.

Nesta steps in without ceremony, still wearing  that cursed silver set, and closes the door behind her with a soft click. She leans against it for a second, like she’s deciding whether or not she wants to stay.

“I saw you watch me dance,” she says.

“You knew I would.”

A small smile. “And?”

“I want to ruin every man who looked at you.”

Her expression sharpens. “Are you jealous, Cassian?”

“Yes,” he says quietly.

She walks forward, the heels making her calves flex, silver glittering in low light. “Did it make you hard?” she asks. “Watching me up there? Knowing you couldn’t touch?”

“You already know.”

Nesta tilts her head. “Good.”

She walks to the center of the room, and pauses. One hand lifts to her opposite wrist. The matching silver cuffs slide off with a slow, sensual scrape on skin. She tosses them onto the nearby table—deliberate, controlled.

Then her fingers find the clasp of her top.

Cassian’s hands grip his thighs, realizing what she’s doing.

The sound of the clasp undoing is faint, but it echoes through his skull like a gunshot. Her gaze doesn’t leave his as she slides the straps off her shoulders, first the right, then the left.

Then she stops.

She holds the cups to her breasts, teasing him. She turns slowly, showing him the curve of her back, the dip of her spine, the swell of her hips beneath that last strip of silver. When she faces him again, she slowly, slowly lets the top drop from her hands.

Cassian doesn’t make a sound.

Her breasts are just as perfect as he remembers—full and high, the nipples dusky pink, peaked from the cool air or her own arousal. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. His tongue presses to the roof of his mouth to keep from groaning aloud.

She lets him look.

Lets him burn.

Nesta’s chin lifts slightly. The collar glints.

“I’m quite fond of this set,” she says, voice husky, hands trailing down the last piece of fabric. “The silver.”

He nods. Swallows. His mouth is dry. His eyes flick to her neck.

“You like the collar,” she adds, almost amused.

“I—yes.” His voice breaks. “Fuck, Nesta…”

She smiles, slow and dangerous.

Then her fingers trail down her sides, grazing the slope of her waist. They hook into the last piece of fabric, that tiny silver strip hugging her hips, and she begins to peel it off.

It slides down her thighs inch by inch.

Every new inch of skin it passes is a fresh blow to his restraint.

She bends to slip it off her ankles—slow, fluid, confident. Her body is pure art. Curves and muscle and glowing skin. And when she rises, she’s bare.

Bare except the silver collar around her neck.

Cassian can’t move.

Her hair cascades over one shoulder, her breasts full and perfect, her legs shifting with slow, feline control. The collar gleams in the soft lights. She is every temptation given shape. Every fantasy and nightmare and salvation, all wrapped in soft skin and gorgeous curves.

“You want to touch me already,” she murmurs, not a question.

“Yes,” he says, because there’s no use lying.

She walks toward him. Naked. Powerful.

Cassian can barely speak. “You’re… you’re trying to kill me.”

“Where would be the fun in that?” she purrs.

Cassian is breathing too hard. His fingers clench into the fabric of the couch. His legs spread slightly—welcoming her, bracing himself.

He tells himself not to reach. Not to grab. That he’s at her mercy, and he’ll only ruin it if he pushes.

Nesta slides into his lap like she belongs there.

Her bare thighs straddle him with maddening precision, knees tucked on either side of his hips, skin hot and smooth against the dark fabric of his pants. Her breasts hover in near his face, firm and flushed, nipples begging to be tasted. The silver collar seems to mock him, making his brain short-circuit and making him fantasize about all the things he’d to do to her, should he be in charge.

She doesn’t grind. Not yet. She just sits there, the heat of her body sinking into his, taunting him with every breath, every shift of weight.

Cassian’s voice breaks on her name. “Nesta—”

A single finger to his lips.

“No talking,” she whispers. “Not unless I ask you a question.”

He nods, instantly.

Her palm slides up his chest, nails dragging lightly over the fabric of his shirt. She leans forward—not to kiss him, not to touch him—but to breathe against his ear.

“You’ve been thinking about this since last night, haven’t you?”

He doesn’t answer, can’t, but his eyes close and his jaw flexes.

“I watched you,” she continues, her voice like sin. “Watched how you stared. Saw how much you wanted to touch. I bet you didn’t even realize how much you wanted to beg.”

Cassian’s fingers twitch.

“I’ll let you,” she murmurs. “If you ask nicely.”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

“Please,” he breathes. “Nesta. Let me touch you. Just once.”

She sits back, tilting her head. That hair cascading over one shoulder, framing her bare chest like it was staged for him. Her breasts rise and fall with each breath.

“Where?” she asks.

His mouth opens, then shuts. He tries not to look at them. Fails.

“Wherever you’ll allow me,” he says, finally, husky. “Please.”

“Try again. Tell me exactly where you want to touch me,” she whispers, leaning down, close enough that her lips almost touch his.

He’s shaking.

“Let me touch your breasts,” he says. “I’ve never wanted anything more. Please.”

A long, slow pause.

Until she gives permission, soft and devastating.

“Then do it.”

He moves slowly. Carefully.

His hands lift like they’re made of lead. He touches her waist first, a liberty, before skimming the curve of her ribs—the soft, unblemished skin so warm beneath his calloused palms. She watches him, her eyes heavy-lidded but bright, as if measuring every aspect of his control.

Then his thumbs graze upward.

They brush the underside of her breasts, the curve, the softness. She gasps—quiet, breathy—but it’s real, and it drives him mad.

He cups them.

They’re heavy, perfect, hot against his hands. They fit perfectly. Her nipples pebble under his palms as he strokes them once, twice, his thumbs teasing in slow, reverent circles.

“Cassian,” she breathes, and the sound of her saying his name like that nearly ends him.

He leans forward.

“Can I taste you?” he asks. “Please.”

Nesta is still for a breath.

Then, she tilts her chin up and gives a single nod.

Again, he doesn’t rush.

He kisses the top of her breast first—soft, lingering. Then lower. Then lower still, until his lips close around her nipple and he groans as if tasting divinity. He sucks gently, tongue swirling.

She arches into him, one hand threading through his hair.

He moves to her other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, one of his hands splayed over her lower back, holding her close. His teeth graze, his lips seal around the peak, and her hips rock against him just once, a soft moan escaping from her lips.

It breaks something in him.

“Fuck,” he growls against her skin. “You’re going to ruin me.”

Nesta’s head falls back, her breathing erratic.

His tongue draws another gasp from her, and another. Her thighs tremble against his hips. She’s wet now. He can feel the heat of her slickness, even through his pants. He’s going mad from the light press of her against his aching need.

Then, suddenly, her hands press against his shoulders.

She lifts herself off him—abruptly, breath ragged, eyes wild.

Cassian reaches for her waist without thinking. “Nesta—”

But she steps back, shaking her head.

Her body is flushed, her lips are parted, and her eyes—gods, those eyes—they look afraid of something.

“I shouldn’t have—” she whispers, voice tight. “This can’t be part of what we’re doing here.”

Cassian stares at her, his chest heaving, his hands still frozen in midair.

“Nesta—”

“I need to go.”

She bends, collects her discarded clothes, movements unsteady. Cassian remains where he is, stunned, hard as hell, and gutted in a way that has nothing to do with lust.

She walks to the door barefoot, the collar still around her throat, and when she glances back, she composes herself just enough to speak the words he doesn’t want to hear.

“Goodnight, Cassian.”

Then she’s gone.

Cassian slumps back on the couch, a broken sound catching in his throat. Her taste is still on his tongue, her body burned into his palms.

A terrifying, impossible truth anchors in his chest.

He’d beg her all over again. He’s not sure he can ever stop.

The room still smells like her. All soft lavender and vanilla and something distinctly her.

Cassian sits there for minutes after she leaves, legs spread, head tilted back on the couch, arms loose at his sides, as if his body is still trying to hold the shape of her weight in his lap. The memory of her breathless gasps—cut off just when it started to sound like something deeper—plays in a loop in his ears.

He adjusts himself in his pants with a grimace. She left him painfully hard, and he doesn’t even care.

Not really.

He shuts his eyes. He’s been touched before. Teased. Lap dances in Vegas, backseats of luxury cars with women who knew exactly what they wanted from his last name and the money that comes with it.

But never like this.

Never like her.

There’s no good reason why Nesta should be haunting him like this. He doesn’t even know if that’s her real name, though he thinks it is. He doesn’t know anything about her, except how she tastes and how her spine arches when she wants more and doesn’t quite let herself take it.

Except for the fact that when she looks at him—really looks—he doesn’t feel like a rich man or a powerful one. He feels like someone worth touching for entirely different reasons.

And that’s a problem.

Because he’s not sure she wants anything more than this—whatever this is—and he wants to see her again like he needs her to breathe.

Eventually, he drags himself to his feet, adjusts himself again, and tucks his shirt back into place. He doesn’t look in the mirror on the way out of the room. He knows what he looks like. Wrecked.

The club is a different world outside the private room. The music is louder, the lights harsher. Drunken voices echo off the walls. But it all feels muted. Insignificant. Because she’s not in here anymore.

He catches Emerie’s eye at the bar. She gives him a sharp little nod. He wonders if Nesta told her anything.

He leaves a ridiculous tip—because he can—and steps out into the night air, where it hits him like a slap.

Cool. Sharp. Lonely.

His car is parked around the corner, but he doesn’t go there yet. Instead, he leans against the brick wall in the alley, dragging a hand down his face.

What the fuck is he doing?

Rhys would mock him mercilessly for getting this twisted over a woman he barely knows. Over a woman who practices the art of seduction for a living. Azriel wouldn’t say much, but he’d probably raise a brow in quiet judgment.

But Cassian knows himself. When he wants something, he wants it. And right now, all he can think about is how her breath hitched when he sucked her nipple into his mouth. The exact pitch of her gasp. How she made herself vulnerable for one aching moment—and then shut the door with a quiet finality and a haunted look in her eyes.

He wants to know what that means.

He wants to know her.

He’s already planning to come back tomorrow.

Even if she doesn’t want him to.

Because that flicker in her eyes, that hesitation before she let him touch her, taste her—that wasn’t indifference.

That was fear.

He’s seen enough of that in himself to recognize it in someone else.

That night, he lies in his bed, in his penthouse suite above the city, wrapped in expensive Egyptian cotton sheets that should feel luxurious, but instead feel like nothing at all. The room is cold despite the warmth outside the windows.

He thinks about her.

The sway of her hips. The tone of her husky voice. The way she gasped when he said her name like a prayer.

He fists a hand in his sheets, resisting the urge to touch himself.

Because nothing he does alone will ever compare.

Chapter Text

The sun is entirely too smug about the morning.

It cuts through the shoddy blinds in the kitchen, slicing across the laminated counter like it’s got something to say. Nesta stares at the rays crossing the room from her place at the table, knees tucked up to her chest, mug of black coffee cooling in her hands. She hasn’t slept.

Or, she did sleep, but barely. An hour, maybe two. The kind of sleep that isn't sleep at all. The kind that’s just closing your eyes and letting everything replay like a fever dream you can't shake.

His mouth on her skin. The weight of his hands. The sounds he made.

The look in his eyes when she pulled away.

That’s what she can’t stop seeing. The stunned, reverent ache of it. Like she’d handed him the whole world and then yanked it back the second he touched it.

Stupid. Stupid to let it go that far. Stupid to let him in. Stupid to let herself feel it. Stupid to accept repeats.

Her mug makes a quiet clink as she sets it down. She needs to move. She needs to shake this off.

She ties the laces of her sneakers too tightly, pulls her hoodie down over her bra and shorts, pulls her hair up into a ponytail and walks out of the apartment before she can second guess her coping strategy.

The gym smells like rubber mats and yesterday’s sweat. It’s empty except for the kid behind the desk, who seems to be spiraling down a TikTok rabbit hole and doesn’t even notice her. 

Emerie is already in the back—hair tied in a top knot, dressed in a sports bra that’s doing god’s work and a pair of leggings that hug every curve just right, heavy bag swinging in front of her like a challenge. She’s sharp and focused, all muscle and precision. Nesta watches for a moment, hands shoved in the pocket of her hoodie, and tries to gather the pieces of herself.

Emerie doesn’t look up, but she knows Nesta’s there. “Did you get possessed or something?”

Nesta snorts, low and humorless, and shrugs off her hoodie. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“That bad?”

Nesta doesn’t answer. She walks to the mats and starts stretching, pushing her limbs until they ache, just for something to feel that isn’t the memory of the previous nights. Emerie eyes her but says nothing. For a while, the only sounds are the rhythmic thud of gloves on leather and the soft echo of Nesta’s breathing.

When Emerie finally speaks again, it’s with a sly tilt to her voice.

“So,” she says, landing a final punch and stepping back. “You gonna tell me why you’re acting like a woman with a guilty conscience?”

Nesta stops her crunches and scoffs. She grabs a water bottle from the floor. “Please. I don’t do guilt.”

Emerie tosses her gloves onto a bench. “Fine. Then tell me why you’re up before noon, in a gym, voluntarily, sweating out some man’s name you won’t admit to knowing.”

Nesta rolls her eyes. “He’s not some man. He’s a customer.”

“Uh-huh.”

She leans against the wall, lets her head tip back against the cool surface. “He’s just… persistent.”

Emerie smirks. “Rich, too.”

Nesta shrugs. “Yeah. The kind of rich that doesn’t blink at a couple hundred in tips. The kind of rich that hands you a grand after your second dance and doesn’t even ask for extras, only to see you again the next night.”

Emerie whistles. “Damn. That’s rent.”

“Rent and a good chunk of next month’s.”

“Mm.” Emerie tosses her a towel. “Still. You never take repeat clients. And you danced for him three nights in a row now.”

Nesta catches the towel and wipes the sweat from her face, stalling. “So what?”

“So,” Emerie says, stepping closer, “it almost seems like he’s getting under your skin, babe.”

Nesta glares. “He’s annoying . He talks too much. Says the most stupid things. Always looks like he wants to ask me questions. Like he thinks I’m going to open up and tell him my dreams or some shit.”

Emerie laughs. “You mean like a human man trying to have a conversation?”

“Like a man who doesn’t understand the rules.”

“And you don’t kick him to the curb, why?”

Nesta shrugs. “Good money.”

“That’s all it is?”

Her jaw tightens. “That’s enough.”

Emerie’s gaze sharpens. “Nesta…”

“I said that’s enough.”

The silence after that is thick, but Nesta doesn’t move. She stares at the floor, at the cracks in the mat, at anything but her friend.

Because what else  is she supposed to say?

That when Cassian looks at her, it feels like he’s trying to see her, not just the version she sells under stage lights? That when he touches her, it’s not greedy—it’s worshipful, like she’s the only thing keeping him grounded?

That it terrifies her?

She shakes her head. She sips her water and lets the silence stretch.

Emerie’s voice drops, a thread of genuine concern beneath the dry wit. “Nes. If you need to bail, just say it. If this guy’s—”

“He’s not like that.”

“So then what?”

“He just… irks me, is all.”

Emerie watches her with an unreadable look in her gaze. 

Nesta closes her eyes, presses the bottle to her forehead. It’s cold. Blessedly cold. She tries to find words that don’t taste like weakness and fails to find any.

“Anyway,” she mutters, straightening. “I’m working tonight. You?”

“Yeah.” Emerie studies her for a beat. “You gonna see him again?”

Nesta shrugs and tosses the towel back onto the bench. “If he shows. No private room, though. Not tonight.”

The lights on stage are like a halo—soft, hazy, flattering in their dim glow. The heat of them is familiar now, like a second skin. Nesta moves through the first bars of the music, body a slow pull of silk and temptation, hips moving just so as she circles the high-back chair at center stage.

The club’s full tonight. Loud. Sweaty. The energy is wild and sticky and cracked open with Saturday-night anticipation. The crowd eats it up. Her curves, her sharp edges, the way she stretches long and sinuous against the chair, then slides a hand down the inside of her thigh.

This is her power. Her domain. Her control.

She’s in the zone until she sees him.

Cassian’s in a booth to the side, not front-row, but close enough. He has his arms spread wide across the back of the velvet couch like he owns the fucking world. A drink in hand. Shirt open at the collar. And those hazel eyes on her.

Watching her like he’s been waiting all damn day.

Nesta falters.

It’s not much—barely a hesitation in the way she slips the red bra strap down her shoulder—but he sees it. 

His mouth curls at one corner. A slow, smug smirk.

Asshole.

She tears her eyes away and resumes the routine like nothing’s happened, more deliberate now, more aggressive. Her heel scrapes the floor as she straddles the chair, undulating her hips, letting the beat guide her. The bra drops, red satin sliding down her arms and tossed aside.

The crowd roars.

She leans back, exposing the sharp lines of her body, the gleam of her oiled skin, her luscious curves. She’s a vision in shadow and shine, untouchable, commanding.

But it’s Cassian she feels. His gaze is heavy, and far too knowing.

Once she’s backstage, she regulates her breathing.

In. Out. Again.

Her hands shake as she changes into a black bodysuit. The mesh clings to her like fog, the underwire pushing her breasts high and tight, the garters clipped to thigh-high stockings, pressing into her skin. She runs gloss over her lips, fixes her hair, staring at her flushed reflection for a beat too long.

She steels herself before she walks out like nothing can touch her. Like she didn’t slip for a heartbeat. Like she’s fine.

She is fine.

She’s more than fine when she slips into the crowd, weaving between patrons like a nymph in stilettos. A man in a leather jacket grabs her waist—she leans into him and whispers something filthy in his ear. He laughs and waves down the cocktail waitress. Another one presses a few bills into her garter. She licks her thumb and counts them slowly, then trails a nail down his jaw before gliding on.

She doesn’t look at Cassian.

Not once.

Not even when her skin prickles with the heat of his stare.

Not even when her pulse quickens like she knows exactly where he is.

She dances at tables, touches patrons, sells drinks, teases, flips her hair, makes small talk that feels too saccharine on her tongue. She lets herself slip back into the rhythm. Into the act.

Until she sees one of the girls—Kyra, all red lips and glitter tits—sauntering over to his booth. She runs a finger down his arm. She doesn’t hesitate before sliding into the seat beside him, tossing her dark curls over her shoulder as she leans in too close.

Nesta’s throat burns.

It’s stupid. She doesn’t care. He’s a patron. He’s just a customer.

And yet—

Before she realizes what she’s doing, she’s walking across the floor, hips swaying, smile practiced.

Cassian sees her coming from across the room, and it’s there again—that spark between them. That stupid smirk. The way his eyes flicker with heat and a silent,  knowing look.

“Kyra,” Nesta says, voice sugar-sweet, “I think Devlon wants you at table five.”

Kyra blinks. “I thought I’d—”

“Now.”

There’s steel under the sugar.

Kyra stands and flounces off with a huff. Cassian watches her go with a half-laugh, then turns to Nesta, dragging his gaze from her knees to her thighs to her chest and finally her face.

“Jealousy looks good on you.”

She glares. “I don’t do jealousy.”

“No?” He leans back in the booth, completely relaxed. “Then what do you call that little performance?”

“A favor,” she says flatly, and slips into the booth beside him, putting enough distance between them to make a point. “You didn’t want her. Trust me.”

He hums, low and amused. “No, I didn’t.”

Their eyes meet. There’s heat there. Tension. The same unsaid thing that’s been simmering for nights. But she holds herself together, keeps her smile tight.

Cassian signals the waitress without looking away from Nesta. “Whatever she wants.”

“I’m not drinking,” she says.

“Water, then. With a slice of lemon to go with that sour little look on your face.”

She huffs a laugh, despite herself.

The drink arrives. He doesn’t move closer, just watches her, his hand on his own glass, his fingers tracing the rim like he’s thinking about parts of her body instead.

“Why do you keep coming back?” she asks suddenly.

He looks at her, serious for a moment. “Because you make me feel good.”

She raises a brow. “Isn’t that my whole job?”

“Well, you’re fucking great at it.”

There’s a silence then. Not uncomfortable, but thick. She sips her water, slow and deliberate, and he watches her throat move.

He reaches out—only an inch—and flicks the edge of her garter with one finger.

Her breath hitches.

“You’re playing with fire,” she murmurs.

His voice is rough. “You’re the one who walked into my booth.”

His fingers graze higher. Not inappropriate for the setting. Just… intentional. The back of her thigh. The hollow curve above her stocking. Heat floods her abdomen.

“Tell me something true,” he says, eyes locked on hers.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

“This.” She gestures vaguely to the air between them. “This arrangement.”

Cassian leans in. Not close enough to touch, but enough to set her nerves alight. “So you admit it’s an arrangement.”

“I admit nothing.”

He reaches for her again—barely brushes the inside of her knee. Her body—her traitorous body —presses toward him before she can stop it.

It’s subtle, the shift. But she feels it. So does he.

He smiles.

She glares.

And somehow, she doesn’t move away.

Not even when he says, quiet and reverent, “Gods, Nesta. I’m going to think about the way you looked on that stage for the rest of my evening.” 

She rolls her eyes. “That line work on the others?”

“The only one that matters is you.” He hooks his finger under her garter and pulls lightly, teasingly.

She shouldn’t believe him.

But her heart’s already doing dangerous things in her chest, and his finger against her skin is sending electric shocks through her veins.

And she’s not stopping him.

Not yet.

He leans forward just a little, enough for the air between them to tighten. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

“Because you don’t know when to stop.”

A slow exhale from him. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

Nesta’s lips twitch, but it isn’t quite a smile. “It’s not part of the deal.”

“What deal?”

She glances at him, eyes narrowing. “The one where you keep your mouth shut and your hands busy. Or to yourself.”

Cassian lets out a rough laugh. “I don’t remember signing that contract.”

“You didn’t have to,” she says simply. “You agreed the moment you walked into this place and claimed my time.”

That gets him to quiet.

Nesta turns back to her drink, lets the moment breathe, lets the weight of it settle between them. 

“If you ask me to say something real, I might start wanting things I can’t have,” she says, voice soft now. She doesn’t even know why she gives voice to these thoughts.

His voice is rough when he answers. “Like what?”

“Like someone who doesn’t see me as something to be handled,” she murmurs. “Or saved.”

Cassian’s expression hardens, not in anger, but in something else. Something more dangerous.

“I don’t want to save you, Nesta,” he says. “I want to know you. That’s not the same.”

“No,” she says, and her voice is just above a whisper now. “It’s worse.”

She downs the rest of her drink. Stands.

Cassian watches her, gaze unreadable.

“Goodnight,” she says, not meeting his eyes.

The night clings to her skin like sweat, like smoke. Nesta leaves Cassian’s booth with a saunter she doesn’t feel. Her heels click with purpose across the sticky floor, her black bodysuit grating against her sensitive skin, and her garters biting into the soft give of her thighs.

She doesn’t look back, but she feels it—his stare, heavy and heated, tracking her through the haze and neon. And she hates that she knows it. Hates even more how her body responds to it.

She doesn’t stop moving until she’s behind the locked door of the dressing room, until the walls stop being full mirrors and become just paint and plaster and noise muffled behind layers. Only then does she allow herself to lean against the dressing table, the wood cool beneath her palms. She meets her reflection.

Nesta looks composed and aloof, but on the inside, she’s burning.

Her body remembers his touch from the night before. The way his fingers trembled just slightly when they trailed along her waist. The way his voice caught when he begged her to let him taste, and how her nipple had hardened beneath his mouth, her breath catching on a moan she hadn't meant to give him.

And gods, when she stopped—when she pulled back and left him there, his jaw clenched, chest rising fast like he was drowning in her—something cracked in her chest.

She had to.

Because that wasn’t just pleasure. It wasn’t just money. And if she lets herself feel it… if she gives him any more, she might not come back from it.

The worst part is that she wants to give him everything.

They walk home in silence for a while. The moon is half a sliver in the sky, like it's been carved open and left to bleed. It matches Nesta’s mood. Emerie, still in her stage lashes and a hoodie, sips her sports drink and glances sideways.

“You were on fire tonight,” Emerie says eventually. “The chair number? Fucking hot.”

Nesta shrugs, zipping her coat all the way up. “It did the job.”

Emerie huffs. “You saw him watching you, didn’t you?”

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb, babe.” Emerie kicks a loose pebble ahead of them, watching it skitter. “You faltered in the middle of your routine. Your transitions never break like that. And then suddenly you’re dancing like you’ve got a vendetta and decide to ignore him all night. But I saw you walk over.”

Nesta doesn’t respond. She focuses on the chill of the air biting her cheeks, the ache in her thighs from holding her poses too long, too tight.

“Are you gonna tell me what the deal truly is with this guy?”

“He’s a customer,” Nesta says flatly.

“Sure. And I’m a nun.”

Nesta stops walking. Her voice, when it comes, is colder than the wind. “He’s good money. That’s all. So yes, I dance for him. I sit in his booth. But I’m not stupid, Emerie. I don’t catch feelings.”

Emerie’s brows rise, skeptical. “I never said you were stupid.”

“You were thinking it.”

“No,” Emerie says carefully. “I’m thinking you’re scared. Which, fine. But don’t lie to yourself and say he’s just money. Not when you’re toeing the line. Not when you have that look in your eyes.”

Nesta turns her face away.

They walk the rest of the way in silence again.

Sleep doesn’t come easy.

She showers until her fingers prune, until her muscles loosen just enough to collapse onto her pullout. But she doesn’t close her eyes. She lies still, limbs spread like she’s been dropped onto the mattress and left there.

The city hums outside the window, a low vibration beneath everything.

Nesta stares at the ceiling. Thinks of the way his eyes darkened, the way his hand curled around the garter strap and tugged—just slightly. Not rough. Not like a man trying to take.

He didn’t ask for more. Not really. Just her time. Her presence. Her body, sure. But also… her.

And that’s the part that rattles her.

That’s the part that keeps her awake, long after Emerie has gone quiet in the next room and the moon has disappeared behind the skyline.

Two more days. Two more days and then she has a blessed day off. 

It’s busy for a Sunday. 

The crowd is loud tonight—louder than usual, a thrum of drunken excitement humming through the air, anticipation thickening like smoke in the flashing red and violet lights.

Nesta hears it from her dressing room. That buzz. That hunger. She knows, before Emerie even lifts her chin at her through the mirror, that the crowd is here for something more.

Something decadent.

“Ready?” Emerie says, her voice low and wicked as she adjusts her bra one last time. Her outfit is nothing but straps and lace and skin kissed with golden body glitter that glints under the fluorescents.

Nesta pulls on her sheer robe, its sleeves grazing her wrists, a similar set underneath. “Let’s make them beg.”

Their set begins with a walk up the stage. They circle each other. 

Cassian’s already in his booth. Nesta sees him instantly, his massive frame sprawled lazily across the velvet cushions, legs open wide, head tilted to watch. He’s in a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled up in a bun.

He watches her like a man starved.

Nesta returns her attention to Emerie, who circles her once before pushing up against her back. One of her arms circles her waist. She hooks a finger in one of Nesta’s robe ties and tugs, hard. The robe flutters to the stage. The crowd reacts with hollering and groans, and Nesta revels in it. She smirks and turns, showing off her ass in the barely-there thong as she saunters toward the chair that stands center stage.

Emerie pushes her into it.

The music is all bass, dark and slow. Emerie moves behind her, one leg draped over the chair, foot between Nesta’s spread thighs. Her hands skim Nesta’s sides, soft at first, then bold—over mesh and heated skin, fingers trailing up toward Nesta’s throat, angling her in the way she wants.

Nesta lets her head drop back onto Emerie’s shoulder.

Their chemistry is dangerous, rehearsed and razor-sharp. But tonight, it’s not just for show. Nesta leans into it. Lets her body move with the music, arching under Emerie’s grip. She runs a hand down her own thigh, fingers sliding along the high cut of her thong.

Emerie lowers her mouth to Nesta’s neck, and the crowd loses it. Whistles and groans ring through the air while Nesta gives in to the feel of Emerie’s lips on her skin, tilting her neck.

Nesta opens her eyes, gazing through her lashes towards that one booth. 

Cassian is still. His hand is curled around a glass, but he hasn’t taken a sip. His eyes are fixed on Nesta—no, on the space between Nesta and Emerie, where the air is thick with suggestion, with something hotter, more wicked.

Nesta bites her lip and opens her legs just a little wider.

Emerie turns to stand in front of her and bends down between them. Not quite touching, but the illusion is enough.

Nesta closes her eyes and tilts her hips forward, a controlled movement that looks like a surrender. It isn’t. She’s directing the show, even now. Especially now. Emerie grabs her thighs and spreads them even wider, curling her body over Nesta until their lips almost touch. She turns around and grinds her ass down in Nesta’s lap, bending forward until she can grab her own ankles. Nesta let’s her hand come down on Emerie’s perfect cheek with a resounding smack. 

The money rains down.

One man throws a full stack at the stage. Another slaps bills onto the edge. The crowd is drunk on it—the beauty, the tension, the fantasy of two women who know exactly how to make the room fall to its knees.

In one fluent movement, Emerie stands up and takes Nesta with her, switching positions until she’s on the chair, pulling Nesta along to straddle her thigh. Nesta rolls her hips once, grinding down, and Emerie lifts her knee, guiding Nesta’s movement with an arm around her waist. The lights catch on their bodies, on sweat-slick skin, and Nesta throws her head back and moans. It’s not entirely for show, and Emerie knows it, judging from the sly smirk pulling at her lips.

Emerie stands up and turns again, pushing Nesta into the chair and straddling her. Nesta can’t help but admit that she likes being handled roughly like that. 

Emerie cups her jaw. She leans in. Their mouths don’t meet—but it’s close. So close that Nesta can feel Emerie’s breath against her lips.

It’s almost too much.

But Nesta holds her pose, lips parted, chest heaving with a rhythm that’s a little too frantic to be part of the routine. She knows the crowd sees her flushed. Knows Cassian sees her wrecked, breathless.

When she finally stands, when she steps out of the chair and spins slowly to let the crowd get one last full view, she lets her eyes find him again.

He’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, the muscles in his jaw clenched tight.

Nesta smirks.

She doesn’t acknowledge him again. Not yet.

Let him wait.

They hit the dressing room breathless. Emerie throws herself into the nearest armchair with a dramatic groan.

“Fuck,” she says, grinning. “That was too good.”

Nesta only hums in response. Her pulse is still pounding.

“I would fuck you right now if we weren’t on the clock.”

“Em!” Nesta huffs out a laugh. 

She peels off the sheer robe and swaps the mesh set for a red lacy set, low-cut, barely decent even by their standards. Straps wrap around her thighs and across the swell of her breasts.

Nesta knows that Emerie is only joking. It’s not like they haven’t had their fun in the past. But that’s all behind them. It’s what makes them work so well. It’s what makes them such good friends. 

“What? You can’t fault a girl for lusting after a goddess.”

“I’ll circle the bar,” she mutters, pulling the robe back on.

Emerie raises a brow. “You okay?”

Nesta shrugs. “Just need to move.”

But it’s a lie.

She’s not looking to work the room. She’s looking for him .

The club is a blur of drunken laughter, glitter, music, and lust. Nesta’s deliberately taking her time to make her way over to him.

Her hair’s mussed from the performance, her skin glowing, sweat-sheened, haloed in the stage’s heat and attention.

Cassian isn’t prepared.

Not for the way she stalks toward his booth like a slow unraveling, one foot in that world of performance and one in something else entirely. A flick of her eyes, and he’s done for. The hunger in his gaze laid bare.

She loves it. He sees it in the sharp, wicked curve of her mouth. The satisfaction. The thrill of power.

Nesta slides into his booth like sin incarnate, but it’s the confidence that hits him hardest. The absolute command of her body, her breath, of the heat between them that’s been crackling for five long, charged nights. She’s learned him, he thinks. Memorized the way to hold his attention hostage and turn his restraint into ruin.

“You liked the show?” she asks, voice a drawl, dragging over him like a blade wrapped in velvet.

Cassian’s voice is a little too rough. “What kind of question is that, sweetheart?”

Her smile deepens, the tip of her tongue just brushing her top lip. She stretches beside him, legs angled toward his, one healed foot nudging his calf, sliding up his leg. She reaches for his glass and takes a slow sip, leaving crimson lips behind on the rim.

“Did you have a favorite part?” she asks idly, then leans in—just enough that the swell of her breasts brushes his forearm. His jaw flexes.

“The part where you made every man in this place forget his own name.” He glances at her sidelong. “The part where you looked at me, and only me.”

Nesta hums. “Careful. It’ll start to sound like you care.”

He doesn’t respond at first. Just looks at her. Long enough for something to shift between them, the air going still and heavy.

“I do care,” he says at last. Quietly. Intentionally. “More than I should.”

She blinks. That, she hadn’t expected. A crack in the armor.

Cassian smirks. “I actually didn’t expect you to join me tonight.”

Nesta shrugs. “I’m on the clock.”

“Should I tip you, then?”

“If you feel like it.”

“Maybe you should make me feel like it.”

She doesn’t answer, but the challenge is clear in her eyes. She crosses her legs slowly, letting the strap pull tight against her thigh.

Cassian’s eyes flick down.

She leans closer. “Are you disappointed , Cassian? That we’re out here and not in one of the private rooms?”

His hand twitches where it rests on the leather seat.

“That you’re not allowed to touch. That it’s only Emerie who got a taste of my skin this evening?”

“How could I not be,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the edge of her thigh, just above the strap. Enough to make her breath hitch. “You taste so delectable, I haven’t been able to think of much else.”

She lets him touch. Just like that. One stroke, two. Her hand stays flat on the table, her jaw hard, resisting her own reaction. But her body shifts toward him, infinitesimally.

“Tell me to stop,” he says.

Nesta doesn’t. She uncrosses her legs instead. He brushes along the edge of the strap to the inside of her thigh. She widens her legs in response, and Cassian makes a low sound deep in his throat. 

Cassian lets the silence stretch. Then he leans in, voice low. “You looked like you were going to come on stage tonight.” He brushes higher, dangerously close to where she’s aching. 

“I did it for the money,” she breathes.

He lifts a brow. “Not for me?”

Nesta says nothing. Her pulse is loud in her ears.

Cassian’s fingers move toward her upper thigh. He slides the pad of one finger higher, pushing the robe out of the way and brushing the lace of her panties. 

“I think you’re just as gone for me as I am for you,” he murmurs. His fingers slide down over the dampness gathering between her thighs.

She jerks away before he can say anything else. But not before he sees it—how her chest rises, how her pupils dilate.

He knows he got to her.

Knows she felt it.

She opens her mouth to reply—

And freezes.

Cassian swears silently when he follows her gaze.

“Didn’t know you were going out again tonight, brother,” Azriel says from beside the booth. His voice is calm, unreadable, but his eyes are sharp. He takes in Nesta, open robe and red lace beneath, the flushed skin, the static tension of something interrupted.

“Azriel,” Cassian says lowly.

“Who’s this?”

Nesta’s mask snaps back into place. She leans away from Cassian, lifting her chin, posture going full steel and ice. “He invited me over for company.”

Azriel’s gaze shifts to Cassian.

“Did he now?”

Cassian clears his throat, straightens. “This is a free country, Az. I don’t need permission to have some fun.”

“I didn’t say you did,” Azriel says mildly. “I’m just surprised. Usually you’re not into girls who... charge for their attention.”

Nesta’s eyes flash, but she smiles. Cold, stunning. “Don’t worry, he gets his money’s worth.”

She stands abruptly. She pulls the robe closed and turns, walking off into the dark velvet haze of the club.

Cassian exhales through his nose. “Was that necessary?”

Azriel crosses his arms. “Depends. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Cassian bites. “It’s nothing.”

Azriel stares. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

Cassian doesn’t answer. He’s watching her disappear, feeling the shape of her heat like a ghost on his fingertips.

He doesn’t know if he’ll see her again tonight.

But he knows what he wants, and he’s afraid his brother’s right.

The moment Nesta walks away, her hands start to shake.

Not visibly. Not enough for anyone to see. But enough for her to feel it in her bones, beneath her skin, a phantom tremor that won’t stop.

The hallway behind the stage is quiet. The noise of the club dulls behind closed doors, the thrum of bass softened to a heartbeat. She leans her back against the wall and presses her palms flat against her thighs to still them.

She can still feel him on her. The heat of his hand where it touched the strap. The feel of his fingertips between her legs. The rasp of his voice when he told her he cared. More than he should.

Bastard.

She should have laughed. Should have leaned in and said something cutting. Should have kept it simple. But he’d said it like he meant it, and that was worse than any touch. Worse than the heat between her legs, worse than the aching pull in her chest that’s been growing since the first night he walked in.

What the hell is he doing?

And why is she letting him?

Nesta closes her eyes. Breathes in deep. Holds it. Counts to five.

She should be heading to the dressing room. Should change out of the lace and into something that doesn’t make her feel like she’s been flayed open. She should call it a night. But her legs won’t move.

Azriel’s voice still rings in her ears.

Usually you’re not into girls who charge for their attention.

She’d wanted to throw Cassian’s drink in his face.

But instead, she smiled. Because it’s easier to be cruel than to be wounded. Easier to be a blade than a bruise.

She had let Cassian touch her. Had leaned into it. Had all but curled against him like something soft and wanting. Stupid. Weak.

She leans against the wall, resting the back of her head against the peeling paint, and closes her eyes.

“Get your shit together, Archeron,” she whispers.

But the words ring hollow.

She hears footsteps behind her.

“Nes?” Emerie’s voice. Low, careful.

Nesta opens her eyes. “I’m fine.”

Emerie leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed. “You sure? Because you don’t look fine.”

Nesta doesn’t respond. She can’t.

Because if she opens her mouth, she might say something she can’t take back.

Emerie studies her for a moment. “I saw you with that guy again. He’s clearly obsessed with you. And pretty hot. You could do worse.”

Nesta gives her a flat look. “I’m not doing him.”

“Yet,” Emerie says lightly. “You just stripped for him in front of two hundred people, but sure, boundaries.”

Nesta looks away.

Emerie softens. “Hey. I’m not judging. I’ve seen what this job does to people. It’s easier when it’s just a performance. When no one sees you, really. But he seems to see you.”

Nesta hates that. Hates how  true  it feels. Hates that Cassian watches her like she’s more than just the sway of hips or flash of skin. Like she’s some puzzle he’s dying to solve.

She pushes off the wall. “I need water.”

“Yeah,” Emerie says, letting her go. “Or whiskey.”

Nesta walks down the corridor, leaving the stage lights behind. Her heels click like warning shots against the floor. The dressing room is ahead, the door slightly ajar.

Inside, she strips the lace from her skin slowly, like peeling off a mask she doesn’t want to need.

She doesn’t know what she wants. Not exactly. She only knows that she’s not done yet.

Not with him.

Not with what’s happening between them.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

Cassian has claimed her for tonight. He’d booked the private room before she even stepped into the club. Paid in advance, according to Devlon, who mutters it under his breath with something between a warning and a smirk.

It shouldn’t mean anything. Men book girls in advance sometimes—when they’ve got cash to burn and a hard-on that drives them insane. But it’s different because it’s him. Because it’s Cassian. Something soft and warm unfurls in her belly. He did this yesterday. While she was on stage or with other patrons or walking away from him—he decided. Chose her.

Something inside her stills at the realization. Like an anchor settling into the bottom of her stomach.

She doesn’t speak. Just gives Devlon a tight nod and walks on.

In the dressing room, she doesn’t even look at the glittered corsets or high-shine latex. She knows what she wants tonight.

Mesh and leather.

She peels out of her clothes slowly, methodically, like shedding the last of her true self. Her skin is cool under the fluorescent lights, and her reflection in the mirror is a thing of lethal beauty.

She pulls on the black mesh lingerie set first—thin straps framing her hips and breasts, sheer panels barely hiding anything at all. Then she pulls on the harness. Thick black straps hug her ribcage, wrap around her neck and sternum, cinch in her waist like fingers tightening. She threads the central strap down between her breasts, buckles the back.

When she’s done, she stares at herself in the mirror. Poised. Dangerous.

She walks to Room Four barefoot, silent. The air in the club is smoky, filled with smooth R&B tunes. Behind closed doors, the world changes shape.

The carpet is plush under her feet.

She walks to the center of the room and kneels. Back straight, thighs parted, hands resting on her knees, spine perfectly aligned. A visual promise.

She bows her head and waits.

Time ticks. Maybe five minutes. Maybe ten.

The door opens, and she hears him enter, the soft hush of boots on carpet, the breath he takes when he sees her.

“Nesta,” Cassian breathes. A single word. Rough. Reverent. His voice cracks around it.

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t move.

Silence stretches long and taut between them. She feels him. Feels the heat of his stare, the weight of his presence filling the room like a storm clouding the horizon.

He walks toward her—slow, unhurried steps that make her skin prickle.

His voice is quiet and rough-edged when he speaks again. “Look at me.”

She raises her eyes, and is met with pure heat.

Cassian takes her breath away. Tall, with broad shoulders, and a dark shirt stretched tight across his chest. His jaw is sharp and stubbled, clenched. His eyes are dark like coals, pupils blown.

Something shifts in his expression as he takes her in, kneeling for him like that. Not because she has to. Because she wants to. Because she’s handing him something no one else gets.

“Did you wear that for me?”

She nods, then adds, lowly, “Yes.”

He crouches in front of her. So close she can smell the warm spice of him, something woodsy beneath it. His eyes trace every strap, every bit of bare skin.

“Put your arms behind your back.”

She does. Slowly, she rests her wrists against the small of her back. Her pulse thrums in her neck. She breathes deeply.

“Open your mouth.”

She obeys.

He watches her—closely, hungrily. Then lifts two fingers to her lips. Pushes them in.

She closes her mouth around them. Her eyes never leave his.

“Good girl,” he says, low and wrecked.

She doesn’t know if it’s the praise or the act or the way his shoulders go rigid, but something inside her tightens. She sucks softly, lazily, as if to taunt him, as if to offer and deny in the same breath.

The intimacy of it is staggering. The way he watches her. The way her lips close around his skin. Her tongue grazes the pads of his fingers. Her pulse thunders in her throat.

His gaze sharpens. He doesn’t speak. Just watches her suck, slow and unhurried, lashes low.

When he pulls his fingers free, they glisten.

“Come here,” he murmurs. “Straddle my thigh.”

It takes effort not to shake. She rises, walks the short distance to the couch where he sits down, and climbs astride his thick, muscular thigh. The harness creaks faintly as she settles, the rough texture of his pants pressing against her through the thin mesh of her lingerie.

His hands don’t move, but his eyes devour her.

She breathes. Then shifts. A roll of her hips, light and testing.

Cassian exhales, deep and guttural.

“You came in here looking like this just to torture me, didn’t you?”

She smiles, slow and dangerous. “Perhaps. Perhaps I was also curious to see what you’d do when you’d be in charge.”

And gods, he takes it. He moves his hands to rest on her thighs like a grounding weight. He flexes beneath her.

“Go on then, sweetheart. You know what to do,” he growls. “Make yourself come all over my thigh.”

Nesta exhales roughly and rolls her hips again. Then again. Each movement drawing friction and heat, but not enough. She grinds down, chasing more. Her arms come forward for balance, grabbing his shoulders, forgetting his command to keep them behind her back.

Cassian clicks his tongue. His voice is wrecked when he speaks again. “Behind your back.”

She slides her hands away, laces them behind her spine.

He lifts one hand—slow, deliberate—and touches her lips again with his fingertips.

“Suck.”

She does. More eagerly now. Her eyes stay locked on his. Her are lips wet, her breath shallow. She lets her tongue curl and her jaw slacken, giving him everything he asks for and more.

He watches her. Unblinking.

Then he trails those same fingers down the center of her chest, over the curve of her breast, into the cup of her bra.

He cups her, his palm firm, and squeezes just enough to make her gasp. Her rhythm falters.

“Keep going,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop.”

She rocks harder now, chest heaving, pleasure licking down her spine like lightning in slow motion.

Then his wet fingers circle her nipple. He flicks, circles, teases the sensitive peak until she can’t keep it in anymore.

Her moan breaks the silence when he pinches.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Such a good girl for me.”

Nesta shudders and moves, chasing the heat building in her core, but her control slips. The pressure crests—too much and not enough all at once—and her hips stutter, her breath catching in her throat.

Cassian sees it. Feels it.

Suddenly, strong, calloused palms clamp around her hips, fingers digging into the leather harness where it curves over her waist. He holds her in place for a beat. Then he moves her.

Guides her.

Up, then down. Slow. Intentional. Then again.

The way he moves her is rough and reverent, like he’s worshipping her with the act of it. Like he’s the only one who gets to see her like this—undone, lost, desperate for the edge.

Each movement presses her harder against his thigh, the friction sending sparks up her spine. Her breath turns to whimpers. Her hands stay behind her back, trying her best to keep them locked and still.

Her body arches. Her thighs tense. Pleasure starts to unravel in her belly, tight and overwhelming.

“Come for me,” Cassian murmurs. His voice is sandpaper. “Just like that. Let go.”

She doesn’t even have time to answer. Doesn’t even have breath.

He moves her one more time—and she breaks.

The orgasm seizes her with a quiet, devastating violence. Her body jolts. Her lips part in a silent cry as waves of heat and tension ripple through her. Her spine bows, but Cassian holds her steady, grounding her against the storm crashing through her.

And then he catches her mouth with his.

Their first kiss crashes into her like a wave against stone—brutal and breathless, all teeth and heat and shock. She gasps against him. He drinks it in. His tongue licks into her mouth, deep and claiming, and it’s not gentle, not soft—it’s ruinous.

It’s the kind of kiss you don’t walk away from the same. The kind that fundamentally changes you.

He kisses her like it’s all he’s thought about since the moment she first looked at him with those cold, daring eyes. Like he’s drowning in the taste of her. Like if she pulled away now, he’d shatter.

Nesta kisses him back like she’s never done with anyone before.

Like she means it.

Like this, finally, is the thing she’s been trying not to need, but appears to be her oxygen.

She moans into his mouth, helpless against the onslaught of sensations. It’s nothing like she imagined. It’s everything all at once. Mouths colliding, heat and hunger and something else beneath it—desperation. Awe. The terror of getting what you want and not knowing what to do with it.

Their bodies are still pressed tight. Her thighs are trembling around his thigh. The moment stretches out, slower now. Messy. Breathless. Reverent.

Her orgasm unravels in silence, prolonged in tension, in the way her hips stutter and her breath shudders and her hands finally break from behind her back to clutch at him.

She breaks apart.

He holds her through it.

He holds her steady through the aftershocks.

When she finally exhales, eyes closed, mouth swollen from his, it’s not surrender anymore.

It’s something deeper. Something that tastes like possession and feels like fate.

The air in the room is thick with heat, breath, and things unsaid. She rests her forehead against his, breaths tangling, the echo of her climax still rippling between them.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says softly. It makes her chest unbearably tight.

Cassian’s hand are still on her hip, thumbs pressing softly into the curve of her flesh, anchoring her.

His voice is quieter than she’s ever heard it—low and careful. “Please let me come back tomorrow.”

Nesta pulls back slightly, lids heavy but alert. “I don’t work Tuesdays.”

“Then come to my place.”

He looks at her when she stays silent, eyes searching. “Please, Nesta.”

Her breath catches in her throat. He doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he does and just gives her space to think. The lights are still dim around them, creating a soft bubble. One of his thumbs sweeps down her hip, deliberate, coaxing.

“Cassian—” she starts, but her throat is dry.

“I’ll pay you,” he says gently, like he’s trying not to insult her. “Whatever your rate for that type of thing is. Just name it.”

That makes her blink. Her back straightens just a little. “That’s not—”

“I just want you comfortable.” He leans in again, brushing her temple with his mouth. “I don’t want you thinking it’s charity. Or pressure. I just want to see you.”

See you. Not fuck you. Not use you. See you.

Her voice is small when it comes. “Why?”

Cassian doesn’t hesitate. “Because when I’m not near you, it feels like I’m untethered. Like nothing makes sense.”

That should be a line. It probably is, but something in his voice guts her anyway.

She says nothing for a long time.

“Name the price, Nesta.”

“Three thousand,” she says finally, her walls slowly coming back up.

“Done.”

The next day is the longest of her life.

Nesta wakes too early and too aware. Her body aches in places she didn’t know could ache, but it’s not just physical. It’s nerves. The kind that hum under the skin. She spends the day flitting between distraction and obsession—cleaning her apartment, folding and unfolding laundry, reading her book, deleting and redownloading dating apps, only to close them immediately. She can’t even fool herself.

It’s not like she hasn’t done this before. She used to do escort gigs. Intimacy as transaction. Pleasure for pay. She’s used to being wanted for her body and nothing more.

But not like this. Not with someone who looks at her like she’s not just the act, but the aftermath too. Like she’s everything he’ll ever want.

She hasn’t done this in years. Not since Tomas. The memory hits hard and fast—his hands too tight on her wrists, the way his smile shifted mid-session, the realization that she hadn’t been paid to say no.

She has said no to a lot of things since then. And yet, Cassian seems to barrel right past her defenses.

And yet, she finds herself getting ready at eight p.m.

Emerie’s arms are crossed when Nesta walks into the kitchen, looking for something light to eat.

“You’re going.” Emerie doesn’t phrase it as a question.

Nesta nods. “I am.”

Emerie sighs, eyes scanning her face like she’s trying to find the crack in the surface she can peer through. “Are you sure?”

Nesta shrugs, brushing past her to grab a bowl from the cabinet. “He invited me. And he’s paying.”

“Nes...” It’s not judgment. Just concern, laced with something heavier.

“I’ll send the location when I get there.”

“You better.” Emerie moves to lean against the counter, watching her. “And Nesta—if you so much as flinch—if anything feels off—”

“I know,” Nesta cuts in softly. “You’ll come get me.”

Emerie doesn’t look away. “I’m serious. I don’t care if it’s midnight or dawn. I’ll be there.”

“I know,” Nesta says again, voice barely above a whisper. She does know. Of all the things she doesn’t believe in, Emerie’s loyalty isn’t one of them.

There’s a beat of silence before Emerie adds, quieter now, “Just be careful, babe. He might not be Tomas. But he’s still a man.”

Emerie moves to stand in front of Nesta. She brushes a strand of hair from Nesta’s face. Nesta stills. “It’s different, this time.”

“You said that before,” Emerie says gently.

A pause. Then, barely audible, “I know.”

Later, when Emerie is in her room, Nesta double-checks her overnight bag. Lip balm. Lube. Condoms. She’s not new to this. But her fingers still tremble when she applies perfume to her collarbone and behind her ears.

At 10:53 p.m., she orders the car.

Cassian’s building is tall and old, reworked into expensive brick and black steel. The kind of place with character and too much square footage. When she rings the bell, his voice crackles through the intercom.

“Come on up. Top floor. Elevator’s on the left.”

The elevator smells like cedar. The ride is too fast. She only just manages to send Emerie her location before it dings, announcing its arrival.

When the door opens, Cassian’s already standing in the hallway. White t-shirt, dark jeans. His raven hair is curling, unruly strands tucked behind his ears. His skin smells like soap and heat and something unmistakably male.

“Nesta,” he says, smiling softly. He seems nervous. His muscles are coiled tight with anticipation. Something about that makes her nerves disappear. She schools her expression into the familiar cool mask, and steps inside with a smirk.

“Hello,” she says slowly, voice sultry.

She shrugs off her coat and kicks off her heels in the foyer, revealing long legs, bare thighs beneath a black miniskirt that clings to her like a second skin. Her camisole is soft and thin, the pale pink lace hugging her tightly, the coverage more suggestion than anything. Delicate. Deceiving.

“Nervous?” she asks, walking further into the apartment.

Cassian tilts his head. “Should I be?”

A smile ghosts across her lips. “Maybe.”

Cassian follows her, quiet and watchful.

She claims the edge of his couch like a throne, her back straight, her knees slightly apart. She watches him for a long moment, eyes heavy-lidded, unreadable. Then, voice smooth as silk, she speaks up.

“Some ground rules first.”

Cassian hums in response.

“There are safe words we should use when we’re going to do this. A color system. Green means go. Keep going. Orange means slow down, check in. Red means stop—immediately, completely, no questions.”

“Sounds good, sweetheart.”

“Good. Now get on your knees.”

He blinks once, before he obeys without a word.

The moment stretches, slow and thick between them as he sinks to the rug in front of her. The sound of his jeans rustling is the only noise in the room. He settles between her parted thighs, his hands resting on his own. Waiting. Breath steady, but his gaze burns. Burning for her.

She keeps her eyes on his when she reaches down with both hands and drags her skirt up and over her hips, slowly. Deliberate. Until the fabric bunches at her waist, revealing the lacy pink thong that sits snug against her hips, matching her camisole. The fabric is nearly translucent. Flimsy. Soft like rose petals. A delicate barrier. A silent dare.

She watches him watch her.

Then she leans back slightly, bracing herself on her hands. Legs spreading just a little wider.

The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the city through the windows and the sound of their breathing. Hers is controlled and steady, while his is rougher, like he’s holding back.

Cassian’s gaze dips. Stays.

“Take it off,” he murmurs, voice gravel.

Nesta raises a brow. “That’s not your decision tonight.”

The muscle in his jaw ticks. A shudder rolls visibly through him.

“What do you want, sweetheart?”

“I want your mouth on me. Eat me out, Cassian.”

Cassian doesn’t hesitate. His hands slide up the backs of her thighs, thumbs grazing her skin in a soft caress. He presses a kiss to her knee first—soft, almost chaste. Then higher. Then again, just beside the lace, as if asking one final time for permission.

Nesta leans further back against the couch, and with one deliberate motion, she shifts the thin strip of fabric aside.

“What’s your color, Cassian?”

“Green,” he says, breathless. “Very, very green.”

“Good boy. Go on.”

Cassian groans softly, before he leans in.

The first flick of his tongue is exploratory, slow, almost maddening in its gentleness. He maps her, every part of her, with reverence.

“Gods,” she breathes, her voice already wrecked.

Cassian groans in return, like the taste of her undoes him.

His fingers tighten around her thighs, keeping her open for him, spreading her wider as his mouth works her with growing intent.

Nesta’s head tilts back. The stretch of her throat gleams in the dim light, delicate and defiant all at once.

She doesn't make much noise, but her body tells him everything. The way she arches just a little further. The way her breath slips out in uneven bursts. The way her fingers curl into the cushions.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers.

His groan is muffled against her skin.

She threads a hand into his thick, dark hair and tightens her grip, keeping him in place. “That’s it. Just like that,” she breathes.

Cassian moans again, the sound vibrating against her, and she lets her thighs fall wider, offering herself to him. He follows her lead like it’s instinct, like it’s worship. He sucks her clit into his mouth and works her, making her breath burst out of her.

At some point, when she’s panting, hips twitching forward involuntarily, she speaks again—breathless but firm. “Touch yourself.”

He hesitates only a second, and then one of his hands fumbles down between them. The sound of his zipper sliding down is obscenely loud in the quiet room, followed by the slick sound of skin on skin. His mouth leaves her for only a breath.

Her eyes flutter open. She looks down at him—mouth wet, face flushed, one hand wrapped around himself as he ruts into his palm, the other hand still gripping her thigh like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

“Don’t you dare come,” she says sharply.

He chokes on a breath. “I won’t,” he manages, jaw clenched. “Not before you.”

She gives him a satisfied nod, thumb tracing his jaw. “Such a good boy. Now, don’t make me wait.”

That breaks something in him. He lets out a ragged sound and buries his face deeper between her legs, licking, sucking, desperate now to give her what she asked for—what she ordered.

And Nesta is close.

So close.

Her thighs begin to tremble. Her hips stutter.

She falters for a moment, her usual control fraying.

Cassian senses the shift instantly. The hand still on her thigh slides up, gripping her hip more firmly, guiding her, pulling her against his mouth in steady, precise movements until she’s there again, perched on the edge of climax.

She feels it. She fights it. But when Cassian scrapes her clit with just the barest hint of teeth she’s pulled over the edge, unable to stop the sound she makes. A gasp that evolves into a low whine.

A sound of unraveling.

She breaks apart on his tongue, thighs clenching around his head, hand still gripping his hair like she’ll never let go.

Cassian doesn’t stop until her tremors subside. He can’t breathe fully, but he couldn’t care less at this point.

Only when her muscles relax does she lift his chin with two fingers. His mouth is wet with her release, a blush high on his cheeks, and when their eyes meet, there’s something new there—tenderness, awe, and wreckage, like he’s barely holding himself together. He’s beautiful.

She doesn’t speak.

Just leans in slowly and kisses him. She tastes herself on his tongue and moans softly.

It sears through them both like lightning—slow and hot and earned. Not taken. Not claimed. Given.

When they part, he’s panting heavily, barely holding on. She looks down between their bodies. His cock is hard and flushed in his hand, weeping, slick with his own need.

She smirks. “Now you may come,” she whispers.

Cassian groans, his head falling to her shoulder as he fucks his fist once, twice, and then spills into his hand, undone by the woman curled around him.

They stay like that for a long moment—tangled, breathless, trembling.

Nesta guides him back up and brushes her thumb over his cheekbone, then slides it lower—to his lips, still swollen and glistening. She presses gently. He parts for her instinctively, and she slips her thumb into his mouth.

He moans.

It’s not about the act itself. It’s the meaning layered into it—the power exchanged, the trust pulsing between them.

She holds his gaze now. “You liked that, didn’t you?”

He nods, her thumb still resting against his tongue.

“Say it.”

“I liked it,” he says, hoarse, mouth full of her. “I liked tasting you. I like doing what you tell me. I like pleasing you.”

Nesta’s breath hitches, barely. But he notices.

They’re not quite lovers, but it’s not just a transaction anymore either.

Something else.

Something more.

The room is thick with the scent of sex and something quieter—something warmer.

Cassian leans back on his heels between her knees, breath still ragged, lips slick with her. Nesta remains seated on the edge of the couch, camisole slightly rumpled, straps fallen down her shoulders, pink lace clinging damply to her hips. Her skin glows in the low light, flushed and radiant.

She studies him for a long moment. Watches the tension in his arms, the way his chest rises and falls, the silent reverence in his eyes.

Then, with slow deliberation, she stands.

“Show me to the bathroom,” she says softly.

Cassian rises without a word, taking her hand and leading her through the darkened apartment. The space is minimal, masculine—rich leathers, dark wood, cool greys and navy. But the bathroom is another world entirely. It’s all white marble, a large shower with a rainfall head, glass walls misting over from steam as he turns the faucet on. The room floods with warmth.

Nesta shimmies out of her miniskirt before she steps into the fog.

Cassian watches her for a beat.

She stands under the stream, eyes closed, face tilted toward the spray. Her camisole sticks to her skin, translucent now, outlining every curve, every heaving breath against the fabric. Water beads on her collarbones, runs in rivulets down the slope of her breasts, her stomach, her thighs.

Cassian exhales slowly, like he’s trying to calm himself.

“Touch me,” she says, eyes still closed.

He undresses quickly and steps in behind her.

His hands move slowly, reverently, sliding over her wet skin, over the soaked lace. He moves her hair out of the way and presses a kiss to the skin of her neck. She tilts her head to give him more access, humming softly. He turns her slowly and dips his head, pressing a kiss just above her heart. Then lower, mouth dragging heat down the center of her chest.

He sucks her nipple through the wet fabric—then pulls the camisole down, exposing her to the spray, to him.

His mouth latches around the peak, hot and greedy, grazing the sensitive skin with his teeth.

Nesta gasps, her head falling back against the slick tile.

His hands trace her waist, her hips, then slip between her thighs. He pulls her thong down her legs and discards it somewhere in the corner of the shower before he hooks one of her legs around his hip. His fingers explore her, until they find her entrance. One, then two, pushing gently inside, curling just right.

He moves them with slow intent, his other hand holding her steady as she starts to tremble again.

“Cassian—” she breathes, one hand clutching his shoulder, the other burying in his hair. She grinds down helplessly into his palm. He pushes it against her clit, letting her take what she needs.

“Let go for me,” he murmurs against her neck, mouth hot against her skin, his voice barely audible above the hiss of water. He curls his fingers just right and it’s everything she needs.

Her climax crashes over her, slick and hot and unrelenting. She cries out softly, and he swallows the sound with his mouth, tangling his tongue with hers, his fingers coaxing her through the final pulses.

When her legs begin to give out, he catches her.

She clings to him for a moment beneath the spray, her forehead against his shoulder, their bodies pressed close, wet and warm and tethered.

Nesta lifts her head slowly. She meets his gaze, something unreadable flickering in hers.

“This feels…” she trails off.

Cassian says nothing—only brushes her soaked hair back from her face and nods, solemnly, as if he knows exactly what she means.

They towel off in silence, Nesta ridding herself of the last of her clothes, and it all feels charged.

By the time they reach the bedroom, it’s past midnight. She lets the towel fall from her body. Her hair is damp down her back, skin flushed and glistening from the water and the intimacy already shared. There’s no coyness, no performance.

The sheets are dark, the lighting low, and when Nesta climbs into his bed, Cassian follows with slow precision, like every movement is a promise not to rush her.

“Lay down,” she says, voice dark with lust.

He does as she says and she doesn’t hesitate. Her thighs bracket his hips as she straddles him, slow and sure, her palms pressing against his chest. His hands stay at his sides as she leans in, her breath brushing his jaw.

“I’m going to ride you,” she whispers.

Cassian’s response is low and husky. “Whatever you need, sweetheart.”

She reaches down between them, finds the length of him, thick and hot and hard against her hand. She strokes him once, twice, and he groans helplessly beneath her. She bends down to retrieve her bag and grab a condom, sliding it on. She guides him to her entrance, and slowly lowers herself down.

Inch by inch.

He stretches her, fills her, and she doesn’t rush it. Her breath comes in small, measured gasps. He’s bigger than she’s used to, tinging the stretch with the most delicious hint of sharpness. Her nails press into his chest, anchoring her. Cassian doesn’t move—he watches her face, the minute shifts in her expression, the tension in her thighs, the tremble in her hands.

It’s not just pleasure. It’s power. It’s pain, almost, in how much she wants to take it all, to prove she can.

When she’s fully seated, hips flush against his, they both let out a breath. His hands come to her thighs, gentle, grounding.

Nesta rolls her hips, eliciting a low, rough groan from Cassian.

The rhythm she finds is deliberate. Her eyes flutter, her lips part. Her movements are precise and calculated, each one building pressure where she wants it. She watches him watch her—eyes dark, jaw clenched, body straining not to thrust up into her.

But he waits. Lets her lead.

Until she falters.

Her knees start to tremble, and her pace stutters. Her head tips forward, and her rhythm becomes uneven. The tension in her thighs begins to shake loose.

Cassian’s hands slide up her hips, anchoring her.

“You’re close, aren’t you, Nes?” he murmurs, voice thick and hoarse.

She nods, a choked sound leaving her throat.

“I’ve got you.”

He shifts under her, plants his feet flat on the mattress, and starts to move.

Slowly at first—deep, dragging thrusts that lift her with each movement, then pull her down again. Her gasp is sharp, helpless. She grabs his shoulders, tries to keep control, but he’s too deep now, too steady, too good.

The angle is devastating.

He thrusts into her again, harder, watching the way her mouth falls open. Her head tips back and she moans. His hands are tight on her hips, holding her there, taking over only when she’s too far gone to hold herself together.

She splinters with a cry of his name when his thrust hits her exactly right, body going taut, then trembling above him.

Cassian doesn’t stop.

He thrusts up again and again, chasing the last tremors of her release, until she clenches hard around him and breaks a second time— shattered, unguarded.

That’s when he lets go.

With a ragged groan, he buries himself inside her, thrusting up one last time, spilling into the condom as she collapses forward against his chest. Their breaths tangle. Their skin sticks. Her hair is wet across on his skin, and his arms wrap around her instinctively.

No one speaks.

Not for a long moment.

But the silence doesn’t frighten either of them. It feels safe.

She stays curled on his chest as his breathing evens out beneath her, and he presses a kiss to her damp temple. Not possessive. Not even claiming.

Just grateful, and maybe something more.

Chapter Text

The morning light is muted, creeping in through half-closed blinds, pale gold over the bare chest she’s plastered against.

Nesta wakes with a start.

For a moment, she doesn’t know where she is. There’s warmth under her cheek, a steady, slow heartbeat beneath her ear, and the smell—sweat and spice and something distinctly masculine—grounds her before it knocks the breath out of her entirely.

Cassian.

Last night hits her like a brutal wave.

The memories surge, too sharp and too much all at once. The couch. The shower. The bed. Her on top, taking what she wanted. Him letting her. Until he’d taken over and—

Gods.

She aches in that deep, pleasant way. Her lips are still a little swollen when she touches them. Her heart is thudding too fast for the time of day.

Nesta peels away from his body like a guilty secret, careful not to disturb him. His arm is slung around her, but she manages to slip out from beneath it, barely breathing as she moves. He doesn’t stir. Just exhales a slow breath and shifts deeper into the mattress, like he’s got all the time in the world.

She doesn't.

The sheets slide away, revealing her bare skin, and she shivers. She pads to the bathroom on silent feet and finds her camisole balled near the sink. She picks it up, only to discover it's still damp—cool and limp in her hand. Her thong is even worse, crumpled in the corner of the shower, and she has to accept that this set is lost to the gods.

Nesta curses under her breath and looks around. There, on the floor next to a heap of towels, is Cassian’s t-shirt from last night. White, worn soft from too many washes. She hesitates for the briefest second before pulling it over her head. It falls just past her hips, grazing the sensitive skin. She doesn’t let herself think about how it smells like him. She finds her miniskirt and pulls it on, the hem almost disappearing beneath the shirt.

Heels. Coat. Bag.

She gathers them with silent efficiency, eyes flicking back to a sleeping Cassian once when she exits the bedroom with her bag on silent feet. He’s turned onto his side now, hair messy, one arm thrown across the width of the bed.

She should leave. Before she gets ideas. Before this becomes anything real.

She’s got her phone in hand, ride ordered and location set, and she’s just reaching for the door when—

“You know,” his voice rasps from the bed, low and sleep-rough and teasing, “technically, that’s my shirt. Walking out in it would be considered stealing.”

She freezes, caught in the act, hand on the doorknob.

Then slowly, very slowly, she turns.

Cassian’s propped up on one elbow, his hair an absolute mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looks unfairly good like this—rumpled and golden and amused. He’s smirking like the bastard he is.

“Why do you care about the shirt? It’s not like you can’t afford a new one,” she says, tone razor-sharp.

He gestures lazily to her. “It’s my favorite shirt.”

“Well, you did leave it in a heap on the floor.”

“Still mine.”

Nesta narrows her eyes. “Maybe you should’ve kept it safe if it’s such an important piece of clothing to you.”

“I didn’t think I needed to.” He yawns and stretches—a slow, deliberate roll of his big, bare body. “Didn’t expect you to vanish before I had the chance to tempt you with my eggs.”

She blinks. “Is that a euphemism?”

He grins. “Only if you want it to be.”

Nesta snorts despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still here,” he points out, cocking a brow. “Which means I have a shot at convincing you to stay.”

She bristles automatically. “Don’t make this a thing.”

“I’m offering you breakfast.”

“I don’t do breakfast.”

He hums. “You seemed to do dinner just fine last night. And dessert. And a midnight snack.”

“Cassian.”

His smile falters at the edges. “Alright. No jokes. I just… don’t want this to be weird.”

She gestures between them, sarcasm curling around her voice. “We already passed weird somewhere around the second orgasm.”

His mouth curves into something wicked, but there’s warmth beneath it. “Are you sure it wasn’t the third or the fourth?”

She glares. “Not helping.”

He sobers slightly. “Just sit. Five minutes. Have a coffee. You don’t even have to look at me.”

“You make it sound so tempting.”

“I’ll even make it awkward and silent, if that’s your thing.”

She huffs a breath and turns fully, leaning her back against the door. His shirt sways against her thighs. “You’re awfully chipper for someone who was practically dead to the world two minutes ago.”

“I sleep like a rock and wake up like a dog waiting for breakfast,” he says. “You, on the other hand, look way too sexy in my clothes.”

Nesta’s lips twitch despite herself. She tilts her head and runs a finger down her body, over the cotton of the shirt. “I like it. I might keep it. It’s very soft.”

“Sentimental,” he says. “And here I thought you were all hard edges.”

“I am,” she says, teasing gone from her tone. But the words don’t quite land with the force she wants them to.

It sobers her. A muscle ticks in her jaw. “Night’s over”

“I know,” he says, too gently.

He studies her for a long moment. “You’re allowed to stay, Nesta. Even if it’s just for coffee and uncomfortable small talk.”

Her throat tightens.

She hates that. The softness. The understanding. The way it makes her feel like he sees right through her.

“Don’t do that,” she says, sharper than she means to. “Don’t act like you know me.”

“I’m not,” he says calmly. “I’m only asking if you want to stay. Come on, Nesta. You already took my shirt, might as well rob me of my food.”

She doesn’t know what answer is forming. Doesn’t know what version of herself he’s speaking to—last night’s, reckless in the dark, or this morning’s, already armoring herself again.

“You don’t have to go,” Cassian says, quieter now. “Not unless you want to.”

It’s the gentleness in his tone that nearly undoes her. She can feel the catch in her breath, the sudden pressure behind her ribs. She doesn’t do mornings. She doesn’t do softness after sex.

But his shirt is warm against her skin, and he’s looking at her like he’d actually be over the moon if she stayed.

She hesitates against the door, fingers curling tighter around her bag and coat. Still unsure. Still half-wild with instinct to run.

“Just breakfast?” she asks, voice clipped but thin.

Cassian nods. “Just breakfast.”

She doesn’t believe him, but she relents anyway.

Cassian disappears into the kitchen the second she mutters a resigned, “Fine,” and drops her coat on the back of the couch. She stays standing for a moment longer, arms crossed as if anchoring herself, still wearing his damned shirt that smells like him. And sex.

Unfortunately, so does the whole damned apartment.

“Coffee?” he calls from the kitchen.

“Obviously.”

He snorts, then returns with two mugs—his plain black, hers with the faded image of a wolf howling at the moon. It’s chipped on the rim. She finds herself running her thumb over the crack as she takes it from him.

“You want food?” he asks, still shirtless but in sweatpants that hang suggestively low on his hips, moving around the kitchen with confidence. It’s infuriating how relaxed he is.

Nesta walks into the kitchen, hopping up on the kitchen isle, miniskirt riding dangerously high. She shrugs. “Depends. Is the food edible?”

Cassian shoots her a look over his shoulder. “I’ll have you know I make killer scrambled eggs.”

“That’s the bare minimum.”

“And toast.”

“Impressive.”

He grins and cracks eggs into a pan, humming under his breath. The entire thing feels painfully domestic.

Nesta sips her coffee, letting the heat settle in her chest. She watches the sun filter through the big windows, painting glittering patterns onto the hardwood floor. The tension between them doesn’t fade so much as shift into something quieter. Dangerous in a different way.

“You always cook breakfast for your guests?” she asks lightly.

Cassian doesn’t turn around. “Only the ones who steal my clothing and try to ghost me.”

“I wasn’t going to walk out onto the street with my tits on display. Besides, you caught me before I was able to step out the door.”

“I wish you would’ve.” His grin is wolfish. “Next time, try the fire escape.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

He turns around at that, leans against the counter. “No?”

“No.”

He eyes her for a beat, then picks up two plates and walks over to the kitchen table, setting them down with a flourish. “Well, until that sad future arrives—eat.”

She takes a seat and looks down. The eggs are fluffy. The toast is golden. There’s even sliced avocado.

“You’re a show-off,” she mutters, picking up a fork. “Is this… paprika?”

“Don’t insult me. It’s smoked paprika.”

Nesta bites into the toast and has to admit it’s good. They eat in silence for a moment, Cassian devouring his food like the wolf on her mug, Nesta picking delicately at hers but still finishing the entire plate.

When they both lean back, full and slightly dazed, Cassian looks at her like he’s been thinking about something for a while.

“So,” he says.

“No,” she says immediately.

He lifts a brow. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Yes I do.”

Cassian grins. “Humor me.”

“No.”

“Stay the week.”

Nesta laughs—sharp and incredulous. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a job. Because I have rent. Because I don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

She waves a hand toward him. “This. Sleepovers. Lingering morning-after breakfasts. You’re lucky I didn’t stab you and climb out the window.”

“I’m feeling very blessed right now.”

She glares.

Cassian sets down his mug. “Come on. One week. Just a week. I’ll cook. You can take the bed, I’ll take the couch. We can... coexist.”

Nesta snorts. “You? On the couch?”

He shrugs. “Fine, I’ll sleep in the bed with you, if you insist.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to do about my actual life during this fantasy week?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Name your price.”

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You say you can’t afford to miss work. So tell me what it costs.”

“I’m not—this isn’t—” She sputters. “You want to pay me?”

“I want you to stay,” he says simply. “If money’s the issue, we’ll make it not an issue.”

“You’re joking.”

He shakes his head. “Not even a little.”

She narrows her eyes. “I can’t. Devlon won’t let me miss a week.”

“Aren’t you allowed to go on a holiday? Take the week off.”

“I have rent. And I’m not exactly swimming in paid vacation, in case you forgot where we met.”

His gaze darkens. “I didn’t forget.”

“Then you know I can’t afford to skip shifts,” she says flatly.

Cassian leans in further, watching her with those burning hazel eyes. “Name your price.”

Her stomach dips.

“I’m not for sale,” she says, voice tight.

“I know.” His tone gentles. “I just want time with you, sweetheart. However I can get it. I’m not trying to buy you, Nesta. I just… want more time. With you. That’s all. I know it’s selfish. But I want it.”

She stares at him. Her pulse pounds in her throat.

The silence stretches.

“Come on, Nesta,” he says softly. “One week.”

She hesitates. Looks down at his shirt on her body, his cologne clinging to her skin.

“Don’t pretend like last night didn’t mean something,” he says softly.

Nesta looks down at her coffee. Then at the wolf mug. Then at his shirt again. Anywhere but him.

Gods.

She wants to say no again. She wants to walk out the door, keep her walls up, her heart locked tight.

What tumbles out instead is, “Double my daily salary, including four private dances per night.”

Cassian’s brows lift—but he nods. “Done.”

“And I want an omelet tomorrow.”

He gives her a lazy, wolfish grin. “You drive a hard bargain, sweetheart.”

One week.

One dangerous, impossible, stupid week.

“Fine,” she says, glaring at her empty plate.

His grin could have melted stone.

“Deal.”

Cassian hasn’t stopped watching her—not through coffee, not through breakfast, not through the slow, sinful way she licks her lips when she finishes her plate. He didn’t even flinch when she scowled and glared at him, when she fought his proposal until she didn’t. He looks like a man caught between awe and hunger, like he’s already imagining a dozen ways to ruin her across the kitchen island.

That’s why Nesta pushes back her chair with a subtle scrape, and slides off the seat. Her knees touch the cold hardwood floor as she sinks down beneath the table and crawls between his legs, pushing them wider.

Cassian startles, blinking down at her like he hasn’t quite processed what she’s doing. His eyes go wide. “What are you—”

“I figured I better get started on my week,” she says, voice cool and wicked.

His breath punches out of him, sharp and low. The mug in his hand stills mid-air.

She eases her palms up his thighs, feeling the tension ripple beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants. His whole body goes taut, like he’s trying not to twitch, not to give anything away. But the sharp inhale when she noses along the waistband, licking a trail up his abs, betrays him.

“Are you going to stop me?” she asks, looking up.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at her with that same awe, something reverent and filthy brewing in those gold-flecked eyes.

That’s answer enough.

Nesta tugs the drawstring loose, and lowers the waistband just enough to free him. He’s already thickening under her touch, half-hard and getting harder, flushed and heavy. She wraps one hand around the base, and gives one testing stroke, letting her thumb brush just under the tip, and Cassian groans—low and strained.

“Fucking gods,” he murmurs.

Nesta licks a slow stripe along the underside of him, and Cassian’s head tips back slightly. When she closes her mouth over him, lips stretching, cheeks hollowing, he slams his fist onto the table with a muted thud.

She hums around him in delight, the vibration pulling another curse from his lips. His free hand slides into her hair, not pushing, just curling there, like he needs the anchor more than she does.

She sets a rhythm—unhurried, deliberate. Her mouth glides over him, her hand following the wet trail of her lips. She takes her time, adjusting the depth, the pressure, the suction of her mouth. She watches the tension build in his thighs, listens for the way his breath turns ragged, feels how his hips shift almost imperceptibly, held back by sheer force of will.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasps.

She pulls back slightly, teasing the tip with her tongue, then sinks down again—slow, controlled. Her eyes find his, and when he looks down and sees her watching him like that, lips wrapped around him, her eyes gleaming with mischief, something fractures in his expression.

The table creaks as his grip tightens on the edge.

She doesn’t let up. She wants to break him—wants to be the one to take that cocky, unflinching confidence and turn it into something guttural and undone. She flattens her tongue and swirls it as she pulls back, then takes him deep again. Again.

His thighs tremble. The hand in her hair tightens.

“Fuck,” he chokes, low and wrecked.

Her hand works what her mouth can’t, fingers slick from her spit. She moans around him — not for show, but because the rawness of it, the stretch and ache in her jaw, the power of it, turns her on. She’s wet. Throbbing.

Cassian’s fist is clenched tight on the table now. She can feel the tension radiating through him like a storm barely contained.

“Nesta,” he rasps, “fuck, you feel so fucking good.”

She hums again, and the vibration makes his hips jerk.

She takes him even deeper, relaxing her throat and taking him to the back of it. She pushes until her nose brushes the curls of his happy trail, her eyes fluttering shut and her throat constricting. She chokes, just slightly. But she holds. Endures. Uses both hands to steady herself, to keep from pulling away. She lets the tears spill over her lashes, lets spit drip onto her fingers.

Cassian’s hand finds her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly beneath her eye.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he says, voice breathless.

She bobs her head faster now, twisting her wrist in tandem, and it undoes him. His breath hitches. His abs flex. And then he’s coming, hard and hot against her tongue, hips jerking despite himself. She swallows everything, keeps going even as he twitches, until his head falls forward and his breath stutters out of him in a long groan.

When she finally pulls back, she wipes her mouth, licking the corner of her lips with an almost smug little flick of her tongue. She smooths her hair where his fingers mussed it. Her gaze flicks up.

Cassian is slouched in the chair, boneless and dazed. He stares at her like she’s just rewritten the laws of reality.

Nesta leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth. Her voice is silk-wrapped sin when she says, “Thank you for breakfast.”

Cassian’s still sitting, one hand braced flat on the table, chest heaving, trying to compose himself. His other arm dangles at his side like he forgot how to use it.

“I’ll clean up,” he murmurs after a long moment, his voice half-raw.

Nesta’s already rising, smoothing her skirt down her thighs as she swallows once, then again. She doesn’t answer. Just turns and walks barefoot into the living room.

The soft hum of him gathering plates and cutlery follows her, but she doesn’t look back. She exhales slowly, dragging a hand through her hair as she surveys the space—large windows, cracked open to let in the breeze, with linen curtains shifting gently. Exposed brick. Hardwood floors worn in places. A battered couch that somehow still manages to look like something from a catalog. A record player in the corner. The whole apartment is a little too lived-in to be curated, but everything still looks expensive. It’s warm. Nothing like the cramped one-bedroom she shares with Emerie, where the kitchen faucet always leaks and the neighbors scream at each other every Thursday and fuck on Saturday.

She stands in the middle of the room, arms folded over her chest and looks around like she’s seeing it for the first time.

She wonders if she could live like this for a week

She catches sight of herself in the mirror above the bookshelf. Cassian’s white T-shirt hangs down past her hips, the collar stretched and worn. It swallows her frame. Her hair’s still a little mussed. There’s a flush across her collarbones that’s only now beginning to fade.

She looks like she doesn’t belong here, and she can’t even argue that. Because she doesn’t.

Her heels are near the door, and she slips them on with a practiced grace, then shrugs into her coat. The oversized denim hangs open over Cassian’s shirt. One hand clutches her bag, the other rests on the doorknob. She moves quietly, the way a performer leaves the stage before the audience has even finished clapping.

She’s halfway through turning it when—

“Is this a thing with you?” Cassian asks, suddenly behind her. “Sneaking off without saying anything?”

Nesta turns, slow and unhurried. Her mouth curves just slightly. “If I’d been sneaking you wouldn’t have heard me.”

He crosses his arms, his body relaxed but eyes sharp. Still bare-chested, a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. The kind of posture that makes women in clubs drop their drinks.

“I figured I’d give you a minute before round two,” he says dryly, “but I didn’t expect to find you halfway out the door.”

She arches a brow. “I only brought lube and condoms and the clothes I had on.”

“Excuse me?”

She lifts her chin. “The only thing I can wear is this. Unless I put my thong back on soaking wet.”

His eyes flick downward before he seems to catch himself, jaw tightening. “Tempting. I wouldn’t complain if you put that back on. It really did it for me. But I guess I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

She rolls her eyes, but her lips quirk faintly.

“Unless you want me to dress in your clothes every day, I need to go home.”

He frowns. “You're going now?”

She gives him a look that could kill a lesser man. “I wasn’t aware I needed permission.”

A pause.

Then, slowly, Cassian exhales and steps closer, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “Let me drive you.”

Nesta doesn’t answer right away. She glances down at her bare thighs, the scrape of his apartment’s floorboards still ghosting over her knees. Her heels click gently against the wood as she shifts.

“I can take the subway,” she says flatly.

“You could,” Cassian replies, “or you could let me drive and save yourself the luxury of being gawked at by every guy on the platform.”

She narrows her eyes. “I’ll order a ride, then.”

“I’m offering one, Nes,” he says with a shrug. “Don’t make it weird.”

A long silence stretches between them. He watches her in that way he seems to make a habit of—not like he’s trying to pin her down, but like he’s memorizing her boundaries just to lean against them.

Finally, she sighs. “Alright. But don’t call me Nes. And you’re not coming up. I’m not introducing you to my roommate.”

Cassian grins. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Just let me put on a shirt first.”

She stares at him for a beat longer than necessary, then turns back to the door, her steps slow, deliberate. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Cassian’s car is too pristine.

The engine is a low, purring thing beneath her seat. Black leather interior. Matte dashboard. Everything clean and sleek and polished, like it rolled out of a showroom this morning.

Nesta shifts in the passenger seat of the black SUV, her thighs sticking slightly to the leather. It’s warm from the sun, but she doesn’t reach for the dial to turn on the AC. Everything in this car feels expensive in a way that draws attention to her bare legs, the tiny skirt, the fact that she’s still wearing his shirt and no bra. She tries to tug the hem lower, even though modesty at this point is a moot cause.

Cassian drives like he does everything else—with confidence and just enough recklessness to keep her alert.

He looks maddeningly comfortable—left hand on the wheel, right elbow resting against the center console. His sunglasses hide his eyes, but she can feel his attention alternating between her and the road ahead.

The silence is thick, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the soft click of his turn signal.

His hand leaves the center console and slides over to her, warm palm landing on her bare thigh. His thumb makes slow circles just above her knee. When her breathing starts to speed up, his palm spreads wider, rough skin brushing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. He glides up—slowly, possessively. Nesta’s breath catches. She doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t have to. Her pulse flickers at her throat, but she keeps her voice steady.

“What are you doing?”

“I can’t help myself when you’re sitting next to me with all that creamy skin on display.”

She arches a brow. “You’ll get us pulled over.”

He smiles. “Then I’ll make a generous donation to the department.”

She snorts, but it doesn’t quite mask the flutter in her chest.

She stares out the window. His hand stills, but remains on her leg. The city blurs by in blue-gray motion—roads lined with trees turning into graffiti-tagged walls, busy sidewalks and the occasional pop of someone’s car alarm going off in the distance. They turn off the main road, and the difference hits immediately. Fewer people. Less green. Less charm. The road is cracked and uneven, with cars parked bumper to bumper. They pass a corner store with bars over its windows. Her neighborhood isn’t dangerous, but it sure as hell isn’t somewhere you’d bring someone like Cassian home to.

And yet here he is.

Nesta tenses as he slows in front of her building. Three stories of brick and peeling paint. A window on the second floor is covered in cardboard. The outer stair rail is half-rusted, and the buzzer hasn’t worked in months.

Cassian doesn’t say anything, but Nesta can feel his gaze flick toward the building.

Her stomach turns—not out of shame exactly, but something close to it. She hasn’t let many people see where she lives. Especially not people who smell like cedarwood and leather and drive cars that cost more than her yearly rent.

He shifts the car into park.

“I’ll be quick,” she says, unbuckling her seatbelt. “You can wait here.”

“Sure,” Cassian says casually. “Unless you want me to come up.”

She turns to him, one brow raised.

He shrugs. “I’m good with roommates.”

Nesta snorts, grabbing her coat off her lap. “No. You’re good with stripping me naked on the couch.”

He grins. “Not mutually exclusive.”

She’s halfway out of the car when he calls after her. “Hey.”

She pauses, leaning down to meet his eyes.

“I don’t care about your zip code,” he says, voice low but even. “If you live here, I’m interested.”

Nesta says nothing.

Because it’s dangerous, that kind of interest. It’s too close to things she doesn’t have names for.

The lock sticks. It always does.

Nesta wrestles it until the door groans open and swings inward into dim, peeling-walled familiarity. The apartment smells like lavender dryer sheets and leftover noodles—Emerie must have done laundry last night, or maybe she’s trying to clear the air. Nesta steps inside, heels clicking softly on the scuffed linoleum, the hallway shadowed in morning gray.

Emerie’s in the armchair, legs curled beneath her, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands. She doesn’t look up right away, flipping a page in her book with mechanical slowness. But her voice is clear, quiet.

“You’re back.”

Nesta exhales. Shrugs off her jacket and slings it over the back of a chair. “Had to get clothes.”

That makes Emerie looks at her. One glance—sharp, assessing. Her gaze drops to the shirt. Nesta doesn’t bother with crossing her arms.

Emerie’s mouth presses into a line.

“How long are you going to stay with him?” she asks carefully.

Nesta bends, unzips the canvas overnight bag she brought back with her, and starts pulling out bras, underwear and socks from the compartments beneath her pullout. “A week.”

“A week,” Emerie repeats slowly. “At his place?”

“Yes.”

A pause. “He asked you to stay the week?”

Nesta’s hands hesitate in the bag. “He’s paying me to.”

The silence expands. Not cold, but heavy.

Emerie sets the book down, spine-up, forgotten. “Paying you?”

Nesta straightens. “It’s not like that.”

“What is it like?”

Nesta tugs a hair tie from her wrist and twists her hair back. “It’s… nice. He’s kind and thoughtful. He makes me food.”

“And he fucks you,” Emerie adds flatly.

Nesta lifts a brow. “Obviously.”

She hesitates, before she continues. “He’s paying me to stay with him, but it’s not just for sex. He wants the company, I think.”

Emerie gives her a long, unreadable look.

Nesta rolls her eyes. “It’s not as grim as it sounds.”

Emerie’s jaw tightens. “Just tell me you’re being smart.”

“I am.”

“Because the last time someone offered you something like this—”

Nesta cuts her off, voice quiet but firm. “It’s different.”

Emerie looks away, jaw tightening. “You’ve not accepted money for your time in a long time, Nes. Not like this.”

“I take money for my time every night I dance.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

There’s no fight in Nesta’s voice when she answers. “I didn’t ask him to pay me. He offered. I was going to say no.”

“And then?”

“And then he told me to name my price.”

Emerie leans back against the cushions of the chair. Her silence is heavier now—frustration tempered by care, worry dulled only by exhaustion.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt,” she says quietly. “You’re not the kind of girl men leave untouched.”

“I’m not fragile.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

Nesta closes the compartment. “You think I’m in over my head.”

“I think you’ve been in over your head for a few days now when it comes to him, and maybe you make this seem less complicated than it is.”

Nesta crosses to Emerie’s room, gathering some of her clothes from one of the cabinets. She stuffs in two dresses, her favorite pair of jeans, a pair of leggings, some tops and t-shirts and a silk cami she doesn’t let herself think too hard about.

She spots a familiar bag with toys in the back of the closet and pulls it out. It might come in handy. “He’s not like that,” she says, voice muffled from inside the closet.

“No?” Emerie asks, rising from the chair. “Cassian’s paying you.”

“Yes.”

Emerie’s brows lift. “To spend the week with him.”

“It’s not like that.”

“So you keep saying. Tell me what it’s like, then.”

Nesta looks down at the shirt she’s still wearing, carrying a scent that shouldn’t feel like safety. She adjusts the hem, tugging it lower.

“We’re just having fun. It’s easier than explaining what we are. Or aren’t.”

Emerie stares at her. “You know how that sounds, right?”

Nesta bristles. “It’s not transactional.”

“You just said it was.”

“He offered. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want it.”

“But you took it.”

Nesta exhales. “He made it hard to say no.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It’s the only one I have,” Nesta says sharply.

The silence between them grows taut. “I don’t understand why you keep going on about this.”

“This is not the first time I’ve seen this happen, babe,” Emerie says softly. “Men who think they can buy a piece of you. Wrap it in silk and call it safety. Give you just enough comfort that you stop looking for the exits.”

Nesta lifts her chin. “He’s not like them.”

“You sure?” Emerie asks. “Because you used to be sure about Tomas, too.”

The name lands like a slap.

Nesta flinches. Just barely. But Emerie sees it. Her expression softens instantly, regret flashing over her features.

Nesta turns, bag slung over her shoulder. “It is temporary. Seven days. Then I’ll come back.”

Emerie walks to her, slower now. She rests a hand on Nesta’s arm.

“Promise me something,” she says.

Nesta doesn’t move.

“Promise me that if it gets complicated, or you feel unsafe, or it stops feeling like a choice, or he does something—anything—you’ll tell me. You’ll text. You’ll call me. You’ll leave.”

Nesta meets her eyes, chest tight. “Okay.”

“Not just okay.”

“I promise.”

Emerie nods once. “And not just because I’m being annoying.”

“You’re not.”

“You’ll tell me.”

“I will.”

The look they exchange then is full of everything unsaid—nights when they took turns watching the door, the times Nesta came home with shaking hands and no words, the way they’ve stitched a kind of life together from tattered pieces.

Emerie walks over to the window now, looking down at the street. “He’s waiting?”

“Yeah.”

Emerie turns, her gaze pinning Nesta with quiet intensity. “Do you feel safe with him?”

Nesta doesn’t answer right away. The real answer is complicated, shaped like want and warmth and fear. She thinks of the way he looked at her over the rim of his coffee mug. The way he made her breakfast and cleaned up afterwards without a fuss. The way he’d kissed her the night before—slow and reverent, like she was something he hadn’t believed in until then.

“I do,” she says finally.

Emerie nods. “Okay. Then promise me one last thing.”

Nesta waits.

“If that feeling changes, you’ll tell me. No matter what.”

Nesta presses her lips together. “I promise.”

“Text me every night.”

“I will.”

“Every. Night.”

“Fine, mother hen,” Nesta mutters, rolling her eyes, though there’s affection beneath it.

Emerie walks her to the door, catching her just as she’s about to pull it open.

“Just—be careful, okay?” she says, voice quieter now. “You don’t have to prove anything to him. You don’t have to become someone else.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“I know. Just… remember who you are. Even when it feels easier to forget.”

Nesta’s throat tightens. She nods, quickly, words lodging in her chest. They hug tightly.

Emerie steps back. “I can finally fold up your bed and not bump into every piece of furniture when moving into downward facing dog.”

Nesta snorts. “Bye, Em. See you in a week.”

She grabs the second bag and moves to the door again. When she steps outside, the morning air slices against her bare legs. Cassian’s car is still running, headlights glowing faint in the daylight.

She opens the trunk and throws in the two bags before Cassian can take them from her. She gets in without a word.

Cassian glances over. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, letting the lie rest just beneath the truth. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Cassian’s keys jingle as he unlocks the front door, nudging it open with a shoulder as the weight of Nesta’s bag digs into his arm. It thunks against the floor as he sets it down inside next to the canvas bag Nesta puts down. His brows lift.

“You sure you don’t want to tell me what’s in there?” he asks, giving it a small nudge with the side of his foot. It gives a muffled, metallic rattle. Something clinks.

Nesta, already slipping out of her coat, doesn’t even glance at him. “Nope.”

“Nope?”

“It’s private,” she says sweetly, her voice floating back to him like a dare. Cassian watches her, still in his shirt and that damned miniskirt. He shouldn’t find it erotic. It shouldn’t do something to him—seeing her wrapped in his clothes like she belongs to him. But it does.

He eyes the bag again. Cassian kicks off his boots, curiosity itching under his skin. “You realize that’s the worst possible answer to give me.”

“I do.”

“You brought a mystery bag to my apartment. You won’t tell me what’s in it. It rattles.”

She’s moved to the living room when she glances back over her shoulder, hair bouncing in her ponytail that’s still high on her head. “Maybe it’s my demon summoning kit.”

He snorts. “I knew you were wicked.”

She’s next to the couch now, the only thing between him and her the coffee table. She slows. The air between them thickens as she reaches back and unzips her skirt—slow, deliberate. The fabric slides over her hips. There’s nothing underneath. No underwear. Just bare skin. The apartment fills with the sound of his breath catching in his throat.

His mind blanks.

She steps out of the skirt and kicks it aside. Then her hands go to the hem of the shirt. She pulls it up agonizingly slowly, revealing bare skin inch by inch, showing off her toned stomach, the curve of her breasts, the sharp line of her collarbone. She tosses it on top of the skirt.

Cassian stares for a beat too long, every thought wiped clean.

“Something wrong?” she says, eyes glinting.

“Fuck,” he says quietly, reverently.

“You keep looking at me like that, Cassian,” she says, tilting her head with a teasing little smirk pulling at her lips, “and I might think you’re plotting something.”

“Maybe I am.”

He prowls towards her.

She circles the room, making sure the coffee table remains between them, not allowing him to get any closer.

“You wanna play, sweetheart?” he asks lowly.

She gives him one last teasing glance. He feints left and she falls for it. That’s when he makes his move. She darts out of the way, squealing when he almost grabs her.

“Don’t—” he says, chasing her. “Don’t you dare—”

Nesta’s laugh echoes down the hallway, wicked and full of delight.

He catches her halfway to the bathroom, strong arms wrapping around her middle as she shrieks with laughter. Her feet leave the ground in an instant as he lifts her up and tosses her over his shoulder.

“Cassian!” she gasps, kicking her feet. “You caveman, put me down!”

“You strip in the middle of my apartment and run,” he says, gripping the back of her thigh. He lands a firm slap to her ass, enough to make her yelp. He slaps again for good measure, grinning when she squeals again. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought you’d be too stunned to move.”

“I was. For one second. Then I remembered I have legs.”

She laughs again, breathless and warm against his skin as he carries her to the bathroom.

“I’m filing a complaint,” she says, voice muffled against his back.

“Do it naked and I might listen.”

The light is soft when he flips the switch—honeyed against the marble. He sets her down slowly, like she’s breakable. But her eyes say otherwise. They’re dark and shimmering with challenge.

“Let’s get the shower running,” he says, and she steps aside as he twists the knobs. Steam begins to rise almost instantly.

She watches him peel off his shirt, then his jeans and underwear. Her gaze doesn’t waver.

“Coming in?” he asks, already stepping into the shower.

Nesta joins him, pulling her hair free from the tie and stepping under the spray with a sigh that sounds like it traveled up from her toes. The water rolls over her curves, beads down her back, her thighs. Cassian’s chest tightens as he looks at her, following the beads of water as they travel down her breasts, her stomach, like he’s memorizing the different paths.

He reaches for the soap, and lathers it between his palms. “Turn around,” he says softly.

She does.

He starts with her shoulders, hands gliding slowly down her spine, warm and firm. She leans into the touch with a little hum, tilting her head to the side. His hands travel to her arms, long sweeps down to her wrists and back up again. He cups her hips next, thumbs pressing into the base of her spine.

“You like this?” he murmurs, his lips near her ear.

She nods, water dripping from her lashes. “Feels good.” She sounds almost drowsy.

Cassian turns her gently to face him. He doesn’t say anything as he starts again, lathering the soft skin over her ribs, the curve of her waist. Her breath catches when his hands move to her breasts, but she doesn’t pull back.

“I could do this all day,” he murmurs, half to himself.

She arches into his hands, barely perceptible. “Continue like this and I might let you.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He kisses her jaw, slow and lingering, then her throat, then lower. He’s careful not to rush. It’s not about that right now. It’s not about conquering. It’s about care. Reverence. The way she leans into his hands and kisses him tells him everything.

When he drops to his knees in front of her, he feels like her supplicant. Kneeling in eternal devotion.

She braces a hand on the slick tile behind her, her body already trembling with anticipation. He kisses the inside of her thigh first. Then again, a little higher. Her fingers slip into his damp hair as he hooks her leg over his shoulder and slides a hand between her thighs.

“Lean back,” he tells her, voice rough. “Let me take care of you.”

She obeys without a word.

He strokes her slowly, the pads of his fingers gentle but deliberate. He watches her face, the way her lips part on a silent moan. Her head tilts back as the rhythm builds, hips shifting toward him.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs. “Letting me have you like this.”

Her moans are soft, breathy things that echo off the tile. His fingers work her with steady purpose, building tension, building pressure, until she’s trembling with it. Her thighs tense and quiver as she edges close to release.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says against her hip, his thumb teasing her clit in gentle circles.

“You’re talking too much,” she whispers, breathless.

But she doesn’t stop him.

He works her with expert precision, flicking to make her gasp. When he closes his lips around the sensitive bud, she comes quietly, her fingers tightening in his hair, her body fluttering with soft, pulsing waves. He holds her steady through it, kissing her hip, her belly, the underside of her breast.

When she opens her eyes, her whole expression has shifted—softer now, warmer.

Cassian rises, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into him. She lets him, melting into his chest like she was always meant to be there.

“I could get used to this,” he says, mouth against her temple.

“I have a feeling you already are.”

She presses a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.

They stand there for a long time, steam curling around them, water cascading down their bodies.

“I still want to know what’s in that second bag,” he murmurs against her temple.

Nesta only smiles. “Maybe I’ll show you. If you’re good.”

Cassian just huffs a breath against her temple, kissing her damp skin, and for a moment, the rest of the world vanishes.

Cassian isn’t sure what’s more dangerous: the fact that Nesta looks completely at home in his apartment, or the way she’s sitting on his counter wearing nothing but a short sundress that’s riding dangerously high on her thighs. He knows she has nothing underneath because she made sure earlier he knew—lifting the hem just slightly with a smirk and a raised brow.

He stirs the sauce one more time and turns the heat down, letting the scent of garlic and roasted tomatoes fill the space. He watches her. Her legs are crossed, bare skin brushing the marble countertop, one foot swinging lazily. She’s sipping a glass of white wine.

Cassian clears his throat and turns back to the pasta, mostly to stop himself from saying something dumb like marry me.

His eyes flick to the second bag on the floor, still zipped shut and untouched. He gestures with his chin. “You still won’t tell me what’s in there?”

“Definitely not.”

“Not even a hint?”

“I said what I said,” she replies sweetly, lips curved. “You’ll see when I want you to see. When you’re good.”

He tosses her a grin. “So bossy.”

“And yet,” she says, sliding off the counter with deliberate grace, “you don’t seem to mind.”

The dress hits mid-thigh. When she moves, the fabric sways, catching just enough light to make him question every decent thought he’s ever had.

“Don’t you have to work this week?”

“Nope,” Cassian says, stirring the pasta.

“You take time off for this?”

Cassian takes a sip of his own wine, shrugging one shoulder. “You could say that.”

She cocks her head. “Is that code for something?”

He looks at her over the rim of his glass. “I took sick leave.”

“Sick leave,” she echoes. “Are you contagious?”

He lets out a low laugh. “Only with poor impulse control.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“I’m giving you plausible deniability.”

She narrows her eyes.

He grins, wide and boyish. “Let’s just say I cashed in a few favors. Pulled some strings. I had the time banked.”

Nesta doesn’t press right away, though something seems to shift in her.

“You really called in sick?” she asks, breaking the silence. Her tone is casual. Almost too casual.

Cassian nods, wiping his hands on a towel. “Yeah.”

“Just like that.”

“I had the time. I took it.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “I wanted to.”

Nesta sits down at the tiny kitchen table when Cassian places two plates there. They sit and eat, knees brushing, plates steaming. Cassian watches her fork her pasta like it’s a test, like she’s trying to decide if she’ll let herself enjoy it. Eventually, she does. She takes a bite and makes a soft, approving noise—just loud enough to make him shift in his seat.

“What are you thinking about, sweetheart?”

“Well,” she says, after swallowing. “I am wondering whether the strings you pulled are going to tangle me up.”

Cassian leans his elbows on the table. “Is that a request?”

Nesta smirks. “Not tonight.”

There’s something in her voice—playful, yes, but carefully measured. He watches her, watches the way she twirls another bite of pasta, like she needs something in her hands to keep from saying too much.

He decides not to push.

“So,” she says after a moment. “What exactly are we doing with this week?”

Cassian shrugs, keeping it easy. “Whatever you want.”

“Dangerous offer.”

Cassian just grins.

Nesta sets her fork down. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“Okay.”

Her tone is sharper now. Clear. Measured. “This is just for fun.”

His chest tightens, but he nods.

“I’m not looking for anything serious,” she continues. “No tangled feelings. No expectations.”

Cassian takes a breath. “You sure?”

“I am. When these seven days are over, Cassian, I’ll be returning to my job and life and you to yours.”

She meets his eyes. There’s steel in her gaze, but it’s not cold. Just certain.

“There won’t be more than this.”

Cassian leans back in his chair and hums. “You mean that?”

“I do.”

“And what is this?” he asks softly. “Exactly?”

Her mouth curves—not quite a smile, but something close. “Pleasure. Fun. Control and surrender. You like both. So do I.”

Cassian’s mouth twitches. “Are you suggesting we take turns?”

“Yes,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We switch. Every night.”

He leans back in his chair, eyes glinting. “So you want to keep a schedule?”

“No, I want to keep balance.” Her voice is calm, even, but her foot brushes his under the table, slowly sliding up his leg. “One night I’m in charge. One night you are. That way no one gets greedy.”

Cassian smiles faintly. “Greedy’s not always a bad thing.”

“It is when it blurs the lines,” she replies quietly. “This stays what it is, Cassian.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Not hurt per se, but something like it flares behind his ribs.

She notices. Of course she does.

“I mean it,” she adds. “Fun. Pleasure. No strings.”

He gives a slow nod. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“And you can’t go all… noble. Don’t try to sway me. Or charm me.”

A wry smile. “Nesta. You’d maim me before I got the chance.”

She smirks. “Correct.”

“Are you clean?”

“Excuse me?” Cassian looks at her with wide eyes.

“STD’s. When did you get tested last?”

“I got a test two weeks ago. Before coming to the club. I’m clean, there’s no one else.”

Nesta hums. “That’s good. I’m too. And I have a IUD, so no need for condoms.”

He picks up his glass, swirling the wine before taking a sip. “So. No strings. No condoms. Just fun. And we trade control like poker chips.”

“Exactly.”

He nods again, slow. Then—“I assume tonight’s my night, then.”

Nesta’s gaze heats. “Well, I did take charge yesterday. It’s only fair.”

He chuckles. “So, tell me what’s in the bag.”

She just smirks again and gets up, walking away without answering.

Cassian watches her go, her bare legs disappearing down the hall.

He’s not sure whether this arrangement will kill him, or save him.

But when she calls out, “Leave the dishes, Cassian. You’ll want to conserve your energy,” he knows one thing for sure.

He’s all in.

Cassian leans against the doorway of the bedroom, arms folded across his chest, watching her.

Nesta is kneeling at the foot of his bed, collar in her hands, resting them on her thighs. The silver catches the low amber light and glints every time she breathes, subtle and deliberate. Her posture is proud, but it’s the kind of pride that dares him to test it.

She’s opened the bag and laid out its contents like relics on an altar. He eyes the items. There’s a coil of red silk rope, a slender gold case with a vibrator, soft cuffs, a polished silver plug, a black silk blindfold, a gag, and a wax candle. He swallows once, his brain immediately conjuring up all types of filthy fantasies he wants to play out during these seven days.

She doesn’t speak until he’s close enough to feel the heat radiating off her body.

“I took the lead yesterday,” she says, voice low and smooth.

He quirks a brow. “So you did. And today’s mine.”

A nod. Controlled. Measured. “If you want it.”

Cassian steps closer. “Oh, sweetheart.” His fingers brush the silver collar in her hands, before he carefully takes it from her. “You know I do.”

The softest sound leaves her—a breath, a hum—but her gaze never wavers.

The air between them feels suspended.

“Are you sure?” he asks, quiet.

Nesta tilts her chin up, baring her neck to him. “Put it on.”

His fingers aren’t trembling, but it feels like they should be. He steps close — close enough that her scent curls into his lungs, the heat of her kneeling body teasing the edge of his self-control. He brushes her hair back with care, exposing her throat fully. His other hand lifts the collar, fitting the cool metal around her skin.

A soft sound escapes her when it clicks into place.

Gods.

It sits perfectly—gleaming against her skin, snug but not tight. The ring at the front catches the low light. His heart kicks in his chest.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. His thumb drags along her jaw, then lower, tracing the edge of the collar. She watches him with wide, steady eyes, breathing slow but shallow.

“Look at you.” His voice roughens. “Like you were made for this.”

Nesta doesn’t reply—doesn’t need to. She simply lifts her hands, laces them behind her back, and waits.

Something in him stutters.

He brings one hand to her face, brushing his thumb over her cheek, her jaw, lower until his hand lingers on the ring on the front of the collar. “You look good in this. I could put a leash here,” he says absently, more to himself than her. “Make sure you don’t get away.”

“You planning on walking me around the living room?” Her voice is half-tease, half-challenge.

He crouches in front of her, taking in every detail—the curve of her neck, the elegant line of her spine, the way her thighs press together like she’s already fighting the pull of it all.

“Maybe,” he murmurs. “Or maybe I’ll just keep you right here. On your knees. Just like this.”

She shivers, subtle but not hidden. He sees it.

“I’m going to use your mouth,” he says quietly. “You okay with that?”

Her eyes burn into his. “Yes.”

“Color?”

“Green.”

He brushes his thumb along her jaw, then taps her bottom lip gently with two fingers. “Keep your hands on my thighs. If you need to stop, tap twice. Understand?”

“Yes.”

He quickly rids himself of his clothes, before he takes hold of her arms and places her hands on his thighs. He taps the head of his cock against her mouth, slow and teasing. “Open up for me.”

She does, and Cassian’s groan is low, reverent.

“Good girl,” he breathes.

Her mouth is warm, wet velvet, and she takes him willingly, gaze never dropping from his as he slides in slowly.

Cassian lets his hand settle at the back of her head, not pushing—not yet—just anchoring himself there. His other hand rests on her cheek, stroking, cradling.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” he says, breath ragged.

Nesta nods with him still in her mouth, eyes blazing.

Then he starts to move.

It’s slow, at first—a gentle glide, testing her limits, watching her expression shift. She moans around him, eyes fluttering, and he loses himself a little more each time. Her mouth, the way she tilts her head, the slick heat and pressure—it’s too much and never enough.

He holds her by the hair, fingers laced through the strands, guiding her movements. His hips begin to roll deeper. The way she hollows her cheeks is threatening to undo him. Cassian breathes through it. He’s in control tonight. That was the deal.

But fuck, her mouth is perfect.

He lets her get used to the rhythm as he moves her on him, steady and patient. Her tongue traces along the underside, and he groans low in his throat.

“Good,” he says roughly. “You feel so good.”

She moans, the vibration making his grip tighten in her hair.

“Fuck, Nesta,” he groans, the words caught in his throat.

She moans again, and his knees nearly give. He tightens his hands in her hair and starts moving her back and forward, guiding her along his cock. When she takes him deeper again, he pushes her, slowly, softly, until he hits the back of her throat and she gags. He keeps her there, brushing a thumb along her jaw.

“Such a good girl for me, sweetheart. Look at you, choking on my cock. You love it, don’t you? I bet you’re dripping on the carpet right now.”

Nesta can only hum, which makes her gag. Saliva is dripping down her chin, tears lining her eyes. She looks dazed.

When he feels the edge building, hot and fast, he pulls back, letting himself slip from her lips with a wet sound. A long string of saliva glistens from her lip to his tip, catching the light. Her chin is slick, her mouth red and swollen. There’s a flush spreading over her chest, rising and falling fast when her breath comes in quiet, rapid pants.

He cups her face with both hands, breathing hard. He kisses her roughly, and she responds immediately, tangling her tongue with his.

“Up,” he says when they part, voice like gravel, and pulls her to her feet.

He’s gentle with her, even when he’s rough. He lays her down on the bed and she climbs up, graceful and fluid, lying back against the pillows as he moves over her. His gaze drops to her chest, flushed and heaving.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he says as he strokes himself slowly, his cock thick and flushed. “Since that first night I saw you strip.”

He straddles her. With both hands, he presses her breasts together, guiding himself between them.

“Hold them, just like that,” he instructs.

Her fingers replace his, squeezing around the sides of her breasts, and he begins to thrust. Slow at first, watching her—watching the way her lips part, her eyes grow heavy-lidded, the way her tongue flicks out to taste when he gets close.

“You’re unreal,” he says hoarsely. “So fucking beautiful.”

He thrusts once. Twice. Slow and sinfully slick. The friction is perfect, and when she looks up at him—hungry, challenging, reverent—he’s gone.

He groans her name, hips stuttering. “Nesta—”

He comes hard, painting her chest, her throat, the hollow between her collarbones in thick ribbons. It’s hot and messy, and her smile curves slow, wicked.

Cassian watches it drip down her skin, breathless.

“Stay,” he says softly, “just like that.”

He drags his fingers through the mess, gathering it on his fingertips and lifting them to her lips.

“Open.”

She parts her lips for him, and he feeds it to her. Her tongue curls around his fingers as she sucks, slow and shameless.

Cassian’s groan is all want.

“You like tasting me?” he asks, hoarse.

Nesta hums, not letting go of his fingers. Her eyes burn.

He swears softly, chest rising and falling fast.

But he’s not done.

Not even close.

“Don’t move,” he whispers when he moves down her body. He settles between her thighs, pushing them open wider, and reaches to the side to pick up the vibrator. He drags the back of his knuckles along the inside of her thigh, slow and reverent. “You ready, sweetheart?”

She swallows, nods once.

“What’s your color?”

“Green.”

He smiles, slow and sharp. “Good.”

He turns the toy on the lowest setting, the room filling with a low hum, almost imperceptible. He brings it to hover just above her clit, close enough that she can feel the hint of it, but not quite the touch. She twitches, hips shifting, and he tsks gently, laying his free hand firmly over her lower belly to still her.

“I told you not to move. I’m going to take my time with you. You can’t come until I say you can,” he murmurs.

He watches every reaction—the flutter of her lashes, the catch in her breath, the soft, involuntary curl of her toes—before finally letting the toy brush against her. Just a whisper of pressure.

Nesta arches like she’s been shocked. “Cassian—”

“I know, baby.” His voice is soft, but his eyes are dark. “Feels good already, doesn’t it?”

She bites her lip and nods. Her hands grip the sheets like she might float away without them.

“You’re so responsive.” He strokes the toy in slow, gentle circles. “Like you were made for this. For me.”

Her moan is quiet, ragged.

Cassian feels his cock throb, heavy again with need from just watching her, but he doesn’t move. He glides the vibrator a little lower, then up again, deliberately missing the exact spot she wants.

“You’re holding on so well,” he says. “Even though I know you want to come. I can feel it in the way your muscles are tensing.”

She lets out a strangled sound—half whimper, half sob. He pulls away the vibrator just when the sound becomes loud. She’s panting now, her chest rising and falling fast.

“I’ve got plans for you, you know.” He leans down to murmur the words against her neck, the vibrator back at her clit. “Rope, plug, blindfold. That pretty little gag, too, if you keep making those sounds.”

Nesta whines and closes her eyes.

“I want to see you tied up,” he says, grazing his teeth along her jaw, pulling away the vibrator again. Nesta sobs. “I’ll put that plug in, blindfold on. I want you trembling for me, unable to do anything but feel.” He kisses her temple, then her cheekbone, pressing down the vibrator. Nesta cries out. “I want to take my time. Every hour of this week.”

She’s breathing faster now, hands fisted in the sheets.

“But not tonight,” he murmurs, pulling back just slightly, watching her face. “Tonight, I just want you to beg.”

The vibrator pulses steadily against her, low and merciless.

“Cassian—” Her voice breaks. “Please.”

His voice is a breath above her lips. “Tell me what you want.”

She shakes her head, still stubborn despite her obvious desperation.

She’s on the edge, hanging by a thread, and he’s the one holding it taut, pulling and teasing, deciding when she’ll fall. She trembles beneath his touch, every breath shallow and ragged, every muscle pulled tight in delicious torment. He slides the vibrator in slow, maddening circles, deliberately not pushing her too far, savoring the slow unraveling in her eyes. The flush of her cheeks, the way her lips part to catch her breath, the slight arch in her back—every detail carves itself into him.

He increases the pressure just slightly, moving in slower circles. “Come on, sweetheart. Use your words. You’re doing so well. It’ll only take longer if you don’t.”

Her body is taut as a bowstring, sweat beading on her chest. She squeezes her eyes shut. “Please,” she whispers again.

He leans closer, mouth brushing her lips. “I want you to come on my cock. But you have to look at me and ask me.”

She groans—frustrated, turned inside out.

Cassian backs off the vibrator just a hair, watching her flinch. “Ask me, Nesta.”

Her eyes flash open. “Please let me come on your cock,” she says, raw and desperate. “I need it. Please, Cassian.”

That does it. He clicks the toy off and lays it down.

“Such a good girl.”

He shifts her onto her side, large hands guiding her like she weighs nothing. He settles behind her, lifting her top leg with one hand, positioning himself behind the curve of her ass. She’s trembling, thighs slick, and when he picks up the vibrator and presses it back against her, low and relentless, she cries out.

“You can come now,” he murmurs, nuzzling her ear. “I’ve got you.”

She falls apart like she’s been waiting her whole life for permission—shuddering in his arms, back arching, hips bucking. And just as she peaks, he thrusts into her, slow and deep.

The sound she makes is half-sob, half-moan.

“Fuck, Nesta—” His groan is ragged. “You feel incredible, gripping my cock like that.”

He doesn’t let her come down. Not yet. He thrusts again, and again, setting a pace that’s just shy of cruel. She’s hypersensitive, wrecked, but he holds her open, holds her steady, rocking her through the aftershocks into something more. She sobs. Honest, wordless sobs of pleasure. And he doesn’t stop.

Her nails dig into his arm. Her breath stutters.

“You can take it,” he whispers, kissing her shoulder. “You’re mine, remember?”

She nods, sobbing out a strangled yes.

He fucks her through it, staying close, voice low and constant in her ear—praise and possession, heat and comfort. Cassian kisses her neck, his grip tight around her lifted leg, whispering how beautiful she is, how good, how she’s his.

And when she comes again, it’s with a sound he’ll never forget.

He follows with a groan, collapsing behind her, holding her tight as they both tremble through the aftershocks.

They lie like that for a long while, something warm settling in Cassian’s chest.

His thumb strokes along the silver collar at her throat before carefully taking it off.

And when she shifts to face him, her eyes searching his, he just pulls her in closer.

Cassian holds her.

That’s all he can do for a moment—wrap his arms around her, press a kiss to her damp temple, and breathe. His heartbeat is still racing, but hers is slower now, steadier, and each rise and fall of her chest against his feels like a quiet miracle. Her skin is flushed, damp with sweat. Her lips are parted just enough to let out soft, shallow breaths.

He doesn’t say anything yet. Just stays with her in the warmth of the sheets, her body tucked close to his like something precious he’s afraid might vanish.

Nesta’s hand rests lightly on his chest. He keeps his hand on her back, rubbing slow, lazy circles between her shoulder blades.

Her body is warm, boneless with release, her breath a whisper against his neck. He doesn’t move yet. Doesn’t dare. She’s floating—he can feel it in the way her fingers twitch slightly on his chest, in the way her lashes flutter like she’s caught between sleep and the stars.

“Stay with me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair away from her cheek. “You’re safe.”

A small hum escapes her throat. Her eyes blink open just enough to find him. Still a little dazed. Still a little wrecked.

“Color?” he asks softly, pressing his lips to her temple.

“Green,” she whispers. Her voice is hoarse, thick with exhaustion and satisfaction. “Like a spring meadow.”

He exhales, lets himself close his eyes for a heartbeat. Relief and something softer flood his chest. He kisses her again—her cheek, her forehead, her jaw—soft, grounding kisses meant to remind her that he’s here. That they both are.

“You did so good for me,” he murmurs into her skin. “So fucking perfect.”

Nesta doesn’t answer, but her fingers tighten against his skin.

He knows the moment her awareness begins to return in full—the tiny shift in her breathing, the sigh she lets out. Cassian moves only when she shifts slightly, her brow furrowing like she’s starting to come back.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I’m right here.”

She blinks up at him, eyes a little glassy, lips swollen from kissing and sucking and biting back pleasure.

“Cass,” she murmurs. That’s all she says.

But it’s enough.

He touches her cheek, thumb brushing over her skin. “You with me?”

She nods, a soft noise of affirmation. “Yeah. Just… slow.”

“Take your time,” he murmurs. “There’s no rush.”

He waits a few more beats, before he eases her back onto the pillows and slips out of bed. “I’ll be right back.”

The room is dim now, the lamp on the dresser casting a soft amber glow over everything. He grabs a water bottle and a square of dark chocolate from the kitchen, and when he returns, she’s sitting up a little, the blanket pulled around her shoulders, her eyes tracking him.

“Here.” He offers her the water first, crouching at her side. “Just a sip.”

She takes a long drink, then nibbles at the chocolate he breaks into pieces for her. Her eyes flick to him between bites, soft and a little surprised.

“I’m okay,” she says eventually. Quiet. She clears her throat. “I think I’m more than okay.”

Cassian smiles. “Yeah?”

She nods. “My legs feel like jello. I didn’t think I could take that much.”

“You could,” he says, brushing his knuckles over her cheek. “And you did.”

She leans into his touch.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He lifts her easily, not even pretending it’s a struggle. She tucks her face into his neck, lets herself be carried without argument. It sends a tight ache to his chest—how rare it is for her to let go like this, to trust without armor.

The bathroom is warm from the infrared lamp he flicked on before he returned from the kitchen. Cassian sets her down gently and runs the water, testing it until it’s just shy of hot. Then he steps into the shower first and helps her in after.

She doesn’t speak, just leans into his chest, arms wrapping around his waist as the water streams down her back. Her skin is flushed, marked in places from his hands, his mouth. He takes his time rinsing her—slow hands, careful touches.

He soaps up a cloth and runs it over her chest, gently wiping away the mess he left on her earlier. She makes a sound—something between a sigh and a moan—and he kisses her shoulder.

“Still with me?” he asks softly.

“Yes.” Her voice is breathy. “Just... soft.”

He hums. “That’s good. That’s how I want you.”

He crouches to clean between her thighs, moving slowly, saying nothing. She opens her legs for him with no hesitation. His hands are reverent, almost worshipful, and when she meets his gaze, he sees something raw and grateful there. She exhales, long and low, when his fingers comb gently through her hair.

“I like this,” she says quietly. “You taking care of me.”

His throat tightens. “Good,” he says simply, pressing a kiss to her wet hair. “Because I like doing it.”

When they’re both rinsed and warm, he towels her off first, wrapping her up and leading her back to bed. He puts one of his softest shirts over her head—black, too big—and watches her melt into it. She doesn’t bother with pants. He doesn’t, either. He folds back the covers and guides Nesta to bed, sliding in beside her.

This time, Nesta presses her face into his shoulder and wraps an arm around his waist, curling into his side like it’s the only place she wants to be.

Cassian strokes her hair.

“Tell me how you’re feeling,” he murmurs after a few minutes.

Nesta hesitates. “Tired. Floaty. But okay. Really okay.”

He nods. “That’s good.”

They stay silent for a while.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” she admits softly. “Like… I gave you everything and I’m not empty afterward. Just… full.”

Cassian wraps both arms around her, pulling her flush against him. His lips brush her hairline.

“That’s what I want for you,” he whispers. “Every time.”

She sighs again, sinking deeper into his chest, her fingers curling against his skin.

“I feel safe.”

He closes his eyes. Those words are everything.

And for the rest of the night, he holds her. Long after her breathing deepens and her body grows still with sleep, Cassian stays awake, his hand on her back, his heart steady. He stays awake just to keep her warm. Just to be sure.

He doesn’t need anything else.