Page 111 of For the Plot

The T-shirt she’s wearing has ridden up to her waist, baring the lace between her thighs. I hook my finger under the edge and trace along the heat of her, slow enough to make her whimper.

“Fuck,” I breathe, drinking her in. “Do you even know how wet you are for me right now?”

Her hips twitch. “Then do something about it.”

That spark, defiant and needy, snaps whatever restraint I had left. I tear the lace down her legs, drop it somewhere on the rug, and spread her open for me.

“Perfect,” I mutter, settling between her thighs. I drag the flat of my tongue through her slick heat, slow and deliberate, circling her clit before sucking lightly. She gasps, one hand flying to my hair, the other digging into the rug.

“Reece… oh my God…”

I pin her hips down with one arm and keep going, alternating between deep strokes and teasing flicks, learning what makes her tremble, what makes her gasp like she’s seconds from breaking. Her taste is addictive, sweet and delicious, the sound of her falling apart under my mouth is better than any sin I’ve ever committed.

“Don’t stop,” she pants, her voice rough and desperate.

I slide a finger inside her, then another, curling just right, and she arches off the rug. Her thighs shake against my shoulders, her breathing jagged and frantic.

“Yeah,” I rasp against her clit. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel how bad you need it.”

She shudders hard, climax tearing through her, slick and pulsing around my fingers. I keep licking her through it, slower now, until she’s whimpering and pushing weakly at my head.

I rise, chest heaving, and crawl up her body, kissing her hard as I press her into the rug. Her T-shirt’s bunched under her breasts, her hair spread across the floor, the papers of her mock-up campaign half crumpled under her elbow.

When I slide into her, it’s one long, hard thrust, and we both groan at the stretch and heat.

“God, you feel so good filling me,” she moans, legs locking around my waist.

I start slow, savoring the way she grips me, then harder when she whimpers and digs her nails into my back. Every shift of her hips drags me deeper, wet heat and the sound of our bodies slamming together filling the room.

“Reece…” she cries, her voice cracking as her second orgasm hits, her body clenching around me so tight I nearly lose it.

I bury my face in her neck, driving into her harder, faster, chasing the edge until it slams into me, white-hot and all-consuming. I groan against her skin as I spill inside her, holding her through the aftershocks until all that’s left is the sound of our ragged breathing and the hum of the city outside the window.

I don’t move for a moment. I just feel her heart pounding against mine, smell the faint trace of her perfume and sweat, see her designs scattered around us like proof she’s meant for more than anyone’s shadow.

The memory fades, leaving me alone, hard and aching, desperate to get her back and never let her go.

The first deliveryarrives Monday morning. I track it myself. Watch the driver’s route tick closer. 0.4 miles away. 0.2. Arrived. The text confirmation hits my phone at 8:42 a.m.

Your order has been delivered.

I picture her face when she opens the door. Her hair pulled back, still damp from the shower. The sleepy confusion in her eyes when she sees the iced latte—half oat, half almond, light ice,one raw sugar—waiting on her welcome mat with a handwritten note taped to the carrier.

Thought your Monday deserved an upgrade.

–R

No flowers. No fanfare. Just her coffee. Exactly the way she orders it. I don’t hear from her that day. Not even a text. But I don’t need to. I know her.

She read the note. She sipped the drink. She probably rolled her eyes, smirked, and muttered something likeunbelievableunder her breath.

Wednesday night, I send the song. “Love on the Brain” by Rihanna. I remember the way she swore it followed her everywhere. Grocery stores. Laundromats. Her last breakup.

She said it like a joke. But the ache in her voice told me it wasn’t. Now it’s following me. Everywhere. I text her the link with a simple message.

Me:Still following me. Just like you.

She doesn’t reply. But I see the read receipt.