Part of me whispers that I should leave. This was a mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment fueled by whiskey and the memory of her body pressed against mine. We can pretend it never happened. I can apologize on Monday, blame it on the alcohol, reestablish professional boundaries.
But the rest of me remembers the taste of her, the sound she made when my fingers traced the edge of her underwear, the heat of her against my palm. That part of me isn't going anywhere.
I check my phone again, rereading her message.
Mia:Why should I?
The defiance in those three words sent a jolt through me when I first read them. Even now, standing in this too-bright hallway with doubt creeping up my spine, the challenge in her question makes my cock twitch with interest.
My response was pure instinct.
Was it too much? Too presumptuous? I've spent my entire career learning to read people, to understand what makes them tick, what drives their decisions. But Mia defies easy categorization. Just when I think I have her figured out, she surprises me.
Like that photo.
Fuck, that photo. The subtle curve of her shoulder, the delicate line of her collarbone, and the mark I left on her skin. Visible proof that what happened in that alley wasn't a dream or a fantasy. I'd left my claim on her, and she'd sent photographic evidence of it like a taunt. Like an invitation.
I should have responded immediately. Should have told her how seeing my mark on her skin made me hard in an instant, how I nearly groaned out loud in the middle of the coffee shop where I was trying to distract myself from thoughts of her. But I didn't. Instead, I made a calculated decision to wait. To let her wonder. To let the anticipation build until she was as desperate as I was.
The silence behind her door suggests I might have miscalculated.
I raise my hand to knock one more time. A last attempt before I admit defeat and retreat to my empty apartment with its expensive furniture and cold sheets.
"Mia," I call. "Open the door."Please.
Nothing.
I exhale slowly, resignation settling heavy in my chest. Time to go. Time to accept that I've played this wrong from the beginning. That I should have never gone to that club, never followed her into that alley, never let myself taste what I can't have.
I turn to leave, keys jingling in my pocket as I reach for them, when I hear the soft click of a lock disengaging. The sound freezes me in place, my back still to her door, heart suddenly pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
The door swings open, and I turn slowly, bracing myself for whatever awaits me.
Mia stands in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, the other propped against the frame as if physically blocking my entrance. She's wearing a faded gray t-shirt and black leggings, her wild curls contained in a messy braid that trails over one shoulder. Her face is scrubbed clean of makeup, freckles standing out against skin flushed with what might be anger or arousal.
"Dr. Walker," she says, her voice cold, but her eyes—those green eyes that have haunted me for so long—tell a different story. They're dark, pupils blown wide with the same need I've been fighting since I last saw her. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
She looks like fury personified. And fuck me if it isn't the most beautiful sight I've ever seen.
"May I come in?" I ask.
Her eyebrow arches, a hint of surprise flickering across her features before she masks it with a sardonic smile. "Asking permission now instead of giving orders? That's new."
Eyes never leaving mine, she studies me for a long moment. Her gaze is so penetrating I feel exposed despite being fully clothed in the hallway. Finally, she steps aside, a silent invitation that I accept before she can change her mind.
Her apartment surrounds me with warmth and light as soon as I cross the threshold. It's exactly as I remember from my brief visit before—colorful and cluttered in a way that somehow feels deliberate rather than chaotic.
"So," she says, closing the door with a soft click. "You ignored me for hours, and now you're here. Care to explain why?"
I turn to face her, noting the way she keeps the couch between us, maintaining distance as if she doesn't quite trust herself to be too close.
"I want to see it," I say simply.
Her brows furrow in confusion. "See what?"
I jerk my head toward her collarbone, where I know my mark blooms beneath the soft fabric of her shirt. "I want to see it properly. Not just in a photo."
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed by a flash of something like triumph. "You liked the picture then?"
