DARBY SHIVERED FROM WHERE SHE stood in the doorway, colder from her own unwelcome thoughts than she was from the temperature in her room. The clock on the nightstand told her it was 3:00AM. That was about two-and-a-half hours longer than she’d planned on letting Michael stay. It was her own fault for falling asleep—she hadn’t meant to drift off after their vigorous sex, and she imagined that he hadn’t either. He slept deeply, wholly unaware of how his presence at that hour, under those circumstances, unraveled her.
She hated herself for standing there, cold and numb in her own house when she could have been cozy and sleeping next to the gorgeous man in her bed. After all, Michael wasn’t going to hack into her computer searching for state secrets as she slept. He wasn’t going to make a tawdry sex tape of the two of them together to blackmail Frank Christensen. He wasn’t going to get attached and make himself comfortable like Felix had.
Why can’t I just be normal?
The thought repeated itself in her head. It was the question that had caused her so much fruitless agony over the years.
Granted, she knew her trust issues weren’t pathological—they made sense, given all she’d been through. Thanks to her father’s politics, Darby had been stalked twice. An apartment she’d lived in had been bugged. There had been a kidnapping attempt when she was a teenager, and a long list of death threats.
There were other things. Her parents’ marriage had been a disaster. Her friendships growing up had been a sham. She’d learned the hard way that people who tried to get close to her were often more interested in earning favorable standing with her family than they were with her. Being the daughter of Frank Christensen meant that a normal life wasn’t possible. Acting normal would be pretending.
Yet Darby still felt more normal than she had in years. She finally felt in control of her own life and comfortable in her own skin. After all that had happened to her as a kid, it was a small miracle that she functioned as well as she did. Things that came easily to other people—like having friends, and holding down a job, and maintaining any semblance of a relationship—were things that Darby had earned. She didn’t like moments like this—moments that cast a shadow over the many battles she’d fought, and won.
It was no coincidence that she had been drawn to psychiatry. Darby wasn’t too dense to realize that some part of her had wanted to confront her issues. Growing up in the shadow of an important man—a bad man—had screwed her up. But she thought she’d come farther than this. She liked Michael. She was already trusting him with so much. This arrangement had been a big step for her. It had been more than three months and he had never done anything to break her confidence. Yet, there she stood against her doorjamb, paranoid about letting him stay over.
Completely restless and no closer to peace, she grabbed her phone off of the bedside table and walked down to the kitchen. She needed something—anything—to relax her. Filling the kettle and putting it on the stove, she rummaged in her cabinet for tea before setting about finding her favorite mug. She dropped a bag of chamomile inside and poured boiling water over it after her kettle had whistled.
Sitting on a bar stool with her tea in one hand, she finally tapped the screen of her phone. Some texts had come through from Anne while she’d been upstairs.
Drink?
I’m off in half an hour.
Then. Where the hell are you?
With practiced ease and a single thumb, Darby texted back, knowing that if Anne hadn’t gotten off of work more than a few hours before, she might still be awake.
Sorry. I’m home. Michael’s over. I didn’t hear the phone.
Dancing dots appeared on her screen moments later as Anne tapped her reply, proof that her friend was awake.
What the fuck are you doing texting me instead of getting some more of that?
Darby had to smile. Although Anne hadn’t met Michael, she had seen pictures of the two of them together when they’d shown up on Page Six.
Can’t sleep. Making myself some tea.
A ringtone version of Seven Nation Army began playing on Darby’s phone seconds after her text message had been delivered. Anne was calling her.
“Don’t bullshit me,” Anne accused. “You’ve been working crazy hours. Why aren’t you asleep?”
Darby sighed. She wanted to tell Anne everything, and knew she could trust her friend. But she didn’t want to reveal her constant state of confusion, and Anne was the kind of friend who wouldn’t let her beat around the bush. Sharing this with her would corner Darby into admitting her fears. She barely wanted to admit to herself, let alone anyone else, how hard it was for her to let people in, how much trouble she had understanding why people liked her.
It was easier with friends from the hospital. They’d been in the trenches together, seen each other through moments when they had to be strong for sick and dying patients. They kept each other going through grueling double shifts. They gave each other pep talks after dealing with difficult families. But outside of work, things were different. Michael was different. And while she understood why he loved their white-hot sex, she didn’t get why he invited himself to the movies with her, why grilled her about details of her life and bought her lunch. Yes, he was lonely and craved companionship. But, why was he drawn to her? Why was he sleeping in her bed when he could have his pick?
“I’m not used to sleeping with someone else.”
“Does he fart in his sleep? I’ll bet that from his pretty ass, they don’t even stink…”
“His pretty ass? Don’t you like girls?”
“I’m gay, sweetie. Not blind. Why aren’t you next to that man?”
Darby took a long sip of her tea, wracking her brain over how to ask for Anne’s advice without starting a big conversation about it all.
“You know I like having my own space,” Darby hedged.
“I know you’re missing the best part,” Anne countered. “Wanna trade places? You can come over and cuddle with Mr. Bigglesworth.”
Mr. Bigglesworth was Anne’s ironically fluffy cat.
“I know,” Darby groaned. “You’re right. I should let myself enjoy it.”
“I’m hanging up now.” Anne sounded satisfied as she said it. “Now, stop overthinking things, and go to bed.”
Several hours later, Darby awoke to Michael’s body pressed up close behind her. She had heeded Anne’s advice. Slipping into bed next to Michael had felt nice. In his sleep, he had sensed her presence and before she drifted off, they were back in each other’s arms.
“Keep grinding me like that and I’m gonna have to fuck you.” Michael’s deep voice, raspy with sleep, stirred her in private places as his breath fanned out over her cheek.
Involuntarily, she flexed her back, creating more friction between her ass and his erection. She had no idea how long she’d been doing that, but the wetness between her legs and her erect nipples told her it had been long enough. She must have been rubbing against him in her sleep. It wasn’t the first time she’d gravitated toward him like that.
“Do you need an engraved invitation?” She ground back against him again, this time reaching her hand down to meet his, and sliding it up to cup her breast. He bit a delicious spot on the back of her neck as he squeezed, causing her to gasp at the sensation. His other hand reached downward, sliding her panties aside.
“It only seemed right to wait ‘till you woke up.”
He pushed into her in one swift move, just as she reached her arm around, desperately gripping the back of his head. And she was glad she did—he drove into her hard, her whole body jolting with every thrust. In seconds, she was breathless with pleasure.
“I think I’m awake now,” she managed.
He let out a little moan as she pushed back with more vigor, meeting him with every stroke. Though he was fucking her hard, his movements were slow and deliberate. In this position, with him behind her, he was hitting her so deep it almost hurt, yet he seemed to know her limits. He was fucking her so good—gently enough not to really hurt her, but rough enough to make it so, so hot. She’d never been with anyone who understood that balance, the balance between her desire to participate and her need to be dominated.
Five amazing minutes later, her pussy was still twitching from the orgasm she’d had from their little display. He’d pulled out at the last second, and had just finished cleaning her up. Waiting for him to clean himself up, she lounged on the bed with her eyes closed, anxious for him to get back in. Instead, she felt a dip on her side of the bed and opened her eyes to see him. Not only was he not getting back into bed, he was fully dressed.
“I’m gonna head out.”
She sat up a little in bed, her mind registering not only her disappointment but also the irony of that sentiment. Just four hours before, she’d been the one close to kicking him out.
“The morning sex was nice.” Eager to make the moment less awkward, she said it with a smile.
“Morning sex is always nice,” he laughed. “We’re gonna have to do that more often.”
She envied the casual way in which he made the suggestion. When she heard the dull thud of the front door closing behind him, she felt as mixed up as the night before. She felt once again in control of herself now that he was gone, but somehow she missed him already.
Though Darby had her own office in the hospital’s administrative building, she spent most of her time away from patients in her research lab, which had work tables, refrigerators, a large supply closet, computers and other specialized machines. When Rich strolled in, she had already been there for an hour. She sat on a lab stool, a neat row of petri dishes and a timer set in front of her, as she waited for the solutions to react.
Darby liked bumping into Rich at the lab—they sometimes scheduled formal meetings there to tackle results they needed to look at together, but more often they worked independently. Given recent events with Huck and Yelena, who both seemed to have deepened their grudge against her, it was nice to know she still had a friend.
Darby was measuring the presence of a certain chemical in the brains of opiate-addicted cadavers against its presence in the brains of cadavers who had no history with opioids. It was the fifth on a long list of chemical properties she was looking to isolate. She had plans to test twenty more.
“You’ve been smiling a lot lately,” Rich observed and she realized she’d been caught laughing at something Michael had texted. She finished tapping out her reply before putting the device down and focusing her attention on Rich.
“New boyfriend?” he asked.
“No, just a friend,” she answered vaguely. “You know I don’t really date.” She knew that if she admitted she was seeing somebody, Rich would insist on having her bring him around. Anne was already begging to meet Michael in person, and Darby didn’t need them teaming up against her.
“I can’t blame you for that…” he said stoically. He had finally revealed to her that he was getting a divorce, confirming the rumor that Anne had heard. Rich didn’t seem to be taking things well.
“I take it going through a divorce is every bit as awful as it’s cracked up to be?” she cringed a bit as she asked.
He flopped heavily into his chair.
“She’s turned into a completely different person.”
“You still haven’t told me what happened,” Darby pointed out gently.
“It was my fault, really. I fell out of love with her. When she insisted that we actively try for kids, I came clean. But she’s bloody angry. I never cheated. Never lied. When it was time to tell her the truth, I did the right thing. I told her she could have anything she wanted in the divorce. But she’s made it quite hard.”
Darby tried to keep her cool. Rich may have been her friend, but he was yet another man in her life who rationalized his selfish behavior. She hated this man-logic, this comfort in playing the victim when it was he who had done wrong. Darby neutralized her facial features and spoke in her soft but stern therapy voice.
“It sounds like Lindsay feels out of control. You decided that you didn’t want kids anymore. You decided the marriage was over. You moved out. And now she probably feels like you’re trying to dictate the divorce by setting the terms. Why don’t you let her feel like she’s in charge a little? It might soften the blow.”
He put his head in his hands and rubbed at his eyes with the backs of his fingers. She realized then how tired he looked.
“I just want it to be over,” he said definitively before lowering his voice. “But you’re probably right.”
Her timer went off as he said his last words. She cast him a sympathetic glance as she went to her microscope. A silence settled into the room as she looked at her specimens and recorded her results.
“You’d tell me, wouldn’t you…if you were seeing someone?” he asked a minute later and she was surprised he brought it up again.
“I’d tell you if it was serious,” she said, one eye squinting to see through the viewing column of her scope.
“So you’re open to meeting Mr. Right, then,” he prodded, sounding anxious enough to make her lift her head and turn around to regard him.
“Don’t worry about me, Rich,” she said, smiling at his concern. “I’m not lonely. One day maybe I’ll meet the right guy at the right time, but for now, my work is more than enough.”
Like everyone else in her life, he didn’t look convinced.
“Promise me you’ll at least be open to it,” he pressed. “Lindsay and I were very happy once.”
Look how well that turned out, some part of her felt like saying. But Rich was hurting and she didn’t want to make things worse.
“Everyone has a different ideal. Falling in love and living happily ever after is yours. My ideal isn’t wrong—it’s just different.”
His intensity didn’t soften at her appeasing words. If anything, he studied her harder.
“What is your ideal?”
“Companionship,” she said simply. She was surprised by how slippery Michael’s words felt rolling off her tongue, and how genuine and true they had become for her.
“And you have that?”
It was her turn to scrutinize him. Something about this didn’t seem casual.
“What’s with all the questions?”
“You said you weren’t seeing anybody.”
“I wasn’t asking for an interrogation. I was asking how you were dealing with the divorce,” she retorted somewhat tartly.
“A divorce I just poured my heart out to you about,” he challenged.
“I pour my heart out to you about my asshole boss on a daily basis.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
Darby ran her hands through her hair. He looked at her for a long moment, through eyes that held emotions she did not understand. She looked away when he dipped his chin toward his chest and palmed the back of his neck.
“You know everything about the most important thing in my life,” she pointed out.
“Your work.”
“Yes, my work. And I’m not ashamed that it’s my priority.”
“Maybe you should be.”
His voice was soft but his words weren’t kind. The fabric of her compassion was becoming threadbare. She was going to have to break it down for him.
“Rich. I don’t need this job. I don’t need to work another day in my life if I don’t want to. I’m here because I choose to be. Even though my boss hates me. Even though patients die. Even though one of my best friends doesn’t trust me to make my own choices.”
At last, he looked repentant.
“I’ve spent the majority of my life under my father’s thumb. The last thing I will ever need is more people telling me what to do. So promise me that we are never having this conversation again.”
He nodded. “Forgive me. I’m…not myself.”
She wasn’t sure she believed him. But she was glad to bring the conversation to a close.
Bored from a slow night at work and too tired to focus on her research, Darby mindlessly checked apps on her phone in between consults. She had a bit of a routine—first she cycled through her e-mail, then her Instagram and Facebook. If she was desperate, she browsed Vine, and when she could barely stand from fatigue, she might default to Candy Crush.
At the moment, watching Tasty videos on Facebook was not only making her depressed about her lack of cooking prowess—it was also making her hungry, which was not a good thing given her limited choices. She was about to abandon the app altogether when something new popped into her feed. Ben and Tami posted a happy picture of themselves at what looked like a fancy restaurant, announcing that, as of today, they’d been married for four months.
Four months.
Had it been so long since she and Michael had begun sleeping together? It didn’t feel like that much time had passed, yet it simultaneously felt as if they’d known each other for much longer. Between his frequent business trips and her odd work schedule, they barely saw each other more than once a week, but when they were together, it counted.
On impulse, she pressed the “Share” button and private messaged Ben’s status to Michael. A minute later, her phone was ringing in her hand.
“So today’s our four-month fuck-aversary?”
She laughed, a bit of her energy returning.
“I guess it is.”
“I should’ve bought you flowers.”
“Flowers are for boring boyfriends. You can do better than that…”
“Are you doubting my creativity?” His voice became low and her nipples tightened at the thought of how creatively he’d made her come the night before.
“Not that…” she drew out, allowing her own voice to lower. “Never that.”
“How soon can you get out of work?” he asked.
“I’m still stranded ‘till ten. I thought you had to work late, too.”
“Suddenly I’m having trouble concentrating.”
An hour and thirty-eight minutes later, the elevator doors to his penthouse were opening and he was on top of her the second she stepped out. Sliding his hand behind her neck, he pulled their bodies flush and invaded her mouth with a ravenous kiss. She heard the thud of the large purse she’d packed with clothes for the next day hit the floor. Sliding her hands around his waist, she began to untuck his shirt. He moaned as she kissed him and pulled at her bottom lip with his teeth as her cool hands met the hot skin of his back.
She felt his hands tugging at her oversized lapels. He realized right away that she wasn’t wearing her usual coat. Pulling back, he looked down and took in her appearance more fully.
“What’s this?” he asked, eyeing the shimmery black trench coat he’d never seen before.
She silently congratulated herself for stopping at her house before coming to Michael’s. “My fuck-aversary coat.”
His eyes traveled lower, slowing as they moved to take in her sheer black panty hose and tall heels.
“What’s underneath it?” His hand was reaching down. A moment later, his open palm was running up her nearly-nude thigh.
She moved her own hand to the sash of the coat and pulled slowly until the tie released.
“Not much.”
Well aware of his lingerie fetish, she’d been building a small collection. If he ever raided her office, he would find catalogs for Rigby & Peller, La Perla and Agent Provocateur. His eyes flicked up to hers, dark realization dawning.
“You are in so much trouble,” he growled.
Darby shifted her weight in a way that allowed her to rub her legs together at their apex. The silk of her tiny panties was no match for the wetness that was building there.
“What am I being punished for?”
There was no playfulness in his eyes when he looked at her then.
“For making my body crave yours every second of every day.”
His words knocked the wind out of her.
“For giving me mental images of you in lingerie that make me hard for you every night I’m gone,” he continued.
Darby’s heart thundered so hard in her chest that her breath became shaky. He had looked at her like this before, with wild desperation. But now he’d confessed it out loud. She owned some part of him. But she couldn’t return with words that every cell in her body knew were true.
You’re the best I’ve ever had.
I dream of you.
You own some part of me, and I hate myself for letting you.
“Give me what I deserve,” she whispered.
She had hoped her punishment would begin with a good hard fuck against the glass wall of his living room. Maybe another one in the hallway en route to his bedroom, and even more once they reached his bed. There was something she loved about waking up in the morning and following their trail of discarded clothes. But all of that would be for another time. He had different plans for her. They involved teasing her for what felt like hours without letting her come.
They did leave a trail of clothing as they made their way to his bed—her coat draped against the back of his sofa, her panties in the hallway, her shoes at the threshold of his bedroom door. He had lifted her high up against his panoramic windows, her thighs on his shoulders as buried his mouth in her pussy. When she’d begged him to let her come, he’d eased her down gently, first onto her feet, then onto her knees as he’d fucked her mouth instead. On the way to his bedroom, they had kissed as she tore his clothes off, and tried to take off her own, but he’d made sure she kept her bra, garters, and panty hose on.
As she lay on his bed, she felt desperate. What he was doing to her was sweet agony, and she was aching to come. His long middle finger was inside her and his eyes were affixed on hers. They both knew how firmly he was holding her in limbo, how with one hard stroke of his finger or smart flick of his tongue, she would go off.
“You have an iron will,” she’d taunted in a strangled voice.
“I have a photographic memory,” he whispered, stroking her at a pace that was painfully slow.
“Is this how you want to remember me?” she panted.
His finger had gone in to the hilt, and was now withdrawing in another measured stroke.
“No,” he’d said, his finger exiting her completely, not breaking contact, but sliding lower. So easily, it slid into her other entrance, the pad of his finger pressing firmly on some other glorious spot.
“I want to remember you like this,” he said simply, breaking their gaze to sharply suck her clit.
She fell, completely, apart.