Chapter 2
The apartment held the kind of hush that wasn't just quiet, but
charged
-- the low, dense silence of a late morning that knew too much had happened the night before. Sunlight slipped through half-drawn curtains, softening the edges of sleek furniture and polished surfaces, but even that light seemed subdued, like it was tiptoeing across the hardwood. Shannon stood barefoot at the kitchen island, wrapped in one of Craig's old T-shirts -- the fabric thin and worn to transparency in places, brushing the tops of her thighs, slipping wide across one shoulder like it had forgotten what it meant to fit. Her hair was half-wound, half-wild, a soft mess of curls that had loosened through the night, undone by sleep and sweat and something else entirely. Her hand curled around a coffee mug, but she wasn't drinking -- just holding it, letting the heat seep into her palm, her eyes fixed somewhere past the window, somewhere beyond what she was willing to name. There was a hum in her still, low and constant, in places her breath hadn't reached since before sunrise. It wasn't arousal, not exactly. It was
afterglow
, yes -- but not her own.
Across from her, Craig leaned against the counter with his own mug, the air between them as quiet as it was crowded. Neither had said much since waking. No lazy banter. No soft kisses or murmured plans. Just the mechanical ritual of espresso grinding and toast popping, the choreography of avoidance performed with silent precision. But they both felt it -- the hangover of sound, of something primal that had passed through their walls like heat through plaster. Not sex, not as they knew it. What they'd heard last night had been beyond category. It had been
devastation
in rhythm -- the kind of fucking that didn't ask for consent, only surrender. Skin slapping with brutal consistency, as if the tempo had been chosen by instinct, not intention. And the woman -- God, the
woman
-- her voice hadn't cried out so much as collapsed. Sobbed, pleaded,
shattered
, until her moans stopped sounding like pleasure and started sounding like release.
Craig had tried to keep his focus on Shannon. Tried to lose himself in the familiar stretch of her thighs, the warmth of her cunt wrapped around him like home. But even as he pushed into her, even as she arched and clung and cried out, something in him knew -- the tremble in her breath, the sudden tightness of her grip, the way she
took
him -- none of it was about
him
. Not entirely. There was something else in her body last night. Something she couldn't name. Something she didn't fight.
The sound of the door broke the stillness. Soft footsteps padded across the wood, the echo of high heels dangling from fingers rather than clacking on the floor. Shannon turned, slow and composed, just in time to see
her
-- the woman from the night before. She moved with that unmistakable looseness that only came after complete submission -- not just well-fucked, but
awakened
in the most flattering way. Her cheeks were flushed, mouth soft, limbs languid like every muscle had been rewritten. Her eyes didn't scan the room. She didn't need to. Her smile said everything. She'd been changed.
Opened.
And then Ron appeared behind her -- barefoot, shirtless, his presence as effortless as ever, but
heavy
now in its implication. His body looked untouched by effort, muscles fluid beneath skin still warm from exertion. He murmured something -- low, private -- and she leaned in, kissed his cheek like it was second nature, like gratitude and reverence could be distilled into that one silent gesture. Then she slipped out the door.
Craig let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "Jesus."
Shannon didn't respond. She just stared into her coffee like it might offer a map out of the moment, steam curling into the stillness between them. Her body was still, but something in her seemed in motion -- like her thoughts were pacing inside her skin.
"She looked like she barely survived," he said eventually, his voice quieter now, coloured by something that wasn't quite awe... but wasn't far from it either.
"She looked satisfied," Shannon said, her voice even, not defensive, just observant. She didn't look up.
Craig huffed a breath. "She looked like she'd been worshipped and wrecked in equal measure."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was electric. A pause thick with everything they weren't saying. Then, almost as if testing the shape of the thought aloud: "Do you ever wonder how a body even takes that?"
Shannon turned her head slightly, her hair shifting where it had fallen loose. "What?"
He didn't meet her eyes. Just studied his mug, like it might offer some safer answer than the one forming in his chest. "I mean, last night... that wasn't normal. That wasn't just good sex. That was something else." He looked up, voice dipping lower, threading into something raw. "That was... violent."
And even as the word left his mouth, her body reacted. Her legs shifted slightly, a subtle clench she hadn't meant to make -- thighs drawn in, pressed together in instinctive memory of a sound that had crawled through the drywall and embedded itself somewhere under her skin. It hadn't been noise. It had been
calling
.
"You saw it," Craig said, his voice finding her now, more certainty in it. "In the hot tub. Right?"
She hesitated -- not long, just enough. Then: "Only for a second."
"But long enough, though."
Her nod was small. Barely there. "It's not the kind of thing you forget."
Craig moved closer, his body subtly aligned with hers across the counter, though he still held his distance. His voice was quieter now, something almost reverent laced into the question. "Do you think you could take it?"
She didn't speak immediately. Instead, she rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes unreadable, then shrugged -- a gesture too casual for the current beneath it. "I think it would hurt."
"But would you want to try?"
This time her eyes met his. Unflinching. Present. Not flirtatious, not cruel -- just honest, unguarded, the kind of look that came from deep within a woman no longer afraid of asking herself dangerous questions. "You tell me."
Craig's throat moved with a swallow. His mouth parted like he had something to offer, but no sound came. The question hung between them, suspended by its own weight.
She brushed past him then -- not abrupt, not dismissive, just fluid. Like she had somewhere to be and had already decided to take herself there. Her arm grazed his lightly, skin on skin, but the contact wasn't the statement.
She
was. At the sink, she placed her mug down gently, precisely, and turned toward the hallway. Her feet were bare. Her shoulders loose. She didn't glance back. Just dropped the line over her shoulder with the cool precision of someone who already knew how it would land.
"You're the one who can't stop thinking about his huge cock."
And then she was gone.
Craig stood in the silence that followed, mug in hand, coffee cooling. He didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe for a second too long. He didn't know what rattled him more -- that she'd said it so easily. Or the idea that she might be right.
Craig didn't expect much when Ron stepped into the kitchen. Maybe a nod. Maybe some smooth, offhand acknowledgment of the moans and mattress-thudding symphony that had all but shaken the drywall the night before -- though Ron didn't seem like the type to apologise for his appetite. Or for being witnessed. Still, as the man approached -- fresh from the shower, black fitted T-shirt clinging to his chest and arms with casual precision, not vanity -- Craig braced for some kind of comment. A wry look. A quip. Something to confirm that yes, it had happened -- and that Ron knew exactly how unforgettable it had been.
Instead, Ron's voice came low, even, like the beginning of something already decided. "Craig -- got a minute?"
And for a split second, Craig thought
this is it
. The nod. The unspoken dare. A maybe-masked smirk and a "hope we didn't keep you up." Something to puncture the tension between what they'd heard and what they hadn't said. He followed him down the hallway, muscles tight, pulse bumping a little harder behind his ribs. The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was
structured
-- like everything Ron did. Contained, weighty, humming with the sense that whatever came next wasn't small talk.
Inside the office, Ron moved ahead with unhurried confidence, crossing to the sleek bar cart near the windows. He turned -- just that slight pivot to face him -- and Craig's eyes dropped without permission. A reflex. Not desire. Not curiosity. Just
response
. And there it was. Even clothed, even soft, it registered like a presence. Not shown. Not flaunted. Just
there
-- a shape and mass that seemed too grounded to be ignored. His throat went dry. He looked away fast. Shame blooming before he could even form the thought:
Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Ron poured without asking, his movements precise. A short pour of something dark and expensive -- no label offered, no explanation. Just handed to Craig like a ritual, like an invitation into something old and private.
"I took a call this morning," Ron said, as if continuing a conversation already halfway through. "Westlake and Barber."
Craig stiffened, trying not to show it. Glass in hand, trying to stand still in a body that suddenly felt too warm.
"They couldn't stop talking about you," Ron continued, tone still flat, measured. "Said you carried yourself like a senior partner. Waited. Spoke with intent. Didn't oversell. They liked you. A lot."
Craig took a sip, slow and cautious, as if the drink might steady the thrum in his chest. He'd spent the whole night second-guessing every word he'd said in that meeting -- the way his tie felt too tight, the sweat he'd tried to hide with a sleeve swipe, the moment he'd stumbled through a technical point he should've nailed. But now... hearing
this
...
Ron leaned against the desk, glass in hand, posture loose in that way powerful men never had to explain. "I've been thinking about expanding," he said. "Quietly. No teams. No red tape. I like lean. Smart. One or two people I trust. People who can handle pressure without noise."
He looked at Craig then -- not admiring, not sizing him up. Just
seeing
him. "And then you and Shannon landed in my world. I don't believe in fate. But I do believe in recognising value when it knocks on your door."
The silence that followed wasn't a pause. It was a test. Craig held his breath without knowing it.
