🔥STEAMINESS ALERT—a few mild snippets🔥

♫ It's my obsession, possession began
(Physical, psychical, illumination
Intoxication, fascination
(Mystical, sexual hallucination) ♪
{In This Moment ft. Brent Smith—Sexual hallucination} 

Sore but less tense than earlier, Coralie checked her reflection one more time before heading out to meet the girls. She practiced her composure, her facade of nonchalance, in anticipation for the questions Delilah and Bella would likely have for her. If she wasn't careful, they'd see right through her. So she'd have to pretend like she hadn't been slammed around her dressing room, like she and Chester hadn't broken plates, spilled food, and allowed make-up to stain the floors. That they hadn't had wild sex on the coffee table or up on the vanity, devouring each other like animals. Like two beings who craved flesh.

Unwilling to return later, to face the reality of what she'd done, she snatched her bag and headed out into the cluster of people. As she passed waiters, security guards, patrons, she swore they all stared at her as if they could identify the physical signs of someone who'd just had sex. As if they smelled it on her, saw the desire still shimmering in her eyes, had heard her attempts to not scream Chester's name. They knew, didn't they? They, like Bella and Delilah, could read her like an open book. There was no way to conceal the thrill of emotions she'd been through in one night, was there? The tension with Michael, the violence with Ryan, the explosions with Chester—they'd haunt her until bed-time, and would invade her dreams.

She clutched the bag to her chest as she fumbled among the guests who, unlike earlier, paid her no mind. She was incognito now, because someone else was on the stage; someone with a more practiced presence, with a confidence Coralie lacked.

Mellie's current song—a gentle ballad that permitted her voice to stretch into impossibly perfect notes—had wowed the crowd, making it easier for Coralie to navigate through. She squeezed up to the front, and settled in the seat Delilah and Bella had saved for her in the middle.

Thanking the stars for Mellie's captivating chorus—no one saw her, and Delilah and Bella barely acknowledged her arrival—Coralie slouched, letting out a breath of relief. Despite the stale, stickiness of the overwhelming amount of bodies in close quarters, she breathed better, here. Better than in the hallway of fresh air and fights; better than in the dressing room she'd destroyed with her appetite for sex.

She hadn't yet seen Nikita, and wondered why she hadn't come to find her. But knowing her, she'd be at the bar—and that was exactly where Coralie wanted to be, too.

A cocktail or two might help clear my head.

With a quick I need a drink gesture at Bella, Coralie left her bag in her spot and brushed through the crowd once more, headed for the bar. The sleek, fluorescent counter was mostly vacant, since everyone concentrated near Mellie, to admire her skill. To Coralie's surprise, Nikita wasn't there, either.

As she sat on one of the leathery stools and flagged down the bartender, Coralie wondered; had Nikita gone looking for her after her set? To go over details, what went well, what went wrong, to discuss what needed improvement? She hadn't come to the dressing room, or so Coralie believed. But what if she had, and Coralie was too busy fucking Chester to hear her knocking on the door? What if Nikita knew what Coralie had been doing, and in her disappointment, she'd run off to warn the label that Coralie had slept with one of the patrons? What if she—

A hand on Coralie's shoulder caused her to whip around on her stool. Her heart hammered in her chest; how many surprises could one handle in one night?

To her relief, it wasn't one of her sneaky contenders who'd tapped her shoulder; it was a bubblegum-haired woman in a silver pantsuit, that Coralie recognized at once, despite the semi-darkness.

"Nikita!" Coralie shook the shock from her features. "There you are!"

"Girl," Nikita pressed her hands to Coralie's cheeks, "you were fabulous! I loved it! We all loved it!" Her skin was cool to the touch, yet infused with warmth. A slight whiff of her breath hit Coralie's face—that skunky, pungent scent of marijuana, tinged with a strong smell of alcohol.

Nikita was drunk and high; no, she hadn't gone looking for Coralie after her performance. She'd gone looking for fun, for trouble, hadn't she? The flush in her cheeks, the glossiness in her eyes, her slight swaying as she stood there, still holding on to Coralie's face—it made sense.

Good for her.

"And I'm told you're chatting with Mellie later?" Nikita hopped onto the stool beside Coralie with an ease most drunk people couldn't muster. She wobbled a bit, and spun Coralie to her, whose arms were at the ready to catch her if she fell. "Making those connections, girl, I'm so proud of you!"

In truth, she envied Nikita. If she were to get as inebriated, maybe she'd be able to erase her memories of the night—temporarily, but she'd accept that. Maybe she'd be able to put aside her actions, forget about them long enough to celebrate what she'd accomplished that evening. She'd performed an official gig, garnered attention, and had a meeting with Mellie Murray to discuss potential song duets.

"We need to celebrate!" Coralie clapped her hands and again waved towards the bartender—who seemed to be ignoring her, too busy listening to Mellie.

"Hey!" Nikita stood up and smacked her fists on the counter, drawing the bartender towards them. "Don't ignore this one!" She waggled a finger at Coralie. "She was the first performer tonight! And we want shots, to celebrate how great she was!"

Coralie had been thinking of a few mojitos, maybe a nice glass of wine; but Nikita's idea of shots would definitely work faster to get more liquor in her. Though she didn't think Nikita should be drinking more—she battled to stay on her stool as it was.

She's not my problem, and I'm not hers.

The bartender, realizing who Coralie was, winked as he served them several rows of shots. He said something—with a flirtatious grin—but Coralie couldn't tell what, with Mellie's next song growing louder.

She had no idea what Nikita had ordered, but she indulged in each shot. Some were sugary and sticky on her lips, reminding her of Chester's kisses. Some were bitter, burning down her throat and scarring her—like Ryan. And the last one was smooth but sly; its intensity caught up to Coralie minutes after she'd swallowed it, and she sensed herself getting dizzy.

That one was Michael—how he snuck up on me and flipped my life upside down.

The alcohol wasn't having the appropriate effect; instead of erasing her thoughts, it brought them to life.

Coralie huffed as another shot slid before her. Nikita, dangerously leaning backwards, lifted her glass and downed the liquid, then slammed the cup onto the counter before scurrying off—possibly to throw up.

Coralie took a slower sip, and this liquor—sweet at first, then acidic and unpleasant—brought a different person to mind.

Sugary, then sour—that was the perfect description for Jayden, wasn't it? How he'd tricked her into dating him, many moons ago. How he'd been so wonderful at first, then shed the layers to show the true monster he was. The emotionally damaging, cruel-tongued, sex-addicted asshole. Her issues today were because of him, she knew it. Because of how he'd used sex to keep her in line, to keep her with him. How he'd claimed if she didn't put out, it meant she didn't love him. He'd made her see sex in such a negative light that she'd been traumatized by the mere notion of it, for years. Even her near-rape hadn't plagued her as much, deep down.

And then along came Michael. Ryan. And Chester. She cared for them, she bared her soul to them—and her views of sex switched to positive. To over-the-top. She'd gone from one extreme to the other, and had no clue how to stop herself. With Jayden she'd been closed up, her heart on lockdown, her vagina drier than a desert—cliché intended. But the other three had drawn her out of her shell and thrown her too far over the limit. She was drowning.

But she didn't blame them—she blamed Jayden. If she'd had a healthier approach to sex with him, she wouldn't be so unhinged now, so addicted, and so unable to separate her vagina's cravings from what mattered most. Stability. Emotional connection. Trust. Loyalty.

Love.

"Ugh." She burped, and cringed at the mix of tastes swelling in her mouth. "That was a bad idea." The alcohol had taken over her brain, and she felt like her insides sloshed with her every move.

Applause rang behind her, and she struggled to turn around and watch what was going on. Through blurry eyes, she saw Mellie was bowing, waving, smiling—she'd finished her portion of the show, and was about to leave the stage.

Which meant she'd want to chat with Coralie any moment, now.

"Shit." Coralie hiccuped. "Shit! Hey!" She gestured at the bartender, sensing something swarming up her esophagus; something she had to keep down. "Water. Water? Can I... water?"

The man, wrinkling his nostrils at Coralie's obvious intoxication, set a chilled glass in front of her, filled it with ice, and poured in the requested water. The instant he finished pouring, Coralie snatched the cup and drained it, then pointed at it, asking for more. And again.

Four cups of water she drank before being certain she wouldn't throw up—at least not yet. Not until she got home.

I can't be sick, not now. Damn you, Nikita!

Wherever Nikita had ended up—likely with her head in a toilet—Coralie couldn't be concerned about it. She had to focus on herself, be prepared for—

"Miss Watson?" Someone nudged her—from the corner of her eye she noticed a tall man with sunglasses, holding a cell phone in one hand, a set of keys in the other. He'd used the phone to poke her, and stood sturdy at her side, frowning at her.

"Yeah? You are?" She gulped—using her voice had prompted the stuff stuck in her stomach to start inching up to her throat again.

The sound had died down. With Mellie's set over, a jazzy background music filtered through the room, and everyone could talk without yelling again.

"So, who are you? What do you want?"

Coralie didn't realize she'd been yelling until the guy's eyebrows scrunched and he pressed a hand to her mouth, quieting her. "I'm with Miss Murray's security team. She's ready for you," he said, offering his arm when Coralie struggled to remain upright. "If you're fit to see her, that is."

"Yeah, yeah," Coralie snickered at him as she plopped off the stool, "I'm fit. I'm fine. Let's go."

She was far from fine, but she had to do this. It was a large career move; inebriated or not, she had to take it. But her trek to Mellie's dressing room was a blur of colors and shapes in fast motion. Of claps on her back, cheers as she walked—wobbled—by, of smooches blown in her direction. She was positive she'd bumped into Delilah, at some point, and muttered something about meeting with Mellie real quick, then they could leave. And no matter how fuzzy her sight was, there was no mistaking Delilah's grimace as Coralie shimmied past her, torn away by Mellie's security guard.

Only when the air changed from sweaty and humid to light, airy, gently perfumed with cotton-candy, did Coralie know she'd arrived. The security guard dropped her on a cozy, cushioned chair, and leaned in to whisper at someone sitting across from her.

As her eyesight adjusted, Coralie realized that someone was Mellie. She wore a tight satin robe, half-opened to reveal a brassiere and neon green leggings. Her hair was tucked into a massive bun atop her head, and her make-up was wiped off. Yet she was still gorgeous, her skin flawless, reflecting a healthy glow.

The security guy left, and once he closed the door, Mellie giggled. "Brent tells me you're a bit smashed," she said, lounging in her seat—a velvet chaise like those in old Hollywood movies.

"I, uh..." Coralie swallowed, praying that the glob of alcohol would remain in her belly, for now. "It's been a night." She wiped her forehead and gasped at the moisture there; almost as much moisture as she'd felt in her panties earlier—

"Really?" Mellie reached for a glass on the coffee table that separated them.

Coralie's fogginess only now started to dissipate, and she took in the room. Blindingly white walls, a carpeted floor, settees and chairs and poufs scattered all around the coffee table. On the table were platters of goods—like in Coralie's room, but the dishes were more decadent, more elaborate. And none of them had fallen on the floor in the heat of a sexual moment.

"You were awesome, hun. I wouldn't worry about anything."

"No, not that." Coralie exhaled, and pointed at one of the plates—pepperoni pizza bites, her favorite drunk snack—and Mellie acknowledged her, allowing her to take a piece. "It's... other troubles." She shoved the bite into her mouth and melted in her seat, delighted with the hot cheese and the spicy sauce.

"Oh, right." Mellie set her glass down. "Boy troubles? Or," she wriggled her eyebrows, "girl troubles? Both? Neither? Gosh, I'm curious tonight."

"Boy." Coralie grabbed another bite. "Man. Men. Several of them. Heart and brain and vagina troubles." She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. "Holy shit, that was TMI, I'm sorry."

If offended by her language, Mellie didn't show it. Instead, she sat cross-legged and clasped her hands beneath her chin, batting her lashes in intrigue. "A love triangle? Oh, Coralie Amber Watson, what a tease!"

Coralie scoffed, nearly blowing out chunks of pepperoni before covering her mouth. "More like a love square," she muttered, fighting to chew the dough and force it down before she spat out more of it. Hadn't she embarrassed herself enough? No way would Mellie consent to a duet with her now. "There's three of them."

"Hmm." Mellie's lips twitched to and fro, and she seized a notepad from under her seat. "Love square. I like that. Good title." She took a pen from the coffee table and scribbled, then pointed the pen towards Coralie. "That'll be a working title, yeah?"

"Huh?" Coralie choked. "You... you still want to sing with me?" She gawked into her lap—covered in crumbs—and scrunched her nose. Was her mind playing tricks on her? Sure, she was drunk; but had she blacked-out? "I'm a mess. I'm trash. Look at me! Why?"

Mellie put her notepad and pen down and sashayed over to a chair beside Coralie's. "Sweetheart," she said, her voice tender, soothing. She tucked a few hairs behind Coralie's ears and smiled at her. "You think I haven't been where you are? Fighting for my career but dealing with my love life, too? Triangle, square—doesn't matter, love always pops up and makes us want to drink ourselves stupid to forget about the pain. That's why you're so drunk, yeah?" Coralie nodded. "It's okay. And it's not enough to change my mind. You're a gem, hun, and whichever of those men you choose will be lucky to have you. And I am thrilled with the opportunity of collaborating with you."

Coralie refrained from spilling the details—she was cheating on one man with another, and cheating on them both with the third—but sensed a weight lifting from her shoulders. Mellie didn't hate her, wasn't ashamed at her behavior.

She cringed. "But I can't choose."

"Sure you can." Mellie handed her a glass, and Coralie sneered at it. "It's water. Hydrate, doll, otherwise you'll regret it." Coralie took the cup and guzzled down half its contents. "It's your heart you have to follow. It'll know who you should choose, if anyone."

Gripping the cup tight—too tight, because her fingers hurt—Coralie groaned. "You're the third person to tell me this, but what the fuck does my heart want?"

***

Gracious and courteous, Mellie listened to Coralie pour her heart out. Coralie didn't mention the cheating, but mentioned the passionate sex with Ryan, the dirty words with Michael, the near-violent acts with Chester. Mellie didn't judge, or at least, didn't seem to. "You can't force it," she'd said. Her comments echoed in Coralie's mind on the Lyft ride home. "It's cliché as hell, but the answers will come to you when you least expect them."

She'd given Coralie her direct number, as well as that of her agent, and kissed Coralie's dampened cheeks before sending her on her way.

Finding her friends in the crowd had been treacherous; getting downstairs to the Lyft had been worse. Now, Delilah was deathly quiet to Coralie's right; arms crossed, legs crossed, body language closed off. Bella was more relaxed, but the tension was still there. Was it Coralie's fault? Had her disappearing—twice—done something to fuck up their friendship again?

They were quiet, listening to the soft rock playing on the radio. Coralie's head spun, but she was grateful to be wedged between her two best friends; they'd help her out if she needed it, right?

As they got out of the Lyft, Delilah scurried up the stairs ahead of Bella and Coralie. She stomped, her tiny self loaded with a rage Coralie didn't understand.

What did I do this time?

Bella, holding on to Coralie to support her, whispered into her ear. "It's not you, darling. It's me," she squeezed Coralie's arm, "she's pissed at me."

"At you?" Coralie squinted and almost tripped over a step.

"I didn't agree to having sex in the coat closet." Bella pursed her lips, then let out a tiny laugh that prompted Coralie to twist and gape at her.

"Why? Everyone was having sex in that place—" Coralie glued her lips shut before revealing the truth of her evening.

"Well, call me traditional, but I'd prefer our first time to be in a bed," said Bella, perking up. "I was upset the other night, when we got started on the couch. Thankfully we were interrupted," she frowned briefly, "and we haven't tried again since."

They'd arrived at the door—left ajar by Delilah, who'd likely vanished into her room already—and Coralie held on to the door-frame. "So, that night... you didn't go all the way?"

In the dim corridor light, Bella's cheeks were flushed with violet. A shy smirk slid across her lips. "No, we'd barely gotten our clothes off when you arrived. And I'm glad we didn't pursue it; I was disappointed at our drunkenness, our eagerness. Traditional me, wanting a romantic night on an actual mattress—not a couch or a closet."

"Oh boy," Coralie coughed, "and Delilah is anything but traditional."

"True." Bella slipped into the apartment, dragging Coralie with her. "But tonight... well... I'd like to. Do it, I mean." She wrung her hands as she closed the door with her backside. "And you... your room..."

Biting the insides of her cheeks, Coralie shook her head. She knew exactly what Bella was asking, and it sobered her up instantly. "Say no more. I'll put on headphones. Be as loud as you want."

But Coralie didn't put on headphones. It was no use, because any music she put on or any show she streamed wouldn't shelter her thoughts. Every tune would remind her; every sentence would trigger her.

So, as if to torture herself more, she eavesdropped on her two best friends having sex. She enjoyed their muted moans, pictured their naked bodies sliding against one another, imagined their tongues tickling nipples and clits, their fingers exploring wet depths of pleasure. She smiled as they climaxed once, twice, three times, and silently cheered them on, wondering if there would be another round.

And though she'd had her own fill that night, Coralie wasn't satisfied. Drunk and dizzy as she still was, she needed something to help her relax. Again. She'd gotten most of her nausea out of her system after setting a damp cloth over her forehead and changing into her pajamas, and knew she wouldn't be sick. So to a chorus of sexy, slurry kisses from the room next door, and to the melody of squeaky bed-springs, Coralie wandered her fingers into her underwear and rubbed herself to sleep.

♥♥♥