🔥STEAMY ALERT—very mild, just some brief mentions 🔥

♫ All of the demons, how do you keep 'em out?
All of the feelings, runnin' me 'round and 'round ♪
(Ashley Tisdale—Insomnia)

The night with Ryan was fine, though Coralie struggled to hide that she wasn't one hundred percent into it. She was distracted, re-reading Nikita's email in her head, and it fired dangerous sparks to her neurons.

How had she been so careless? How had she let her hormones control her writing?

Ryan cooked salmon and green veggies and served a delectable red vintage he'd been saving for a big occasion. Coralie wasn't sure how this night qualified as a big occasion, but she accepted the wine and enjoyed every drop. He didn't push her, as promised; in fact, he didn't bring up Michael at all. For dessert, they ate vanilla ice cream from porcelain bowls while sitting out on his massive patio, and pointed out buildings, trying to guess what types of businesses were inside. They laughed—more than they had in a long while—and she relaxed as he held her, and they watched the sun set.

But when they retired for the night, her anxiety swelled up. All the thoughts she'd shoved to the back of her mind resurfaced, banging in her skull with such fierceness that she couldn't focus on her play-time with Ryan. Every time he thrust into her, she envisioned Chester instead; every time he whispered in her ear, she heard Michael's sweet compliments. And whenever she had two seconds to breathe, she felt pangs of guilt in her gut at how she'd been neglecting her dream job.

"You okay?" Ryan lounged beside her as he removed the condom. He tossed it into the trash to his right, then turned to her.

She couldn't look at him. Several times that night, she'd taken in his godly appearance, his well-formed abdominal muscles, the fancy tattoos trailing down his bulky arms... and cringed. In her mind, he morphed into Chester. Chester... and his svelte silhouette. His flatter but firm chest. And the thin hairs tracing down his lower half and surrounding his cock with a short forest of dark blond. He'd smirk at her, grab his penis and start stroking it, while licking his lips as he whispered, "I've got more plans for us."

"Yeah, I'm okay." She grabbed the glass of water on her nightstand and guzzled it all down. When a drop drizzled down her chin, she shivered, imagining the trickling water as Chester's fingertips. Why couldn't she get him out of her mind? What had he done to her? Poison? Mind-warping? Magic? "Stressed from work. They weren't too pleased with my most recent submissions, and I spent all day browsing through my old stuff, fixing it to their taste."

"Ah." Ryan rubbed her forearm affectionately; a gesture that would usually prompt her to gaze at him and reach over to kiss him... which would jumpstart another round of sex. "That explains your distraction. Don't let it get to you, all right? You're talented, they know that, and they won't fire you because of a few songs they didn't care for."

What she wouldn't tell him was that Nikita did care for the songs—but she didn't want all of Coralie's compositions to be about sex. And explaining that to Ryan would be venturing into perilous territory. Telling him she'd been super horny lately—without having been with him—would commence an argument she didn't want to have.

He accepted her grumbled goodnight, and they fell asleep in each other's arms... except Coralie didn't sleep. Any time she managed a few minutes in slumber-world, she woke panting and sweaty, after witnessing Chester stomping through her dreams. Sometimes he crept into Ryan's bed and ravaged her, and sometimes he'd be fucking her senseless in the alley behind her bar. Sometimes he was touching her, mumbling that she should end things with Michael and Ryan and come to him. And sometimes he was in some swanky hotel room, pounding some other girl while winking at her.

It made no sense—emotionally or physically—for him to constantly occupy her thoughts. She loved Ryan, she cared for Michael; they were more than enough for her. Yet a steamy kiss and a forbidden night of sex with Chester had reanimated feelings for him she never remembered having. And those feelings, however weak or drunken they might have been in the past, trumped anything she'd ever felt for anyone else.

And it wasn't right. He wasn't right. He snuck around and smoked and drank and cared little for anyone but himself. Which was fine, in Coralie's opinion; but not if he was pursuing her. She sought the stability that Michael offered, and the passion that Ryan provided. Not Chester's insane, ecstasy-like, drug induced behaviors that wouldn't let her sleep.

The next day, at the office, Michael called her. And though she was responsive to his questions and never missed a beat when acknowledging his accomplishments, even he sensed something was up with her.

"You're awfully quiet today. Like... weirdly so." A motorcycle zoomed past him, and its buzzing caused Coralie to grimace. He wasn't on speakerphone, because Nikita had been swinging by her office a lot that day, so she'd put the call in her earbuds. "Everything all right?"

His concern reminded her of Ryan's, the night before, and she addressed it in the same manner. "Stress from work, babe. Songs to revise, some of which aren't fun to revisit... they bring up bad memories." It wasn't a full lie; rehashing the lyrics she'd written when angry at Jayden was far from pleasant, no matter that she'd been over him for a long time. "Forgive me. I'm always happy to hear your voice. Keep talking, I'm listening, I promise."

Later, she unveiled her new and improved songs to Nikita.

The pink-haired lady smiled as she read them and set the papers on the desk as she stood up. "Much better. Though I respect the shit you sent this weekend, I want to reiterate that." She peered behind her, at the half-opened door, then returned to Coralie, angling over the desk. "I would make an entire album out of those songs, for real. They're hot, they're trendy, shit—" she fanned herself, "—they made me want to... touch myself. But," again, she glanced behind her, as if expecting someone to walk in on them, "the label has expectations. Requirements. Before we can consider recording an album, we have to collect a bit of everything from you and try it all out in the studio. And that many sexy songs... will make some people uncomfortable."

"No worries." Coralie tucked the printed lyrics into a folder labeled "good to go." "I'll tone things down, I swear. I was going through a... phase."

Nikita dropped into the chair across from her. "A phase? Girl," she giggled, "this phase is gold. You have quite the muse, I'll admit. I don't think you should quit doing whatever it is you're doing to get in those sultry moods. Eventually, the higher-ups will allow you to specialize. They've done it for other performers. So... what I'm saying is..." she cupped a hand around her purple-hued mouth, "don't stop getting some. I mean, I assume that's what's going on. And if it's with that dude from the gig night..." She smiled wide. "Enjoy."

Coralie didn't have the heart to disappoint Nikita by informing her Ryan wasn't her muse—not currently. Nor did she have the energy to detail her misconducts with former flames; not that Nikita would disapprove, since rumor had it she was having an affair with a married man. And she had no desire to warn Nikita that this muse was responsible for distracting her and might cause her more failure than success. Because of this muse and his toxic presence and his dangerous tongue, she'd have to slither around the building, scope out the elevator until the coast was clear, and change her hours so that he wouldn't know when she came and went.

And yet... that stupid, unrelenting craving for him poked her in the side all day long. No amount of picturing Ryan naked or Michael smirking would erase the hunger in her veins for Chester. The appeal of him filled Coralie's mind with unfulfilled fantasies, with wild ideas of activities she couldn't imagine engaging in with anyone else but him.

She almost wanted to bump into him that afternoon, as she clocked out, then tiptoed to the elevator and hastened into its box, pressing the Lobby button. She almost smelled him on the next floor, when the machine stopped—but someone else got in instead. And she almost tasted his lips as another employee entered several more floors down. At every stop, a stranger squeezed into the elevator, and every time, her heart swelled, then deflated as if pricked by a needle.

A hint of disappointment coursed through her as she arrived on the bottom floor. With no sign of Chester, no inkling that he'd been near, watching her as he claimed was his habit, she slumped out the building and into her Lyft ride with a frown. Why was she upset? This was what she'd wanted, needed; to not be taunted by Chester or tempted to give in to him again. She hadn't heard a peep from him over the phone, and that was good, too. So why wouldn't the sorrow quit spreading inside her?

That night, she couldn't sleep. It was worse than with Ryan—when she was with him, at least, he'd hold her close, and his breathing acted as a sort of lullaby to soothe her. But on her own, she had no means to get her mind to concentrate on anything other than Chester. She put on her habitual TV shows that lulled her into slumber, but she stayed up watching them, desperate for her eyes to shut and for her brain to stop throbbing. And when she did sleep for a few minutes, she woke breathless, her temples pulsating with pain, and her lungs constricting in her chest—as if she'd been getting busy in her dreams.

Her instincts told her to run, run, run. To hurry away from Chester at lightning speed, to keep striving to cleanse herself of him. A few more days, she'd tell herself; a few more days of enduring his haunting, like detoxing from alcohol or drugs. The shakes were the worst part, and once past them, she'd be fine.

But those few days came and went, and nothing changed. Halfway through the week, she'd fallen asleep twice on her desk, and drooled all over her computer keyboard. She'd shrugged her leggings down and touched herself without remorse, then scolded herself, then cried in shame, then returned to fantasizing about Chester.

Something was wrong with her, to the point of believing Chester had snuck something into her drink, or her food, or injected something into her system that made her clinically addicted to him.

On Wednesday night—after zoning out during a recording session with Nikita, who blamed herself for overworking Coralie—she'd had enough of waiting around for her issues to resolve. If she wanted to move on from Chester, she'd need to satisfy that urge, scratch that itch until she bled. Because he would make her bleed, with regret or guilt or despair. The other shoe would drop, and her hangover from him would kick in, and she'd be so disgusted by him that she'd never contemplate having sex with him again. That was how it had worked in the past, with other guys she'd been obsessed with—she'd meet up with them sober, have sex, be grossed out, and skid on to the next.

She flipped through her phone and landed on his last text message, from over the weekend, before she'd spent the night with Ryan.

Chess: I'm telling you, we could have so much fun, and no one would know. I can keep a secret. You give me a ring when you're ready. *If* you're ready. ;)

She'd ignored the text, thought about erasing it... and yet she'd decided to hold on to it in case Ryan or Michael or both pissed her off. In case she needed something to settle her down—something in the form of Chester's penis.

"Fuck it." Her fingers glided across the keyboard before she had a chance to halt them.

Coralie Amber Watson: Okay, fine, I'll bite (not literally, don't get excited). Not sure if I'm ready, but I'm... curious. What are you plotting?

She set her phone down on the coffee table, but it pinged, so she brought it close to her face again.

Chess: Give me a few hours.

"A few hours to what?" She scoffed and tossed the phone onto the couch beside her. "Book a hotel suite? A plane ride? A limo? What the fuck is he up to?"

She paced her living room, then fixed herself a small dinner, then attempted to watch some silly reality TV show to keep herself diverted from her cell. But she couldn't stop staring at the screen. Willing it to light up, to vibrate, to scream at her.

Hours passed—she'd changed into her pajamas and was having a beer with Delilah—before the device finally reacted. It was nine o'clock, she'd sprawled onto the couch, and already felt tipsy from the bubbles.

"Booty call?" Delilah's eyebrows raised. "I see you still haven't figured your shit out."

"Shut up." Coralie clicked on the screen and sighed at Chester's name. "I am figuring my shit out, but I have a few loose ends to tie up."

Seconds into reading his message, she tensed.

Chess: Remember where I live? Meet me there at 11. Try to keep an open mind.

Delilah read over her shoulder and snorted. "Eleven? Dude, that is so a booty call." She squared her shoulders as she slid away from Coralie; as if she radiated poison and would infect her with her sexual cravings. "And with Chester, hm? So, you also still haven't ditched him, like you thought you would."

Coralie swatted at her. "That night we had wasn't enough. And he keeps taunting me, so..." She shrugged. "Why the hell not? Visit him, see what his whole ordeal is, get it over with. It'll satisfy my appetite, and then..."

"... then you'll refocus your energy on the two dudes you're already sleeping with?" Delilah lifted her beer to her lips but kept her gaze fixed on Coralie. She'd removed her make-up, but her fake lashes fluttered so fast they made Coralie dizzy.

"Yeah." Coralie groaned. "Exactly."

Her phone beeped again.

Chess: Dress... lightly. Bring a change of clothes and toiletries, because you'll be spending the night. I mean, as long as that's okay with you?

She repeated his words to Delilah.

"You start late at the label tomorrow, yeah?" Delilah chugged her beer and set it on the coffee table.

Coralie nodded. "Some inspection thing going on all morning, and they want employees to stay out of it." She glimpsed the message, flinched, then peeped at Delilah. "What do you think?"

Rolling her eyes, Delilah stood and stretched. "I think you don't care what I think. I may have encouraged your crazy side in the beginning, when you were only flirting with Ryan... but this? Nah." She paraded across the living room and paused in the kitchen's threshold, her back to Coralie, but craning her neck to show her too neutral expression. "This is beyond my level of expertise, girl. Have I cheated? Sure. Have I done shit I regret? Absolutely. But fucking three guys basically at the same time? That's some naughty crap. But I won't judge. Go on, go have fun," she said, waving at Coralie while attempting a weak smile. "Explore but be cautious. You expect to unwrap yourself from Chester by caving and hopefully getting sick of him... but beware; you're in for a surprise. Remember his poems, Cora. This means more to him than you assume."

She marched off, leaving Coralie to wonder if by following her lustful side, she was risking not only her career, but her friendships, too.

Yet the curiosity was too intense... too impossible to resist.

Coralie Amber Watson: Ok. Be there soon.

♥♥♥