Lori

The MedVax meeting is dragging, the kind of corporate marathon where every word feels rehearsed, every slide polished to within an inch of its life.

I try to focus, really, but Marcel is sitting directly across from me, her hair tucked behind one ear, her legs crossed in a way that drives me insane.

I let my phone slide from under my notebook, careful not to draw too much attention.

You look dangerously good when you're stressed, did you know that?

Her eyes flicker to her phone, and for a second, her fingers hesitate over her pen.

She doesn't reply. Not yet. But I catch the way her lips press together, how she shifts slightly in her seat.

Beneath the table, her foot brushes mine, a tiny contact that makes my pulse quicken.

I smirk. She's trying so hard to play it cool.

I really want to lick that sweet fruit between your legs.

Stop distracting me! Dad's watching.

She replies.

I smirk.

Whatever makes you think that's a good enough reason. C'mon baby, I m so turned on I'm practically undressing you with my eyes.

She looks up only to meet my eyes with a smug then tucks her phone away.

By the time the meeting wraps up, the MedVax owners are smiling, handing out compliments about our "innovative approach" and "clear vision." Marcel nods along, gracious and poised as ever, but I can see it in her eyes-the relief, the pride, the sheer exhaustion of holding it all together.

When the last handshake is done, she turns to me briefly, her expression unreadable. I take my cue and head for the bathroom.

My fingers hover over my phone, and I type:

Meet me in the bathroom.

I don't wait for a reply.

The door swings open a minute later, and Marcel steps in, closing it quietly behind her. She looks at me, her face tight, but there's a fire in her eyes that matches my own.

"Lori," she starts, her voice low, almost scolding.

I don't give her the chance to finish.

My hands are on her hips before she can protest, pulling her closer, and then my lips are on hers, soft but insistent.

She doesn't resist.

Her breath hitches, and she melts into me, her hands finding my shoulders, then my hair.

It's desperate, a little rushed, but it feels like breathing after being underwater too long.

When we finally pull apart, she's trying not to smile. "We can't keep doing this."

"Sure we can."

She shakes her head, laughing softly, but she doesn't let go.

I help her up the sink and push her panties to the side before I bury my face between her legs.

×××

We walk back into the office like nothing happened, but I'm floating. Someone points out that my lipstick is smudged, and I laugh-a little too loudly-because it's the funniest damn thing in the world.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Marcel smoothing her hair and biting back a grin.

This little game of ours doesn't stop there.

Bathroom kisses whenever we can steal a moment. Late-night make-outs when the office is finally ours alone. Sometimes, when we go out for drinks, she crashes at my place.

Other times, I find myself waking up in her bed, tangled in her sheets, the world outside forgotten.

It's easy. Too easy.

It feels like we're finally doing what we've both wanted for so long, but there's a part of me that wonders how serious she's taking this.

Marcel isn't exactly the open-book type. She holds her cards close, and I don't know if I'm a queen or just another pawn in her hand.

One quiet Saturday morning, my phone buzzes with her name.

"Be ready by eight," she says. "We're going to the bar."

There's a pause, just long enough to make my stomach twist.

"I want you to meet my friends."

I don't protest despite my nerves.

By eight, I'm standing outside our favorite spot downtown, fidgeting with the sleeve of my leather jacket.

Marcel arrives a few minutes later, her coat draped over one arm, her heels clicking against the pavement.

She looks... radiant. Confident. Like she knows exactly how to knock the air out of my lungs.

"You're nervous," she teases, brushing past me to open the door.

"Me? Never."

She doesn't call me out on the lie, just flashes me a small, knowing smile as we step inside.

Michel is already there, sitting at the bar nursing a beer, his jacket draped over the back of his chair.

He looks out of place in the crowd, but when he sees Marcel, his face lights up like she's the best part of his day.

"This is Michel," Marcel says. "He's a friend from... forever, basically."

Michel shakes my hand, his grip firm but casual. "So, you're Lori."

I blink. "You've heard of me?"

He grins, glancing at Marcel. "More than you'd think. Don't worry-it's all good things. Mostly."

Marcel groans, shooting him a warning look. "Ignore him. He's impossible after a beer."

Michel winks at me. "Two beers, actually."

The three of us settle into a booth near the back, and for the first few minutes, I feel like I'm under a microscope.

Michel's easy demeanor doesn't quite mask the way he studies me, like he's sizing me up, trying to figure out why Marcel is with me.

By the way, are we together or just sleeping together? It's a crazy lining there and I'm scared to ask. What if she snaps and decides I'm taking things too seriously and that's not what she wants?

I don't think I'm ready to let go yet.

"So," he says, leaning back, "what's your deal?"

"Michel," Marcel warns.

"No, it's fine," I say, meeting his gaze. "My deal is... complicated. But I like her."

The words spew out before I can stop them and I don't even feel bad about me.

Marcel eyes me for a moment too long and I wonder what's on her mind.

Michel nods slowly, his expression softening. "Good. She deserves that."

Marcel's cheeks flush slightly, and she busies herself with her drink, muttering something under her breath that I don't catch.

As the night goes on, Michel tells a story about Marcel showing up at his garage in heels and trying to fix her car herself, and she groans, burying her face in her hands while I laugh harder than I probably should.

It feels too good.

At one point, Marcel leans closer, her lips brushing against my ear as she murmurs, "You're doing great."

It's such a small thing, but it sends a jolt straight through me.

When the night winds down, I'm walking beside her, the city quiet around us.

Michel waved us off with a smirk and a "Take care of her," which Marcel ignored entirely, but I didn't miss the look they exchanged.

Neither of us says much, the comfortable silence stretching.

I want to ask her what this means, if introducing me to Michel is her way of saying this thing between us is more than stolen moments and quiet kisses and thoughtless fucking.

But I don't.

Whatever her answer is, I should prepare myself to be okay with it.