The address was wrong, and I went anyway.

Not wrong. Unfamiliar. A limestone building on the Upper East Side with a doorman who could've been cast in a cologne ad and a lobby that smelled of gardenias and quiet money. The kind of building where the elevator had one button per floor because each floor was one apartment.

Aubrey's text had said Suite 1407. Tell them you're me. I'll explain later.

I should have called her. I should have asked what, exactly, required me to walk into a stranger's building at 9pm on a Thursday, pretend to be someone I wasn't, and just... trust.

But Aubrey had always operated on urgency. Every favor was an emergency. Every request came with the implicit reminder that she'd done something for me once, or twice, or a hundred times, and the ledger was never balanced.

So I went.

The elevator opened directly into the apartment. No hallway. Just space. A living room the size of my entire Brooklyn walkup, white walls, low furniture, and windows that framed the park like it was installed for the view.

A man stood by those windows with his back to me.

"You're late," he said.

"Traffic." The word came out before I could stop it. Not an apology. A reflex.

He turned.

I'd expected someone older. Someone with softness in the middle and authority in the voice. What I got was a man who looked like he'd been designed for boardrooms and bad decisions. Tall. Dark blond hair cut with the kind of precision that costs. Gray-blue eyes that swept me once, efficiently, and landed on my face with an expression that wasn't quite interest.

Assessment.

"You're different than advertised," he said.

"Is that a problem?"

He didn't answer. He crossed the room. Not fast. Deliberate. Each step measured, like he was calculating the trajectory of a conversation I hadn't realized we were having.

"You know why you're here," he said. Not a question.

I didn't. But the way he looked at me, the way the room felt suddenly smaller than its forty-foot ceilings, the way my pulse had picked up a rhythm I didn't authorize... I understood.

Not a meeting. Not a favor. Something transactional. Intimate. Arranged.

And Aubrey had sent me in her place.

"Yes," I said.

His hand came up to my shoulder. Slow. His thumb traced the curve of my collarbone where my blouse had slipped. The touch was light, specific, like he was reading something written on my skin. A shiver danced down my spine, heat pooling low in my belly as his gaze held mine, unyielding, searching. My breath hitched, and I felt the air between us thicken, charged with unspoken intent.

I should have left.

Instead, I tipped my chin up and let him see what he was looking for.

His fingers slid beneath the strap of my blouse, easing it down my arm with a deliberate slowness that made my skin prickle. His other hand found my waist, pulling me closer until the heat of his body pressed against mine, firm and unapologetic. I could smell the faint cedar of his cologne, mixed with something darker, more primal. My hands hesitated, then settled on his chest, feeling the hard planes beneath his crisp shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat mirroring the erratic pace of mine.

His lips found the hollow of my throat first, a soft graze that sent a jolt through me, my head tilting back instinctively to give him more. His mouth was warm, deliberate, tasting my skin as if mapping every inch. A low hum of approval vibrated from him, and I felt it against my flesh, stirring a restless ache between my thighs. My fingers curled into his shirt, needing something to anchor me as his hands roamed lower, skimming the curve of my hips, gripping with just enough pressure to make me gasp.

He guided me backward, the cool edge of a glass-topped table pressing into the small of my back. His eyes flicked to mine, a silent question, and I nodded, breathless. With a swift motion, he lifted me onto the surface, my skirt riding up as my legs parted to accommodate him. His hands slid up my thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just beneath the hem, teasing, testing. My breath came in shallow bursts, every nerve alight as he leaned in, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that was neither gentle nor rough—just consuming. His tongue swept against mine, a slow, deliberate dance that mirrored the way his fingers traced higher, finding the edge of lace beneath my skirt.

I arched into him, a soft moan escaping as his touch grew bolder, slipping beneath the fabric to stroke the heat of me, already slick with want. His breath hitched, a quiet sound of satisfaction, and I felt the curve of his smirk against my lips. “So responsive,” he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent another wave of heat through me. His fingers moved with precision, circling and teasing until my hips rocked against him, desperate for more. My hands fumbled with his shirt, tugging at buttons until I could feel the warmth of his skin, the taut muscle beneath, dusted with a faint trail of hair that disappeared into his waistband.

He pulled back just enough to shed the shirt entirely, revealing broad shoulders and a chest carved from discipline, a faint scar along his ribs catching the dim light. My gaze lingered, hungry, as he undid his belt with a slow, deliberate motion, the metallic clink echoing in the charged silence. My own hands moved to my blouse, shedding it along with any lingering hesitation, letting it fall to the floor as his eyes darkened, drinking me in. The cool air kissed my bare skin, but his hands were quick to replace it, cupping my breasts through the thin lace of my bra, thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks until I bit my lip to stifle a cry.

He tugged the lace aside, his mouth descending to replace his touch, hot and wet as he teased with lips and tongue, drawing out gasps I couldn’t contain. My fingers threaded through his hair, holding him there as pleasure spiraled tighter, sharper, every flick and suck sending sparks straight to my core. His other hand worked lower, easing my skirt higher, until fabric was no barrier at all. He slid my underwear down my legs, the slow drag against my skin maddening, and then his fingers were back, parting me, stroking with a rhythm that made my vision blur. I was trembling now, on the edge, and he knew it—his eyes locked on mine, watching every reaction as he pushed me closer, unrelenting.

“Please,” I whispered, the word slipping out before I could stop it, raw and needy.

He didn’t make me wait. With a swift motion, he freed himself, the sight of him—hard, thick, ready—sending a fresh wave of heat through me. He positioned himself between my thighs, one hand guiding me open, the other steadying my hip. The first press of him against me was electric, a slow stretch that made me gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders as he eased in, inch by inch, filling me with a delicious burn. His jaw clenched, a low groan escaping as he felt me tighten around him, our bodies adjusting to the fit, the intimacy of it almost too much.

He moved then, a slow, deliberate thrust that dragged a moan from deep in my chest, my legs wrapping around him to pull him closer. Each roll of his hips was precise, thorough, hitting every spot that made me tremble, building a rhythm that matched the pounding of my heart. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading me wider, deepening the angle until I was arching off the table, lost in the heat of him, the friction, the way his breath came in ragged bursts against my ear. “You feel so damn good,” he rasped, the words rough with need, and I clenched around him in response, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips.

The tension coiled tighter, hotter, until I was teetering on the brink, my hands clutching at him, my body straining for release. He felt it, knew it, and shifted just enough to grind against me with every thrust, pushing me over the edge. I shattered with a cry, waves of pleasure crashing through me, pulsing around him as he kept moving, drawing it out until I was breathless, trembling. His own control slipped then, his rhythm faltering, and with a few more deep, desperate thrusts, he followed, a low growl rumbling from his chest as he spilled into me, his grip on my hips bruising in the best way.

We stayed like that for a moment, tangled and panting, the aftershocks rippling through us both. His forehead rested against mine, his breath warm on my lips, and I felt the weight of him, the heat, the unexpected tenderness in the way his thumb traced small circles on my skin. Slowly, he pulled back, helping me down from the table, steadying me when my legs wobbled. His gaze lingered on the scar at my hip, a crescent from a childhood misadventure, and his thumb traced its edge with a quiet focus, like he was committing it to memory. I held still, something about that touch feeling like recognition, like he’d found a piece of me he hadn’t expected.

After, in the dark, I lay on sheets that felt like water and stared at the ceiling of a room that wasn't mine, in a life that wasn't mine, next to a man who didn't know my name. My body still hummed with the echo of him, a faint ache between my thighs, the ghost of his hands on my skin.

My phone lit up on the nightstand.

Aubrey: How was he? You're welcome. You owe me one.

I read it twice. Three times. The words rearranged themselves into something ugly.

She'd sent me. On purpose. To a man she'd made an arrangement with. She'd given him her address, her time slot, her agreement, and then she'd subcontracted the delivery to me, like I was a package she didn't feel like signing for.

I got dressed in the dark. My fingers were steady. My blouse was inside-out but I didn't fix it.

In the elevator going down, I caught my reflection in the polished brass doors. Flushed skin. Mascara smudged. Hair that told the truth about where I'd been.

I didn't answer Aubrey's text.

I didn't answer for three years.