Connection | 18+

ETHAN.

   "I want you to have control."

   Olivia's words coil around my ribs, tight as a noose, as I step out of her apartment. They pulse in my skull, a rhythm syncing with the ghost of her heartbeat still thrumming under my palm.

   She's set a condition. 

   A timer. 

   An expiration date before anything even begins. And I hate it. Hate that she's already planning her escape, that she sees this—us—as nothing more than a transaction. A means to an end. A way to finish her book and then slip away like smoke.

   Selfish. Fucking selfish.

   But then again, so am I.

   Because, despite the timer, despite the inevitable end she's already carved into this deal, I'm still considering it. Still weighing the cost of her submission against the certainty of her leaving. The future be damned. For now, she's offering herself—her body, her work, her control—and that's a temptation too sweet to refuse. Even if it means I'll have to let her go when it's over.

   My skin still hums with the memory of her—the taste of her on my tongue, the way her body arched under mine, the way her breath hitched under my hand. I can still feel her, warm and restless, like she's branded into my fucking nerve endings. The ghost of her lingers on my fingers, in the hollow of my throat, in the way my cock twinges at the thought of her spread out beneath me, mine.

   I glance sideways as I leave the complex. Daniel's apartment is dark, locked up tight—no sign of life inside. Rumors among the unit say he's chasing after some girl, but I haven't bothered digging into it. Hard to care about his love life when his fucking sister is already running through my bloodstream like a drug I can't shake.

   Owens was supposed to bring me a change of clothes—no way in hell am I walking back into Reb's presence smelling like Olivia's perfume and sex. The thought of Buttercup makes my jaw tighten. I should've been thinking about her, about the bastard who put his hands on her, about the appointment we've got to get her to. But no. My head's been wrapped around Olivia—her defiance, her confession, the way she needs this as much as I do.

   The roar of Owens' motorcycle cuts through the quiet as he pulls up in front of me, killing the engine. He takes off his helmet, eyes flicking over my rumpled clothes before his eyebrows shoot up. A smirk tugs at his lips as he hands me the bag. "Great night, I assume?"

   I don't answer. Not because I'm hiding anything, but because I don't trust my voice. Great doesn't even begin to cover it. For the first time in years, I slept—actually slept—without the nightmares, without the memories clawing me awake. Just Olivia, warm and pliant beside me, her breath steady, her body curled into mine like she belonged there.

   But Owens doesn't need to know that. I know exactly what he's trying to imply—but we don't need the cover of night for that. Olivia and I certainly didn't.

   "Did you find out about the man who punched Reb?" I ask, my voice rough. "Any footage around the café Olivia works at?"

   Owens's smirk falters, replaced by professional focus. "Yeah, we found the footage. The incident happened right outside her café. We're still verifying the identity and piecing together what happened. The full report'll be on your desk when you get back from the hospital." He pauses, that fucking glint of mischief creeping back into his eyes. "If you decide to start working, that is."

   My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. He's taunting me, and the worst part? He's not fucking wrong.

   Olivia's got me sloppy—distracted, unfocused, off my game. I can feel it, the way my edges are softening, the way my priorities are twisting like a knife in my grip. It pisses me off. Makes me want to put my fist through a wall.