The roar of the crowd was still ringing in Jeff's ears as he stepped off the runway, the bass of the track vibrating through the floor. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his linen suit jacket already off and slung over one shoulder. The lights had been blinding, the models flawless, the whole production running like a well-oiled machine. He let out a long breath, feeling the adrenaline ebb into something like satisfaction.

"Mr. Wulkan!" A voice cut through the backstage chaos. Female. Young. Eager.

He turned, already reaching for the polite dismissal he'd perfected over fifteen years of this. But the girl stopped him cold.

She was maybe five-two in heels that added three inches, her body wrapped in a neon green tube dress that left nothing to the imagination—full curves, dark skin, hair braided back in a style that showed off her face. Big brown eyes, full lips painted glossed pink, and a smile that said she knew exactly what she was doing. She couldn't have been a day over twenty, and even that was generous.

"You killed it out there," she said, stepping into his space as she owned it. "I'm Tisha."

Jeff's eyebrows went up. "You were in the show?"

"Wish I was." She laughed, a bright, breathy sound. "I was in the front row, second seat. Couldn't take my eyes off you the whole time."

He felt the corner of his mouth twitch. The line was old, older than his first million, but the delivery was fresh—she didn't look away when she said it, didn't play coy. She just held his gaze, her chin lifted, watching him watch her.

"You here with someone?" he asked, already scanning the crowd behind her.

"Came with my girl. She left." A shrug. "I told her I'd catch up later."

The silence that followed was louder than the music still thumping through the walls. Jeff let it stretch, let her feel the weight of what she'd just admitted—that she'd stayed behind, alone, for him. He'd been on this carousel long enough to read every move before it was made. But something about the way she stood there, unflinching, made him want to play the game a little longer.

"You want a drink?" he asked.

"I want more than a drink."

He laughed—short, surprised. "Bold."

"I don't see the point in wasting time." She stepped closer, close enough that he caught her perfume—something floral and sweet, girlish. "You're Jeff Wulkan. You put on this whole show. You're clearly busy. But you're looking at me like you've got a few minutes to spare."

Jesus. Eighteen, maybe. Nineteen. And she talked like she'd been studying him for weeks.

"I've got more than a few minutes," he said, his voice dropping. "But I gotta wrap up with my team first. Give me fifteen."

"I'll be waiting by the bar." She turned and threw a glance over her shoulder. "Don't keep me waiting too long."

Jeff watched her walk away, the green dress hugging every curve, and felt the familiar thrum of anticipation settle in his chest. He shook his head, grinning despite himself, and went to find his stage manager.

It took him twenty minutes. By the time he made it to the bar, the after-party was in full swing—models, photographers, investors, hangers-on all crammed into the VIP lounge, champagne flowing, bass thumping. He spotted Tisha on a stool at the far end, a half-empty cocktail in front of her, scrolling through her phone. She looked up when he approached, and her face broke into that same knowing smile.

"You're late," she said.

"I'm worth the wait." He slid onto the stool beside her, signaled the bartender for two shots of tequila. "You drink?"

"I'm eighteen." She said it like a challenge.

Jeff's hand paused over the glass. He turned to look at her, really look at her, and for a second something tugged at the back of his mind—a ghost of conscience, maybe, or just the echo of all those conversations with Christian about wanting something real. But she was watching him with those big brown eyes, her tongue wetting her bottom lip, and the moment passed.

"Then you definitely drink," he said, pushing a shot toward her.

She laughed, picked it up, and knocked it back without flinching. Set the glass down empty and licked the salt from the rim of her thumb. "Your turn."

He took his shot, felt the burn slide down his throat, and ordered two more.

They talked for an hour. She was from Tampa, moved to Miami six months ago, working at a boutique in South Beach while she figured out what she wanted to do. She was smart, quick with a comeback, and she laughed at his jokes—not the forced laugh he'd learned to recognize from a mile away, but a genuine one that crinkled her eyes and showed her teeth. She told him she'd been following his shows online for years, that she'd always wanted to meet him, that she'd saved up for a front-row ticket because she figured it was the only way to get his attention.

"That's a lot of effort for a guy you don't know," he said, swirling the ice in his third drink.

"I know enough." She reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist. "I know you're not married. I know you don't have kids. I know you throw the best parties in Miami." Her hand slid up his arm, light and deliberate. "And I know you're looking at me like you want to take me home."

Jeff set his glass down. His pulse was ticking faster than he wanted to admit. "You're not wrong."

"Then what are we waiting for?"

He stood and offered her his hand. She took it, slid off the stool, and pressed herself against his side as they walked through the crowd. His hand found the small of her back, then lower, cupping the curve of her ass through the thin fabric of her dress. She didn't pull away. She pressed closer.

They were almost to the exit when he stopped, turned her by the waist, and pulled her into a shadowed alcove behind a pillar. His hand slid down, fingers finding the hem of her dress, then underneath. She gasped, her back arching against the wall.

"You sure about this?" he asked, his mouth close to her ear.

Her answer was her hand on his belt, tugging him closer. "I've never been more sure about anything."

He slid his hand down further, past the waistband of her thong, and pressed two fingers against her. She was wet—already soaking through the thin fabric. He pushed the thong aside and slid one finger inside her, slow, feeling her clench around him. She bit her lip, her eyes fluttering shut.

His other hand gripped her ass, kneading the soft flesh, then his fingers drifted lower, tracing the line between her cheeks. She stiffened for a second, then relaxed, her breath hitching as he pressed his thumb against her asshole, circling it through the fabric of her thong.

"You like that?" he murmured.

"Yeah." Her voice was a whisper. "Yeah, I do."

He pulled his hand out, brought his fingers to his nose, and inhaled. Her scent filled his lungs—clean, musky, intimate. His cock hardened in his pants, pressing against the zipper.

"Let's get out of here," he said, his voice rough.

She nodded, her eyes dark.

The parking garage was half-empty, the echo of their footsteps bouncing off the concrete. Jeff hit the key fob, and the headlights of his black Range Rover flashed twice. He opened the passenger door for her, and she slid in, her dress riding up as she settled into the leather seat. He watched her adjust herself, watched the way the fabric pulled tight across her thighs, and felt the hunger coil tighter in his gut.

He got in, started the engine, and pulled out of the garage. The Miami night rushed past the windows—neon signs, palm trees, the distant glitter of the ocean. He took the causeway toward Brickell, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh.

She didn't wait. Her hand found his zipper, tugging it down with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this before. He felt her fingers wrap around his cock, already hard, and heard her breath catch.

"Jesus," she whispered.

He glanced over. She was staring at his lap, her lips parted, her eyes wide. Her fingers traced the length of him, from base to tip, and he felt himself throb under her touch.

"That's all you," she said, and then she lowered her head.

Her mouth was hot and wet, her tongue circling the head before she took him deeper. He gripped the wheel, his knuckles white, as she worked him with an almost professional rhythm—deep, then shallow, her hand twisting at the base, her tongue tracing the vein on the underside. The headlights cut through the dark road ahead, and he forced himself to focus on the asphalt, on the red taillights in front of him, anything to keep from losing control and wrapping his hand in her braids and holding her down where he wanted her.

She gagged, pulled back, then went deeper, her throat opening around him. The sound she made—wet, hungry—sent a jolt through his spine. He let out a low groan, his hips bucking involuntarily.

"Fuck," he breathed.

She pulled off, her hand still stroking him, and looked up at him with those big brown eyes. "You like my mouth, Mr. Wulkan?"

"Call me Jeff." His voice was a growl.

Her smile was pure sin. Then she lowered her head again and took him all the way down.

He lasted another five minutes, the road a blur, before he felt the pressure building at the base of his spine. He reached down, his hand finding her cheek, and tried to pull her back. "I'm close—"

She didn't stop. She doubled her speed, her hand and mouth working in tandem, and when he came, it was with a guttural sound that echoed off the windows of the car. She took it all, swallowing, her throat working around him, and when she finally pulled back, she licked her lips and smiled.

"That was exactly what I wanted," she said.

Jeff let his head fall back against the headrest, his chest heaving. He looked at her—her glossed lips smeared, her eyes bright, her hand still resting on his thigh—and felt something twist in his chest. Something that wasn't just satisfaction.

He shook it off. Put the car in gear. Kept driving.

His penthouse was dark when they walked in, the city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He tossed his keys on the counter, kicked off his shoes, and turned to find her standing in the middle of the living room, looking around with wide eyes.

"This is insane," she said. "You live here?"

"When I'm in town." He crossed to the bar, poured two glasses of whiskey, and handed her one. She took it but didn't drink, her eyes still roaming the space—the white leather couches, the abstract art on the walls, the grand piano that he'd never learned to play.

"Can I see the view?" she asked.

He led her to the window, and she pressed her palms against the glass, looking down at the lights of Brickell spread out below them. He stood behind her, close enough to feel the heat of her body, and let his hands settle on her hips.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.

"Yeah." But he wasn't looking at the city. He was looking at the curve of her neck, the way her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat. He leaned in, pressed his lips to the spot, and felt her shiver.

She turned in his arms, her body fitting against his as she belonged there. Her hands came up to his face, her thumbs tracing his jaw, and she kissed him—slow, deep, nothing like the hungry rush in the garage. This was deliberate. This was a woman taking her time.

His hands found the zipper of her dress and pulled it down. The fabric slid off her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stood before him in nothing but a black thong and heels, her skin glowing in the city light. Full breasts, dark nipples already hard. A flat stomach, the curve of her waist flaring into hips that begged to be held.

He stepped back, just to look at her. "Jesus Christ."

She smiled, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. "You're still dressed."

He let her undress him. Piece by piece, her fingers working slowly, deliberately, until he was naked and she was tracing the lines of his chest, his stomach, his hips. Her hand found his cock, already half-hard again, and she stroked him gently, watching his face, watching the way his breath caught.

"Come here," he said, his voice rough. He pulled her toward the bedroom.

The sheets were cool against his back. She straddled him, her thighs warm on either side of his hips, and leaned down to kiss him. He let his hands roam—her waist, her ribs, her breasts. She arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips, and he felt the vibration travel through his chest.

He flipped them, pinning her beneath him, and his mouth found her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breast. She gasped when he took her nipple into his mouth, her fingers threading through his hair, holding him there.

"Don't stop," she breathed.

He didn't. He worked his way down her body, his tongue tracing a path over her stomach, her hip, the inside of her thigh. She was already soaked, her thong dark with moisture, and when he hooked his fingers under the fabric and pulled it aside, the scent of her hit him full-on—rich and intimate and intoxicating.

He pressed his mouth to her, his tongue finding her clit, and she cried out, her hips bucking against his face. He held her down, one hand on her stomach, and worked her with a rhythm that was slow and deliberate, building her up, then backing off, letting her hover on the edge.

"Please," she gasped. "Please, Jeff."

He didn't answer. He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, finding the spot that made her back arch off the mattress. Her moans turned to something wordless, broken, and when he sealed his mouth over her and sucked, she came with a shuddering cry, her body clenching around his fingers.

He stayed with her through it, his tongue gentle now, drawing out the aftershocks, until she collapsed against the pillows, panting.

"Holy shit," she whispered.

He crawled up her body, his cock pressing against her thigh, and looked down at her. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, her eyes glassy. She looked wrecked. She looked beautiful.

"You ready?" he asked.

Her answer was her hand on his cock, guiding him to her entrance.

He pushed inside her slowly, inch by inch, feeling her stretch around him. Her eyes went wide, her mouth falling open, and she let out a sound that was half gasp, half moan. He waited, letting her adjust, and then he began to move—long, deep strokes that made the bed frame creak in rhythm.

"Oh, God," she breathed, her nails digging into his shoulders. "You're so big."

He didn't answer. He was too far gone, lost in the heat of her, the way she gripped him with every stroke. He lowered his head, his mouth finding hers, and kissed her as he fucked her—slow, deep, his tongue matching the rhythm of his hips.

He felt her building again, her walls fluttering around him, and he reached down, his thumb finding her clit, pressing in circles. She broke with a cry, her body arching beneath him, and the force of her orgasm pulled him over the edge. He came with a groan, his hips grinding against hers, emptying himself into her without a second thought.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. He stayed inside her, his forehead pressed to hers, their breath mingling in the dark. Her fingers traced lazy circles on his back, and he felt her smile against his cheek.

"That," she said, her voice hoarse, "was worth every penny of that ticket."

Jeff laughed, a low, genuine sound, and rolled off her, pulling her into the crook of his arm. She tucked her head against his chest, her hand resting on his stomach, and within minutes, her breathing slowed into sleep.

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the city lights casting long shadows across the room. Her warmth was pressed against his side, her heartbeat steady against his ribs, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn't feel the urge to reach for his phone or pour another drink.

He closed his eyes. Let himself pretend, just for a few hours, that this was the start of something.

Morning light spilled through the curtains, painting the room in shades of gold. Jeff woke slowly, the sheets tangled around his legs, the smell of coffee drifting through the penthouse. He blinked, disoriented for a second, and then he heard it—the clatter of pans from the kitchen.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair, and smiled. It was small, almost embarrassed, like something he'd forgotten how to feel.

He pulled on a pair of boxers and padded barefoot into the living room. Tisha was at the stove, wearing one of his dress shirts—unbuttoned, tied at her waist—her bare legs glowing in the morning sun. She turned when she heard him, a spatula in her hand, and beamed.

"Good morning, sleepyhead." She gestured at the counter. "I made breakfast. Eggs, bacon, toast. There's coffee."

Jeff stood there for a second, taking it in. Her, in his shirt. The spread on the counter. The way she looked at him was like he was something worth waking up for. It felt like a scene from a movie he'd seen a hundred times but never believed could be his.

"This is... unexpected," he said, settling onto a stool.

She slid a plate in front of him, poured him a mug of coffee, and sat across from him, her own plate untouched. "I figured you'd be hungry. You worked hard last night." A wink. "In more ways than one."

He laughed, picked up his fork, and took a bite. The eggs were perfect—fluffy, seasoned just right. The bacon was crispy. He took a sip of coffee, black, and felt something settle in his chest. Comfort. Warmth. The shape of a life he'd been chasing for years.

"You're a good cook," he said.

"I know." She grinned, picking at her toast. "I've got a lot of talents."

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The city hummed below them. A seagull landed on the balcony railing, cocked its head at them, and flew off. Jeff felt lighter than he had in months.

Then Tisha set down her toast, cleared her throat, and the lightness flickered.

"So," she said, her voice shifting to something casual, almost rehearsed. "I was thinking..."

Jeff looked up, fork halfway to his mouth.

"I saw this bag at the boutique yesterday. It's, like, a thousand dollars, but it's limited edition, and I've been dying for it." She laughed, a little too bright. "And my nails are a mess—I need a fill, and my girl charges two hundred." She tilted her head, her smile widening. "You think you could spot me?"

The fork paused. Jeff set it down slowly, the bite of eggs suddenly dry in his throat.

"What?" he asked, though he'd heard her perfectly.

"Just, you know." She waved a hand. "A little help. I figured since we had such a good time, and you're obviously loaded..." She let the sentence hang, her eyes on him, waiting.

Jeff stared at her. The coffee was suddenly bitter. The eggs sat heavy in his stomach. He looked at her face—young, pretty, hopeful—and saw the calculation behind it. The same calculation he'd seen in a hundred faces before hers. The same transaction dressed up as a connection.

He picked up his coffee, took a long sip, and set it down. "I see."

"It's not a big deal," she said quickly, her smile faltering. "I just thought—"

"I know what you thought." His voice was flat. Not angry. Just tired. He pushed his plate away and stood, walking to the kitchen counter where his phone was charging. He picked it up, unlocked it, and scrolled through his contacts.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was smaller now.

"Calling you an Uber." He tapped the screen. "There's one on the way. Should be here in five minutes."

"Jeff—"

"You can keep the shirt." He didn't look at her. "Get dressed. Leave the keys on the counter."

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. He heard her slide off the stool, heard her footsteps retreat to the bedroom. The rustle of fabric. The click of a door. A few minutes later, she emerged in her dress from last night, his shirt folded over her arm. She set it on the counter, her eyes fixed on the floor, and walked to the door without a word.

"Tisha."

She stopped, her hand on the handle.

Jeff took a breath. "You're beautiful. You're smart. And you just blew it."

She didn't turn around. The door opened, she stepped out, and it clicked shut behind her.

Jeff stood alone in the kitchen, the half-eaten breakfast growing cold on the counter. The coffee was still warm in his mug, and he took a sip, letting the bitterness sit on his tongue. He looked around the penthouse—the empty rooms, the city glittering beyond the glass, the pajama shirt still lying on the armchair where she'd found it.

He opened his phone. Scrolled to Christian's name. Typed three words.

Same shit, different day.

He hit send, set the phone down, and stared out the window at the blue Miami sky, feeling the familiar emptiness settle back into his chest like an old friend he'd never managed to shake.