Jeff's penthouse felt different tonight. Not the familiar emptiness that settled in after every girl left—this was sharper, a splinter under his skin that he couldn't dig out. He'd been standing at the kitchen island for twenty minutes, still in the same linen shirt from the morning meeting, a bottle of Macallan open in front of him that he hadn't poured from.

Bella's croissants were still on the plate. They'd gone hard now, the edges curling, the butter she'd brushed on top congealed into a dull glaze. He picked one up, turned it over in his fingers, and set it back down.

He pulled out his phone. Swiped through contacts. Mackenzie. Madison. The redhead from the casting call last week—Candace, Carly, something with a C. Tisha, the eighteen-year-old who'd asked for nail money before she'd even gotten dressed. He scrolled past her. Then back up. Then past again.

His thumb hovered over Bella's name. The message thread showed his last text—"Can we talk?"—sent six hours ago. No response.

He locked the phone and tossed it onto the marble counter. It slid across the polished surface and stopped against the croissant plate with a soft clink.

The view through the floor-to-ceiling windows showed Miami doing what Miami always did—glittering, loud, indifferent. The pool on the terrace caught the city lights, rippling in the breeze off the Atlantic. He'd fucked six women in that pool this year. He couldn't remember half their names.

The phone buzzed.

Jeff walked to the counter, picked it up. Christian's name on the screen.

He considered letting it ring. He wasn't in the mood for Christian's dry commentary, for the way the Brit could read him in three sentences and deliver the verdict in four words. But the call kept buzzing, insistent, and Jeff swiped to answer before he'd fully decided to.

"You alive?" His own voice came out rougher than he meant, gravel from a throat that hadn't spoken since he'd told the concierge goodnight.

Christian's voice was different. Not the usual sardonic drawl. Something underneath it—tight, like a wire pulled too thin. "Yeah. I think I found her."

Jeff frowned. "Found who?"

"Sofia." Christian paused. "The girl from the after-party. The one who—"

"I know who she is." Jeff pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where?"

"Coffee shop on Las Olas. One of the girls I had over tonight—she knew her. Knew her name, where she worked, everything." Christian's voice picked up speed, the careful composure cracking at the edges. "Her name's Sofia Reyes. She's nineteen. Works at a place called Brew & Bean. Her aunt manages a salon two blocks over."

Jeff walked to the window, pressed his forehead against the cool glass. "So you're gonna go see her."

"I'm leaving now."

"Now. It's—" Jeff checked his watch. "It's almost midnight."

"I don't care."

Jeff closed his eyes. The splinter under his skin shifted, found a new place to settle. He thought about Bella's croissants. The way she'd looked at him on the rooftop, her eyes wet, her voice steady as she said she needed someone who wanted only her. He thought about the phone in his hand, full of girls who wanted his money and his dick and nothing else.

He thought about Christian, who'd spent three weeks searching for a girl he'd fucked once.

"Fine," Jeff said. "I'll drive."

Christian was quiet for a beat. "You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I said I'll drive." Jeff pushed off from the window. "Pick me up in ten. My place."

He hung up before Christian could argue.

The drive to Fort Lauderdale took forty minutes in Christian's black Range Rover, the highway lights strobing across the windshield, the air conditioning doing nothing to cut the humidity that pressed in through the cracked windows. Jeff drove. Christian sat in the passenger seat, his jaw tight, his fingers tapping a pattern against his thigh that he probably didn't realize he was making.

"You gonna tell me what happened with Bella?" Christian asked somewhere around the Hollywood exit.

Jeff's hands tightened on the wheel. "Nothing happened."

"Bullshit. You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one where you're trying to figure out which girl to call to forget the one who actually mattered."

Jeff said nothing. The Range Rover ate up the miles. Christian's fingers kept tapping.

"She left," Jeff said finally. "After the rooftop thing. Said she needed someone who wants only her, and I told her I don't know if I can stop."

Christian let out a low breath. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

"You really can't? Stop, I mean."

Jeff glanced at him. Christian's cold-tea eyes were fixed on the road ahead, unreadable. "I don't know," Jeff said. "I've never tried."

The coffee shop was on a corner of Las Olas Boulevard, a narrow storefront with a faded green awning and a chalkboard sign that read "Brew & Bean—Coffee Worth Staying For." The lights were off inside, the chairs stacked on tables, the street empty except for a couple walking a small white dog on the other side of the road.

Christian was out of the car before Jeff had fully stopped, striding toward the door like he expected it to open for him. It didn't. He stood there, hands on his hips, staring through the glass at the dark interior.

"There's a light on in the back," Jeff said, coming up beside him. "Someone's here."

Christian knocked. Three sharp raps that sounded too loud on the quiet street. Nothing. He knocked again, harder this time, and a shadow moved behind the frosted glass of the back door.

A man appeared at the front door—fortyish, round-shouldered, a coffee-stained apron tied over his shirt. He unlocked the door and opened it a crack, his eyes narrowing at the two men in tailored suits on his doorstep.

"We're closed."

Jeff pulled out his wallet before Christian could speak. "We're looking for someone. A girl who works here. Sofia Reyes."

The manager's eyes flicked to the cash in Jeff's hand, then back to his face. "I don't give out employee information."

Jeff peeled off five hundred-dollar bills and held them through the gap in the door. "We're not cops. We're not her ex-boyfriend. We just need to talk to her."

The manager looked at the money. Looked at Jeff. Looked at Christian, who stood silent and still, his face carved from stone.

"She's not here," the manager said. "She works the morning shift. Comes in at six."

"Where does she live?" Christian's voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it that made the manager's shoulders tighten.

"I don't—"

Jeff added two more hundreds. "Her address. That's all we need."

The manager took the money. Disappeared into the back. Came back with a scrap of paper with an address scrawled in pen. Christian took it before Jeff could, read it, folded it into his pocket without a word.

They turned to leave, and Jeff's attention snagged on movement at the end of the block. A girl, young, early twenties at most, walking out of a convenience store with a bottle of water in one hand and a phone in the other. She had a body that stopped traffic—curves that her sundress did nothing to hide, thick thighs, a round ass that swayed with every step. Dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Gold hoop earrings catching the streetlight.

She looked up, saw Jeff watching her, and didn't look away.

"Jeff." Christian's voice, impatient. "Let's go."

Jeff didn't move. The girl was thirty feet away now, walking past the coffee shop, her eyes still on him. She had a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, the kind that said she knew exactly what he was thinking.

"Give me a minute."

Christian followed his gaze and let out a short, humorless laugh. "Seriously?"

"I said give me a minute." Jeff stepped toward the girl, and she stopped, let him close the distance. "Hey."

"Hey yourself." Her voice was sweet, Southern, a drawl that curled around the words. "You lost?"

Jeff smiled, the familiar charm sliding into place like a well-worn coat. "Not anymore."

She tilted her head, her ponytail swinging. "That line work on girls up in Miami?"

"Sometimes." He stepped closer, close enough to smell her perfume—something floral, cheap but not unpleasant. "Depends on the girl."

"And what kind of girl am I?"

He reached out, hooked a finger through one of her gold hoops, tugged it gently. "The kind who walks out of a convenience store at midnight in a sundress and doesn't look both ways before crossing the street."

Her smirk widened. "Maybe I just wanted to see if you'd follow."

Behind him, Christian cleared his throat. "Jeff. Now."

Jeff didn't break eye contact with the girl. "What's your name?"

"Maya."

"Maya. I'm in town for one night. Maybe two. I'd like to take you to dinner tomorrow."

She laughed, a real laugh, surprised. "You don't even know me."

"I know enough." He pulled out his phone, handed it to her. "Put your number in. I'll text you where and when."

She looked at the phone. Looked at him. Took it and typed, her thumbs moving fast, and handed it back. "Don't stand me up."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

She walked away, and Jeff watched her go, watched the way her hips moved under the thin cotton of her dress. Then he turned and followed Christian back to the Range Rover.

"You're unbelievable," Christian said, sliding into the passenger seat.

"She had a nice ass." Jeff started the engine. "What's the address?"

The apartment was in a building that had seen better days—beige stucco, rusted railings, a buzzer system with half the names worn off. Christian pressed the button for apartment 2B, and after a long pause, a woman's voice crackled through the speaker. "Who is it?"

"Christian Reynolds." He said it like it should mean something. "I'm looking for Sofia."

Silence. Then the buzzer sounded, and the door clicked open.

The stairs were narrow, the carpet thin and stained. Christian took them two at a time, Jeff following at a slower pace, his mind still half on the girl from the convenience store. Maya. She had good energy. Confident. The kind who didn't play games, didn't pretend she wasn't interested.

The door to 2B was open a crack. Christian pushed it open, and Jeff saw her—Sofia—standing in the middle of a small living room, her arms crossed over her chest, wearing sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. She was younger than he'd expected, younger than nineteen looked in his head. There was something fragile about her, something in the way her shoulders curved forward, protecting herself.

Christian stopped in the doorway. The two of them looked at each other, and the air in the room changed, thickened, became something Jeff felt like he was intruding on.

"Sofia." Christian's voice was different. Soft. Almost careful.

"How did you find me?" Her voice was steady, but her hands were shaking. Jeff saw it—the slight tremor in her fingers where they gripped her own arms.

"It took three weeks," Christian said. "I've been looking since the night you left."

"Why?"

Christian stepped into the room, slow, like he was approaching something that might spook. "Because you left. Because I woke up and you were gone, and I didn't even know your last name."

Sofia's jaw tightened. "I didn't think you'd care."

"I do."

Jeff leaned against the doorframe, watching. He felt like a ghost at a window, present but not part of the scene. He pulled out his phone, checked the time. Maya's number was in his contacts, a promise waiting to be kept.

"You only want me because I was your first." Sofia's voice cracked on the last word. "Because I was a virgin and you felt guilty."

Christian moved closer. He didn't touch her, but he was close enough that she had to look up to meet his eyes. "I want you because when I pulled out and saw the blood, I didn't feel guilty. I felt something I haven't felt in a long time."

"What?"

"Like I didn't want to be alone."

Sofia stared at him. Her arms dropped to her sides. She looked at him like she was trying to find the lie in his face, and Jeff realized he should not be here. This was not his moment.

He pushed off from the doorframe. "I'm gonna get a room. You two... talk."

Christian glanced back at him, a flicker of something in his eyes—gratitude, maybe. "There's a motel on Federal. The Seagull. I'll meet you there."

Jeff nodded and left, pulling the door closed behind him.

The Seagull Motel was exactly what he expected—neon sign missing two letters, pool filled with green water, doors that needed a shoulder to close properly. Jeff booked two rooms, tossed the keys in his pocket, and sat on the edge of the bed in his room, staring at the crack in the ceiling.

He pulled out his phone. Maya's number. He typed a message before he could second-guess himself.

Change of plans. I'm free tonight if you want to make good on that look you gave me.

Three dots appeared immediately. Then her response: Send me the address.

He did. Then he showered, changed into fresh clothes from the duffel he kept in his car, and waited.

She showed up thirty minutes later in a black dress that ended mid-thigh and heels that made her legs look endless. She knocked on the motel room door and stood there, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, assessing him.

"A motel," she said. "Classy."

"It's temporary." Jeff stepped aside, let her in. "I'm not from here."

"You said that." She walked past him, her perfume filling the small room—something floral, mixed with the warmth of her skin. She turned to face him, her back against the cheap dresser. "So what now?"

Jeff closed the door. The lock clicked, and the sound seemed louder than it should have been in the small room. "Now we see if that look meant something."

She smiled. Slow. Knowing. "It meant something."

He crossed the room, and she met him halfway. There was no hesitation, no awkward shuffle of feet. She reached up, grabbed the collar of his shirt, and pulled his mouth down to hers.

Her lips were soft, tasted like cherry lip gloss and something underneath—salt, maybe, or hunger. She kissed him hard, with an urgency that surprised him, and he responded in kind, his hands finding her waist, pulling her against him. She was all curves, soft where he was hard, fitting against him like she'd been made for this.

He walked her backward, and her legs hit the edge of the bed. She fell onto it with a soft sound, and he followed her down, his body covering hers, his mouth moving to her jaw, her throat, the hollow at the base of her neck where her pulse beat fast and hot.

"What's your name?" she asked, breathless, as his hand slid up her thigh.

He lifted his head, looked at her. "Jeff."

"Jeff." She said it like she was testing it, tasting it. "I like that."

He kissed her again, deep, and his hand found the hem of her dress, pushed it up, bared the smooth skin of her thighs. She arched into his touch, and he let his fingers trace upward, finding the heat between her legs, the damp fabric of her panties.

She gasped against his mouth, and he pressed harder, two fingers sliding along the wet silk, feeling her respond, her hips lifting to meet his hand.

"Tell me what you want," he said, his mouth against her ear.

"You. I want you."

He sat up, pulled his shirt over his head, and she watched him, her eyes dark, her chest rising and falling fast. She reached for his belt, undid it with practiced ease, and he let her, let her strip him down until he was standing before her, his cock hard and heavy.

She sat up, took him in her hand, and her fingers were warm and sure. She leaned forward and took him in her mouth, and he closed his eyes, let his head fall back as her tongue worked him, as she took him deeper, her hand wrapped around the base, her other hand pressing against his stomach.

"Fuck," he breathed, and she hummed around him, the vibration sending a jolt through his spine.

He pulled her up, kissed her hard, and turned her around. She understood, bent over the edge of the bed, her dress still bunched around her waist, her panties dark with arousal. He pulled them down, slow, watched them slide over the curve of her ass, and she was wet, slick and ready, and he wanted to taste her.

He dropped to his knees, buried his face between her thighs, and she moaned, a low, guttural sound that went straight to his cock. He licked her open, slow, savoring the taste of her, the way she gripped the bedspread as he worked her, the way she pushed back against his mouth, wordless, desperate.

He slid a finger into her, then another, and she cried out, her hips bucking, and he kept going, his tongue on her clit, his fingers curling inside her, until she came with a shudder, her thighs clamping around his head, her voice raw and broken.

He stood, positioned himself at her entrance, and pushed in.

She was tight, hot, perfect, and he took her slow at first, letting her adjust, feeling every inch of her grip him. Then she pushed back against him, harder, and he got the message.

He fucked her from behind, one hand on her hip, the other reaching around to find her clit, pressing in time with his thrusts. She was vocal, loud, her moans filling the cheap motel room, and he didn't tell her to be quiet, didn't care who heard. He wanted her to make noise. He wanted to earn every sound she made.

He turned her over, lifted her legs onto his shoulders, and drove into her from a new angle, deeper, hitting something that made her eyes roll back. He felt himself building, the familiar pressure coiling at the base of his spine, and he slowed down, pulled back, held himself at the edge.

"Not yet," he said, and she whimpered.

He flipped her onto her stomach, ran his hands over the curve of her ass, spread her open, and pressed his thumb against her, found her tight, waiting. She pushed back against his thumb, and he took the invitation, eased himself inside her from behind, slow, letting her feel every inch of him stretching her.

She made a sound he'd never heard a woman make before—half pain, half pleasure—and he stopped, waited, let her breathe. "More," she said. "Please."

He gave her more.

They moved together, a rhythm that built and broke and built again, and he lost track of positions, of time, of everything except the heat of her body, the sound of her voice, the way she said his name like a prayer. He lifted her onto his lap, let her ride him, her hands braced on his chest, her head thrown back, her hair swinging.

He watched her come apart, felt her clench around him, and that was it—he let go, pulled her down into a deep kiss and poured himself into her mouth, and she took it, swallowed, held him through the aftershocks.

They lay there, tangled in cheap sheets, the ceiling fan clicking overhead. Jeff stared at the crack in the ceiling, and Maya's head rested on his chest, her breathing slowing.

"That was..." she said, and trailed off.

"Yeah."

She lifted her head, looked at him. "Thank you."

He blinked. "For what?"

"For not treating me like I didn't matter." She smiled, a real smile, tired and soft. "Most guys don't say thank you."

Jeff looked at her. She was beautiful, young, smart—the kind of girl who'd have her pick of men. And she'd chosen him, a stranger in a motel, for one night.

He didn't know why he'd said it. It just came out.

"Thank you," he said again. And meant it.

She laid her head back down, and he felt her smile against his skin. He stared at the ceiling, and thought about Bella, about the croissants growing hard on his counter. He thought about Christian, somewhere in this same motel, maybe holding Sofia, maybe finally getting what he'd been looking for.

For the first time in weeks, the familiar emptiness didn't settle back in. It hovered at the edges, waiting, but it didn't land.

Maybe, he thought, he could learn to stop.

Maybe.

He closed his eyes, and let himself rest.