Jessie didn't remember driving to the office. She remembered Stacey's hand on her back in the parking lot, remembered saying she needed to go alone, remembered the way Stacey's jaw had tightened but she'd let her go. The elevator ride was a blur of bad fluorescent light and her own reflection in the brushed steel—a girl with a red mark on her throat and empty eyes.

Steve's door was cracked open. Light spilled through the gap in a thin yellow line. She pushed it open without knocking.

He looked up from a stack of papers, his reading glasses low on his nose. The surprise flickered across his face for half a second before he saw her throat, before he read whatever was written in her posture. The papers hit the desk.

"Sit down."

She sat. The leather creaked. The clock ticked. He waited.

The words came out flat, like she was reading someone else's story. "His name is Derek. He works in shipping and receiving. I led him into Conference Room C at the party. I wanted to—I don't know what I wanted. To feel something. To be someone who could just..." She stopped. Her throat was dry. "I didn't say no fast enough. He didn't stop."

Steve's face didn't change. That was the terrifying thing. It went still—completely, professionally still—and she realized she'd never seen him truly angry before. This was what it looked like. A quietness like a held breath.

"Did he hit you?"

"No."

"Threaten you?"

"No. I just—I said no. He didn't listen."

He pulled out his phone. Didn't look at her. His thumb moved across the screen with precision. He pressed it to his ear.

"Tom. Steve Calder. I need a name run through HR. Derek, shipping and receiving. Full legal name, DOB, hire date." A pause. "Now, Tom." Another pause. "Yes, I'll hold."

The clock ticked seven times. Steve's thumb tapped the edge of his desk. His jaw was working.

"Yeah. Got it. Derek James Holloway, thirty-one, hired October. One prior complaint—harassment, settled out of department. Jesus. OK. I need two things. First, terminate him effective immediately. Second, file a police report. I'll have the victim come down to the station tomorrow morning to give a statement. No, I don't care if legal wants to wait—do it now. Send me the confirmation."

He hung up. Set the phone face-down on the desk. Then he looked at her, and the stillness cracked—just a little, just enough for her to see the fury underneath.

"He's fired. By midnight there'll be a police report. You won't have to see him again."

Jessie nodded. Her hands were in her lap, perfectly still, and she realized she'd stopped feeling anything. The stone in her chest was still there, but it had gone numb.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then the words came anyway.

"That was my first blow job."

Steve's eyes held hers.

"And he stole it."

Her voice cracked on the last word. She didn't mean it to. She felt the heat behind her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek to keep it from spilling over.

Steve leaned forward. His voice was lower now, softer. "That wasn't a blow job, Jessie. That was assault."

"I know." She pressed her palm against her sternum, where the stone was. "But it still counts. It was still my first time doing that to someone. And I didn't choose it. I didn't get to choose."

He didn't argue. He just watched her.

"I want to override it," she said. The words surprised her as they left her mouth. "I want to—I don't know if that's possible. But I want to put something on top of it. Something I chose."

Steve's eyebrows drew together. "What are you asking?"

She looked at his hands on the desk—thick, clean, manicured. The same hands that had held her face when she'd kissed him. The same mouth that had told her she had power.

"Pretend you're my high school boyfriend."

He blinked. "What?"

"I never had one. Not really. But I always imagined—when I thought about it, when I thought about my first time—there was a boy. A good one. Someone who held my hand and asked if I was sure." She swallowed. "I want to give him my first blow job. Not you. Him. Someone who would have been gentle."

Steve sat back. The leather groaned. He studied her for a long moment, and she watched the gears turn behind his eyes—the calculus of what she was asking, the risk, the strangeness, the opportunity.

"You want me to play a role."

"Yes."

"A high school boyfriend who's about to get his first blow job from his girlfriend."

"Yes."

He was quiet for three full ticks of the clock. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. A softening.

"Tell me about him."

She closed her eyes. "He's—he's a year older. Plays football. Not the star, just a lineman. He smells like grass and cheap cologne. He picks me up in a truck with a bench seat and opens my door."

"What's his name?"

She opened her eyes. "Tyler."

Steve nodded. He stood up slowly, walked around the desk, and sat on the edge of it in front of her. When he looked at her, something had shifted. His posture was looser. His voice was a little higher, a little younger, a little more uncertain.

"Hey. You OK? You seemed quiet on the drive."

It was good. Embarrassingly good. The man could sell anything.

Jessie felt the corner of her mouth twitch. "I'm fine. Just nervous."

"Don't be." He reached out and took her hand. His thumb traced across her knuckles. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to. I just—I like being with you. Even if we just sit here."

The words landed somewhere deep. She squeezed his hand.

"I want to," she said. "I just—I don't know how."

He smiled. It was not Steve's smile—it was younger, shyer, a little crooked. "That's OK. We can figure it out together."

He leaned in and kissed her. Soft. No tongue. The kind of kiss a boy gives a girl when he's not sure she'll let him. She felt something loosen in her chest. Not the stone—that was still there—but something around it.

His hand came up to her face, cupping her jaw, and he pulled back just enough to look at her. "You're so pretty. You know that?"

She didn't. But she wanted to believe it.

He kissed her again, slower this time, his lips parting against hers. His hand slid from her jaw down her neck, over her collarbone, to the top button of her blouse. He paused.

"Can I?"

"Yes."

He undid the first button. Then the second. His fingers were careful, reverent. He kissed her throat as he exposed it, his lips brushing the red mark Derek had left, and she tensed.

He stopped. "Did that hurt?"

"No." She swallowed. "Just—don't touch that spot."

He nodded. He didn't ask why. He just moved his mouth to the other side of her throat, pressing soft kisses along her pulse, and she felt her eyes sting again.

He finished unbuttoning her blouse and pushed it off her shoulders. She was wearing a plain white bra, cotton, the kind a virgin wears. He looked at her like she was something precious.

"You're so beautiful."

She believed him.

He reached behind her and unhooked her bra with one hand. The kind of casual skill that said he'd done it before, but he didn't act like it. He let the straps slide down her arms, and then he was looking at her breasts, small and pale in the lamplight, and his breath caught.

"Can I taste you?"

She nodded.

He leaned in and took her nipple in his mouth, soft and warm, his tongue circling the peak. She gasped. Her hand came up to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, and she felt heat pool low in her belly. Not transactional. Not a deal. Just a boy and a girl in a room.

He moved to the other side, giving it the same attention, his hand cupping the breast he'd just left. She heard herself make a sound—a small, surprised moan—and he hummed against her skin.

Then he pulled back. His eyes were dark, but his voice was still gentle. "I want to taste all of you."

He slid off the desk, onto his knees in front of her chair. His hands found the waistband of her skirt. He looked up at her for permission.

"Yes."

He unzipped her skirt and pulled it down her hips, letting it pool around her ankles. She was in plain white panties, and the sight of him between her legs, still fully dressed, made her feel exposed in a way that wasn't shameful.

He pressed a kiss to her thigh, just above her knee. Then another, higher. Then another, on the inside, where the skin was soft. His hands slid up her legs, pushing them gently apart, and she let him.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties. "Can I?"

She nodded, her throat tight.

He pulled them down slowly, watching her as he did, and she felt the cool air on her skin. She was wet. She hadn't realized. His eyes caught the glistening, and he made a sound—low, almost reverent.

"God, you're perfect."

He lowered his mouth to her.

The first touch of his tongue was electric. She jerked, her hand flying to his hair, and he paused. "Too much?"

"No. Keep going."

He did. Slow, deliberate strokes, his tongue flat against her, finding her clit without hurry. He wasn't trying to impress her. He was just savoring her, like she was something he'd been waiting for.

She let her head fall back. The ceiling was water-stained. The clock was ticking. But none of that mattered. What mattered was his mouth on her, his hands gripping her thighs, the wet sound of him tasting her like she was the only thing in the world.

Her hips started to move. Small, involuntary rolls. He groaned against her and the vibration sent a jolt through her. She was close. Too fast. She didn't want it to be over.

"Tyler—"

He looked up. His chin was wet. His eyes were patient.

"I want to do you now."

He smiled. That soft, crooked, not-Steve smile. "You sure?"

She nodded. She slid off the chair, onto her knees in front of him. He was still on his knees too, and for a moment they were just two people on the floor, facing each other.

She reached for his belt. Her fingers fumbled. He covered her hands with his, steadying them.

"Slow down. We've got time."

She took a breath. Undid the belt. The button. The zipper. She pulled his pants down just enough, and his cock sprang free—hard, heavy, the tip already wet.

She looked at it. This was what she'd done to Derek. This was what had been taken from her.

He touched her chin. "Look at me."

She did.

"You don't have to. If you're not ready—"

"I'm ready." She wrapped her hand around him. Warm. Thick. Her palm glided over the slick head. "I want to."

She leaned in and took him in her mouth.

He groaned—a sharp, bitten-off sound. She closed her eyes and focused on the weight of him on her tongue, the taste of salt and skin, the way her hand wrapped around what her mouth couldn't reach. She moved slowly, learning the rhythm, finding the places that made his breath catch.

His hand settled on the back of her head, gentle, not pushing. "That's it. Just like that."

She took him deeper. Her nose brushed the coarse hair at his base. She gagged, pulled back, tried again.

"Easy. You don't have to take all of it."

She looked up at him. "I want to. Teach me."

His eyes were dark. But his voice was still Tyler's—patient, reverent. "OK. Breathe through your nose. Relax your throat. Go slow."

She tried again. Lower. The gag reflex kicked in, but she pushed through, focusing on her breath. He slid deeper. She felt him at the back of her throat and held there, her eyes watering.

"Good girl. That's so good."

The praise hit her like sunlight. She moved up, then down again, finding the rhythm. Her hand worked the base. Her mouth worked the head. Spit slicked her chin, and she didn't care.

His grip on her hair tightened. "I'm close. You can stop if you want."

She didn't stop. She doubled down, taking him deeper, faster, her hand twisting on the upstroke the way she'd read about in stolen glances at magazines in the grocery store.

He came with a shuddering groan, his hips bucking, and she felt the first hot pulse on her tongue. Salt. Thick. She swallowed, and he pulsed again, and she swallowed again, until he was empty and her throat was full and she pulled back with a wet gasp.

She looked at him. He was still on his knees, his chest heaving, his eyes half-lidded.

Then he reached for her. He pulled her up, kissed her hard, and with his other hand he stroked himself back to hardness. Before she could understand what was happening, he was pulling her close, his cock pressing against her stomach, and he was coming again—hot streaks across her cheek, her lips, her chin.

She closed her eyes. Felt it. Let it mark her.

When she opened them, he was looking at her with something she couldn't name.

"I'm lucky," he said. "To be your boyfriend."

It was Tyler's voice. But the words were Steve's. And she felt both of them in her chest—the boy she'd imagined and the man who'd made her into someone who could ask for this.

She touched her wet face. Her fingers came away glistening.

The stone in her chest was still there. But it had shifted. She could breathe around it now.

And in her mind, unbidden, an image rose—Steve on one side, Stacey on the other, both of them looking at her with that same patient hunger. She pushed it down, but it stayed, warm and waiting, at the edge of her thoughts.

She looked at Steve—not Tyler. The real man, still on his knees, watching her with eyes that missed nothing.

"Thank you," she said.

He nodded. He didn't say it was nothing. He knew better.

She stood up on shaky legs and started buttoning her blouse over her bare chest. The cum on her face was drying tacky. She didn't wipe it off.

Not yet.