Chapter 1

Hunter:

It started, I think, the night I mixed that drink.

Not that it felt significant at the time. It was just a Tuesday, and I’d gone out with coworkers to a place called Lowbar, the kind of spot that doesn’t really try to impress you. Good wings, cheap beer, decent lighting. You sit down and stop thinking for a while. That was the whole point.

I’d been staring at screens all day, troubleshooting a data migration issue that still wasn’t resolved. I wasn’t looking for anything. I wasn’t even in the mood to drink, if I’m honest. But when Derek suggested we grab a round after the fifth time the server crashed, I didn’t argue.

There were six of us. Everyone else paired off pretty quickly, splitting bar food and talking shop. I drifted toward the quieter end of the bar, ordered something on tap, and just existed for a bit.

Then she sat next to me.

I didn’t catch her name. She had blonde hair in a messy twist, a soft navy sweater slipping off one shoulder, and this casual, flirty air like she wasn’t trying too hard because she didn’t need to. She ordered something pink and strong, then gave me a once-over that felt practiced.

“Long day?” she asked, after I’d sighed for the third time into my glass.

“You have no idea.”

She laughed—quick, sharp, and familiar.

Too familiar.

It took me a second to realize what was wrong. The way she tilted her head when she asked follow-ups. The smirk that crept into her voice. The confident sarcasm laced with warmth.

She sounded like Chloe.

I smiled reflexively, then frowned. No, not possible. Chloe was back at the apartment, probably three episodes deep into some trash dating show and cursing at the screen.

This girl was objectively attractive. Soft mouth. Sharp eyes. Maybe a little too polished to be real, but attractive all the same. And she was clearly into me—touching her hair, laughing too easily, leaning in.

But every time she moved, I saw echoes.

Chloe at the kitchen counter in that old hoodie, eating peanut butter off a spoon. Chloe yelling from the shower because I used her shampoo again. Chloe curled up on the couch with popcorn, flipping me off when I tried to change the channel.

It didn’t make sense. They weren’t even alike physically. But my brain kept dragging me there anyway.

She said something about teaching second grade. I nodded, but my mind was slipping.

Her lips moved, but in my head it was Chloe’s voice whispering: “Bet you’re wondering how good I’d be on my knees.”

I blinked hard.

No. That wasn’t right.

I shifted on the stool, trying to focus on the conversation. But something had already frayed. My drink was low, my body humming with leftover tension from the day, and now my thoughts were ... turning.

I imagined this woman dragging me into the bathroom. Pulling my belt open with one hand, sinking down without a word. Just need, heat, obedience.

Then it slipped again. Blonde became brunette. Lips redder. Voice dirtier. Chloe.

I pushed my glass away.

“Sorry,” I said, cutting her off mid-sentence. “I—I should get home. Early meeting.”

She blinked, caught off guard. Her expression shifted from flirtation to confusion.

“Sure. Uh, good luck with that.”

I didn’t answer. I was already out the door.

I got home around midnight. The apartment was dark except for the blue glow of the living room TV. Chloe was passed out on the couch, a blanket half-twisted around her legs, a bowl of popcorn tipped over on the floor. A dating show was still playing.

Someone on screen was crying in a cocktail dress.

I stood in the doorway and stared.

She looked small like that. Peaceful. Harmless.

I shook it off and went to the kitchen.

I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe it was the drinks. Maybe it was the unresolved tension. Maybe it was the image of Chloe with smeared lipstick that still wouldn’t leave me alone.

I rummaged through the pantry and started mixing.

A little gin. A splash of leftover blackberry liqueur. Ashwagandha drops from that wellness box Chloe got me last Christmas. Maca powder from some failed supplement phase. A dash of chili oil. For heat. For punishment, maybe.

It was stupid. Bitter and sweet and numbing all at once. I drank half before I really tasted it. Then I coughed and muttered something even I couldn’t understand, and dragged myself to bed.

I laid there too wired to sleep.

I didn’t touch myself at first. I wasn’t even planning to.

But the images came anyway.

That girl at the bar. Her dress riding up as she straddled my lap. Her voice low and breathy, whispering filth.

My hand slid down. Just to ease the tension.

Then the blonde hair in my head darkened. The voice shifted.

“God, you get so shy when I talk like this, don’t you?”

Chloe’s laugh. Chloe’s mouth. Chloe pulling her hair back into a ponytail with one hand while she opened her legs.

Smudged lipstick. Chloe/not Chloe trying to swallow my cock while their eyes teared up. Sucking my balls while staring me in the eyes. Talking filthy while she rubbed her clit, staring me down like she owned me.

I came too fast. Harder than I meant to. A thick, aching release that made my legs twitch under the sheets and stained my t-shirt.

I didn’t even clean up. Just rolled onto my side and let the heaviness drag me under.

Outside my room, the last lines of the dating show faded into static.

Inside me, something had already begun to rearrange.

And in the other room, Chloe dreamed.

CHLOE:

The dream didn’t have a beginning. It just was.

Warmth spread up her thighs like steam rising through silk. The rest of the world was gone—no sound, no room, no body. Just sensation. Pressure. Tongue.

Someone was between her legs, slow and deliberate. Each flick and drag against her clit made her toes curl. Her breath caught in her throat like a thick cylindrical object. She could feel the way it shaped the pleasure. Like it deepened every second she stayed still.

There was a voice, too. Low. Gentle. Not words at first—just the weight of approval. Whatever it was, it was pleased with her.

Chloe moaned softly. She felt her hips rise, her hand knot into the blanket beneath her. The tongue didn’t stop. Neither did the praise. It hummed around her, through her, as if her whole body had become an instrument tuned to heat. She could feel its heat, its wetness, as it explored her folds, her perineum, her ass. Ooh! Her ass. Delicious.

She thought of a hand on her lower back, pressing her down. Thought of soft lips, slick fingers, the way her own breath was hitching—just a little faster now. Her mind tried to form an image: someone kneeling. Someone strong. Familiar. Not quite seen.

And then the dream shifted. Became real in the way dreams sometimes do.

Her skin was against fabric. Her breath echoed in her ears. Her hand was already there.

Two fingers buried inside her, her panties pushed down around her thighs, and her body poised on all fours like a bitch in heat.

Chloe’s eyes opened, bleary and unfocused, just as her orgasm hit.

She bit down on a moan, barely catching it. Her muscles clenched hard. Her thighs trembled. Her knees dug into the couch cushions as the waves rolled through her.

She stayed like that for a moment—frozen, raw, panting.

Then came the thought.

Hunter.

Her breath caught for a different reason.

The living room was dim, just a faint bluish hue from the TV casting shadows across the walls. The blanket was pushed aside. Her tank top had ridden up. One leg was bent, the other stretched. Her ass was up, back arched. Fingers still slick, still inside her.

She stared at the hallway.

He could’ve seen me.

Not panic. Not shame. Something else.

He didn’t.

And the disappointment bloomed so fast, so full, it took her by surprise.

Chloe pulled her hand away slowly. She sat back on her heels, breathing hard. Her thighs glistened in the blue light. Her heart pounded, not just from the orgasm, but from that thought—that ridiculous, fucked-up little thought:

I wish he had.

She wiped her fingers on the couch blanket and immediately winced. Gross. She stood, stretching her back, and padded quietly to the bathroom. The house was silent. Hunter’s door was closed.

Chloe turned on the bathroom light and blinked at her reflection.

Hair wild. Lips flushed. Pupils wide.

She leaned in.

Her skin looked clearer. Her lips looked ... fuller? Maybe just from biting them. Her tits felt heavy under her top, nipples still hard. A drop of sweat trickled between them.

She touched her neck. Still tingling.

Jesus, she thought. What the hell kind of dream was that?

She couldn’t remember what the person looked like. Just their warmth. Their hands. Their mouth. And how good it felt to be wanted that completely.

But it wasn’t just the dream. That’s what was strange. She could still feel it. Like something had been stirred inside her.

She washed her hands, grabbed a washcloth and wiped away the evidence of her pleasure from between her legs.

She stood there, naked from the waist down, cooling rapidly. Not embarrassed. Not yet. Just aware.

She didn’t look at Hunter’s door again.

She didn’t have to.

Her body was still humming.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice that wasn’t hers whispered: You belong to him now.

The office was too cold, but Chloe couldn’t stop sweating.

Her blouse clung to her lower back, and every shift in her seat rubbed the seam of her jeans against something that made her want to squirm. She’d already snapped at a coworker for asking about lunch and then immediately apologized, flustered. She wasn’t hungry. She was wired.