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Mark Scout wasn’t supposed to be here.
At least, that’s what he told himself as he shrugged off his coat and handed it to the hostess, already half-deciding to leave. He felt too old and too unwilling for this kind of experiment. A pairing dinner, they called it—Valentine’s Day, of all things, because the world never missed a chance to remind you you were alone.
Zufu had carved out a quiet corner: a cluster of tables lit by slow-burning candles, the hum of jazz just audible beneath polite chatter. The promise was anonymity. No last names. No job talk. No history. Just conversation. Just possibility.
He nearly walked out. Since Gemma, possibility had become a word he rolled around in his mouth like a pebble—sharp and smooth at the same time.
“Mr. Scout?” the hostess asked gently.
“Uh—Mark. Just Mark,” he corrected, tugging at his cuff.
“Right this way.”
She guided him through the room, and his heart gave a small, embarrassed jolt as they neared the table.
The space felt cocooned from the rest of the world—sliding doors whispering shut, lacquered wood gleaming, the faint scent of rice and soy in the air. Every detail seemed too deliberate, pressing against his nerves.
Now he was here, blindfolded, the absurdity of it brushing his lashes.
I can’t believe I agreed to this. A blind date—literally. Devon’s idea, obviously. Her relentless faith in novelty, her belief that grief could be cured by something other than whiskey and isolation. She’d worn him down last week, talking him into this like she was saving a lost cause.
He’d promised himself he’d show up, stay thirty minutes, then ghost politely. But the sounds around him—the scrape of a chair, the clink of porcelain, the small orchestra of other blindfolded strangers—kept him anchored in place.
He shifted, tracing idle shapes on the table with his fingertip.
Just another dinner, he told himself. Another night. Another attempt at pretending to be okay. But the darkness pressed in, amplifying every small sound, turning each one into a signal he didn’t know how to read.
Part of him wanted to leave. The other part, quieter but insistent, hummed with anticipation. He couldn’t tell if it was curiosity or fear that made his pulse jump.
He exhaled slowly, counting under his breath. Devon’s bright voice replayed in his head—You’ll thank me later. He doubted it.
Still, he sat there, waiting. Beneath the cynicism, something tiny sparked to life.
The chair across from him moved. The air shifted.
And then, her perfume.
It reached him before her voice. Green at first, sharp and alive, like crushed mint or basil. Then softer, jasmine, maybe, or orange blossom, a faint sweetness threading through warmth and smoke. Beneath it all, cedar. Earthy, unsettling.
It didn’t just smell good; it felt like a challenge.
He leaned forward without meaning to.
“Hi,” she said. Her voice was careful, smooth with practiced ease. He could hear the smile in it, a small dare.
He swallowed. “Hi.”
A pause lingered, long enough to make it funny.
“So…” she began, light and amused, “do we just sit here breathing at each other, or do you actually talk?”
Mark huffed a quiet laugh. “I was trying to figure out the rules. Didn’t want to ruin the mystery too soon.”
“Oh, right,” she said. “Wouldn’t want to rush into basic conversation. Terribly intimate.”
“Exactly. I like to ease into embarrassment.”
She laughed softly. “Strong strategy. Though I’ve got to say, your silence game was impressive. I was almost worried you’d fallen asleep.”
“Not asleep,” he said. “Just reconsidering every life choice that led me here.”
“Ah, so romantic,” she teased. “That should go on your dating profile.”
“I’ll add it under ‘thrilling dinner companion,’ right after ‘has deep appreciation for poor decisions.’”
“Perfect. You’ll have a line of women forming immediately.”
He smiled despite himself. “They’ll be gone by dessert.”
“Depends on the dessert,” she said.
There was a sharp, teasing edge to her tone, brushed with curiosity that drew him a little closer.
***
They began with the easy things. The music, the strangeness of the setup, the question of who on earth thought this was a good idea.
She joked about the restaurant being “romantic in a culty kind of way.” He said it was “probably run by psychology majors.”
She told him she’d been dared to come. He said he’d been blackmailed.
Soon the words flowed. Not just polite, but alive.
He confessed he’d once tried to adopt a dog but couldn’t commit to the paperwork. She admitted she’d once fled a date through a kitchen door because the guy called her ethereal before appetizers arrived.
Mark snorted. “Was it the word or the delivery?”
“Both. He said it like a priest in a perfume ad.”
He nearly choked laughing. “I’ve been that guy, minus the perfume ad. And the priesthood.”
She grinned audibly. “So you have been ethereal-adjacent.”
“Tragically,” he said. “Didn’t take.”
Her laugh settled somewhere in his chest.
She’d been talking about people, how most spend half their lives pretending not to want what they want, convincing themselves that restraint is virtue. The way she said it wasn’t cruel, just certain, as if she’d already tested the theory and accepted the result.
He watched her for a moment, curious about the calm precision behind her words. It wasn’t cynicism exactly, more like understanding sharpened by distance, the kind that comes from seeing too much, too soon.
“You sound like you know the world better than I do,” he said after a moment.
“I grew up around people who pretend to,” she replied. “It rubs off, unfortunately.”
Her tone was light, but he caught something beneath it, an echo of wealth, maybe power, handled with practiced ease.
Their laughter came in bursts now, little collisions in the dark. Sometimes her elbow nudged the table, grounding him, reminding him that she was real.
The wine helped, or maybe it was just her voice, the sound of it wrapping around the room, drawing him in.
“Alright,” he said, grinning, “worst first date ever.”
“This one, obviously,” she shot back instantly. “I mean, dinner in the dark? You could be a serial killer.”
“Guess you’ll find out soon enough.”
She gasped, mock-offended. “Oh, so I’m just supposed to risk my life for small talk? That’s your pitch?”
“I promise I’m mostly harmless.”
“Mostly? That’s not the reassurance you think it is.”
He laughed. “Fine. I’m devastatingly charming, mildly neurotic, and statistically unlikely to commit murder.”
“Better. But still not the kind of thing you lead with.”
“You’re tough to impress.”
“Comes with the job,” she said. “You’d be surprised how many people think charm counts as depth.”
He smiled faintly. “So what does impress you?”
She hesitated just long enough for him to notice. “Something real,” she said at last. “But that’s hard to come by.”
The words hung there, quiet but deliberate. Something in them unspooled the distance between them, an honesty she hadn’t meant to reveal.
He met her gaze, steady. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right people yet.”
Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Don’t overthink it, Scout,” she murmured. “Maybe I’ve just stopped looking.”
That landed differently. The tone had shifted, less sparring now, more truth slipping through the cracks.
And just like that, the air changed. The absurdity of blindfolds and candlelight faded, leaving only two strangers talking, listening, measuring the space between them by the sound of their voices.
***
The dining room had thinned to a low murmur. Behind the paper screens came the faint clink of dishes, followed by the hush of closing doors. Their last exchange had faded into silence. Not comfortable, not tense either, just weighted with something unspoken.
Mark could hear her shifting slightly across the table. Her glass moved, the rim touching wood with a delicate ring. The faint scent of her perfume lingered in the air, like the echo of a hand that had just left his shoulder.
“So,” she said, casual but not careless. “You think you’re ready to ruin the mystery?”
He smirked. “That depends. You planning to disappear if I don’t live up to the voice?”
“I might,” she said, unbothered. “I’ve done worse for less.”
“Of course you have.”
A pause, then her quiet laugh. “You sound awfully sure of yourself for a man hiding behind a napkin.”
“Blindfold,” he corrected. “And I wasn’t hiding. I was tolerating.”
“Brave of you.”
“Tragic, really.”
She laughed again, softer this time, and he could feel her smile — sharp, genuine, a small victory she wasn’t trying to hide.
The thought came before he could stop it.
He wanted to see her.
Not just out of curiosity, but to match the outline of her voice to something real.
He lifted the cloth. Light rushed in, too bright after so much dark, edges blurring before they took shape.
And there she was.
Helena Eagan.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to her face, the soft candlelight catching against her hazel eyes, the composed line of her mouth already fighting surprise.
She blinked once, recalibrating faster than he did. Recognition crossed her features like a shadow, sharp and brief, before she masked it with something practiced.
He froze, a pulse of disbelief breaking through his chest. Of all people—of course it would be her.
“Mark… Scout,” she said finally, testing the words as if she couldn’t quite believe them.
He gave a quiet, uncertain laugh. “Seems so.”
Her composure slipped for just a second. Then she recovered, posture straightening, tone cool. “Well. It’s nice to finally meet you.” A beat. “I’ve heard nothing but good things about you. About your work, I mean.”
He almost smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks. I’ve heard nothing at all about my work, so.”
That earned him the faintest curve of her lips, something between amusement and appraisal. “Severance humor. So clever.”
He met her gaze, steady now. “So easy.”
A new tension threaded the space between them, fine and brittle, neither one willing to look away. Candlelight glimmered along her glass, casting fragments of gold across the table.
She looked different from the photos. More dangerous up close. Collected, deliberate, and—he hated admitting it—beautiful in a way that made the moment feel even riskier. Something low in his belly tightened, a flicker of want he tried not to name.
He blinked once, twice, adjusting. “Well,” he said finally, “that explains a lot.”
Her mouth curved. “What exactly does it explain?”
“The way you talk,” he said. “Like someone who doesn’t lose arguments.”
She tilted her head, amused. “And yet you keep trying to win one.”
He smiled faintly. “Occupational hazard.”
“Mm.” Her tone was light, but her eyes didn’t soften. “You’re one of those men.”
He raised a brow. “And what’s those supposed to mean?”
“The kind who thinks arguing counts as flirting.”
He almost smiled. “Only when it works.”
Her gaze flicked to his, a flash of amusement, a spark of challenge. “And is it?”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You tell me.”
For a moment, she didn’t move. Then she mirrored him, closing the distance just enough for her perfume to find him again.
Her voice dropped. “Careful, professor. You might be fun to argue with, but I play for keeps.”
“Good,” he said quietly. “So do I.”
Something in her expression shifted — not softening, but sharpening, a flicker of intent behind her eyes.
She reached for her wine, took a sip without looking away. “So,” she said at last, tone light again, “worth the risk?”
He considered her for a beat, then smiled, small and crooked. “Depends. You planning on being merciful?”
“Not my strong suit.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Her mouth twitched. “Smart man.”
The air between them thickened with something undeniable. Around them, the restaurant emptied, yet neither of them moved.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.
It was a pull. Sharp, magnetic, and dangerous in its simplicity.
And for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, Mark didn’t want to leave.
***
Zufu was closing down by the time they stepped outside. The storefront lights buzzed faintly against the early night, giving the sidewalk a slight red glow. Mark rubbed his hands together as a breeze cut through the air, sharp and sudden, reminding them both that it was fall. The kind of evening where the cold gets into your collarbone before you know it.
Helena, of course, didn’t flinch. She stood poised, coat over one arm, phone in the other, scanning it with the precision of someone who only looked up when absolutely necessary.
“Well,” Mark said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I can safely say now that I’ve been on worse dates.”
Helena arched a brow but didn’t look at him. “So have I. Though I assume your benchmark is a little more… pedestrian.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Sure. You say pedestrian, I say realistic expectations. You don’t walk into a Szechuan joint hoping to be wooed with foie gras and an apology from your father.”
That got her attention. She glanced over, a slow smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. “Oh, you’re one of those. The men who think bitterness counts as personality.”
Mark didn’t look at her. “And you’re one of those women who wear disdain like perfume.”
Helena’s laugh was quick and sharp, but not kind. “Better than reeking of resignation.”
They walked for a moment in silence, both aware of the shape of the night still unfolding.
“So,” he said eventually, “are we going our separate ways now, or is this where you reveal that you’ve orchestrated the whole evening as part of a psychological experiment?”
She stopped, studying him as if weighing what to give away. His tone, his posture, the trace of grief that still lingered somewhere in his voice.
“I’m at the Kier Hotel,” she said after a beat. “Top floor.”
He looked at her, trying to read the silence that followed. “Let me guess. You don’t want to go back alone.”
Her mouth curved slightly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Right,” he said, dry. “You just like the idea of bringing a bitter pedestrian man back to your corporate lair.”
“I like the idea of not pretending there’s nothing here,” she said, her tone measured, but her eyes gave her away.
Mark gave her a long look. The kind you give a loaded gun you’re considering picking up.
Then he said, “Lead the way.”
***
The Kier Hotel stood like a monument to quiet opulence—marble floors, heavy gold trim, and soft lighting designed to flatter anyone rich enough to belong there. Helena walked ahead without hesitation, heels tapping confidently across the gleaming lobby tiles. Mark followed, trying not to feel like the world's best-dressed hostage.
Neither spoke as the elevator doors slid shut. The quiet settled differently now, heavy and aware. She stood close without touching him, her perfume threading through the air until it felt like he was breathing her in.
When the elevator chimed and the doors opened to the top floor, Helena stepped out like she owned the place. Because she did.
Instead of heading straight to the suite, she cut toward the hotel bar just down the corridor, low-lit with sleek leather booths and a wall of rare liquor that could bankrupt most of the city.
They took a corner booth. She ordered scotch, neat. Mark followed her lead.
"Still time to back out," she said after the first sip, her voice smooth but sharp.
"Is that what you want?"
Her gaze held his. "If I wanted that, you'd be downstairs waiting for a cab."
He smirked, leaned back. "Sure."
The drinks didn’t last long. Neither did their restraint. Helena stood first.
"Come on, Scout. Let’s not pretend we didn’t already decide this."
She led him down the hall, swiped her keycard, and pushed open the double doors to her presidential suite.
It was pristine. Sterile. Expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city below. The fireplace flickered, casting warm light across modern art and cold surfaces.
Mark barely had time to take it in before Helena turned to him, already undoing the first buttons of her blouse.
He let out a low, incredulous laugh. “And here I thought we’d make it to a second drink,” he said, the sarcasm softening into something almost admiring.
“Don’t act so surprised,” she said, slipping out of her heels. “You knew the second I didn’t tell you goodnight.”
He watched her, pulse hammering. “You’re dangerous.”
She smiled without warmth. “So are you. Take off your coat.”
She handed him a glass, then stepped closer, her free hand brushing lightly against his chest before giving a small push toward the couch.
“Sit.”
Mark obeyed, sinking into the plush velvet cushions with a wary kind of comfort. Helena remained standing before him, drink in hand, the top buttons of her blouse already undone.
"Don't look so tense," she said. "You had every chance to leave."
"Didn't want to."
"Smart choice."
She took a sip of her scotch, then set the glass down. One by one, she unfastened her blouse, letting it fall. Her bra followed. Then her pants. She stepped out of it slowly, methodically, like she was daring him to speak.
"Don’t touch," she said, seeing his fingers twitch. "Just watch."
She stood there in black lace panties, nothing else. The firelight danced along her skin, and Mark looked like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. She was magnificent.
Helena moved to straddle him, settling into his lap with a slow grind that drew a low growl from his throat.
“You’re enjoying this,” he muttered, hands still clenched at his sides.
“You’re suffering,” she replied, rocking her hips again. “That’s half the fun.”
He let out a sharp breath, hands sliding under her thighs to grip them firmly, anchoring her against him. “You’re soaked.”
“Well,” Her voice was cool. “Control excites me.”
He moved before she could say more, breaking her unspoken rule, the space she’d kept so deliberately between them. His hand finally moved, fingers sliding beneath the lace. His touch was a quiet rebellion, deliberate and slow, testing how far he could go before she stopped him.
Her breath caught, but she didn’t pull away.
“You like being teased this much?” he asked, fingers stroking. “You’re trembling.”
He leaned up to kiss her. Hard. One hand on her waist, the other on her lower back, pulling her flush against him. His hands slid up her thighs, thumbs brushing her hips before curling under the elastic of her panties.
“I said no touching,” she reminded him.
“Then stop me,” he dared.
She didn’t. Not when she lifted her hips just enough for him to hook his fingers into the lace and drag it down her legs. Not when his fingers slipped between her thighs and found how wet she already was.
He leaned in, mouth hot at her neck. “You’re enjoying this little torture way too much. I can feel it.”
She smirked against his ear. “I can feel how hard you are. Stop pretending I’m the only one losing it.”
Helena gripped his hair, breathing sharply.
“Besides, you're still wearing too many clothes.”
Still in his lap, she leaned back just enough to tug his shirt over his head, then shifted her hips to reach between them, making quick, practiced work of his belt and fly. When she felt how hard he already was beneath his boxers, she smirked, biting her lip like she wasn’t even trying to hide her satisfaction.
“Off,” she commanded.
He lifted his hips, pushing his boxers down and kicking them away.
She didn’t move, didn’t give him room, just leaned back to watch, unapologetic.
Once he was bare, she pressed in closer again, skin to skin now, her heat dragging along the length of him.
Then she started to move—slow, punishing circles that made him groan low in his throat.
Mark groaned, fingers digging into her thighs. “You're going to kill me.”
“Not tonight.”
She guided him to her entrance, teasing herself with the head of his cock, dragging it through her slick. Then stopped.
“Beg for it.”
Mark’s eyes darkened. He didn’t say a word. He just thrust up into her, hard.
“Ah,” She cried out, nails clawing across his chest. “Fucking asshole.”
Then she laughed—breathless, wicked—and bit his lip, dragging her teeth as she pulled back.
Mark groaned, fingers sinking into her ass. “Keep that up and you’ll be the one begging.”
Her eyes gleamed. She rolled her hips slow and deep, grinding against him.
“Big words for someone who’s been throbbing since Zufu.”
She kissed him hard, biting his bottom lip again as she moved on top of him, slow at first, then faster, driving them both closer with every grind of her hips. But before they could finish right there on the couch, Mark wrapped an arm around her waist, stood up with her still clinging to him, and carried her toward the bed.
Helena laughed breathlessly against his neck, still rocking her hips as he walked. “You carry all your one-night stands like this?”
“Only the dangerous ones,” he muttered.
He dropped her onto the mattress and climbed over her, kissing his way from her mouth to her neck to her chest. She arched beneath him as he took her nipple into his mouth, then ran his hand down her stomach until he was between her thighs again.
He knelt over her, hard and ready, his eyes raking down every inch of her.
“I want to taste you,” he said.
She smiled, wicked and inviting. “What’s stopping you?”
He didn’t answer. He just moved lower, kissing down her body with a hunger that felt barely restrained. His hands gripped her thighs as he lowered himself between them, spreading her open. His mouth found her swollen clit, tongue slow and deliberate at first. Teasing, circling, retreating.
Helena gasped, thighs tensing around his head. “Stop teasing. If you’re going to have your mouth on me, then fucking earn it.”
He flattened his tongue against her and dragged it up through her slick folds, then sucked her clit hard enough to make her curse out loud. One hand gripped her thigh while the other slid under to anchor her down.
He devoured her like he meant to leave her ruined, flicking, sucking, drawing tight little patterns that had her twitching, cursing, and grabbing fistfuls of his hair.
“Fuck, Mark—”
Her voice was a breathless wreck. She tried to grind against his face, but he held her in place, relentless.
“Right there—don’t stop, don’t you fucking dare—”
She came with a choked cry, thighs trembling, nails dragging across his scalp. Her entire body locked up for a beat, then shuddered as the wave crashed through her.
Mark didn’t move until the last tremor passed. Then he pulled back slowly, face slick with her, breathing hard.
When he finally lifted his head, his mouth was slick with her. He crawled back up and kissed her, letting her taste herself on his tongue, raw and shameless.
He looked down at her, smug, wrecked, and still hungry. “Still think I was teasing?”
Helena didn’t answer with words. She grabbed him by the hair, pulled him into another kiss—hot, messy, claiming—and bit his lower lip hard enough to make him groan.
“Now,” she said, breath catching. “I need you inside me.”
Mark knelt between her legs, pumped his cock once, twice, then ran the tip slowly through her slick folds. He pushed in with a low groan, inch by inch, stretching her open until she gasped.
“God—” she hissed, digging her nails into the sheets.
He paused, then rocked his hips, thrusting deeper with each slow movement.
“You feel so fucking good, so fucking tight,” he muttered against her neck.
She wrapped her legs around his back, grinding into him, urging him on. He obeyed gripping her hips and moving faster, pressing her into the mattress with every thrust.
He leaned over her, kissing her again as he drove into her harder. She arched up, meeting him stroke for stroke.
“You can take it,” he said, voice low and strained. He looked down between them, watching the slick shine on his cock as he moved in and out of her. “You’re dripping.”
Helena wrapped her legs around his back, nails digging into his shoulder blades.
He grabbed her breasts, teasing her nipples between thrusts until she was gasping and clawing at the sheets.
“Flip over,” he growled.
She obeyed, crawling onto all fours. Mark entered her from behind showing no mercy, grabbing her hips, fucking her deep and fast. He slammed into her hard enough to hit her cervix, pulling a strangled moan from her lips. One hand slid under to toy with her nipple again, the other smacked her ass hard enough to make her gasp.
“Look at you,” he growled. “Trying to act in control while you're dripping down my cock.”
“If you’re trying to prove something, you’re going to have to do better than that,” she snapped, moaning as he slammed into her.
Mark growled low, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and yanked her head back just enough to see her face. “Challenge accepted,” he muttered against her ear, then fucked her harder—deep, punishing thrusts that left no room for breath, let alone retorts.
He didn’t slow down until she was trembling, ready to fall apart. He reached forward, hands closing around her breasts, kneading them as he leaned over to nip at her nipples—first one, then the other, dragging a gasp from her lips. Then he flipped her back over.
“I want to see your face when I make you come.”
Helena straddled him again, lowering herself onto his cock, grinding hard and fast. Her hair was a mess, her eyes glazed, her moans pure filth.
He slid his thumb over her clit, watching every reaction, every twitch of her thighs, until her body tensed and she shattered around him with a cry.
He followed with a groan, spilling inside her as he held her tight, gasping her name like a curse or a prayer.
***
They lay tangled in the ruins of the bed, the sheets half-kicked to the floor, bodies slick with sweat and silence.
Helena exhaled hard, then reached over to the nightstand, dragging open the drawer. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tapped one free, and struck a match from the hotel-branded book. The flame lit her face in a soft orange glow as she took a slow drag, then held it out for Mark.
He took it, inhaled, exhaled. “Still don’t like me?”
She turned her head, met his eyes through the smoke. “No. You’re smug, stubborn, and completely unqualified for this level of involvement.”
He handed the cigarette back. “And yet, you invited me up.”
She took another drag. “Temporary lapse. Won’t happen again.”
Mark smirked. “Good. I’d hate to make a habit out of this.”
Helena passed him the cigarette one last time. “Absolutely. One-time event.”
Mark smirked, took the cigarette, and exhaled slowly. “Shame. I know a way or two to make you come that we didn’t even get to.”
She arched a brow. “You talk a lot for someone who’s leaving.”
He rolled onto his side, resting his head on his hand, cigarette dangling between his fingers. “You’re not kicking me out.”
“You want a trophy?”
“Maybe a certificate of achievement. Special commendation for effort.”
Helena snorted softly and turned toward him, propping herself up against the pillows. The hotel’s city view window threw soft shadows across her bare shoulder. “This never leaves this room.”
“Of course not. Just between us. Like the Cold War. Mutually assured destruction.”
“You’re insufferable, you know that?”
“And yet,” he said, tapping ash into the saucer, “you’re still here, naked, beside me.”
She arched an eyebrow, smoke curling past her lips. “Oh? And what exactly are you going to do about that?”
Mark smirked, stubbed out the cigarette. “I was thinking about a shower.” He slid off the bed, stretching slowly. “Wouldn't stop you if you decided to tag along.”
She didn’t answer. Just slid off the bed, and followed him into the bathroom without a word.
The water started running.
Steam curled along the frame of the door.
Inside, silhouettes moved in the fogged mirror, bodies meeting again without pretense or negotiation.
They told themselves it was a one-time thing. A detour. A release.
But the way she stepped into the shower with him, the way his hands immediately found her waist as her mouth sought his again beneath the steam, it was a lie they both wore like armor.
In the fogged mirror, their bodies moved like they'd done this a hundred times before, like they had no intention of stopping.
Whatever this was, it was just beginning.
And they both knew it.