If I were his mother, I’d tell him to put a shirt on. Since I’m just her best friend, I’m checking for a breach of contract.
42 min read·8,388 words·4 views
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January 10th, 9:45 PM
I am currently holed up in a cabin in Galena that costs more per night than a junior associate’s monthly car payment. The air smells like pine needles and the kind of expensive woodsmoke that implies a very high property tax bracket. I came here to finish the discovery phase for the Miller v. Stayton merger, away from the prying eyes of the partners and the soul-crushing hum of the Chicago office.
I did not, however, account for the fact that Sarah’s son would be here.
Gabriel. Gabe.
I haven't seen him since he was twenty-one and still had that slightly awkward, lanky build that suggested he hadn't quite figured out where his limbs ended. He’s twenty-five now. He graduated from U of I, did a stint in the Peace Corps, and apparently decided to spend the winter ‘writing’ at his mother’s vacation home.
When I walked in, hauling my Tumi suitcase and three bankers' boxes of files, he was standing in the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants and a look of genuine confusion.
‘Auntie Elena?’ he asked.
I nearly dropped my briefcase. First of all, the ‘Auntie’ title was a relic from when I used to bring him Legos. Now, it felt like a tactical error. He is six-foot-two. His shoulders have widened to a point that should be considered a zoning violation. There is a line of dark hair that disappears into the waistband of those sweatpants—which, for the record, are not nearly as thick as they should be for the sake of my professional decorum.
‘It’s just Elena, Gabe,’ I said, trying to regain my composure. I used my most authoritative voice—the one I use to shut down opposing counsel during a deposition. ‘And your mother said the cabin was vacant.’
‘She forgot I was coming up for the blizzard,’ he said, grinning. He has that same lopsided smile Sarah has, but on him, it’s devastating. ‘The roads are already turning into a skating rink. You’re stuck with me, Counselor.’
I looked out the window. The sky is the color of a bruised plum, and the snow is coming down in sheets. My Tesla is currently being buried.
‘Fine,’ I told him. ‘But I’m working. I need silence, caffeine, and at least ten feet of personal space.’
He just leaned against the granite island, crossing his arms over a chest that looked remarkably solid. ‘I can handle the first two. The third? We’ll have to negotiate.’
I hate negotiations I don't control.
***
January 12th, 11:30 PM
Two days. Two days of being trapped in roughly two thousand square feet with a man who seems to have a moral objection to wearing a shirt indoors.
He’s not just handsome; he’s annoying. He makes French press coffee that tastes like velvet, and he leaves his philosophy books open on the coffee table. He watches me work from the armchair, his long legs stretched out, tapping a pen against his chin.
‘You’re scowling,’ he said today. I was deep into a three-hundred-page environmental impact report.
‘I am analyzing,’ I corrected him without looking up.
‘No, you’re scowling at page eighty-four like it personally insulted your family. Relax, Elena. The world won't end if you take twenty minutes to breathe.’
‘The world won’t, but the merger might. This is a high-stakes transaction, Gabe. Not a drum circle in the Quad.’
He stood up and walked over to my desk—a heavy oak table I’d claimed in the corner. He leaned over, his shadow falling across my laptop. He smelled like cedar and something warm, like skin that’s been near a fireplace for too long.
‘You’ve got a crumb right here,’ he whispered.
He didn’t wait for me to brush it away. He reached out, his thumb grazing the corner of my mouth. It was a slow, deliberate movement. His skin was rougher than I expected, a slight calloused friction against my lip. My breath hitched in a way that felt like a gross violation of my own internal bylaws.
I looked up at him. He didn’t pull his hand away immediately. His thumb lingered, just for a second, tracing the line of my lower lip before he finally dropped it.
‘Fixed it,’ he said, his voice dropping an octave.
‘Thank you,’ I managed. It sounded pathetic.
‘You should probably eat something that isn’t a protein bar,’ he added, stepping back. ‘I’m making pasta. Real pasta. From scratch. I learned it from a woman in Tuscany who didn't speak English but knew how to handle a rolling pin.’
‘I’m sure she was very impressed with your... rolling pin skills,’ I said, the words out of my mouth before I could censor them.
He laughed—a deep, rich sound that vibrated in the small room. ‘Was that a double entendre, Elena? I’m shocked. I thought you were all business.’
‘I’m a lawyer, Gabe. I know how to use language.’
‘I bet you do,’ he said, turning back toward the kitchen. ‘I bet you’re very good with your tongue.’
I spent the next hour staring at the same paragraph. I think it was about drainage systems. I can’t be sure. All I could think about was the weight of his thumb on my lip and the way his sweatpants hung low on his hips.
***
January 13th, 2:14 AM
The power went out three hours ago.
Galena is beautiful in the snow, but when the grid fails, it becomes a tomb of ice. The temperature in the cabin is dropping fast. We’ve moved to the living room because the fireplace is the only source of heat.
Gabe is a survivalist, apparently. He had the fire roaring in minutes. He’s dragged a mattress from the guest room down to the floor in front of the hearth.
‘It’s more efficient,’ he explained, though he didn't look particularly concerned.
We’re currently sitting on the mattress, wrapped in a mountain of wool blankets. We’re sharing a bottle of my good Highland Park Scotch—the 18-year-old stuff I save for closing deals. It feels appropriate. This feels like a closing of some kind.
‘You’re still wearing that blazer,’ he noted, nodding toward my navy blue Theory jacket. ‘Even in a blackout.’
‘It’s professional,’ I said, though I was shivering.
‘It’s a suit of armor,’ he countered. He reached over and took my glass, setting it down on the hearthstone. ‘Take it off, Elena. You’re freezing because the wool can’t get to your skin.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not fine. Your teeth are literally chattering.’ He moved closer. The firelight was playing over the angles of his face, making him look older, sharper. ‘Come here.’
‘Gabe—’
‘I’m not going to bite. Unless you ask.’ He smirked, but there was a new intensity in his eyes. He reached out and started unbuttoning the blazer.
I should have stopped him. I should have cited the obvious conflict of interest. He’s my best friend’s son. I’m thirty-one, a partner-track powerhouse who knows better than to let a twenty-five-year-old with a Peace Corps tan touch my buttons.
But my fingers were numb, and his hands were so incredibly warm.
He slid the jacket off my shoulders. I was wearing a silk camisole underneath—the kind of thing I wear under suits because it makes me feel powerful, even if no one sees it. The cold air hit my bare arms, and I gasped.
‘See?’ he whispered. He pulled the heavy wool blanket around both of us, sealing us into a small, dark tent of heat.
Our knees bumped. Our shoulders pressed together. I could feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace. He’s so much larger than I remembered. He makes me feel small, which is an sensation I usually pay a trainer to avoid.
‘Better?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
He didn't move away. He stayed right there, his arm draped behind my back, his hand resting on the mattress just inches from my hip. I could hear his breathing—steady, slow, rhythmic.
‘Do you ever stop?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Stop what?’
‘Performing. Being the “Incomparable Elena Henderson.” I’ve watched you for years, you know. At the parties, at the dinners. You’re always the smartest person in the room, and you’re always the most guarded. You’re like a high-rise in the Loop. Beautiful to look at, but impossible to get into without a security badge.’
I laughed, though it felt a little brittle. ‘Is that what you think of me? A real estate metaphor?’
‘I think you’re lonely,’ he said.
I turned my head to look at him. He was already looking at me. Our faces were inches apart. The scent of the Scotch was heavy on his breath, mixed with that cedar-smoke smell.
‘You don't know anything about me, Gabriel.’
‘I know you like your Scotch neat. I know you hate it when people interrupt you. And I know that right now, your heart is beating so hard I can practically see it through that silk.’
He reached out, his hand sliding up my arm. His skin was hot—searing hot. He didn't stop at my shoulder. He moved to my neck, his fingers curling around the nape, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
‘Gabe,’ I said, but it wasn't a warning. It was a plea.
‘Elena,’ he mimicked, his voice a low vibration. ‘Tell me to stop. Right now. Tell me to go back to my side of the mattress and I will. I’ll be the polite little boy you remember. I’ll make you coffee in the morning and we won't talk about it.’
I looked at his mouth. He has a full lower lip. A slight shadow of stubble. He looked like a liability I’ve decided not to mitigate, a high-risk asset I’m prepared to let devalue my entire portfolio of self-control.
‘I don't want coffee,’ I said.
He didn't wait. He leaned in, and when his mouth hit mine, it wasn't a question. It was a demand. It was the sound of a contract being shredded.
It was aggressive and tasting of peat and salt. He tasted like the Scotch we’d been drinking, but deeper. He tasted like a secret I’d been keeping from myself. His hand tightened in my hair, pulling my head back just enough to expose my throat, and he let out a low groan into my mouth.
I reached out, my hands finding the solid planes of his chest. He wasn't wearing a shirt—I finally got my wish, I suppose—and the contact of my palms against his bare skin felt like an electric shock. His muscles were tight, hard as the oak table in the other room.
He pulled me closer, his other hand sliding down my spine to the small of my back, dragging me against him until there was no space left between us. I could feel him—hard and heavy against my thigh, even through the blankets and his sweatpants.
He broke the kiss to trail his lips down my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below my ear.
‘You have no idea,’ he muttered against my skin. ‘How many years I’ve wanted to do this.’
‘Years?’ I gasped, my head falling back.
‘Since I was eighteen. Since you showed up to my graduation in that red dress and I realized you weren't an “Auntie” at all.’
He bit down softly on my shoulder, and I let out a sound I didn't recognize—a sharp, needy moan that echoed in the quiet, dark cabin.
He moved his hand from my back, sliding it up, his fingers find the hem of my silk camisole. He paused, his knuckles brushing against the skin of my ribs.
‘Permission to proceed?’ he asked, his voice rough with a playful, dangerous edge.
I looked at him through the gloom, the firelight reflecting in his dark pupils. My brain was screaming about ethics, about Sarah, about the 8:00 AM conference call I still had to take.
But my body was screaming louder.
‘Proceed,’ I whispered.
He grinned, that lopsided, devastating smile, and hiked the silk up over my head in one fluid motion.
***
January 14th, 4:12 PM
The power is still out. The snow is still falling.
And I am currently pinned to the mattress by a man who is significantly better at ‘writing’ than I ever gave him credit for.
He’s currently asleep, his face tucked into the crook of my neck, one heavy arm thrown across my waist as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. My laptop is sitting on the coffee table, its battery long dead, buried under a pile of discarded clothes—my silk camisole, his sweatpants, a pair of lace underwear I’m fairly certain he tore when he took them off.
I should feel guilty. I should be drafting a formal apology to my best friend.
Instead, I’m looking at the way the light hits the muscles in his back and wondering if we have enough firewood to last another three days.
He stirred just now, his breath warm against my collarbone.
‘You’re thinking again,’ he murmured, not even opening his eyes.
‘I’m assessing the situation.’
‘And? What’s the verdict?’
‘The verdict is that you’re a menace to my professional reputation, Gabriel.’
He shifted, rolling over so he was propped up on one elbow, looking down at me. His hair was a mess, and he had a faint scratch on his chest that I knew I’d put there. He looked entirely too satisfied with himself.
‘I think your reputation can handle a little damage,’ he said, reaching down to trace the curve of my hip. ‘Besides, what happens in a blizzard stays in the blizzard. Isn’t that the rule?’
‘I believe the rule is “force majeure,”’ I said, trying to maintain some shred of dignity despite being completely naked. ‘An act of God that renders a contract impossible to perform.’
He laughed, leaning down to kiss the tip of my nose. ‘I don't know about God, Elena. But I’m definitely going to make it impossible for you to perform anything but this for a while.’
He slid his hand between my thighs, and I felt my breath hitch all over again.
‘Gabe—’
‘Shh,’ he whispered, his fingers finding me, slick and warm. ‘No more talking. I want to see if I can make you forget your own name.’
‘I’m a lawyer,’ I gasped as he started to move. ‘I never... forget... the facts.’
‘Then let’s establish some new ones,’ he said, and he began to show me exactly what he’d learned in his travels.
I didn't think about the merger once for the rest of the afternoon.
January 15th, 8:15 AM
I woke up to the sound of a snowblower somewhere in the distance and the distinct feeling of being pinned down by a heavy, warm, and exceptionally persistent security interest.
Gabriel’s leg was hooked over mine, his toes cold against my calf, but everything else about him was running at a steady hundred degrees. The power came back on at some point in the night; the digital clock on the microwave in the kitchen is blinking a frantic, accusatory 12:00, and the overhead heater in the living room is humming with the kind of efficiency I usually reserve for billable hours.
I tried to slide out from under him, a maneuver that required more tactical precision than a mid-market acquisition. I managed to get my torso free, but then he groaned—a low, gravelly sound that vibrated against the small of my back—and his arm tightened around my waist.
‘Where are you going?’ he mumbled into the pillow.
‘I have a life, Gabe. I have a career. I have a laptop that needs a charging cord and a brain that needs to remember how to use words like “indemnification.”’
He opened one eye. It was clear and dark and entirely too knowing for eight in the morning. ‘You’re running away.’
‘I am transitioning to a more productive environment,’ I countered, finally breaking his grip and standing up.
I felt ridiculous. I was naked, my hair was a bird’s nest of knots, and I was shivering in the sudden absence of his body heat. I scrambled for my discarded clothes, but I couldn't find my lace underwear. I found one half of my bra hanging off the arm of the sofa like a white flag of surrender.
Gabe sat up, the wool blanket falling to his hips. He didn't look bothered by the cold. He looked like a statue some undergrad at the Art Institute would spend three hours sketching.
‘They’re under the mattress,’ he said, pointing to the floor. ‘The underwear. You kicked them there around 2:00 AM.’
‘Thank you for the status report,’ I said, snatching them up and retreating toward the bathroom.
I spent twenty minutes under the hottest water the cabin’s tank could provide. I scrubbed at my skin, trying to wash off the scent of him—that mix of woodsmoke and Scotch and something fundamentally *male* that seemed to have bonded to my pores. I looked in the mirror. My neck was a map of poor decisions. There was a faint bruise just above my collarbone that looked remarkably like a thumbprint.
I have a Zoom call at noon with the lead counsel for Stayton. I’m going to have to wear a turtleneck. In January. In a house with the heat cranked to seventy-five.
I’m currently sitting at the kitchen island, three cups of black coffee deep. Gabe is in the kitchen making eggs. He’s wearing the grey sweatpants again, but he’s added a flannel shirt that he hasn't bothered to button. He’s whistling.
He’s whistling *The Rolling Stones*.
‘“Under My Thumb”?’ I asked, not looking up from my screen. ‘Really, Gabe? A bit on the nose, don't you think?’
He flipped an egg with a flick of his wrist. ‘I was thinking more about the melody. But if you want to talk about the lyrics, Elena, we can discuss the power dynamics of the last twelve hours. I’m happy to submit a brief.’
‘Eat your breakfast, Gabriel.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
He set a plate in front of me. The eggs were perfect. Over-easy, seasoned with cracked pepper and some kind of herb that smelled like a high-end bistro in the West Loop.
‘What are your plans for the day?’ I asked, trying to sound casual, like we were just two roommates who happened to have explored every square inch of each other’s anatomy before sunrise.
‘I’m going to write,’ he said, leaning against the counter and watching me eat. ‘And I’m going to wait for you to finish your call. Because when you’re done being a terrifying lioness of the law, I’m going to take you back to that mattress and see if I can make you make that sound again.’
‘What sound?’ I asked, my voice betraying me by going up an octave.
‘The one you made when I put my mouth between your legs. The one that sounded like you were losing a very important argument.’
I choked on my coffee. He just smiled, that slow, predatory, beautiful smile, and went back to his eggs.
I am in so much trouble.
***
January 17th, 11:10 PM
The Miller v. Stayton merger is currently being held together by duct tape and my sheer refusal to sleep. I’ve spent fourteen hours today arguing about liability caps and environmental remediation costs. My eyes feel like someone has rubbed them with sandpaper, and my brain is a flickering neon sign that just says *REDACTED*.
Gabe has been surprisingly quiet. He spent most of the day in the sunroom, typing away on an old manual typewriter he found in a closet. The rhythmic *clack-clack-clack* was the only thing keeping me grounded. It was like a metronome for my stress.
But then, an hour ago, I hit a wall. A three-hundred-page exhibit on water rights in Southern Illinois that made me want to walk out into the snow and keep walking until I hit the Mississippi.
I pushed my chair back and went to the kitchen for water. Gabe was there, standing by the window, watching the moon reflect off the drifts.
‘Done?’ he asked softly.
‘Drowning,’ I admitted.
He walked over to me. He didn't say anything. He just reached out and took my glasses off my face, setting them on the counter. Then he took my hands. My palms were sweaty, my fingers trembling from too much caffeine and not enough blood flow.
He led me to the living room. The fire was low, just a bed of glowing orange embers that cast long, flickering shadows against the rafters. He sat me down on the sofa—the leather one, cool and smooth—and then he knelt between my knees.
‘Gabe, I’m tired,’ I whispered.
‘I know,’ he said.
He started unzipping my boots. He pulled them off, then my socks, and began massaging my feet. It was clinical at first, his thumbs digging into my arches with a pressure that made me groan in relief. But then his hands started to wander. He moved up my calves, his fingers sliding under the hem of my leggings.
‘You’re so tense,’ he murmured. ‘Every muscle is coiled like a spring.’
‘It’s a requirement for the job.’
‘Well, you’re off the clock.’
He stood up, pulling me with him. He didn't take me to the bedroom. He pushed me back against the heavy oak table I’d been using as a desk. My laptop was still open, the blue light of the screen illuminating the side of his face.
‘Here?’ I asked, my heart starting to thud against my ribs.
‘Right here. On top of the water rights exhibit.’
He hiked my sweater up, pulling it over my head and tossing it somewhere toward the fireplace. He didn't wait for me to unfasten my bra; he just shoved the cups up, exposing my breasts to the cool air of the room. He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak until it was hard and aching.
I arched my back, my hands flying to his hair. He felt so solid, so real, a physical counterweight to the abstraction of my work. He moved to the other side, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, while his hand moved to the waistband of my leggings.
He didn't pull them down. He just slid his hand inside, his fingers moving through the damp silk of my underwear. He found me instantly, his middle finger sliding deep into my heat. I gasped, my thighs falling open, my heels hooking around his waist to pull him closer.
‘You’re so wet, Elena,’ he whispered against my skin. ‘Did you think about this during your conference call?’
‘Maybe,’ I lied, though we both knew the truth.
He laughed, a low vibration against my chest, and then he was unzipping his jeans. He didn't bother taking them off. He just freed himself—thick and pulsing and ready—and guided himself into me.
The angle was sharp, the edge of the oak table pressing into the small of my back, but I didn't care. He was filling me, stretching me, his movements slow and deliberate. He wasn't rushing. He was taking his time, watching my face as he moved in and out, his eyes locked on mine.
‘Look at me,’ he commanded.
I looked. I saw the intensity there, the raw, unadulterated hunger that had nothing to do with Legos or family friends or the ten-year age gap. He was a man, and I was a woman, and the only thing that mattered was the way our bodies were slamming together in the quiet of the Galena night.
I came hard, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my voice catching in my throat as the world blurred into a haze of blue light and orange fire. He followed a moment later, his body shuddering against mine, his forehead resting against my shoulder as he breathed my name like a prayer.
We stayed like that for a long time, the only sound the ticking of the heater and the cooling of the embers.
‘I think,’ I said breathlessly, ‘that exhibit is officially compromised.’
‘I’ll buy you a new printer,’ he promised.
***
January 19th, 2:45 PM
The phone rang while I was in the middle of a delicate negotiation with a bagel.
I looked at the caller ID. It was Sarah.
My heart didn't just drop; it performed a full-on structural collapse. I stared at the phone for three rings before I picked it up.
‘Sarah! Hey!’ I said, my voice sounding like I was auditioning for a high school musical.
‘Elena? You sound... breathless. Is everything okay? Did the roof cave in?’
‘No! No, everything is fine. Just... a lot of stairs. And the merger is a nightmare.’
‘I can imagine. Listen, I’m so sorry about the mix-up with Gabe. I completely forgot he was heading up there for his writer’s retreat. Is he being a nuisance? I told him to stay in the guest wing and leave you alone.’
I looked over at Gabe. He was currently sitting on the floor by the fireplace, wearing only a pair of my wool socks and reading a brief I’d discarded yesterday. He looked up, heard his mother’s voice, and grinned. He started to crawl toward me on his hands and knees.
‘He’s... he’s fine, Sarah. Very quiet. I hardly know he’s here,’ I lied, my voice trembling as Gabe reached the island and tucked his head under my sweater.
‘Oh, good. He’s a good kid, but he can be a bit much. He has his father’s energy.’
Gabe’s tongue found my inner thigh. I nearly dropped the phone. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper.
‘Right. Energy. Absolutely.’
‘Anyway, the roads are clearing up. I’m thinking of driving up on Friday to bring some supplies. We could all have dinner.’
Friday. That’s in forty-eight hours.
‘That sounds... lovely,’ I managed. Gabe’s hand was now firmly cupping my crotch, his fingers moving with a rhythmic, torturous precision through my jeans. ‘But I might be wrapped up in the closing. Let’s play it by ear?’
‘Sure, honey. Give Gabe a hug for me. See you soon!’
I hung up and practically threw the phone across the room.
‘Are you insane?’ I hissed, looking down at him.
He popped his head out from under my sweater, looking like a golden retriever who’d just found a particularly interesting bone. ‘She said to give me a hug, Elena. I was just getting a head start.’
‘She’s coming here, Gabe. On Friday. This... whatever this is... it has to stop. Now.’
He stood up, his face losing the playfulness. He stepped into my space, his chest inches from mine. ‘You don't mean that.’
‘I do. It’s unprofessional. It’s unethical. It’s—’
‘It’s the most honest thing you’ve done in a decade,’ he interrupted. He reached out, his thumb tracing that same bruise on my neck. ‘You can go back to Chicago and pretend this never happened. You can go back to your billable hours and your cold bed and your navy blue suits. But for the next two days, you’re mine. Not Auntie Elena. Just Elena.’
He leaned in, his lips brushing against mine. ‘One more day, Elena. No rules. No titles. Just us.’
I should have said no. I should have packed my Tumi and braved the slushy roads.
Instead, I reached out and unbuttoned the top of his jeans.
***
January 21st, 1:00 AM
The "one more day" turned into forty-eight hours of what I can only describe as a total collapse of my moral compass.
We haven't left the cabin. We’ve barely left the living room. We’ve existed on a diet of pasta, Scotch, and each other.
Tonight, the tension reached a breaking point. Maybe it’s the fact that Sarah is arriving tomorrow. Maybe it’s the fact that the merger is finally, mercifully, entering the final signature phase. Or maybe I’m just tired of him being the one in control.
I told him I wanted to show him something in the bedroom.
The master suite in this cabin has a floor-to-ceiling window that looks out over the valley. The moon is full, and the snow is so bright it’s almost daylight. I made him sit on the edge of the bed, his hands behind his back.
‘What are we doing?’ he asked, his voice low and curious.
‘I’m conducting a performance review,’ I said.
I was wearing a black lace slip I’d packed on a whim, thinking I might have dinner in Galena alone. It’s short, sheer, and completely impractical for a blizzard. I walked toward him, the silk whispering against my thighs.
I pushed him back onto the pillows. He started to reach for me, but I grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head. He’s stronger than me—significantly stronger—but he let me do it. He watched me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
‘You’ve been very assertive, Gabriel,’ I said, straddling his lap. I could feel him beneath me, hard and insistent. ‘You’ve made a lot of demands. You’ve occupied my time, my space, and my body without much regard for the established protocol.’
‘Guilty,’ he whispered.
‘Well, there are consequences for unauthorized takeovers.’
I leaned down and kissed him—not the soft, seeking kisses of the last few days, but a hard, biting kiss that tasted of possession. I used my teeth on his lip, then his jaw, then the hollow of his throat.
I moved lower, my hands still holding his wrists, using my weight to keep him pinned. I felt powerful. I felt like the woman who commands a boardroom of fifty-year-old men.
I took him into my mouth.
He let out a choked sound, his hips jerking off the bed. He tried to pull his hands free, but I squeezed harder, my eyes never leaving his. I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to see exactly who was in charge.
I was thorough. I was precise. I used every trick I’d learned in a decade of navigating the high-stakes world of adult relationships. I watched his face crumble, his composure shattering like glass. He wasn't the confident writer anymore. He wasn't the Peace Corps golden boy. He was just a man, drowning in the sensation of me.
When I finally let him go, his hands flew to my waist, dragging me up so he could bury his face in my chest. He was shaking.
‘Elena,’ he groaned, his voice breaking. ‘God, Elena.’
‘Evaluation complete,’ I whispered, my lips against his ear. ‘You pass.’
He didn't say anything. He just flipped us over, pinning me to the mattress with a ferocity that made my breath leave my body in a rush. He entered me in one deep, bruising thrust, his eyes dark with something that looked a lot like love and felt a lot like a disaster.
We stayed like that for hours, tangled in the sheets, the moonlight washing over us.
But tomorrow is Friday.
Tomorrow, Sarah arrives.
Tomorrow, I have to be the Incomparable Elena Henderson again.
And as I lie here, watching Gabe sleep in the pale winter light, I realize I have no idea how I’m going to look her in the eye.
***
January 23rd, 9:00 AM
The driveway is clear. The sun is out. The world is disgustingly bright.
Sarah’s Volvo pulled in ten minutes ago. I watched from the upstairs window as she stepped out, wrapped in a chic camel-hair coat, waving a bag of groceries like a flag of impending doom.
Gabe is downstairs. He’s dressed. He’s even wearing a sweater. He looks like the perfect, dutiful son.
I’m standing in the bathroom, staring at my reflection. I’ve used enough concealer to hide a felony, and my hair is pulled back into a bun so tight it’s giving me a facelift. I look professional. I look capable. I look like a woman who hasn't spent the last week being thoroughly and repeatedly compromised by a man ten years her junior.
‘Elena? Are you up there?’ Sarah’s voice floated up the stairs, warm and cheerful.
I took a deep breath. I smoothed my skirt. I checked my teeth for lipstick.
‘Coming, Sarah!’ I called back.
I walked to the door, but before I could open it, the door handle turned. Gabe was standing there. He didn't say a word. He just stepped inside, closed the door, and pressed me against the wood.
‘She’s downstairs,’ I hissed, my heart hammering.
‘I know,’ he said.
He leaned in, his face inches from mine. He smelled like the coffee he’d just made. He looked at my perfectly composed face, my perfect bun, my perfect professional armor.
‘You have a smudge,’ he whispered.
He didn't move to fix it. Instead, he reached down and slid his hand under my skirt, his fingers finding the spot between my thighs that was already thrumming with a Pavlovian response to his touch.
‘Gabe, stop,’ I whispered, even as I leaned into him.
‘Make me,’ he challenged, his lopsided smile back in full force.
Downstairs, I heard the sound of the kettle whistling. I heard Sarah laughing, probably at something the cat did.
And then I heard her footsteps on the stairs.
‘Elena? Gabe? I brought those scones you like!’
Gabe didn't move. He just watched me, his fingers working a slow, torturous rhythm, waiting to see if I’d break.
I am a partner-track corporate lawyer. I am a master of negotiation. I am the woman who never loses her cool.
But as the footsteps reached the landing, I realized I was about to find out exactly how much I was willing to risk for a closing I never saw coming.
The door handle rattled. Sarah was right there, a thin sheet of pine and a deadbolt being the only thing standing between my professional career and total social annihilation.
I shoved Gabe’s hand away. It wasn’t a gentle nudge; it was a desperate, panicked parry. I felt the friction of his palm against the denim of my jeans, a lingering heat that felt like a neon sign glowing through the fabric.
‘Elena? Is the door stuck?’ Sarah called out, her voice muffled but unmistakably close.
‘Just a second!’ I yelled, my voice cracking in a way that would have gotten me laughed out of a courtroom. I grabbed Gabe by the shoulders and practically threw him toward the shower curtain. ‘Get. Behind. It.’
He had the audacity to wink at me before disappearing behind the heavy frosted glass. I took three deep, shuddering breaths, the kind they teach you in high-pressure litigation seminars to avoid a hyperventilation-induced mistrial. I smoothed my skirt one last time, checked the mirror to ensure my face didn't look like a crime scene, and turned the lock.
Sarah stood there, holding a box of lemon scones and looking far too radiant for a woman who had just driven three hours through a slushy hellscape.
‘There you are!’ she said, bustling past me into the suite. ‘God, it’s like an oven in here. Are you trying to simulate a tropical climate, or is the thermostat acting up again?’
‘It’s the drafts,’ I lied, my heart doing a frantic tap dance against my ribs. ‘Old cabins, you know. Poor insulation.’
‘Well, you look... vibrant,’ Sarah said, squinting at me. She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing on my neck. I felt the concealer failing me in real-time. ‘Is that a rash? Elena, I told you the laundry detergent they use here is industrial strength. I’ll get you some of the organic stuff from the car.’
‘It’s just... heat,’ I managed, stepping back and leading her toward the door. ‘Let’s go downstairs. I’m starving. Those scones look incredible.’
I didn't look back at the shower. I didn't dare. If I caught even a glimpse of Gabe’s shadow, I knew I’d dissolve into a puddle of inadmissible evidence.
***
January 23rd, 1:45 PM
Lunch was a masterclass in psychological warfare.
I sat at the heavy oak table—the same table where Gabe had pinned me against the water rights exhibit forty-eight hours ago—and ate a chicken salad sandwich while Sarah chatted about her garden club.
Gabe sat across from me. He’d changed into a clean sweater, a charcoal wool that made his eyes look darker, more dangerous. He was being the ‘perfect son.’ He asked Sarah about her drive. He offered to carry her bags. He was so well-behaved it was nauseating.
But under the table, his foot found mine.
He didn't just bump it. He hooked his ankle around my calf, his sock-covered foot sliding up the hem of my trousers. I gripped my water glass so hard I thought the crystal might shatter.
‘So, Elena,’ Sarah said, oblivious, ‘have you finished the Miller discovery? You’ve been up here for over a week.’
‘Almost,’ I said, my voice tight. Gabe’s big toe was currently tracing the line of my Achilles tendon. ‘There are just a few... loose ends. Some outstanding liabilities I need to account for.’
‘She’s been working very hard, Mom,’ Gabe said, his voice smooth as silk. ‘I’ve tried to tell her to relax, but you know Elena. She’s very... thorough.’
He looked at me over the rim of his coffee mug. His eyes were full of a playful, predatory light. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying the risk, the proximity, the sheer absurdity of the fact that his mother was sitting three feet away while he was essentially trying to find a way back into my bed with his eyes.
‘Well, I’m glad you were here to keep her company,’ Sarah said, reaching out to pat Gabe’s hand. ‘I was worried she’d get lonely.’
‘I wasn’t lonely,’ I said, perhaps a bit too sharply. ‘I was focused.’
‘She certainly has a singular focus,’ Gabe agreed.
I spent the rest of the meal staring at my plate, wondering if the Illinois Bar Association had a specific clause about being seduced by a best friend’s son during a blizzard. Probably not. It was likely covered under the general ‘conduct unbecoming’ umbrella.
I’ve never been a fan of umbrellas. I prefer the storm.
***
January 23rd, 11:55 PM
Sarah is asleep in the guest room. I can hear her faint, rhythmic snoring from down the hall—the sound of a woman with a clear conscience.
I am currently sitting on the floor of the living room, staring at the embers of the fire. I told myself I was staying up to finish a final read-through of the merger agreement, but my laptop is closed. I’m waiting. I’m a thirty-one-year-old woman with a six-figure salary and a corner office in the works, and I am waiting for a twenty-five-year-old to sneak out of his bedroom like we’re in a low-budget teen drama.
The floorboards creaked.
I didn't turn around. I felt him before I saw him—that sudden shift in the air, the scent of cedar and warm skin that I’ve come to associate with a total loss of impulse control.
‘She’s a heavy sleeper,’ Gabe whispered, his voice right next to my ear.
He sat down behind me, his legs V-ing around mine, pulling my back against his chest. I let out a breath I’d been holding since lunch. His arms wrapped around my waist, his hands large and heavy, splaying across my stomach.
‘We shouldn't,’ I said, the words a hollow formality.
‘You’ve been saying that for six days, Elena. At this point, your dissent is just a matter of record. It has no bearing on the verdict.’
He leaned down, his mouth finding the sensitive spot behind my ear. He didn't kiss me; he just breathed there, his hot breath making the fine hairs on my neck stand up. I felt my body respond instantly, a treacherous ache blooming between my thighs.
‘She’s leaving tomorrow,’ he murmured, his teeth grazing my lobe. ‘And so are you.’
‘I have to. I have a 9:00 AM meeting in the city on Monday.’
‘Then we have tonight.’
He turned me around in his arms, his movements fluid and strong. He pushed me back onto the rug—the thick, cream-colored wool that felt like a cloud against my skin. He was over me in a second, his weight a welcome pressure, pinning me down.
He didn't go for my clothes first. He went for my mouth.
It was a goodbye kiss, but it didn't feel like an ending. It felt like a claim. It was deep, hungry, and desperate, the kind of kiss that leaves you lightheaded and aching. His tongue swept through my mouth, tasting of the Scotch we’d shared earlier, and I found myself pulling him closer, my hands tangling in his hair, my legs locking around his waist.
He reached down, his fingers finding the buttons of my silk pajama top. He undid them with a speed that spoke of practice—not with other women, but with *me*. He knew exactly how my body worked now. He knew the specific pressure I liked on my ribs, the way I liked my breasts held, the way my breath caught when he circled my nipples with his thumbs.
He peeled the silk back, the cool air of the room hitting my skin for only a fraction of a second before his mouth replaced it. He took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling in a tight, demanding circle. I arched my back, my fingers digging into his shoulders, a low moan vibrating in my throat.
‘Shh,’ he whispered against my skin. ‘We have to be quiet, Counselor.’
‘Then stop doing that,’ I gasped, my head falling back against the rug.
‘Stop doing what? This?’
He moved his hand lower, sliding it inside the waistband of my pajama pants. He didn't go for my clitoris immediately; he just palmed me, his heavy hand pressing against the mound of my heat. I was already soaked, the silk of my underwear a thin, useless barrier.
He slid two fingers inside me, a deep, slow intrusion that made my toes curl. He started a rhythm—a steady, relentless thrusting that mimicked the act itself. I bit my lip to keep from screaming. The silence of the cabin made everything louder—the wet sound of his fingers, the frantic thud of my heart, the rustle of our clothes.
‘You’re so tight,’ he groaned into my neck. ‘Every time, it’s like the first time.’
He pulled my pants down, dragging them over my hips and tossing them aside. He didn't wait to take off his own. He just unzipped his fly, his dick springing free—hard, heavy, and pulsing against my thigh.
He positioned himself at my entrance, the broad, blunt head of him rubbing against my slickness. I was begging for him, my hips bucking instinctively, my hands grasping at the rug for purchase.
‘Gabe, please,’ I whimpered.
‘Tell me what you want.’
‘You. Now.’
He entered me in one long, agonizingly slow push. I felt every inch of him, the way he stretched me, the way his body seemed to fit into mine with a terrifying perfection. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, his forehead resting against mine.
‘I’m going to miss this,’ he whispered. ‘I’m going to miss the way you look when you’re not thinking about a contract.’
‘Don't talk,’ I said, my voice breaking. ‘Just move.’
And he did. He started a slow, rhythmic grind, his hips swiveling, his cock hitting my G-spot with a precision that felt like a deliberate attack on my sanity. I closed my eyes, the world narrowing down to the point of contact between us. It was a friction that felt like fire, a heat that burned through the cold Galena night.
I reached my peak first, a violent, soul-shaking orgasm that left me gasping and clutching at his back. He didn't stop. He pushed harder, faster, his breath coming in ragged hitches, until he let out a low, guttural sound and spilled into me, his body shuddering with the force of it.
We lay there for a long time, the only light the dying embers of the fire.
‘What happens now?’ I asked, the words feeling heavy in the quiet room.
‘Now,’ he said, pulling the blanket over us, ‘we pretend we’re adults.’
‘I am an adult, Gabe.’
‘No,’ he said, kissing my temple. ‘You’re a lawyer. I’m going to show you how to be an adult.’
***
January 25th, 5:30 PM
Chicago.
The city is a grey, slushy mess. The skyscrapers look like jagged teeth against a leaden sky. My office is cold, the hum of the HVAC system a poor substitute for the crackle of a wood fire.
I’ve been back for eight hours. I’ve billed six of them. I’ve had four cups of bitter office coffee and I’ve spoken the word ‘fiduciary’ more times than I care to count.
I should be relieved. I should be back in my element, the ‘Incomparable Elena Henderson’ once again safely ensconced in her ivory tower.
But I can’t stop thinking about the way Gabe’s sweatpants hung off his hips.
I opened my briefcase ten minutes ago to find the final draft of the Miller merger. Tucked inside the folder was a small, torn piece of notebook paper.
*Clause 14.2: The parties agree that the events of January 10th-23rd are non-binding but highly persuasive. The Lead Counsel reserves the right to appeal for a second hearing in Chicago. P.S. I left my favorite pen in your laptop bag. You’ll have to return it to me. Coffee? Tuesday? 8:00 PM. Don't be late. I know how you feel about punctuality.*
I looked at the note. I looked at the grey skyline. I looked at the three hundred unread emails in my inbox.
I felt a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth—the first real one in forty-eight hours.
I am a thirty-one-year-old corporate lawyer from Illinois. I know about risk management. I know about liability. I know about the dangers of mixing business with pleasure, especially when the pleasure involves my best friend’s son.
But as I reached for my phone to text him back, I realized that some contracts are meant to be broken. And some mergers?
Some mergers are just the beginning of the deal.
***
February 3rd, 8:15 PM
The bar is called *The Violet Hour*. It’s dark, expensive, and smells like bitters and secrets—exactly the kind of place a woman in my position should avoid if she’s trying to maintain a shred of professional decorum.
I’m wearing a dress I bought on a whim at a boutique on Oak Street. It’s silk, the color of a bruised plum, and it clings to my curves in a way that is decidedly not ‘Auntie-friendly.’
I saw him the moment I walked in. He was sitting at a corner booth, a glass of Scotch in front of him. He looked different in the city. More polished. He was wearing a dark blazer over a white shirt, no tie, the top two buttons undone. He looked like the kind of man who would make a woman forget her own name—and then remind her of it in the most delicious way possible.
He stood up as I approached. He didn't say a word. He just reached out, took my hand, and pulled me into the booth next to him.
‘You’re late,’ he said, his voice a low vibration in the crowded room.
‘Traffic on the Kennedy,’ I lied. ‘It was a disaster.’
‘Is that the official story?’
‘That’s the only story you’re getting, Gabriel.’
He leaned in, his shoulder brushing mine. The heat was there instantly—that same, searing pull that had defined our time in Galena.
‘I missed you,’ he whispered.
‘It’s only been two weeks.’
‘It’s been fourteen days, three hours, and twelve minutes. Not that I’m keeping track. That would be unprofessional.’
I laughed, a real, genuine sound that felt like it was breaking through a layer of ice I hadn't even realized was there. I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the same hunger in his eyes that I felt in my bones.
‘I brought your pen,’ I said, reaching into my clutch and pulling out the silver fountain pen he’d ‘left’ in my bag.
He didn't take it. He just closed my hand around it, his fingers warm against mine.
‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘You’re going to need it to sign the next agreement.’
‘And what agreement is that?’
‘The one where we stop pretending this is just a blizzard-induced lapse in judgment.’
I looked at the pen. I looked at the man. I thought about Sarah, I thought about my career, I thought about the three-bedroom condo I own in Lincoln Park that has felt far too quiet lately.
‘I’m a lawyer, Gabe,’ I said softly. ‘I don't sign anything without reading the fine print.’
‘Then let’s go back to your place,’ he said, his voice dropping an octave. ‘I’ll let you do all the due diligence you want.’
I didn't hesitate. I didn't cite the conflict of interest. I didn't think about the billable hours I was sacrificing.
I just stood up, took his hand, and led him out into the Chicago night.
The snow was falling again—soft, white flakes that looked like lace against the dark pavement. It wasn't a blizzard. It wasn't an act of God. It was just a cold night in the city, and for the first time in my life, I wasn't cold at all.
As we hailed a cab, I felt Gabe’s hand slide into the small of my back, his thumb grazing the skin above my skirt. It was a familiar touch, a confident touch, the touch of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
I leaned into him, the scent of cedar and Scotch and Chicago winter filling my lungs.
‘So,’ I said as the cab pulled away from the curb. ‘About that due diligence.’
‘I’m ready when you are, Counselor.’
I smiled, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of gold and red.
The merger was finally, officially, closed. And the rest?
The rest was just business as usual.
