33. Charlotte

33

CHARLOTTE

I was only supposed to be in New York for a few weeks. That’s what I told myself. Just a short stay to tie up some things, get a bit of work done. A brief detour. But here I am, three months later, settled into a routine I never saw coming. A job here, a kill list there, my regular work, and the flight attending—it’s kept me busier than expected. It’s hard to believe how quickly time passes when you’re constantly moving. What started as a few weeks has turned into months. I’ve made my peace with it, though. The city doesn’t give you a chance to do anything else.

But if I’m honest with myself, it’s not just the work that’s kept me here. It’s Sophie. It’s always been Sophie. I never expected to worry this much, never thought I’d be this attached. But that’s not even the main reason. Here, in the noise of New York, I can almost forget about everything else.

This city makes Texas feels like a distant memory. Back home, the silence creeps in at night, and I’m forced to hear my own thoughts. There, it’s just me and the ghost of Michael, spare parts tossed around, reminders of what we had, of what we once were, and I can’t even think about that right now. I don’t want to go back to that life. Not yet. Not with the holidays upon us.

Here, in the chaos, I’m never really alone. The city moves around me, and it’s almost as though it’s keeping me from remembering all the things I try so hard to forget.

I’ve gotten used to Hayley’s presence—too used to it, in fact. It’s easier having her here than it would be back home, and I don’t mind having her around as much as I thought I would. But there’s something else, something I hadn’t expected.

My neighbor down the hall. The chemistry between us. He’s charming, funny, and confident, and I’ve found myself thinking about him more than I’d care to admit. I told myself it was just a passing distraction. But when he asked to meet up tonight, I didn’t say no.

So here I am, in a hotel room, waiting for him. The clock on the nightstand ticks slowly, but every second feels heavy, charged. A quiet tension that prickles at my skin. When the knock comes, I almost jump, startled by the sudden sound. I hesitate for only a moment before I open the door. He stands there, looking exactly like I remember—tall, confident, dangerous in that casual way that makes my pulse quicken.

“Hey,” he says, his smile full of mystery. “Nice place.”

I keep my voice steady, even as my heart races. “Sorry about the hotel. My daughter lives at home, and I like to keep things separate.”

He tilts his head, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “We could’ve just gone to my place.”

I close the door behind him, my gaze lingering on his lips as he steps inside. “I like things clean.”

His lips twitch into a slow smile. “You might be the strangest woman I’ve ever met.”

I shrug. “I get that a lot.”

He looks like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it. The air is thick with something unspoken, something hot and dangerous. I can feel the weight of his stare, and it sends a flicker of anticipation through me, sharp as a knife. For a moment, it’s like the world outside has disappeared. It’s just the two of us—magnetic, raw, no false pretenses. No promise of this being anything more than what it is.

I tell him exactly that.

“Anything more than what?” he says. “Neighbors?”

“Neighbors who fuck.”

He quirks a brow. “Sounds messy.”

“Whatever. I’ll move.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

Before I know it, his hands are on me, fingers digging into my skin, possessive and unyielding. He slams me against the wall, his chest pressing into mine, and his lips crash onto mine—rough, urgent. I let him take the lead, the heat of it pulling me in. It’s not gentle, it’s raw—an insistent demand I didn’t know I wanted.

His hands roam with urgency, every touch sharp, and I respond in kind, matching his need. There’s no thought, only fire and instinct. He doesn’t ask for anything—he just takes—and I fucking love it. His lips leave mine, and I feel his teeth graze my neck before they press in, sharp and deliberate. The bite is intense, possessive, and I move into it, welcoming the sting.

He is everywhere—gripping, pulling, forcing me into him—and I let it happen. Every motion is faster, harder, as if he’s trying to burn through me.

I really don’t mind.

I sink into the rhythm, feeling his breath quicken, his chest pressing harder against mine. He moves with purpose, each push building the heat between us. It’s urgent, intense. It’s exactly what I need.

I close my eyes, let go.

His body slams into mine, the force driving me back against the wall. Time must surely pass, but who’s keeping track? The tension rises, unbearable, and I feel myself tighten around it, the pressure building. I let it consume me, riding the wave as it crashes over me.

The release comes, sharp, overwhelming—a storm that shatters and reassembles me.

But he doesn’t stop. His body keeps moving, relentless, pulling me deeper into it. I’m caught in the current, unable to break free. And why would I ever want to? If drowning feels this good, so be it.

We move from the wall, to the desk, to the bed, not that I’m keeping track. I couldn’t even tell you what day it is if I was asked.

When it’s over, the world snaps back, but the buzz still rings in my ears. He pulls back, his face flushed, but there’s no softness in his eyes. He’s still a stranger.

For a moment, I stare at him, something strange and satisfying stirring in my chest. I don’t know why, but I feel…nothing. Better, I feel at peace. For once, it’s not about filling the space; it’s about emptying myself out. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this.

But then I do.

I always do.

Neither of us speaks, which is really for the best. He knows. The way he watches me, like he’s studying me, measuring something in my eyes. I want to look away, but I don’t. It’s a dangerous game, and I’m playing it willingly.

But I’m not stupid. I didn’t come here to get lost in whatever this is. I came here for one thing and one thing only. And I got it.

I push the thoughts of seeing him again, at least in this context, to the back of my mind, focusing on the moment. Just the moment. It’s obvious this can’t happen again.

After a few beats of uneasy silence, he looks toward the bathroom. “I’m gonna jump in the shower. Join me.”

I can’t help but smile. It’s not a question. “I’m good.”

He disappears into the bathroom, the sound of the water turning on almost immediately. For a second, the room feels emptier, quieter. And then I feel the stir of something that’s been there all along—an itch I need to scratch.

I’ve got work to do, and I can’t afford to waste time.

I move quickly, slipping off the bed without making a sound. I dress and then grab my purse from the dresser and start toward the door, fingers brushing over the cool handle. I pause, just for a moment, to listen. The sound of water running. The faintest echoes of him shifting inside the bathroom.

I don’t feel guilty. Not even a little bit. I don’t owe him an explanation. I don’t owe anyone anything.

Without a second glance, I step into the hallway, closing the door softly behind me. No goodbyes. No apologies. Just a quiet exit.

The elevator’s too slow. I consider the stairs, but eventually, the doors open, and I step in. When I exit the lobby, a sense of freedom floods through me. The air outside is cool and crisp. I stand there, feeling what, I don’t know. Content, I think? And I wonder if I’ll ever feel that again. Maybe I don’t need to.

Maybe this is all I’ll ever want.