The steak was cooked to a perfect medium-rare, the wine was an expensive Cabernet he wouldn’t shut up about, and the man across the table was so mind-numbingly dull that Addison was contemplating faking a seizure just to create some excitement. His name was Mark. He was a partner at another firm, specializing in something so tedious involving land deeds and mineral rights that her brain had started to actively reject the information ten minutes ago.

“...and the beauty of the LLC,” he was saying, gesturing with a fork that held a single, sad-looking asparagus spear, “is the liability shield. It’s elegant, really. Airtight.”

Addison took a slow sip of her wine, letting the alcohol burn a path down her throat. She’d put on the black dress for this. The one that was simple but devastating, clinging to her hips and showing off the curve of her calves. She’d spent an hour on her hair and makeup. For this. For a lecture on corporate structures.

She looked at Mark. He had nice teeth, she supposed. And his suit was definitely expensive. But his eyes were completely vacant, like he was reciting a script he’d performed a hundred times. She wondered if he was even looking at her, or just at a vaguely woman-shaped space where he could project his monologue about tort reform. Her skin felt tight, not with excitement, but with a desperate need to escape. Under the table, her knee bounced with a frantic energy.

Kurt would be eviscerating this guy, she thought, and the idea was so potent it was almost a physical presence at the table. He’d have a nickname for him by now. Mr. Liability Shield. Captain Airtight. He’d be texting her ruthless commentary under the table, making her bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud. The thought made the chasm of her boredom feel even wider and deeper. The man in front of her was a black-and-white photograph. Kurt was a high-definition, surround-sound movie.

“Are you okay?” Mark asked, his brow furrowing in what was probably meant to be concern. “You seem a little… distracted.”

“Just a headache coming on,” she lied, pressing her fingers to her temple for effect. It wasn’t even a complete lie. The sheer tedium was giving her one. “I think the barometric pressure is shifting.”

He nodded sagely. “Happens to my mother. She can always tell when a front is moving in.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“You know what,” Addison said, placing her napkin on the table with an air of finality. “I’m so sorry, but this is turning into a real migraine. I think I need to call it a night before it gets worse.”

Relief, pure and simple, flickered across his face before he could mask it with disappointment. He was as bored as she was. The realization wasn’t insulting; it was just pathetic. They were two people going through the motions, ticking a box on the adult checklist: Attempted to find a suitable partner. Failed.

He insisted on walking her to her car after a brief, awkward dance over who would pay the bill (he did, with a self-satisfied flourish). The night air was thick and humid, clinging to her skin. The valet brought her Lexus around, and Mark placed a clammy hand on the small of her back. She had to actively fight the urge to flinch away.

“I’ll call you,” he said, leaning in. For one horrifying second, she thought he was going to try and kiss her. She took a half-step back, using the opening of her car door as a shield.

“You do that,” she said, her smile feeling brittle enough to crack.

She slid into the driver’s seat, the leather cool against her thighs, and shut the door on his bland, hopeful face. She didn’t start the car. She just sat there in the silence of the parking garage, the scent of expensive steak and cheap cologne clinging to her. Her body hummed with a frustrated, restless energy. All that effort, all that anticipation for a night out, and for what? To feel more alone than when she’d been at home working.

Her hand moved on its own, grabbing her phone from her purse. Her thumb found Kurt’s contact before her brain even caught up. It was late in New York, after eleven, but she didn’t care. The pretense she’d used on Mark—a headache—was gone. The pretense she needed for Kurt was ready. I need a laugh. But it was more than that. She needed to wash the taste of this night out of her mouth. She needed to hear his voice. She needed to feel like herself again.

She pressed the call button and lifted the phone to her ear, the ringing tone a frantic pulse against her skin. One ring. Two.

“Addy?” His voice was thick with sleep, low and rough. The sound of it hit her directly in the stomach, a jolt of pure relief.

“Oh, thank god,” she breathed out, leaning her head back against the headrest. “You will not believe the date I just escaped from.”

A low chuckle rumbled through the phone line. “Let me guess. He talked about his portfolio.”

“Worse,” she said, the words spilling out in a rush. “He gave me a ten-minute lecture on the elegance of the liability shield provided by an LLC. He called it ‘airtight.’ I was wearing the black dress, Kurt. The one with the low back. For a guy who probably fucks his tax returns.”

Kurt’s laugh was exactly what she needed—sharp and genuine. “Jesus. Captain Airtight strikes again. Did he gesture with his fork while explaining the nuances of tort reform?”

“Like he was conducting a fucking symphony of boredom. And he compared my migraine to his mother’s ability to predict the weather.”

“No,” Kurt groaned, and she could picture him perfectly, running a hand over his face, his eyes squeezed shut in secondhand agony. “Addy, I’m so sorry. You should have invoked your emergency extraction protocol. I would have called you with a fake political crisis.”

“I thought about it,” she admitted, a real smile finally touching her lips. The tension in her shoulders eased, the memory of Mark’s clammy hand and vacant eyes already fading, replaced by the warm, familiar cadence of Kurt’s voice. “But I handled it. I faked a headache and ran.”

“My hero,” he said, his voice still laced with amusement. The laughter slowly subsided, leaving a more intimate quiet in its place. The engine of a car starting somewhere in the parking garage was the only other sound.

“Why’d you even go?” Kurt asked, his tone shifting from playful to serious. The question was soft, but it landed with precision.

Addison sighed, the sound heavy with the truth she hadn’t wanted to admit even to herself. “Because I’m tired of my apartment being so quiet, I guess. I’m tired of… this. The whole thing. Working all day, coming home, eating alone, going to sleep. Repeat. I just wanted to feel something different for a night.”

The silence on his end stretched, and she knew he understood. He wasn't going to offer a platitude or a simple fix. He was going to meet her in it.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice a low murmur that seemed to travel straight down her spine. “I get that. My place is so empty it fucking echoes.”

“I just… I get so lonely sometimes, Kurt,” she confessed, the words quiet and raw in the confines of her car. “It’s this physical thing. An ache.”

“I know,” he said, and the simple affirmation was everything. “I know the feeling. You go out and you try, you put on the suit or the dress, and you sit there across from someone and you realize you’ve never felt more alone in your entire life.”

“Exactly,” she whispered. Her hand tightened on the steering wheel. “I spent an hour getting ready. I actually felt… hot. For what? For a lecture on corporate law and a pitying look when I said I had a headache.” She let out a humorless laugh. “God, I just wanted to get laid. Is that so pathetic?”

“Not pathetic at all,” he said, his voice dropping even lower, losing its sleepy rasp and taking on a darker texture. “It’s human.” A beat of silence. “It’s been a while for me, too.”

“How long?” she found herself asking, the question slipping out before she could stop it. They’d never talked like this. Never this directly.

He was quiet for a second. “Long enough that I don’t really remember what it’s like to touch someone who isn’t me,” he admitted, his honesty a punch to her gut. “Long enough that the idea of just having a woman’s skin under my hands feels like a fucking fantasy.”

The air in her car suddenly felt thick, charged with the unspoken things hanging between them. The sterile leather of her driver’s seat, the faint scent of Mark’s cologne, it all vanished. There was only Kurt’s voice, a low thrum of frustration and need that mirrored her own so perfectly it hurt.

“I know,” she breathed, her own frustration a coiled knot in her stomach. “I’m so fucking tired of my vibrator, Kurt. It does the job, but it’s just… noise and plastic. There’s no heat. No weight of someone else on top of you. I just want to be touched by another person. I want to be pinned down and fucked until I can’t think anymore.”

The admission hung in the air, stark and explicit. She heard him take a sharp breath on the other end of the line, a small, involuntary sound of intake that did something visceral to her insides, making the ache between her legs pulse with a sudden, shocking intensity.

His voice, when it finally came, was completely different. The last remnants of sleep and friendly concern were gone, stripped away and replaced by something guttural and low, a dark velvet texture that slid directly from the phone into the base of her skull.

“Fuck, Addy,” he breathed. It wasn't a curse; it was a prayer. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

“I mean it,” she whispered, her own voice shaky. Her nipples were tight points against the silk lining of her dress, the friction suddenly unbearable. “I’m so tired of pretending I don’t.”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the charge of a decade of unspoken things. She could hear the faint sound of him shifting, the rustle of sheets, maybe. He was in his bed. The image flashed in her mind—Kurt, bare-chested under a single sheet, his phone pressed to his ear, his body reacting to her words. The thought alone made a fresh wave of heat wash through her, pooling low in her belly.

“Addison,” he said, and the use of her full name was a shock to her system. He rarely used it. It sounded formal and yet intensely intimate on his lips. “What are you wearing right now? You said the black dress.”

Her breath caught in her throat. This was it. The line. They were standing on opposite sides of it, and he was holding out a hand, asking her to cross. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm. This was Kurt. Her best friend. Her anchor. And he was about to become something else entirely. Something dangerous.

“Yes,” she managed to say, her voice barely audible. “The black one.”

“The one with the low back?” he pressed, his voice a possessive murmur. “Describe it to me.”

She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the leather headrest. The parking garage around her faded away. There was only the darkness behind her eyelids and his voice. “It’s… it’s crepe,” she said, her fingers tracing the neckline. “It’s sleeveless. The straps are thin. It scoops low in the front, but the back… the back is almost entirely open. Down to my waist.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, a low, rough sound of appreciation. “I can see it. Is that all you have on?”

“Pantyhose,” she admitted, feeling a blush creep up her neck. “And a black thong underneath.”

“Take the pantyhose off,” he commanded. The words weren't a suggestion. They were a raw, quiet order.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the hem of her dress. The car was a small, private bubble of darkness. No one could see her. There was only Kurt, thousands of miles away, his voice a tangible presence in the small space. She hiked the dress up to her hips, the cool air of the car’s AC hitting her bare thighs. With fumbling movements, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the hose and peeled them down her legs, kicking off her heels to pull them free. The rustle of the nylon was deafeningly loud in the quiet.

“They’re off,” she breathed, her skin prickling with goosebumps. She was sitting in her car in an underground parking garage, half-undressed, with her best friend on the phone. A giddy, terrified thrill shot through her.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and the praise sent a jolt straight between her legs. “Now, tell me what you’d rather be doing. Not sitting in that car. Tell me what you want, Addy. Right now. If I was there with you.”

“I’d be at home,” she whispered, her imagination taking over. “I’d have poured a glass of whiskey. I’d be standing in my living room, waiting for you.”

“And I’d walk in,” he picked up, his voice thick with a fantasy that was clearly already playing in his own head. “I wouldn’t even say hello. I’d walk right up to you, put my hands on your waist, and turn you around so your back was to me. I’d run my fingers right down the edge of that dress, tracing your spine. All that bare skin.”

She moaned, a soft, involuntary sound. Her hips shifted in the driver’s seat, a restless ache building in her core. Her clit was already swelling, a hard, needy pulse against the thin silk of her thong.

“I’d lean in and kiss the nape of your neck,” he continued, his voice a hypnotic rumble. “Right below your hairline. Then I’d slide those thin straps off your shoulders, one at a time, and let the top of that dress fall to your waist. I’d cup your tits from behind, feel how hard your nipples are for me through the fabric of your bra… but you’re not wearing one, are you, Addy?”

“No,” she breathed, the word a ghost of a sound. “No bra.”

A low, animalistic growl rumbled through the phone, vibrating deep inside her chest. “I knew it. I’d squeeze them, roll your nipples between my fingers until you were arching back into my cock. You’d feel how hard I am for you, pressing right into the small of your back.”

Her eyes squeezed shut tighter. She could almost feel it—the heat of his body, the pressure of his erection against her. A pathetic little whimper escaped her lips.

“I want you to touch yourself for me, Addy,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a raw, conspiratorial whisper. “Slide your hand down. Go on. Under your thong.”

Her hand, which had been resting on her thigh, trembled as she moved it lower. The fabric of her dress was bunched at her hips. She slipped her fingers beneath the thin strip of her thong, her own heat and wetness a shock against her cold skin. Her fingers slid right into the slick folds.

“Kurt,” she gasped, her hips bucking in the seat. “I’m so wet.”

“I know you are. I can hear it in your voice,” he said, his own breathing growing harsh. “I want to taste it. My cock is so fucking hard for you right now, Addison. I’m holding it in my hand, stroking it while I listen to you. It’s dripping, just thinking about being inside you.”

The image was so vivid, so brutally hot, it stole the air from her lungs. Kurt, in his bed, his hand wrapped around his cock, for her.

“Put two fingers inside yourself,” he instructed, his voice thick and demanding. “Feel how wet you are for me. Feel how tight you’d be.”

She obeyed without thinking, pushing two fingers into her slick heat. Her own muscles clenched around them, and she cried out, a sharp, needy sound. “Oh, God.”

“That’s it,” he praised, his voice a rough caress. “Now, with your thumb… find your clit. I want you to rub it. Fast. While you fuck yourself with your fingers.”

She did, her thumb circling the hard nub, sending lightning bolts of pleasure straight to her core. Her head fell back against the headrest, her mouth falling open as she panted. The sounds she was making were shameless, animal.

“Tell me you want me to fuck you,” he grunted, the sound of his own pace quickening on his end. “Tell me you want me to stretch you open and pound into you until you can’t see straight.”

“I want you to fuck me,” she sobbed, the words torn from her throat. Her hips pumped against her own hand in a frantic rhythm, chasing the feeling that was building, coiling tighter and tighter in her belly. “Kurt, please, I want you to fuck me so hard.”

“I’d pin you down on your bed, pull your legs up to your shoulders, and slide right into you,” he growled, his voice a torrent of filth and promise. “I’d fuck you deep. I’d watch your face while I made you come, then I’d flip you over and take you from behind, pulling your hair, sinking my teeth into your shoulder…”

It was too much. The dirty words, the sound of his voice, the feel of her own fingers inside her slick cunt—it all converged into a single, blinding point of light behind her eyes.

“I’m going to come,” she gasped, her whole body tensing. “Kurt, I’m so close.”

“Come for me, Addy,” he commanded, his voice breaking. “Let me hear you fall apart. Fucking scream for me.”

And she did. Her back arched off the driver’s seat as the orgasm ripped through her, a violent, shuddering wave that made her cry out his name. She felt the hot gush of her release spill over her fingers, her entire body convulsing as she came, and came, and came. Through the haze of her own climax, she heard a final, ragged groan from his end, a guttural sound of release that was unequivocally his.

The aftermath was a deafening silence, broken only by her own ragged, sobbing breaths. Her body slumped in the seat, trembling and boneless. Her fingers were sticky, her thighs damp. The phone was still pressed to her ear, a conduit to the man who had just dismantled her world from a thousand miles away.

“Addy?” His voice was a wrecked whisper.

She couldn’t form words. A shaky, wet breath was all she could manage. A click sounded in her ear, and the line went dead. She was alone in the quiet, cavernous dark of the parking garage, every line they had ever drawn between them not just blurred, but utterly annihilated.