The door clicked shut.
Darkness, but not total. A sliver of streetlight bled through the blinds, catching the edge of Lisa's jaw, the curve of her shoulder, the way her chest rose and fell like she'd been holding her breath too long.
She didn't let go of his hand.
"You okay?" he asked.
"That's my line."
He almost smiled. Almost.
She stepped back—not away, just enough to look at him. Her eyes traced his face, his shoulders, the line of his jaw. She lingered there, watching the way the light caught his features, like she was trying to memorize him.
She reached up, her fingers brushing his collar, his shoulder, the edge of his jaw.
"Tell me if I'm reading this wrong," she whispered.
"You're not."
"Good."
She kissed him. Not the couch kiss—rushed, interrupted, full of Momo's barking and her laughter. This one was slower. Deliberate. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer without rushing. Her lips parted, just enough, and he felt her breath—warm, unsteady—against his mouth.
The system didn't speak. The voice was quiet.
His hand found her waist. She made a sound—soft, surprised—and pressed into him, her back against the door.
"Lisa—"
"I know," she said. "I don't care."
She kissed him again, harder, her teeth grazing his lower lip. Her hands slid under his shirt, fingertips tracing his stomach, his ribs, the defined lines of muscle that hadn't been there a few weeks ago.
"God," she murmured against his mouth. "You feel sculpted."
"Liquid courage?" he asked.
She laughed—low, warm. "Maybe. Or maybe I've been wanting to do this since the first time you crashed on my couch."
Her fingers found the zipper of his jacket. She pulled it down, pushed the fabric off his shoulders. He shrugged out of it, letting it fall to the floor behind him.
She pulled his shirt over his head. It joined the jacket somewhere in the dark.
---
Her hands moved to the hem of her own shirt. She pulled it off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. Her bra followed a moment later—fingers working the clasp, straps sliding down her shoulders, fabric falling away.
She pressed her bare chest against his. Skin to skin. Warm.
Dorian's hands found her waist. She was soft, real.
"I don't usually do this," she whispered.
He didn't ask what "this" meant. He didn't need to.
"Your turn," she said.
She reached for his belt. The buckle clinked. She pulled it free, then worked the button of his jeans, the zipper. He stepped out of them as they fell.
She tugged at her own waistband. Jeans undone, unzipped, sliding down her legs. She stepped out of them, taking her underwear with her. She kicked everything away.
They stood there, nothing between them but heat and the faint streetlight.
She pulled him toward the bed.
---
He walked backward, letting her lead. His calves hit the edge of the mattress. He sat. She pushed him down, and he fell back onto the sheets, his legs hanging off the side.
She climbed onto him, straddling his hips, her hands flat on his chest.
He looked up at her. The freckles across her nose. The flush in her cheeks. The way her hair fell forward, brushing his skin.
"Good," she said.
---
She reached down. Froze.
Her eyes widened.
"You've got to be kidding me."
He didn't answer. He watched her take it in—the surprise, the swallow, the slow smile.
"That's not…" She looked at him. "How?"
"Lucky, I guess."
She laughed—shaky, genuine. "Liquid courage isn't going to be enough for this."
He almost smiled. "Take your time."
She took a breath. Then another. Then she laughed—nervous, breathless—and shook her head.
"Okay. Okay. I can work with this."
---
She shifted lower. Her hands found him. She explored with her fingers first, slow, deliberate, learning the shape of him. She looked up at him, waiting, then slowly lowered her head.
She used her tongue, her lips, the back of her throat. She didn't rush. She pushed herself further than she probably intended, her eyes watering, her pulse hammering. Through it all, she didn't stop.
"Is this okay?" she murmured against his skin.
He couldn't form words. He nodded.
She kept going, using both hands where her mouth couldn't reach, finding a rhythm that made his hips buck.
"Still good?" she asked.
"Yes." Hoarse. Barely audible.
She smiled.
---
She straddled him again, positioned herself, and lowered onto him slowly. Her breath hitched. Her fingers dug into his chest.
"Jesus," she whispered.
He gripped her hips, thumbs pressing into her skin. She set the pace. Slow at first, then faster. Her head fell back, throat exposed, and she made sounds he'd never heard from her before—low, throaty, unguarded.
She rode him like she was chasing something. He held on.
The bedframe creaked. Their breathing filled the room.
"I'm close," she gasped.
The quiet between them stretched for a beat. Just their hearts. Just the weight of the moment.
Then she caught her breath and started again, her thighs trembling, her teeth digging into her lower lip.
"Flip us," she breathed.
---
He rolled them over. She was beneath him now, her legs hooked around his waist, her hands gripping his shoulders.
"Like this?" he asked.
"Like this."
He moved faster. Harder. She arched her back, her fingers digging into his skin. She gasped his name—not loud, just breathless, almost surprised.
Behind them, outside the bedroom door, Momo started barking.
The dog's paws scratched against the wood, frantic, insistent. A whine followed, then more scratching. Lisa laughed breathlessly against his shoulder.
"She's fine," she whispered. "Don't stop."
He didn't. He watched her face—the way she let go, the way she trusted him.
It should have meant more.
The system interface flickered – just for an instant – then died.
It didn't.
She shattered around him, her body trembling, her voice a muffled cry against his neck. He followed a heartbeat later, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, his hands gripping her hips.
The room went quiet except for their breathing and Momo's continued scratching.
Lisa turned her head, kissed his jaw. "Worth it," she murmured.
He pulled her closer.
She traced his jaw with her fingertips. "Don't disappear on me now."
He didn't answer. He just held her tighter.
---
Later—minutes or hours, he couldn't tell—they lay tangled in the sheets. Her head was on his chest. His arm was around her waist.
She traced circles on his stomach with her finger.
"You really have been working out," she said.
"Something like that."
She laughed—soft, sleepy. "You're impossible."
He kissed the top of her head.
Outside the door, Momo had finally quieted. A soft whimper, then silence.
Outside the window, the city hummed.
The system interface blinked once—faint, barely visible—then went dark.
LEVEL 5 – ACTIVE
PASSIVE SKILL: EMOTION LEAK
DEBT: HALTED
Dorian closed his eyes.
He wasn't sure he felt anything.
But he held on anyway.
Then his phone buzzed.
He didn't check it. He already knew.
Unknown: "Felt that."
He opened his eyes.
The room was still dark.
But it didn't feel empty anymore.
---
[END OF CHAPTER 40]