The days waiting for the commercial shoot gave Landon a rare stretch of empty time.
Rachel's film project was still in early pre-production, so she spent her days attending an advanced acting workshop to sharpen her craft.
Tracy headed to WMA every morning to handle the company's ever-growing workload.
More often than not, the vast villa was left to Landon alone during daylight—exactly how he liked it.
He made a deliberate trip to a professional music shop and carefully selected an acoustic guitar.
The wooden body felt warm and smooth, its tone clear and bright.
The musical project in his mind officially began.
He planned to use this lull to polish the debut single EP he'd been envisioning—starting by settling on the track itself and finishing its lyrics and composition first.
That noon, while frowning at a half-written verse, he felt his phone vibrate.
A text from Mia Kirshner, brutally brief: an address and a time.
"3 p.m. today—127 Ocean Avenue, Santa Monica, Unit 203."
Landon stared at the cryptic message, baffled.
The address was an upscale Beverly Hills-adjacent complex; the time was essentially now.
Since the wrap party last week, he hadn't heard a word from Mia.
Curiosity won. He glanced at the clock, changed clothes, and drove over.
Following the address, he found a sleek, modern apartment building near the Santa Monica waterfront. Unit 203's door was shut tight.
He hesitated, hand half-raised to knock, when the door yanked open from within.
A slim hand shot out, seized the front of his shirt, and hauled him inward.
Caught off balance, Landon stumbled across the threshold.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Dim, hazy light filtered through the room; a sweet, cloying perfume hung in the air.
Once his eyes adjusted, Landon saw Mia standing before him.
Chestnut hair spilled over her bare shoulders; she wore a full-body black leather catsuit.
Strategic cut-outs exposed skin, creating a visual punch that hit like a fist.
Frameless black spectacles perched on her nose.
Mia tilted her chin, gaze slanted in disdain, a mocking curve to her lips—pure provocation.
Who could stand for that?
Landon didn't.
His throat tightened; he stepped in, arms snapping shut around the leather-clad, impossibly inviting figure.
He crushed his mouth to hers—dark-red lipstick parted in surprise.
"Mm…" She approved of his direct assault, struggled briefly, then kissed back fiercely; whatever she'd been holding tumbled to the thick carpet.
They tangled, staggered, and toppled onto the wide, yielding bed.
Landon showed avid curiosity for every engineered gap in that catsuit.
Cool leather contrasted with warm softness.
Yet it was the uncharted curves, not the leather, that truly fascinated him.
Wherever his fingertips roamed, Mia shivered uncontrollably.
"C'mon, baby, that all you got?" she taunted between ragged breaths, trying to claw back control.
Landon answered with stronger "suppression" and "lessons."
He meant to discipline the wild kitten who dared provoke him.
Soon her bravado crumbled into broken moans and incoherent pleas.
"Oh—God… Landon… no—yes—just like that…" Words tangled; her nails raked furrows down his back.
He bore the scratches
while soothing and guiding Mia.
Together they rode the storm to its eye.
When the tempest passed, Mia lay limp across rumpled velvet, too spent to lift a finger, chest heaving.
In the dimness, damp hair clung to her flushed cheeks; the empty frames of her glasses had long since vanished.
After a long while she gathered enough strength
to roll onto her side and trace idle circles on his chest. "Next up… I'll be swamped. Promotion for American Psycho starts—press junkets, interviews, festivals…"
She paused, blue eyes holding something unreadable. "Who knows when we'll manage this again."
Seeing her stripped of every defense, Landon almost asked to stay the night.
But Mia, ever pragmatic, knew the boundaries of what they were.
She nudged him weakly. "You should go. It's late."
Her consideration felt like tenderness itself.
Landon didn't argue; he rose and dressed.
Mia watched from the headboard, wrapped in a thin velvet sheet.
Just as he turned to leave, she flung the sheet aside, sprang barefoot across the room, looped her arms round his neck, and delivered a long, lingering kiss goodbye.
It stretched, silent, pouring every unspoken thing into that single touch.
"Take care, Landon." She released him, closed the door softly.
Outside, he drew a lungful of cool ocean air before driving back to the villa.
The house was still empty; neither Tracy nor Rachel had returned.
He went straight to the bathroom, turned the shower on full, and let hot water sluice over him.
He scrubbed away every trace of perfume, every faint souvenir of their hours together.
Water off, body dried, fresh loungewear on—he emerged wearing his usual calm like a second skin.