AUDEN WOKE to light streaming through tall windows, the kind of golden morning brightness that spoke of expensive real estate and rooms designed to capture every advantage. For a moment, she lay still, taking inventory of her body, her surroundings, her state of mind.

She was naked beneath crisp white sheets, the fabric caught between her legs. Conner lay beside her, one arm flung above his head, his breathing deep and even in sleep. His hair was tousled, falling across his forehead in a way less composed than the man who had charmed his way through virtually every scenario.

She rolled over, studying the room properly for the first time. The ceiling was high and ornate, with delicate plasterwork that spoke of the house's original origins. A massive wardrobe dominated one wall, its dark wood gleaming with the patina of age and care. The windows were dressed in heavy curtains that had been pulled back to reveal the morning, and she could see the edge of dying trees and a clear blue sky.

The strangest thing was how good she felt. Not guilty, not anxious, not torn between competing loyalties. Just... present. Awake in her own skin in a way she hadn't been in months.

Conner stirred just then, and she found herself grinning as she shifted, throwing her leg over his waist to straddle him. The movement was bold, playful even.

"Mmm," he murmured, eyes still closed but his hands finding her hips, his fingers half-committed to holding her.

Auden giggled, shimming her weight against him as she leaned down to press her lips to his forehead, then his temple, then the spot where his neck met his shoulder. His skin was warm and tasted faintly of salt.

"Good morning," she whispered against his throat.

His eyes opened then, dark and immediately alert. When he saw her above him, naked and smiling, his face broke into the kind of grin that probably got him into trouble in his younger years.

"It certainly is," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and want. Auden pressed her lower body into him with more pressure, hips bucking forward.

It took no time at all to feel the heat and swell of his desire between her legs, caught against the thin cover of the sheets. Conner's hands traveled up her sides, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts, mapping her with the focused attention of a man who had decided to savor his good fortune.

"Did you sleep well?" he whispered, bottom lip snagging against his front teeth.

"Quite well," Auden sighed, letting her hips rock into him lazily. She watched his cheeks flush, his eyelids dropping low across his pupils as they dilated, swallowing the brown coloring whole. "You?"

"I slept like a baby," his voice was tighter now, hitched high into his throat as he suppressed a moan. Auden felt his right hand grip the back of her neck, the sensation sending a flood of goosebumps down her spine. When he pulled her down to kiss her, it was with the lazy intensity of someone who had nowhere else to be.

They fucked slowly — hindered by lingering sleep. The urgency of the night before had vanished, because now, there was nowhere else Auden wanted to be. No where else she needed to be.

Rather, she lost herself in the rhythm of it. She loved the way his chest hair felt against her palms as she balanced herself, the faint thump of his rapid pulse against her finger tips. She drank in the way he watched her face as she loomed over him, in the soft sounds he made when she moved just right. Auden tested him now and again, slowing when she knew he was close and savoring every moment he grew flustered, begging her to keep going.

There was something liberating about being wanted this openly — this simple, unrestrained bubble of pleasure that existed without the complex emotional negotiations that had characterized her marriage for so long. Auden had only tasted it, and still she couldn't get enough.

Afterward, when both were satisfied, she lay sprawled across his chest, both of them breathing hard, her hair a curtain across his shoulder.

"I should shower," she exhaled, though she made no move to get up.

"Be my guest," he murmured, his hand trailing lazy patterns across her left shoulder, "En suite is the second door in the corner."

Auden tilted her head up to look at him. His eyes were closed, his forehead shining with perspiration, yet he looked totally at ease.

"Do you want to join me?"

Conner's eyes opened slowly, and she caught the flash of heat in them before he schooled his expression into something playfully regretful. "Now that," he said, his thumb brushing along her collarbone, "is a very tempting offer." He pressed a soft kiss to her temple. "But I was planning to be at least somewhat of a gentleman and make you coffee."

Auden clucked her tongue, "That's no fun at all."

His hand squeezed her shoulder gently. "I tend to believe," he added with a roguish grin, "that anticipation makes everything better."

"Speak for yourself," Auden replied, trailing a finger down his chest. "I'm not known for my patience."

"No?" His eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. "And here I thought you were the picture of restraint." The teasing glint in his eyes suggested he remembered exactly how impatient she'd been the night before, with his head between her thighs.

She laughed, swatting his chest lightly. "You're terrible."

He caught her hand before she could pull it away, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles. "And you love it."

With a roll of her eyes, she sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She glanced back at him, chin grazing her shoulder. "Maybe a little bit."

"A little?" He looked genuinely discouraged. "Auden, you wound me. After everything I've done for you this morning?"

"What exactly have you done for me this morning?" she challenged, a coy smile playing at her lips as she stood. "Because if I remember correctly, I did most of the work."

His grin turned positively wicked, his gaze tracking her as she crossed the room, and towards the en-suite. "I always return the favor." His eyes darkened with promise. "Consider the coffee a down payment."

Her laughter echoed as she left the room. And just as Auden anticipated, the bathroom was ridiculous – easily the size of her and Cillian's bedroom, with a clawfoot tub that could have accommodated a small party and a shower enclosure made of frosted glass and gleaming chrome. The fixtures gleamed, all silver and class, not a water stain or sheen of soap scum in sight.

But for all its luxury, it was strangely sparse. A single bar of soap sat in the shower caddy, along with one bottle of shampoo. It was the kind one might find at any drug store, nothing fancy. No conditioner, no body wash, none of the bottles and potions that typically cluttered a bathroom belonging to someone so carefully put together.

Auden stood under the rainfall showerhead, letting the hot water wash away the night's activities. The man was a contradiction – old money comfort with bachelor-basic amenities, political sophistication with surprising directness about what he wanted.

When she emerged, she wrapped herself in the white terry robe hanging on the back of the door. It was enormous on her, the sleeves falling past her hands, the hem hanging around her feet.

In the mirror, she raked her fingers through her hair. Auburn waves fell in damp tendrils past her shoulders, darker now with water, catching the morning light that filtered through the frosted window. Her face stared back with an expression she barely recognized.

This woman was glowing.

Her skin held a flush that had nothing to do with the shower's heat and everything to do with the way Connor had worshipped her body just an hour before. Her cheeks were full and pink, glowing with the kind of radiance that came from being wanted completely, without reservation. Her lips were swollen and wine-dark from his kisses, slightly parted as if she were still breathing his name.

The evidence of their passion marked across her skin. A small bruise bloomed at the curve of her neck where he had lost himself in her pulse, and another at her hip bone where his fingers had gripped her as she moved above him. They were beautiful violations, each one a testament to her power – the power to drive him wild, to make him lose control, to be the object of someone's desperate hunger.

She let the robe slip from one shoulder, watching the terry cloth catch and pool at her elbow. The woman in the mirror was soft in all the places that mattered, curved and lush and completely, unapologetically feminine. Her body told the story of her womanhood – motherhood, yes, but also desire incarnate. Every line spoke of pleasure given and received, of skin that knew how to respond to touch, of a woman who had remembered what it meant to be consumed by want and nothing more.

She turned slightly, admiring the line of her spine, the way the morning light caught the baby hair at her nape. There was something intoxicating about seeing herself through Connor's eyes – not as something broken that needed fixing, but as something already perfect that deserved worship.

She felt dangerous. Beautiful. Alive.

When she returned, Connor was sitting up in bed, scrolling through his phone. The room held the rich, pungent smell of dark roasted coffee beans and a red mug sat on the bedside table where she had been laying.

He looked up as she entered, "That's my robe," he observed, though he didn't sound particularly concerned about getting it back.

"Oh, this?" Auden fingered the lapels with mock innocence. "I found it."

"It looks good on you," he tilted his head, setting his phone aside and giving her his full attention. "Though I think it would look even better off."

She let the robe fall.

Connor's jaw ticked, blinking slowly. "Much better."

Auden didn't move toward the bed immediately. Instead, she let him look, reveling in the way his eyes traced every curve, every mark he had left on her skin. The morning light streaming through the windows turned her body into something golden and ethereal, and she knew it. She could see her power reflected in the way his tongue ran across his bottom lip, the way his back had straightened so he could get a better look.

"You're staring," she said, though her voice held no complaint. There was something delicious about being the object of such focused attention, about watching a man who commanded rooms lose his composure over the sight of her.

"Can you blame me?" His voice was lower now, morning gravel mixed with barely restrained want. "Come here."

She took her time crossing the room. When she reached the edge of the bed, she didn't climb in immediately. Instead, she braced one knee on the mattress, leaning forward just enough that her hair fell around her face.

"The coffee smells good," she said conversationally, as if she weren't completely naked, as if she couldn't see the effect she was having on him.

Connor's hand found her hip, thumb tracing the bruise he had left there. "Forget the coffee."

She laughed, low and throaty. "But I just got clean."

"I don't mind getting you dirty again." His other hand tangled in her hair, drawing her face closer to his. "In fact, I insist on it."

The kiss that followed was hunger, pure and unconditional – his mouth claiming hers with a possession that made her pulse race. She melted into him, her body remembering exactly how to respond, how to arch into his touch, how to make those soft sounds that drove him wild.

For Auden, this wasn't just fucking – it was reclamation. Every touch, every breathless moment was proof that she was still a woman capable of inspiring passion, of losing herself in pleasure, of being more than the sum of her uncertainties.

"Still want that coffee?" Connor murmured against her throat.

Auden's answer was lost in a gasp as his mouth found that sensitive spot just below her ear, the same place that bore his mark. The coffee could wait. Everything could wait.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

They spent the entire day in bed. Not sleeping – though they dozed occasionally, limbs tangled, and sheets twisted around them – but talking and touching and discovering each other. 

Conner told her about his university days, about the summer he'd spent in Prague working for a human rights organization, about the fiction novel he'd started and abandoned three times. Auden found herself sharing stories she hadn't thought about in years – her brief summer job at a diner when she was sixteen, the professor who had encouraged her interest in art history, the way Chicago looked from the elevated train on winter mornings.

Sometime in the afternoon, they found themselves on his balcony. It was far too cold, but there they were anyway – Auden wrapped in his oversized robe, Conner in just underwear and a faded sweatshirt, sharing a cigarette like they had all the time in the world. Beneath them, the faint sound of the fountain in the greenhouse filtered in the wind and everywhere else, the countryside stretched endlessly, nothing but rolling hills and the kind of silence Auden couldn't find in the city.

She took a drag and passed it to him, their fingers brushing in the exchange. Her back was pressed against the stone railing, eyes glancing up at the clear sky. The cold bit at her legs where the robe fell open, but she didn't care. There was something about being out here, exposed to the elements, that felt refreshing.

"So," Conner said, exhaling smoke into the air, "tell me about him."

Auden looked at him. She knew who he meant. "I'm not doing that."

Conner's face remained unchanged – nonchalant, his own eyes peering down at the dried, cold grass below. He hummed softly to himself, offering no rebuttal. She reached for the cigarette, but he held it just out of reach.

"You said no emotional attachments," Auden reminded.

He was quiet for a moment, before his eyes slid to her. "Must be lonely, though. Being married to someone who – "

"Conner." Her voice came out sharper than she intended. "Don't."

Her hand stretched forward, plucking the half-smoked cigarette between his fingers to place in her mouth. He could see it, couldn't he? The way her shoulders tensed, the way she looked back toward the sky rather than meet his gaze.

He side-stepped closer, close enough that she could feel his forearm graze against the cloth of the robe. His bare feet made no sound on the cold stone. And when she finally turned to him, she caught the goosebumps peeking above his shirt, decorating his neck.

His focus was entirely on her face.

Without a word, he reached up, his fingertips barely grazing her chin as he gently pulled the cigarette from between her lips. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the breeze. Their eyes locked as he took a long drag, never breaking contact.

Then he flicked it away, the ember arcing through the afternoon before disappearing into the grass below.

His hand found the side of her face, thumb tracing along her cheekbone. She leaned into the touch despite herself, and a smirk played at the corners of her mouth. His other hand brushed against her hip through the robe, steadying her as he slowly lowered himself. First to a crouch, his eyes never leaving hers, then one knee touching the ground, then both.

The contrast was stark – him kneeling on the freezing balcony floor while she stood wrapped in his warmth, the terry cloth encasing her skin.

"What are you doing?" she asked, unable to hide the tremble in her voice.

"Returning the favor," he replied simply, his hands moving to the fabric belt.

His fingers worked slowly at the knot. The front loosened, and she felt the cold hit her skin as the robe parted. She was naked underneath, and the sudden change in temperature made her gasp softly.

At first, she resisted, looking around instinctively, her hands moving to close the robe. But there were no neighbors, of course – he lived in the middle of nowhere. His hands gently caught her wrists, guiding them away, his touch reassuring.

The robe fell open completely now, and she shivered as his lips found her stomach, pressing soft kisses against her skin, and she giggled nervously despite herself.

"Here?" she asked, though her voice was barely a whisper.

He said nothing, his mouth traveling across her lower abdomen, where her stretch marks appeared in silver, inky lines. He took his time slower against the fading afternoon. His hands caressed her thighs, his lips feeling deliciously soft against them as the sun crashed over the back of her neck, warming her skin.

Her fingers found the crown of his head, fingers threading through the fine strands. They were soft and slightly oily – a product of spending the day doing nothing but this. She felt her legs part instinctively as his tongue found her, a small whimper escaping from somewhere deep in his throat. Suckling on swollen flesh, she bucked forward, her head rolling.

What Conner did to her felt like being on the beach – that breathless exhilaration of chasing waves as they pulled back from shore, the sand shifting beneath her feet as she ran toward the retreating water. Then the sudden rush of foam and salt as the tide surged forward, forcing her to turn and flee, laughing and gasping as the waves caught her ankles, her calves, soaking through her clothes. The push and pull, the sweet panic of not knowing whether to run toward the water or away from it, the inevitable surrender when the waves finally crashed over her completely. By the end, she was breathless and trembling.

The afternoon rolled into the evening, cascading them and the house into darkness. They found themselves back in his room, curled beneath the covers, deliciously sore and exhausted and giddy all at once. Auden's body was humming with satisfaction and her mind blissfully quiet.

It was only when her stomach growled audibly that they finally decided to extract themselves from those four walls.

"I should make dinner," Conner yawned, stretching in a way that made his muscles contract against his skin. She never wanted to leave. "What do you fancy?"

Auden sat up, brushing her knotted hair away from her forehead. "Whatever you have."

"I'll see what I can manage. There's wine in the cellar – Dad always kept a decent collection."

While he cooked, Auden lounged on his couch, the fine leather gentle against her bare legs. She'd borrowed one of his sweaters – cashmere, she realized, running her fingers along the sleeves – and nothing else. The scent of rosemary and garlic drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the faint smell of wood smoke from the fireplace he'd lit. She scrolled through endless streaming apps, half-listening to the sounds of him moving around: the sizzle of oil in a pan, the soft thud of a knife against a cutting board, the gentle clink of wine glasses being set out.

Conner appeared with plates balanced on his arms – roasted chicken, golden potatoes, green beans that still steamed. A bottle of white wine tucked under one elbow.

"The dining room table seats twenty," he explained, settling cross-legged on the living room floor beside the coffee table. "Seemed a bit much for two."

Auden mirrored his position, her bare legs stretching out so her toes grazed his thighs. The intimacy of it – eating dinner half-naked on the floor like teenagers who had snuck away from their parents – felt perfectly natural.

They ate in comfortable silence at first, the fire casting warm shadows across the room. Then Conner set down his fork, his face skewing into neutrality, the same way she'd seen him do on the balcony before he'd started asking about Cillian.

"Tell me about your family," he said around a bite of potato.

Auden's fork paused halfway to her mouth. She set it down, her jaw tightening. "Isn't that against your rules?" she asked, managing to keep her voice light.

Conner had the decency to look slightly sheepish, but he pressed on anyway. "True. But I told you about mine –  my sisters, my father's expectations, all of it. Seems only fair."

There it was again. That subtle persistence, that way he had of making reasonable requests sound almost innocent. But this was the second time today he'd done this, pushed against the boundaries they'd supposedly agreed on. First Cillian on the balcony, now this.

She took a long sip of wine, using the moment to study his face. He was trying to charm his way past her defenses, and they both knew it. "Fair," she repeated, the word carrying just enough edge to let him know she wasn't fooled by his casual tone.

Still, sitting here in his expensive sweater with good wine warming her blood, thoroughly removed from her normal life, she had to admit that honesty felt safer somehow. And he had told her about his childhood, so perhaps she owed him the same.

"I didn't grow up like this," she explained, gesturing at the room around them. "My dad and I were poor. Properly poor, not just middle-class people complaining about mortgage payments."

She told him about the tenement in Chicago, about her father working double shifts at the steel mill, coming home so exhausted he'd sometimes fall asleep at the kitchen table while the dinner Auden had made sat cold in the fridge.

"Sometimes I'd go days without seeing him awake," she exhaled, surprised by how easily the memories came despite her irritation. "He'd leave before I got up for school, come home after I'd gone to bed. When I was young, I used to leave him drawings on the kitchen counter – terrible stick figures, you know – just so he'd know I was thinking about him."

Conner had stopped eating entirely, his attention focused on her face with a look that made her slightly uncomfortable. There was something almost predatory in his fascination, the way someone might study a specimen they'd never encountered before.

"That must have been hard," he commented, and she noted the genuine interest rather than polite sympathy. It was that interest that bothered her most – the way he seemed to collect her revelations like he was conducting research.

Auden shrugged, "It was just my life. You don't know what you're missing when you're a child. You assume everyone lives the way you do." She took another sip of wine. "Though I suppose you wouldn't understand that, growing up with all this."

"No," he admitted readily. "I can't imagine it. The closest I've come to financial stress is having to wait until my trust fund quarterly payments come in so I can pay for my car."

The honesty should have been refreshing, if only because it lacked false modesty. But when he leaned forward, eyes bright, she felt that familiar prickle of annoyance.

"Tell me more," he pressed. "What was it like? The day-to-day reality of it?"

But Auden had shared enough. More than enough, actually, considering this was supposed to be just sex. She finished her drink in one large swallow and set the glass aside with more force than necessary. Then she shifted onto her knees and crawled toward him across the hardwood floor, watching his eyes darken as she approached.

"Are we done with dinner conversation?" he chuckled, though his hands automatically moved to steady her as she settled in his lap.

"We're done with dinner," she confirmed, pushing him down against the floor before he could ask any more questions she didn't want to answer.

They made love there among the scattered dinner plates, urgent and breathless, wine-loosened and laughing when Conner's elbow knocked over an empty glass. Afterward, they laid next to one another against a Persian rug, her toes wiggling against the fur, both of them breathing hard and grinning at the ceiling.

"I haven't done that before," he told her, practically panting.

Auden giggled, "What? Have sex on the floor?"

"No, I've done that," Conner turned his head to the side. "I have never defiled a perfectly good rug that way, though."

Auden pursed her lips playfully, "I am sure you can afford a new one."

He shot her a pointed look before taking a deep exhale, "I should clean this up," he breathed, half-gesturing towards the remnants of their meal. "Before it attracts mice or something equally unsexy."

Auden rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand to watch Conner gather plates with unselfconscious ease. There was something unexpectedly charming about seeing this wealthy, sophisticated man padding around naked, collecting chicken bones and wine glasses like any ordinary person dealing with the aftermath of a good evening.

It was only then, as he moved around the room, that she realized she hadn't checked her phone once all day. The thought struck her, a tickle of alarm appearing in the back of her head. When was the last time she'd gone hours without thinking about messages, missed calls, the constant digital tether to her responsibilities?

While he was in the kitchen, she found her purse by the front door, where she had left it when she had first arrived. She riffled through the contents, fishing for her phone lazily, expecting nothing more interesting than perhaps a message from Brigid or some work emails. Instead, the screen showed a missed call from St. Margaret's Primary and a waiting voicemail.

Auden felt her mouth run dry.

She played the message, phone tight against her ear as Headmistress Henley's voice filled her head with that particular blend of authority and diplomacy that school administrators perfected.

"Ms. O'Donovan, this is Frances Henley calling from St. Margaret's Primary. I'm afraid there was an incident involving Catherine today during afternoon break. She had an altercation with a classmate that became physical. No one was seriously hurt, but we do need to discuss Catherine's behavior and what might be contributing to it. Could you please call me back when you have a moment? We'll need to schedule a meeting for sometime next week. Thank you."

The message ended, leaving Auden staring at her phone as the warm, wine-soaked contentment drained from her body like water through a sieve.

Catherine had gotten into a fight. Her six-year-old daughter, who had never so much as raised her voice to another child, had hit someone. And while it was happening – while Catherine was probably scared and confused and acting out because her world was being torn apart – Auden had been here, wrapped in Irish cashmere and expensive wine, pretending her real life didn't exist.

When Conner returned from the kitchen, he found her sitting cross-legged on the couch, phone clutched in her hand, staring at the dark window.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, his tone shifting from post-dinner satisfaction to concern.

Auden looked up at him – this man who had given her twenty-four hours of feeling wanted and alive and free from the weight of everyone else's needs. Who had asked probing questions but demanded no promises, who had made her feel desirable without requiring explanations about the life she'd left behind.

"My daughter got into a fight at school today," she told him quietly. "I missed the call."

Conner's expression shifted, but not in the way she expected. For just a moment – so brief she almost missed it – his face went blank. Not understanding, not concern, but something harder. Irritation, maybe, or disappointment that their perfect bubble was being punctured by her other life. He caught himself quickly, schooling his features into appropriate concern, but she'd seen it. The flash of annoyance that she was choosing her daughter over staying in this moment with him.

He reached for his discarded boxers, pulling them on with movements that were perhaps a little too controlled, a little too careful.

"Is she alright?"

"Physically, yes." Auden's throat felt tight. She didn't explain further. Didn't spell out that the inevitable school meeting would require both parents, that this perfect night they'd created had just collided with the messy reality of her actual life.

"I have to call my husband," she added, and the word felt foreign in her mouth after twenty-four hours of pretending Cillian didn't exist.

Conner nodded, almost like he was deciding whether to agree with her. His expression remained disinterested, but there was something in the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders held tension, that made the silence stretch uncomfortably. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured.

"Of course you do."

Conner disappeared and Auden remained on the couch, phone still clutched in her hand. The whole day suddenly felt surreal – like one long, vivid dream she was only now surfacing from. The morning in his bed, the cigarette on the balcony, the way he'd dropped to his knees in against the oncoming winter, the dinner conversation where she'd shared memories she rarely spoke about, even the way the firelight had played across his skin afterward. All of it felt disconnected from her real life, as if it had happened to someone else entirely.

Twenty-four hours of being wanted, desired, free from the weight of being a mother, a wife, a woman drowning in the expectations of everyone around her. And now Catherine's voice echoed in her mind from some phantom phone call she'd never received: "Mummy, where were you when I needed you?"