The next morning came too soon. The alarm pulled me from the warm tangle of Dylan's sheets. I woke up with a groan, body aching in the best ways. My thighs burned from how he had spread them wide, my ass still tender from the relentless stretch of his thick cock. I rolled over, face buried in the pillow that smelled like him. Last night replayed in flashes: his hips snapping against me, his voice growling in my ear, the way he had filled me so deep I forgot how to breathe.
I sat up, wincing at the pull between my legs. His old apartment was quiet except for the faint sounds coming from the living room, boxes shifting, tape ripping. When I walked out Dylan was shirtless in his underwear, classic Dylan, broad shoulders flexing as he taped a box shut. He looked up, smirked, and walked over without a word. His mouth found mine in a slow morning kiss, deep enough to make my knees soften again.
"See you tonight at my new place," he said against my lips. "Don't be late."
I smiled despite the ache. "Wouldn't dream of it."
He kissed me once more, quick this time, then stepped back. "Have fun at your patisserie. Don't let the croissants distract you too much."
I laughed and headed across the hall to my own apartment where Becca was still asleep.
Dylan was impossible, but that was part of why I kept coming back. Seeing Dylan be more than just sex, the morning kisses, the dinners, the day-to-day routine, reminded me of Elliot in a strange way. The quiet moments, the way someone could fill space without demanding it. But Dylan demanded everything, and I gave it willingly.
Letting go of Elliot had been difficult for me. I thought about him sometimes, like now, as I dressed for work. His gentle kisses, the way he had pressed me against that alley wall with care, not force. It had felt safe, real in a way Dylan never quite did. But I could not give my whole self to him, not with Dylan lurking in my thoughts, his texts pulling me back into that raw obsession. Elliot deserved someone who was not divided, someone who did not wake up aching for someone else. I had let him go, and now he was happy with his new guy. I saw the stories. It stung, but it was right. With Dylan, the ache owned me. The claim. The way he filled every corner of my mind and body. Sometimes I wondered if I was built for anything softer.
I got ready and headed to the patisserie.
The shift started slow. I set up the display case, arranged the fresh croissants in neat rows, wiped down the counter until it gleamed. Madame Claire bustled in the back, muttering in French about the delivery boy being late again. I poured a test espresso, steam curling up in perfect spirals. My body still hummed from last night, a low throb between my legs every time I bent to grab something from the lower shelf. I caught myself smiling at nothing, remembering Dylan's hand on my throat, his voice ordering me to come. The ache felt good, grounding.
During a lull I propped my phone against a stack of napkins and filmed a quick LifeInParis clip. Me behind the counter, flour dusting my cheek, pouring coffee with a small smile. I added a caption: Paris mornings hit different. Posted it, watched the likes trickle in almost immediately. Comments rolled through: "Living the dream," "You look happy," I felt a quiet warmth at that. For once the posts did not feel like pretending.
The morning rush picked up, then eased again. I was wiping down the espresso machine when the door opened with a soft bell. A man stepped in. Tall, solid, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Early thirties. British accent when he spoke, soft but precise. Dark brown curls controlled but textured, piercing blue eyes that assessed without wandering. Navy suit cut close, top button open, pocket square subtle, Swiss watch catching the light. He moved with quiet confidence, chin slightly lifted, one hand adjusting a cuff as he approached the counter.
"Black coffee, please," he said. "And one croissant."
I nodded, turned to the machine. His eyes followed me, steady. When I handed him the cup he smiled, small but warm.
"You make even pouring coffee look like art," he said. "Mind if I steal a second of the final cut?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "You saw the filming?"
"I did." His voice stayed even, gentlemanly. "It's charming. The way you frame it."
I laughed, short and flustered. "I'm Troy."
"Lucien Castle." He extended a hand. Firm grip, brief but deliberate.
We talked while I rang him up. He was in finance, private equity, investments in luxury and wellness brands. He complimented the video I took. “The light in your shots, the quiet moments. It's rare."
I felt heat in my cheeks. "Thanks. I just point the phone and hope."
He smiled again, eyes holding mine. "You do more than that."
Then he leaned in slightly. "I have to admit… meeting you here this morning isn't a coincidence."
I froze. "What do you mean?"
"I've been following you online." His tone stayed calm, no apology. "Have to admit, I found you cute. And I've seen your LifeInParis. The way you frame things… it's compelling."
My pulse jumped. Coming from a man who looked like that, quiet capital wrapped in navy wool, piercing blue eyes that did not wander, it hit harder than it should have. I thought of Dylan instantly, the way he owned every inch of me last night. Guilt flickered, but so did something else. Intrigue.
I managed a smile. "Well, if the coffee's good enough to keep you coming back, I'll take the compliment."
Lucien chuckled softly. "It is. And the company helps."
He left a generous tip, more than enough to cover the order twice over. "If you ever want to see the Paris most people miss… coffee or something more." He slid his phone across the counter, new contact screen open. "Your number?"
I hesitated for one second. Then I typed it in, handed it back. He saved it, looked up with that same assessing smile.
"See you, Troy." He nodded once, turned, and left. The door bell chimed softly behind him.
I stared at the empty doorway for a beat too long. My hands were steady when I pocketed my phone, but my mind was not.
I posted a subtle story a few minutes later: an empty coffee cup (for aesthetics) and the generous tip visible, caption "Generous tippers make the day sweeter."
Likes came fast.
Then a text from an unknown number.
“That tip was just an excuse to see you smile.”
I read it twice. Smiled despite myself. Heart racing a little. But I did not reply.
Later that evening, the shift wound down. I wiped down the counter one last time, mind on Lucien while I cleaned up. Those blue eyes. That quiet confidence. The way he had said my name like he was already measuring something. I pocketed my phone and turned off the lights in the back.
My phone buzzed as I locked up..
Dylan: Assembled the bed at my place, ready to break it?
I smiled at the screen, thumbs moving fast.
“You dirty, dirty man.”
His reply came almost instantly. A photo: him shirtless in the new bed, sheets low on his hips, one arm behind his head showing off the flex of his bicep, smirk in place.
“Don't keep me waiting, noodle.”
I laughed under my breath, pocketed the phone again, and started walking. His new place was a few blocks over from the old one, same quiet street but higher up, better light. Paris felt softer at dusk, streetlamps flickering on, the air cool against my skin.
When I reached the building I buzzed up. Dylan opened the door shirtless again, shorts low. He pulled me inside without a word, mouth on mine in a deep kiss that tasted like mint and want. His hands slid under my shirt, palms warm on my lower back.
"Missed you," he muttered against my lips.
I smiled into the kiss. "It's been like eight hours."
"Too long."
He stepped back, gesturing around the apartment. Bigger than the old one. High ceilings, big windows letting in the last of the golden light, rooftops stretching out toward the Seine. Quiet street below. Actual kitchen instead of that sad hot plate. The bedroom door stood open, bed already made with dark sheets.
He caught me looking. "This is where we're gonna fuck every night."
I laughed. "Romantic."
"Very." He grinned, tugged me toward the living room. "Takeout's on the way. Sit."
Dylan ordered Indian food. Chicken tikka masala, butter naan, some paneer dish I liked. When it arrived he spread everything out on the coffee table.
I raised an eyebrow. "Indian? You hate spicy food."
He shrugged, casual. "I was talking to Jake this morning. Conversation about you came up and he told me how much you love Indian food."
I paused, fork halfway to my mouth. "So you told him… about us?"
Dylan pulled back slightly, expression softening. "You know I can't, Spaghetti Noodle."
I set the fork down. "It's okay."
He watched me for a moment, then reached over, thumb brushing my cheek. "One day maybe. But not yet."
We ate on the couch, legs tangled, some dumb action movie playing low in the background. Dylan kept one arm around my shoulders, thumb stroking slow circles on the side of my neck. We talked light. He told me about the new shoots starting next week, some campaign. I told him about the patisserie, Madame Claire's latest rant, the sketches piling up in my notebook. I avoided mentioning Lucien. The text still sat in my pocket, heavy.
After we finished eating he pulled me onto his lap. I straddled him, knees on either side of his hips. He kissed me slowly, hands sliding up my back under my shirt, no rush. Just warmth, closeness, the steady beat of his heart against mine. Eventually his head tipped back against the couch, eyes heavy.
"Tired?" I asked softly.
He hummed. "Lifting all those boxes. Acting all macho, but yeah. Wiped."
I smiled, brushed a hand through his hair. He acted tough, all gym-bro swagger and filthy promises, but moments like this showed the softer side. The one that ordered Indian food because Jake mentioned it. The one that kissed me good morning and held me like I might disappear.
He dozed off like that, arms still loose around me, mouth slightly open, breathing even. I stayed still for a while, watching his chest rise and fall, feeling the warmth of him under me.
Eventually I reached for my phone on the table. The screen lit up. Lucien's text stared back.
I opened it again.
“That tip was just an excuse to see you smile.”
My thumb hovered. Guilt twisted low in my stomach, but so did something else. Curiosity. The pull of someone new, someone who looked at me like I was worth measuring.
I typed.
“Thanks for stopping by today. Nice meeting you.”
Sent.
I saved the number as Lucien Castle.
His reply came fast.
“The pleasure was all mine. Looking forward to that coffee… or drinks maybe? ;) “
I stared at the words. Smiled despite myself.
What is wrong with me? Why can't I just stay happy with Dylan? The mornings, the dinners, the way he holds me like I'm his… it's everything. But whenever a new man appears, Elliot, now Lucien, something pulls. Is it the chase? The unknown? Or am I just not built to stay with one person?
Dylan shifted in his sleep, arm tightening around my waist. I looked down at him, mouth open, face slack, completely out. The city lights glowed through the big windows, rooftops dark against the sky.
I set the phone face down on the table and leaned my head against his shoulder. Closed my eyes. Let the steady rhythm of his breathing pull me under.
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