GOOD GIRL: In Dreams

WORKING FOR A LIVING

I didn’t know I was asleep until I heard his voice.

It wasn’t sudden—just there, already inside me, like the start of a thought I’d been circling all day.

“Breathe.”

That rasp. Low. Unhurried. Threaded with gravel and something darker underneath. It rolled through me like heat under my skin.

I was lying down. Somewhere. Nowhere. Everything blurred and slow. But I could feel.

My blouse was unbuttoned. My legs were bare. My knees parted. Somehow, Miles was in my room.

He hadn’t touched me. Not once.

“Don’t move your hands yet,” he said.

I stilled. My fingers curled into the sheets. My thighs ached.

“Let it build.” His voice was gravel in my ear.

I whimpered.

He wasn’t beside me. I couldn’t see him.

He was around me. Everywhere.

His voice pressed into my skull. Behind my ears. Down my neck. Against the small of my back.

My pulse throbbing between my legs. Sharp. Desperate.

“You want to touch yourself,” the voice said, smooth and cruel.

“Say it.”

“I want to touch myself.”

“Why?”

“You drive me insane.”

Silence. Long enough to hurt.

“Now.”

My hands moved. I found the heat, slick and shameful. I touched slow. Teasing. Exactly how I knew I shouldn’t.

“No circles,” he said. “I want you aching. Not finished.”

I obeyed.

My hips twitched. My breath froze.

I was too close.

“Not yet.”

Calm. Controlled.

“You don’t come until I say.”

I whined. My thighs trembled. My fingers slipped. I bit my lip to stay quiet.

“Don’t hide it,” he said.

His voice dipped lower.

“Let me hear you.”

I did.

A sound I didn’t recognize—ragged, high, raw—ripped from my throat. My body buckled.

I needed to come. I needed to break. But I waited.

“You’ve been good,” he said. “Haven’t you?”

I nodded. Gasped. “Yes—yes—please—”

“Come for me.”

And I did.

“Good girl,” he purred.

I shattered. With his voice in my head. With my hand between my legs. With no one else in the room.

I woke up tangled in the sheets. Panting. Wet. Shaking. The memory of his voice still pulsing through my skin like a second heartbeat.

I didn’t know what time it was. But I knew one thing. Tomorrow, I had to see him again. And he could never know this.

***

Working For a Living

I didn’t plan to do it. That would’ve made it easier to lie to myself later.

But I did plan the blouse. Silk. Thin. No undershirt. No bra.
I planned the perfume. Subtle. Warm. I planned to be early.  And I planned to be ready.

He didn’t speak to me all morning. Just passed behind me once with a murmur, “Proofs by noon.” I handed them in at 11:45. He didn’t look up.

By 4:10, the office was half-empty. My mind was full.
So I stood up. Walked to his office. Didn’t knock.

I opened the door.
He looked up—surprised, but not rattled.
“Miss Adamu?”
I stepped in and closed the door behind me. My fingers didn’t shake.

“You said I was doing well.”
A pause. “You are.”
“And that it wasn’t a compliment.”
He watched me. “It wasn’t.”
I nodded once. “Then what is this?”

Silence.
He leaned back slightly. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

My hands were at my sides. Open. Calm. But my thighs were clenched, my breath shallow, my body buzzing.

“This thing between us,” I said evenly. “You start it. You walk away. You make me finish it—alone.”
His brow barely lifted. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“I don’t think,” I said. “I feel.”
A pause. Then, quietly: “And what do you feel right now?”
I stepped forward.
“I feel like you want me to lose control.”

He said nothing.
I walked around his desk. Close. Too close. I didn’t touch him. I just stood in his space. Let the heat between us answer the question.

For the first time since I met him, Miles Finch looked unsteady.
“Careful,” he said, voice low.
“I’m done being careful.”
I didn’t mean to say it. But it landed. His jaw tightened.

He blinked once. Slow. Then stood. Shorter than me, but somehow taller.
He stepped closer.
“I told you,” he murmured, “you’re sharp. But sharp things break when they’re bent.”
I leaned in. “Then bend me.”

A breath. Unmistakably shaken.
Then he turned. Walked to the window. Said nothing.
He stayed there a long moment. Silence thickened.
Finally: “Come here.”

His back was still to me.
I obeyed. I stood behind him.

He didn’t turn. Just said, “Do you know what you just did?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t.”

He turned slowly. His eyes burned.
“You think this is control,” he said. “Coming in here. Wearing that. Standing too close to me.”
I said nothing.
“You think I want you messy. Undone. Unraveled. That I’ve been circling you waiting for you to break.”

His voice stayed calm, low, like gravel under velvet.
He raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. My back brushed the desk.
“You’re not in control of what I want.”

He took another step.
“You don’t get to give permission for what already belongs to me.”

My mouth opened. No sound.
He tilted my chin up. Just a finger.
“You came in here thinking I’d devour you if you asked nicely.”
“I don’t ask. I take. When I’m ready.”

Then he dropped his hand. Stepped back.
“You’re dismissed.”

I don’t remember walking back.
The lights were too bright. The air too thin. My skin felt wrong.
I sat. My chair hissed beneath me like a rebuke.

My body was lit from the inside. Not with heat, but with something colder. The shame of almost.
I threw myself into metadata cleanup like it was war. Sorted ISBNs. Labeled proofs. Triple-checked captions. My fingernails dug into the keys. My thighs pressed so tight it hurt.

Melanie passed by, glanced once. “He’s icing you.”
I said nothing.
And I hated how much it hurt.

***

POMMES FRITES

The fry basket between us is a mess—ketchup splattered like crime scene evidence. I can’t meet Melanie’s eyes. Not yet.

She’s waiting. I know she’s waiting. She’s always seen through me, ever since high school. I catch her gaze over her diet Coke.

Finally, she taps her glass against mine, the clink sharp.
“All right,” she says, voice low but slicing, “are you gonna tell me what the fuck happened, or am I supposed to be a psychic?”

Stuffed in the cramped booth at Pommes Frites, watching the trust fund NYU kids, I feel like just as much of a poser. I peel at the paper cone in the holder, pretending I’m not still buzzing. Like my skin doesn’t still hum from everything that didn’t happen.

“It was nothing.”

“Uh huh.” She leans back, folds her arms. “That’s why you’re sitting there looking like you’ve been hit by a freight train.”

I exhale, sharp and tight. “We were working. Late. At his place. That’s it.”

Melanie snorts. “That’s it, huh?”

I glance up, catch her raised eyebrows, the twist of her mouth. God, I hate how she sees everything.

“He came out of the shower,” I say, the words sounding stupid as soon as they’re out. “Towel around his waist. Like it was no big deal. And I was already... off balance. Being in his space. Everything too quiet. Too much of him.”

Melanie’s brows lift, smirk blooming like she’s about to make a scene. “And?”

“He had moody French music, low light, candles... it didn’t feel like work,” I rake my hands through my hair, heat creeping up my neck. “We ate. He knocked over his beer. He crouched under the table to clean it. My brain just... left. One second I was there, the next... I wasn’t.”

Melanie’s smirk fades, her voice softening. “You spaced out? Spaced how?”

I pick at a fry, my pulse thudding. “I just... imagined—him. There. Between my legs. Telling me to keep still.” My stomach dropped.

Melanie’s laugh cracks through the haze. “Jesus, Fel. You daydreamed he went down on you?”

I groan, cover my face with my hands. “Fuck—when you put it like that—”

“Was he any good?” She laughs, nudging me.

I lift my head, breath catching. “I wouldn’t know. I snapped out of it. He was just there, like nothing had happened, saying something about the soy sauce or whatever. And I couldn’t focus. My whole body felt—”

Melanie’s eyes are sharp now. “You’re not eating. Not drinking. Just sitting there, trying not to let it show. Girl. That’s not a crush. That’s a meltdown waiting to happen.”

I groan again, pressing my hands into my lap. “God, Mel. Did you know he was in such good shape under those clothes?”

She lets out a low laugh. “I knew he wasn’t sloppy, but you sound like you saw Jesus himself come down from the clouds.”

“I hate myself,” I mutter.

She leans back, smirking. “You hate how much you don’t hate it. Big difference.”

Melanie watches me, then taps her glass against mine. “Let’s get another round. Then we’re upgrading. You need something stronger for this shit.”

***

Last Call for Alcohol

The night air slices against my skin, but it doesn’t clear the fog in my head. My heels click too loud on the sidewalk, my pulse syncing with the sound.

Melanie links her arm through mine, her voice cutting through the quiet. “You’re walking like you’re trying to leave yourself behind.”

“Feels like I am,” I mutter.

A couple of guys lean against a doorway as we pass. One calls out, “Hey, Ma—what’s good? Can I come too?”

Melanie’s response is sharp and automatic. “Somewhere you’re not invited, honey.”

Their laughter fades as we keep walking.

The cocktail bar ahead glows in curated gold light—glass and metal, cool and curated, like something meant to swallow me whole.

***

Another Round

The booth is cramped, dim, and stupidly cute. Candles flicker in little vintage glasses like we’re about to summon something. French pop filters in over the speakers—breathy women singing about heartbreak and cigarettes and Parisian sidewalks. I want to disappear into the wall. Melt into the varnish.

Melanie’s mid-story about some guy who lied about having a car and then asked her to split the Uber, but I’m not listening. Not really.

Because he’s here.

Across the room. At the bar. Sitting like the chair was built for him.

Miles.

Of course he’s got some tall leggy woman hanging on him, her hair glossy and her laugh too loud. She keeps tucking herself into him like she wants to crawl inside his blazer. He doesn’t seem to mind.

But he sees me.

I feel it before I look. That weird heat. The pressure on the back of my neck. Like my body clocks him before I do.

And when I glance up—fuck.

His eyes don’t flinch. They drag over me slowly, like he’s cataloging parts. Jaw tight. Nothing on his face but stillness, but I feel it. The judgment. The possession. The knowledge that he got under my skin and now he’s watching me try not to scratch.

Melanie doesn’t notice. She’s talking about croquetas now. I think. Something Spanish. Something greasy. Something safe.

He says something to his date—soft, low—and she bursts out laughing. Leans into him like he’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen. Her hands are in his hair now. He lets her. Doesn’t even look at her.

He’s looking at me.

***

Bar Botanica

Then he turns slightly, like for her benefit, and says just loud enough for me to hear:
“You know what I like? When someone listens. Follows instructions. That’s rare.”

The woman giggles again. She probably thinks he’s talking about food or some dumb kink or whatever the hell they were whispering about.

But I know better.

I’m burning under my dress. My thighs tight. My spine weirdly straight, like he could tell if I slouched.

He doesn’t smirk. He just lifts his drink again, sips, eyes still on me. Like punctuation.

Then—he’s up.

She’s clinging to him, kissing his cheek, his jaw, saying something breathy in his ear. Her lipstick smears on his neck and he lets it stay. One hand low on her back, guiding her out as she trips over herself laughing.

He doesn’t touch her at first. Just let her drape herself across him like she’s earned the right. Her hand slips into his shirt, fingernails dragging lightly across his chest like she’s trying to draw blood. She laughs too loud. He says nothing. Doesn’t even flinch.

Because he’s looking at me.

Not glancing. Not peeking.

Looking.

Like he could burn through the haze and the crowd and the clink of glasses and still end up under my skin.

Then, right as she leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth, he speaks. Low and slow. Measured.

“I love a woman who isn’t afraid to let go,” he says, lips curling. “To give up control.”

The words land in my lap like something physical. Like a grip around my throat, invisible and tight.

He doesn’t break eye contact.

And the woman laughs—giddy, like she heard something different, something cute. Like he said she was wild, not me. Her mouth is on his jaw now. Her fingers are in his hair.

And I forget how to breathe.

Melanie doesn’t look at me, just drains her drink like it’s medicine. Then:
“I swear to God, if you say that was nothing, I will pour this mezcal in your fucking purse.”

I can’t speak. I can’t think.

He said it like it was casual. Like it wasn’t a fucking landmine.
“I love a woman who isn’t afraid to let go. To give up control.”

And I forget how to sit still.

He was looking at me when he said it. Not his date. Not the floor. Me.

And it’s the way he looked—like he was cataloging every microexpression, every twitch in my throat, counting how long it took me to squirm.

My eyes drag over him, involuntary. Hungry.

That jaw. Sharp, defined. Too angular to be pretty, but that’s what makes it lethal. I’ve watched it clench before—watched that little dimple appear when he grits his teeth, the muscle ticking like a warning. It was there now, flickering just beneath his stubble.

And God, the stubble. Just enough to scrape. Just enough to imagine how it would feel, brushing against the soft curve of my lip, down my neck, catching at the edge of—

I touch my mouth without realizing it. Two fingers, feather-light, like I could erase the thought by pretending it wasn’t written all over me.

Melanie sees. Of course she sees. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just arches an eyebrow, barely, and refocuses on her drink like she’s not preparing to verbally eviscerate me later.

He’s still watching me.

She’s still on him, giggling like a drunk schoolgirl, tracing the open line of his shirt with her fingers, hand sliding down into the space where his buttons end. He doesn’t stop her.

But right before they walk out, he licks his top lip and bites the bottom one, slow. Controlled. Mean.

And I swear I feel it between my legs.

His eyes are still locked on mine.

Then he stands. Eases her off him like it’s a routine. A performance. Something he’s done a hundred times with women who don’t make him tighten his jaw like that.

She clings to him as they move through the crowd. Laughing. Kissing his neck. Her hand disappears somewhere behind the fabric of his jacket, and he lets her.

Her hands are all over him. She is leaning over him, kissing all over his face, his neck, her hands in his hair. He just walks. Casual. Calm. The kind of calm you only get from power.

He only looks away when the door swings shut behind them.

When they disappear into the night, I finally exhale. My thighs are clenched, and my drink is warm, untouched.

And then he’s gone.

Just—gone. Like none of it happened.

I’m still sitting there, stunned, watching the door swing shut behind him, when a drink arrives.

The waiter sets it down in front of me. A low, heavy glass, condensation pearling on the sides. The scent hits me first—dark, spiced, a hint of citrus that cuts through the thick air of the bar.

“From the gentleman who just left,” the waiter murmurs.

My mouth goes dry. I stare at the drink like it might bite me.

It’s the perfect drink. The one I would’ve ordered if I hadn’t felt too exposed, too raw to trust my own tastes. A Negroni—balanced, bitter, with a twist of orange.

Melanie glances at it, then at me, and smirks. “Smooth move,” she mutters. “Of course he knows your drink.”

I lift the glass, take a sip—hesitant, as if it might confirm every bad decision I’ve ever made. It’s perfect.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Melanie sets hers down like it personally offended her.

“Girl,” she says. “Be so fucking serious right now.”