Chapter Text
Snow didn’t fall in Manhattan that morning. It attacked. Wind cut sideways through the avenues, flipping umbrellas and soaking through coats. Traffic stalled. Pedestrians, red-nosed and muttering curses, trudged past each other with heads down, elbows out.
Inside a cramped coffee shop tucked off Orchard Street, in Manhattan’s Lower East Side, steam from the espresso machine fogged the windows. The air smelled like burnt toast, scorched beans, and whatever had died in the plumbing last winter and never been found.
It was 1995, and the room was a collage of layered sweaters, scuffed sneakers, and Walkmans clipped to belts. Maxwell Sheffield looked wildly out of place. Charcoal suit, patterned tie. The only man in the room who seemed freshly pressed. He sat stiffly at a corner table, dabbing at a spot on his cuff with a napkin, trying not to take issue with the chip in his mug.
Across from him sat George Salber, the notoriously private playwright whose long-shelved show Flashy Girl had been treated like a sacred relic. But after a very public fallout with Broadway pest Andrew Lloyd Webber over creative control, a bird named Christine, and rumors of feathered dancers, George had finally started taking meetings.
Maxwell had been ready.
Flashy Girl was about a widower who hires a woman to look after his children. She’s loud, brash, and entirely out of place. The opposite of everything he thought he wanted. But somehow, she brings the family together in ways he never could.
It was the first story he felt he could shape not just as a producer, but as a man who still believed a second chance might exist. For him. For his family.
He’d waited years. Played the long game. Let others chase headlines while he kept quiet. And now, finally, George was here.
George took a sip from his mug and made a face. “Still terrible.”
Maxwell smiled tightly. “Character-building, isn’t it?”
George chuckled. “You’re a good sport, Sheffield.”
“Well, the suffering-for-your-art trope lives on,” Maxwell said. “Besides, you chose the coffee shop. I assumed there was a story in it.”
George shrugged. “There’s always a story. This one’s just cheap.”
“Ah.” Maxwell nodded. “A classic.”
George raised an eyebrow. “You always this slick?”
“Only when it matters.” Maxwell met his gaze.
George leaned back, considering.
“So,” Maxwell added, voice smooth. “Shall we shake on it?”
The door banged open before George could answer, and the wind carried in a voice that made Maxwell’s stomach drop.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry I’m late!” came the nasaled voice.
He looked up. And there she was. Of course.
Fran Fine, in a leopard-print mini skirt and a neon pink coat, stood in the doorway brushing snow from her curls. Her heels clicked across the tile.
She moved fast. Talked faster.
“I was wrestling this fuddy outside my apartment for a cab. Had my hand on the door first, and he tried to swipe it. So I said, ‘No way, José, I’m late, it’s snowing, and I’ve got the most important pitch of my life.’ Anyway, long story short, we shared the cab. We’re getting egg rolls later. After his wife’s taken off life support.”
She leaned toward George like it was a private joke. “Sadly, he’s not Jewish, and about fifty years too old for me.”
Her perfume hit next. Warm, sharp, and a little overdone for his taste
Her gaze shifted to Maxwell, and she startled back half a step. “Oh! Mr. Sheffield—I didn’t realize you were…”
Her hand perched lightly on the table, and in the motion, her finger brushed his. The scoop of her blouse revealed just enough lace to be distracting.
“Miss Fine,” he said flatly.
She had a way of slipping past people’s defenses before they realized the gates were open. And it infuriated him.
Mostly because it worked.
Mostly because it had almost just worked on him.
She was everything he hated about modern theatre. Loud. Undisciplined. All instinct and glitter dressed up as vision. Her shows were messy, sentimental, and too eager to please. He’d sat through all of them. One out of morbid curiosity, twice out of pity, and again when one outsold his last play in three days.
He didn’t just dislike her taste. He disliked her.
The nightclub wardrobe at a morning meeting. The noise, the lingering scent, the stories that circled nowhere but still made people lean in. Worst of all, she got what she wanted. Because she was gorgeous. Distractingly so. And magnetic. Uncomfortably so.
It drove him mad.
She kissed George’s cheek, glancing between them. “I... I didn’t realize this was a group thing.”
She squinted. “Oh, c’mere, I schmeared you.” Licking her finger, she wiped a smudge from George’s cheek. “There. Much better.”
George chuckled.
Fran slid into the seat beside Maxwell with all the body language of someone forced onto a subway bench next to someone reeking of BO.
He edged away like a petulant child, in no mood to play games.
“If it’s all the same to you, George,” she said, folding her hands, “I’d rather pitch on my own. I think my vision might get a little... farkakte.”
“No offense taken, Miss Fine,” Maxwell said with a tight smile. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to dazzle him with rhinestones and flying deli meats after I ink the deal.”
Fran tilted her head. “If your pitch was so dazzling, why am I still breathing the same air as you?”
George looked between them, vaguely amused. “What’s the story between you two?”
“She wants to burn Broadway down,” Maxwell said.
Fran folded her arms. “And he wants to bore it to death.”
George gave a low whistle, clearly entertained. “This is exactly what I’m looking for. Raw tension. Grit.” He sipped his coffee, then added, “You two could kill each other. Or make something brilliant. Possibly both. I’m intrigued.”
He set the mug down and looked at Maxwell. “I want tradition. Craft. Shape.” Then to Fran, with equal weight: “But also flash. Heart. Heat. Someone who can shake things up and still keep the soul intact.”
She shot Maxwell a look and mouthed, told you.
Maxwell leaned back. “George, you said you wanted soul. What you don’t want is a finale with backup dancers dropping from the ceiling on wires, throwing glitter bombs.”
Fran scoffed. “Wouldn’t want to disturb your vision of a five-act tragedy where no one moves, no one smiles, and everything’s in beige.”
“It’s called restraint,” Maxwell snapped.
“It’s called a funeral,” Fran shot back.
“You want heart and grit?” he added. “That’s fine. But why saddle it with someone who thinks act two is a wardrobe change?”
Fran narrowed her eyes. “You want tradition? My cousin Joe has been microwaving the same kugel since ’82.”
George leaned back, amused, but not entirely unserious. “Listen. I’ve seen what happens when Broadway plays it too safe. And what happens when it forgets its soul.”
He set his mug down with a soft clink. “So I want you both. Or I walk.”
Their eyes shoot back to each other. Hotter this time. Daring each other to back out.
The deal landed between them, wordless.
Fran leaned in. “You sure you can handle sharing, Mr. Sheffield? Or do you only work with people you can boss around?”
Maxwell didn’t blink. “As long as you promise not to burst into tears the first time someone says no.”
She smirked. “You think you could make me cry? Sweetheart, I trained myself to sit through Yentl twice without blinking. I’m a rock.”
She let the words sit, but her gaze lingered.
“And you’re not that scary, Mr. Sheffield.”
Then she reached out, slow and deliberate, her nails tapping against his hand mockingly.
He twitched. Just slightly. But her thumb traced a slow arc over his skin, and he felt it all the way down.
She didn’t pull back. Just smiled.
“I don’t think ya hate me nearly as much as you pretend.”
Maxwell cleared his throat and pulled his hand away, brushing at his sleeve. “George, shall we move on to the agreement?”
George tapped the table in excitement. “Do we have a deal?”
Fran exhaled. Maxwell adjusted his sleeve. Their eyes broke from each other just long enough to face him.
“Deal,” they said in unison.
They stepped out of the coffee shop together, the door swinging shut behind them with a soft thud. Snow still fell, lighter now, but the sidewalk glistened with patches of black ice hiding beneath slush.
Neither spoke. Both tight-lipped. The tension between them hung heavy.
“So,” Maxwell began, adjusting his scarf.
But he didn’t get far.
Fran’s heel skidded. Her arms flailed. “Oh! Oh no!”
She reached for him, instinctively, fingers grasping at the air between them.
Maxwell didn’t move. Rather, simply watched her fall.
His hands stayed at his sides, expression fixed in alarmed neutrality as she lost her balance completely and went down. Hard.
A splash of slush. A squelch. And Fran was flat on her back on the icy sidewalk.
She groaned dramatically. “Ugh. My tuchus.”
Maxwell looked down at her. “If you believed in signs, this would be a pretty clear one.”
She blinked up at him. “What, that I should invest in snow boots?”
“That you should walk away from this production. Divine intervention has spoken.”
Fran scoffed. “If God wanted to stop me, He’d hit me with a piano. Not guilt. I’ve already got a mother for that.”
She propped herself up on one elbow, brushing snow from her sleeve. “Are you just going to watch me freeze to death, or...?”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, alright.”
He extended a hand, brisk and half-hearted.
Fran gripped it. Firmly. Too firmly. And yanked.
Maxwell let out a clipped, startled noise as she pulled him straight down into the snow with her.
He landed with a wet crunch, coat splayed open, scarf flopping into a puddle. For a moment, he lay still, looking up at the cloudy sky as if questioning every life choice that had led to this moment.
Fran cackled beside him. “Oops.”
She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one gloved hand. “Awh, you look adorable all disheveled. What’cha thinking?”
Maxwell pushed himself upright with a groan, brushing at his sleeves with irritated flicks. “Are you quite finished?”
“With what? Teaching you gravity?”
“You pulled me down.”
“You were supposed to catch me.”
He glared. She grinned.
She didn’t rush. Just let him stew, soaking and humiliated, while she took in the rare sight of Maxwell Sheffield losing his grip.
He stood, soaking and furious, muttering something under his breath, only catching the words curly, insufferable, and wench.
“Come on,” she said, stretching out a hand again. “Help me up for real this time. Unless you’re scared, I’ll bring you down with me again.”
He hesitated. Then took her hand. Carefully.
He pulled her onto her feet. She wobbled as she stood, pressing her hands lightly to his chest. “Thank you, Mr. Sheffield. It’s good to see you have some manners after all.”
“I have plenty of manners. I just don’t waste them.”
Fran pressed a hand to her chest, feigning hurt. “Uh! And you’re not smitten with me? I could’ve sworn you adjusted yourself when I touched your hand. But maybe you’re just twitchy.”
“I did no such thing, Miss Fine. Can we keep this professional? This is a bloody nightmare as it is.”
She smirked. “Oh, come on. This’ll do you some good. You’re all stiff and broody. When was the last time you had a giggle?”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever had a ‘giggle,’ as you say, Miss Fine. My source of happiness is none of your business.”
“Now you’re just baiting me. I’d love to know what you do to relax…”
He tightened his jaw. This was going to be a long production. “Must you always say it like that?”
“Like what?” she teased, voice casual.
He exhaled slowly. “Let’s just decide where to go next. Do you have an office?”
“Oh yeah,” Fran said brightly. “I usually sit in the park. Val got me a picnic rug, and Ma made me a table out of shoeboxes. Surprisingly sturdy. She’s got big feet, bunions, and needs orthopedic support. Lost a toe back in ’78. So those shoeboxes are basically concrete. I took a second job one summer just so we could fly in the good ones. But hey, we’re getting our money’s worth now. Do you have bunions, Mr. Sheffield? Or do you carry your bulges somewhere else?”
He swept a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. Looking around, someone, anyone, might save him.
Fran continued. “The snow’s made working pretty hard, though. I bet you’ve got a real swishy office, Mr. Sheffield. I’ll just move all my stuff to yours. Do you have a desk? It’s fine if not, I can work on the floor, as long as there’s space for my shoe desk and blanket.”
Maxwell gave a dry, taut smile. “I also have locks.”
Fran smirked. “Kinky, but okay.”
“To lock you out, Miss Fine.”
Fran grinned. “What, afraid I’ll redecorate?”
He didn’t answer. Just sighed, stepped to the curb, and raised a hand.
A yellow cab screeched to a stop, tires hissing through the slush. He opened the door with a clipped, “After you.”
Fran climbed in with a theatrical sigh, curls dripping, coat sticking. “Such a gentleman,” she muttered, settling in.
Maxwell followed, tugging the door shut harder than necessary.
The cab pulled away, and they sat in silence, coat to coat, shoulder to shoulder, like strangers trapped in a small elevator.
She rummaged in her purse and pulled out squished candy. A piece of wrapped toffee.
“You want half?” she offered, mouth already full. Her lips smacking together as she chews.
Maxwell’s jaw twitched.
She dabbed at her wet skirt with a crumpled lipstick blotted tissue. “I swear, one more snowflake touches me and I’m moving to Boca. Me, Ma and Grandma Yetta want a time-share. When I get my big break I’m gonna invest for us. Hey, do you want in? You can bunk with Yetta, it’s only a 3-bedroom. I’ll tell her you’re gay. She’ll still grab, but maybe less. She’s... grippy.”
Maxwell exhaled sharply. “Do you have to make noise every second you’re awake?”
Fran turned, deadpan. “Would it kill you to let a girl yap while she’s marinating in sidewalk juice?”
He stared ahead, tight-lipped.
With the same tissue, she leaned over and dabbed his sleeve like it was no big deal.
“You’re dripping.”
Maxwell looked at her, baffled. “What are you doing?”
“Well, I figured you'd prefer not to mold.”
“I didn’t ask you—”
“You looked helpless.”
“I was minding my own bloody business, Miss Fine.”
They locked eyes for a moment.
The cab jolted over a pothole. Their thighs brushed. Neither moved.
Maxwell turned back to the window, lips thinning. “This is hell.”
Fran smiled to herself. “That wasn’t even me trying.”
Maxwell’s office was immaculate, as always. Dark wood. Clean lines. One lonely orchid sulking in the corner, and Fran was almost certain it was fake.
His desk looked untouched. Stack of contracts, Montblanc pen, everything exactly where it should be.
The couch, however, hadn’t survived.
Fran Fine was sprawled across it like a teenager at a sleepover. Shoes off, legs tucked under her, gel pens and highlighters scattered around her. A script lay open beside her, half the margins already overtaken with scribbles, doodles, and something that might have been a grocery list. She was flipping through pages, muttering to herself. Half analysis, half commentary. “Oy, somebody get this man a therapist.”
The door opened, and C.C. Babcock swept in. Precise, poised, and ready to eviscerate.
She was flawless. Her mood was hard to pin.
“Maxwell! How did it go with George?” she said, breezing past Fran like she wasn’t there.
“We got the show,” Maxwell said.
“Oh, that’s wonderful! Why aren’t we—” She stopped short. Turned. Finally noticed the glitter bomb on her couch. “—Celebrating?”
“Because we got a Fran,” he muttered, loosening his tie.
“What’s a Fran?” she asked, blinking.
“I’m Fran!” Fran chirped, waving a glitter pen like it was a flag. “Flushing born and raised!”
C.C. whipped her head back to him. “Maxwell. Can I see you outside?”
Fran didn’t move. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m invisible. You want privacy, I’ll rustle my snack wrappers louder.”
C.C. looked at her like a stain. “No offence, Miss Fine, but were you premature?”
“She’s producing the show with us,” Maxwell said, tugging at his collar. Running out of clothes to loosen.
C.C. stared. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I were.”
Fran propped her chin on one hand. “Hi, partner.”
“You’re trusting her with a six-figure budget?” C.C.’s voice went flat. “She’s color-coordinating a script with scented markers.”
Fran sat up. “Excuse me, these are professional-grade gel pens. I didn’t skimp. And I’ll have you know my last show made a grown man cry. Granted, it was Daddy, and he missed the Rangers game. But still. Tears.”
“This is absurd,” C.C. snapped. “I’ve clawed my way up for years, and now I’m expected to share credit with a woman who thinks dramaturgy is a skin condition?”
Fran shrugged. “You wanna talk skin? I graduated beauty school top of my class. The Fine genes are strong. Well, except cousin Cynthia. Born with a face rash she couldn’t shake. Dropped dead in temple, full face of makeup. They had to chisel her out of her foundation. That’s what happens when you eat pork in the open on Yom Kippur. If she had any sense, she’d’ve waited for Purim. God’s too busy judging costume contests to clock a ham sandwich. But no, Cynthia never learned. God rest her heavy-contour, rashy soul.”
C.C. threw up her hands. There weren’t words.
“Enough,” Maxwell said sharply, stepping between them. “This is happening. Either we work together, or we walk away.”
Silence.
Fran leaned back, crossing her ankles. “Fine by me. I’m just saying, if I’m carrying this production on my back, I’d like to be a little more comfortable. I call dibs on your chair tomorrow.” She nodded at the one he was in.
“It’s my chair.”
“Our chair,” she said, baiting him.
C.C. made a sound sharp enough to strip paint. She smoothed her coat, eyes narrowed. “I’m going to make some calls. To investors. God help us, Maxwell.”
She turned on her heel and strode out, heels stabbing the floor.
Fran stretched back out on the couch, unfazed.
“She’s fun,” she chirped.
Fran stepped into the kitchen with a dramatic sigh and schlumped face-first onto the table. Her cheek pressed against the cool wood as she groaned, long and loud, laced with a grating whine.
Behind her, a quiet shuffle. The refrigerator door shut with a soft thud.
“Penny for your thoughts?” came a dry voice.
Fran jumped and whipped her head around. “Oy! Do you always sneak up on women like that?”
Niles shrugged, unfazed, as he set a bowl of chopped vegetables onto the counter. “Only the ones who don’t resemble linebackers with peroxide bobs.”
Fran squinted. “I could’ve sworn I just saw someone exactly like that—”
“I wouldn’t have the foggiest clue who you’re referring to,” he said, already slicing a cucumber.
A smile tugged at her mouth. “I like you.”
He glanced up, dry as ever. “I’ll reserve judgment.”
She stood and offered a hand. “Fran Fine.”
Niles looked at it, then back at her. “Niles. Like Cher.”
Fran gave his hand a quick warm shake.
“And what do you do, Miss Fine? Or do you make a habit of loitering in strangers’ kitchens?”
“I wish,” she said, waving a hand. “I’m a Broadway producer. Twenty-nine. Your boss’s new pain in the tuchus.”
“Twenty-nine,” he repeated, the word stretching just enough to imply he wasn’t buying it.
Fran pointed at him. “Don’t start with me, Niles.”
He smiled. “Well. It’s nice to have a new face around here. The blonde furniture was getting a bit... musty.”
Fran raised an eyebrow. “So what’s the deal with His Highness? Is he always this grumpy?”
“Hm. Yes and no,” Niles said. “But isn’t it more fun to find out for yourself?”
“I don’t have five years to crack that nut.”
“Nonsense. Mr. Sheffield, while admittedly a professional brooder, has his softer moments. He loves... fiercely.”
“I’m yet to see it.”
“I suspect a woman like you won’t have to wait long.”
She smirked. “I am persistent.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said, pausing just long enough to choose his next words. “He’s not a monster, Miss Fine. He has his reasons. I don’t always agree with them. But they’re there.”
Fran nodded, thoughtful. “Hey, you got a guest bathroom? I gotta freshen up.”
Niles gestured down the hall. “Second door on the right. Towels are monogrammed. Don’t touch mine.”
It had been over an hour since Fran had mysteriously vanished. At first, Maxwell had hoped she’d taken the hint. Stormed off, hailed a cab, and decided the production wasn’t worth the trouble.
But she had half a closet’s worth of things scattered around his office. All she was missing was a mini-fridge, and she’d never have to leave.
Then came the humming.
Fran walked in barefoot, hair wrapped in a towel. She wore short pajama shorts she kept in her bag for emergencies, and one of his shirts. It hung long enough to suggest there wasn’t much else underneath. His eyes landed briefly, involuntarily, on her bare legs.
Maxwell stepped forward, voice tight.
“What on earth are you doing?”
Fran shrugged. “It’s after eight. You’ve got me working overtime like a dog, banned the TV, so I improvised.”
She tugged the hem of the shirt with a pout.
“These working conditions aren’t sustainable, Mr. Sheffield.”
“So you helped yourself to my shower? Is that my shirt?”
She glanced down. “Oh. Yeah. Your bedroom door was open. Your closet’s bigger than my Ma’s apartment. Color-coded pajamas, twenty-four sets of silk. Do you grind your teeth? I saw the mouth guard in your bathroom cabinet. Does it help? I was thinking about getting one.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. A cycle without end. She didn’t stop. She never stopped.
She unwound the towel and shook out her hair. Wet curls clung to her neck. He looked away.
In under a day, she had made herself comfortable. She had commandeered his shower, scattered personal items throughout the office, and now stood in his shirt like it belonged to her.
Maxwell reached for his checkbook.
“Miss Fine, this might’ve been a mistake. Take ten thousand and walk away.”
Fran waved him off and dropped onto the couch.
“I’m fine. I’m not here for the money.”
“What about Boca, Miss Fine? Surely there’s something you want.”
She leaned forward, legs tucked underneath her.
“Boca can wait. Thanks for asking. Shall we get back to work?”
He exhaled.
“You’re impossible. Unprofessional. Crass. Tasteless.”
Fran’s eyes sparked.
“Excuse you. We’ve been sitting here for hours, and the most creative thing you’ve pitched is a pet fish. Which I agreed to, by the way, because who am I to dampen the fleeting whimsy of a joyless man. But even I questioned whether the fish was a distraction from your next genius idea. A monochrome set and a British dialect coach.”
Maxwell’s mouth twitched. “There’s a British character.”
“Then cast British!”
“It’s called world-building. Atmosphere. But of course, to you, anything without glitter is banal.”
Fran tilted her head.
“Does it thrill you to say ‘banal,’ Mr. Sheffield? Rolls off the tongue for you.”
He stepped closer.
“It’s called discipline. Decency. Respect. Qualities your education in Queens skipped.”
She didn’t flinch.
“You’re always barkin’ when I challenge you. Says more about you than it does about me.”
She circled behind his desk and perched on the edge. Her shirt rode up, revealing more of her upper thigh. His gaze flickered. Then stuck.
She caught it and delighted in his show of weakness.
“Do you mind if I keep this shirt, Mr. Sheffield? It’s the nicest cotton I’ve ever worn.”
His voice came low. Rough.
“No. I don’t even want you in it right now.”
She smiled sweetly.
“Oh. Well. If you insist.”
She stood and took the hem of the shirt in both hands. Slowly, she began lifting it. It reached her hips, then higher. Black lace emerged beneath, delicate and sheer. The same lace he had glimpsed at the coffee shop.
“Miss Fine!” he shouted, leaping forward to pull the shirt back down.
She leaned in, voice teasing.
“Then stop staring.”
“You are completely insufferable.”
His chest rose and fell.
“This is madness. You might charm half of Manhattan into giving you what you want, but not me.”
Fran’s smile faded. Her voice dropped.
“I don’t flirt my way through deals. I fight for them. I’m a good producer. Take it back.”
“Absolutely bloody not. You just tried to take your shirt off.”
“You said it was your shirt.”
He said nothing. But his hands curled into fists at his sides.
She took a step forward, chest rising.
“God, you’re so boring.”
“You’re obnoxious.”
“And you will never find the courage to do something bold.”
At that, something snapped. He moved before he could think, one hand at her waist, the other gripping the back of her head. Her hair tangled in his fingers as he yanked her forward and kissed her.
She opened for him instantly, moaning into his mouth, a hit of relief that he had cracked first. Her hands moved under his shirt, nails scraped up his back, dragging a groan from deep in his chest. It only made her hungrier. Curious.
His mouth left hers only to trail down her jaw, then lower. His tongue dragged along her throat, teeth scraping her collarbone. He wasn’t gentle. Didn’t think about the marks he might leave. He bit until her skin would bruise. Some dark part of him wanted her to protest.
Her laugh hitched, but she tilted her head back, offering more of her neck. “That's all you got, Mr. Sheffield?”
He stripped her shirt off in one rough motion and tossed it behind him. Black lace against flushed skin and shallow breath knocked something loose in his chest.
He needed to taste every inch of her. He needed to pour all of it somewhere: the frustration, the hunger, the guilt lodged under his skin.
His mouth followed immediately. Kissed the top edge. Then lower. Hands slid beneath the cups and dragged upward, brushing over soft warmth, catching on hardened peaks that made him groan low in his throat.
She gasped and arched into him, one leg curling tighter around his hip.
He lifted her, both hands firm beneath her thighs, and set her down on the desk. She didn’t resist. Her legs only tightened around him, fingers back in his hair, lips brushing the shell of his ear, biting his lobe.
“You’re full of surprises,” she murmured.
He leaned in, dragging his tongue down her chest. He circled her nipple with his tongue until it stiffened, then took it in his mouth. Swirled, sucked, bit just enough to make her hiss. The sound spurred on his desire to keep pushing her.
He moved to the other breast and repeated it, his free hand gripping her hip as he ground into her.
He pulled back to look at her. Her eyes were dark. Her neck was marked red and purple.
Without a word, he dropped to his knees.
Fran’s breath hitched. “What are you—”
He didn’t answer. Just hooked his fingers into her underwear, dragged the lace aside, wrapped one arm around her thigh, and pressed his mouth to her.
The question died in her throat.
His tongue dragged up the length of her. Slow. Hot. Flattened, then sharpened to a point. It flicked, circled, never direct. Not yet.
Her back arched. Her hand slid into his hair.
“Oh,” was all she managed.
He sealed his lips around her clit and sucked, starting soft, listening and feeling how her body reacted. As she melted into it, he gradually increased the pressure, pushing until he found the edge of her sensitivity.
Then he pulled back. The tip of his tongue traced slow, maddening circles. Her thighs pulsed. His hands moved fast, pinning her in place.
She gasped. Her body tensed, sinking into him on instinct. She tried to match his pace. Tried to grind. Find control.
But he held it.
She shifted. Squirmed. Tried to make him follow her rhythm. Tried to ride his mouth the way she needed.
He denied every move.
Every time she adjusted, he countered. He read her like a script and rewrote it on the fly. Always adjusting. Always commanding. Always just ahead.
And always just shy of letting her fall.
Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, his mouth eased off. His hand slid between them. One finger brushed over her clit, circling slowly. Then it dipped lower, teasing her entrance before sliding in. A second followed.
Her gasp broke on a moan. The stretch was sudden, full, and perfect.
He didn’t rush. Just curled his fingers deep and steady until her body clenched around the pressure. Then his mouth returned, tongue flattened, matching the rhythm and driving her higher with each stroke.
His mouth never let up. Tongue dragging, circling, and flicking. She could barely breathe.
The need coiled tight in her stomach, but the edge stayed just out of reach. He was holding her there. Drawing it out. He wouldn’t let her lose control until he decided she could.
And she hated how good it felt.
“You,” she gasped, her voice broken by breath, “are such an arrogant—”
He looked up. Lips wet. Eyes gleaming.
“Still talking?”
Then he went back in, tongue rough and slow at first before locking into that merciless rhythm again. He moaned into her, his tongue flattened, letting her hear and feel how much he was savoring her.
Whatever she had meant to say collapsed into a sound that wasn’t a word.
She yanked his hair hard. He grunted as she pulled him up by the roots, his mouth dragging off her as she brought his face back to hers, fast, breathless, and needy. She kissed him, lips parting on contact. His tongue slid past hers, coaxing her to taste herself on him. Their mouths met, and she caught it. Her own body fed back to her. It was wrong, especially coming from him, and that only made her open wider.
Her voice was low and ragged. “Get inside me.”
Her hand slid between them, cupping him through his boxers. She rubbed along the length of him with her palm, watching his breath hitch.
Then she leaned in, lips brushing his throat, teeth scraping gently until he growled low in response.
Without breaking eye contact, she slipped her hand beneath the waistband and freed him. No teasing. Just the smooth drag of fingers over hard skin.
She wrapped her hand around him, grip steady, and let her thumb glide over the tip. His body twitched.
He was already wet. She used it, gathering the pre-cum with the pad of her finger and dragging it down the underside before circling the head.
Her grip tightened. Her mouth hovered near his ear.
“Still smug?” she whispered.
He grabbed her wrist, shoved her hand away, and stripped off his boxers in one motion. Then he was between her thighs again, gripping her hips, holding her steady.
She didn’t resist. One leg hooked around his waist, pulling him in.
He took himself in hand and dragged the tip against her. Up. Down. Around her clit. Then nudged in—just a little—before pulling back.
She groaned, frustrated. Her nails raked down his back.
“Don’t be gentle,” she whispered, biting at his neck.
That was all it took.
He drove into her with one sharp thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Her head fell back with a broken sound, hands clutching at his shoulders as he set the pace.
There was nothing soft in it.
She met every thrust, just as desperate. Her legs tightened. Her fingers scrambled across his back like she couldn’t hold on hard enough.
He leaned in, their foreheads touching. His spine was slick with sweat. But his eyes stayed on hers. He needed more.
“Say it,” he muttered.
She didn’t pause.
“Harder.”
He adjusted his grip and drove into her, pushing her back across the desk with each thrust. Her cries spilled out, raw and unchecked. Her words were gone, torn from her throat with every breath.
He could feel her tightening, squeezing around him, her body seconds from giving out.
Her head fell back. He angled deeper. And there, her breath caught.
His hand slid up to her throat, holding her in place as she broke apart beneath him, his fingers digging blindly into the purple marks he’d already left there. Claiming her.
She shattered.
Her whole body jerked. Legs trembled. Back arched. She clung to him as he kept going, grinding her through every wave, every aftershock, with deep, punishing thrusts.
Only when her muscles began twitching from oversensitivity did he let himself go.
His hands gripped her hips tightly. He thrust once. Then again. Deep. Fast. Burying every inch.
He came hard inside her, his body jerking, then going still as a harsh, broken breath escaped against her skin.
He stayed like that for a moment. Stunned.
The guilt started creeping in.
His chest rose and fell against hers, hands still firm on her thighs.
She wasn’t letting go either.
His pulse began to slow, and in the silence that followed, his thoughts finally caught up. The full weight of it. What had just happened. What he had done. What he had started.
Inside the woman he claimed to loathe. Does loathe.
His jaw tightened. The feel of her beneath his hands suddenly felt wrong. Like the unwelcome touch from a stranger in a bar.
He started to pull away.
“Not yet,” she said.
It wasn’t a demand. But it stopped him cold.
Her voice was hoarse, soft, almost reverent. Like, even she didn’t want the moment to end. Like the last thing she wanted was to feel him leave her.
And that made it worse.
He swallowed hard, still not moving. Her warmth clung to him, wrapped around him.
The seconds ticked by.
Then, quietly, he asked again, “Can I now?”
Not harsh. Not cruel. Just stripped of the intimacy he might have given any other lover.
She nodded.
He slid out slowly. The moment he did, her body sagged forward, like the connection had been the only thing holding her up. Her breath hitched, caught between relief and something that felt uncomfortably like loss.
His hands dropped away.
He stepped back.
And immediately reached for his clothes.
They dressed in silence. Only the faint rustle of fabric, the scrape of a zipper, and his muttered curse when he clipped himself filled the air. Her hair was a mess. His shirt hung open.
Fran tugged on her shorts and smoothed down her top.
“You know,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “for a man who hates modern theatre, that was very… off book. I like this side of you, Mr. Sheffield.”
Maxwell didn’t respond.
Still by his desk, he looked hollow. Guilt was drawn tight across his features. Shame crowded out anything else.
“This never happened,” he said at last.
Fran snorted. “Sure it didn’t.”
“Miss Fine,” he said, flat and clipped, “this meant nothing. I still find you, both professionally and personally, deeply insufferable.”
She turned, one brow lifting. “Interesting. You didn’t seem so put off by the taste of me when you were between my legs.”
He shut his eyes. Pressed his fingers to his temple like he could force the memory out—or at least stop the fresh wave of arousal that followed it.
She stood there in his shirt, hair tangled where he’d pulled it, skin flushed, lips bitten.
“This was,” he tried again, “an impulse. An itch. It’s been scratched. We move on.”
Fran stepped closer. Then again. She perched on the edge of his desk, right between his legs, and looked up at him with a calm face.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” he said. It came out hoarse.
She gave a breezy shrug. “Alright then.” She slipped off the desk, crossed the room, and grabbed her purse and heels.
At the door, she paused. “Can I swing by tomorrow? Thought we could start looking at casting.”
“No, my ki—” He caught himself. His jaw flexed. “No. Let’s meet at the theatre. I’ll call.”
She gave a little wave and disappeared down the hall.
“See-ya, partner!”
Maxwell stayed where he was. Then slowly sank into his chair.
There was no escaping it. Not when the room still smelled like her.
And she hadn’t taken a single thing with her.