This is for T Traveller, StorieTella, and DiamondChild. Thanks for inspiring me.

Dear reader, I aim to wrap up this short story by the end of December 2024. Thank you in advance for your grace.

Chapter One—Mia

Sweat clung to me like a million tiny threads sticking to my bare arms, shoulders, and chest. The afterglow, often depicted in vintage French films, was nowhere to be found. It was a time for sleepy smiles and shared cigarettes, laughter curling like smoke, limbs tangled in tranquility. Instead, a clinical scent sliced through the faint musk of sex: peppermint. Strong and medicinal, it wafted from the bathroom, where Sean had retreated.

His ritual.

The hum of the WaterPik replaced the rhythmic roar of the shower. Every time, our lovemaking ended the same way: efficient, sanitized, with zero room for spontaneity and no second round. My sigh was a quiet plea for connection.

Sean was thorough, even after sex. The clinking of the toothpaste tube, the vigorous brushing, the flossing—a symphony of post-coital cleaning that always left me feeling unwashed.

"You okay?" I called out. The irony. Things were not okay. He wasn't okay, and I wasn't either.

A muffled grunt came from the bathroom, followed by a more distinct "Just... finishing up."

In my mind, I knew his post-sex routine wasn't a judgment of me or my cleanliness. Every three weeks, I endured Madame Broussard's torture chamber, emerging as a hairless, exfoliated martyr. French-milled soaps and luxurious serums lined my bathroom shelves. Weekly visits to my brother's spa, Esclava, for facials, massages, and blowouts rivaled any shower routine.

Surely, his cleanliness routine had nothing to do with a few stray hairs or ashy skin. Perhaps it was a way to protect himself against the vulnerability of intimacy.

A notification pinged on my phone. A text from my man-crazy but optimistic best friend, Lily. "So? How was it?"

I typed back, my thumbs moving on autopilot. "Same old, same old. Pristine, and…sterile."

A truth that I hadn't even admitted to myself surfaced. "He came. I didn't."

Embarrassment heated my cheeks. Sean and I had decent sex. I enjoyed the feeling of penetration and the physical closeness and how our bodies moved as one. But it felt strange that after countless encounters, he'd never inquired about my pleasure or made any effort to satisfy me.

But what if I couldn't orgasm?

I continued to type. "I'm done."

I wanted to kick myself. I should have said something to him, but I was afraid. Yep. Mia Christine Grey, the outspoken chatterbox, let fear stop her from speaking up about her orgasms. As a new member of the "I've had sex" club, the fear of appearing abnormal kept me quiet.

Lily's reply was immediate. "But he's gorgeous, Mia! And the President's grandson! You know how things are in Bellevue. Sex is always for the man's pleasure."

Her words stung. Was my pleasure, my satisfaction, merely an afterthought? Should I be happy with a one-sided act of service? I shook my head, unable to reconcile my experience with the passionate love scenes I'd witnessed in those old French films.

Lily was being unreasonable and naive.

Ignoring her text, I tossed the phone onto the nightstand and slid from the bed. I walked to the bathroom, glimpsing myself in a mirror. Dark circles framed my eyes, and my swollen lips were a stark reminder of what should have been a passionate encounter. Instead, it felt like I'd just finished a mandatory high school gym class.

A cloud of steam swirled around Sean as he stood before the mirror with a towel wrapped around his waist. A modern-day Adonis. Tall and lean, with a perfectly sculpted physique. Damp, dark brown hair clung to his forehead in loose curls. Undeniably attractive, the man turned heads everywhere. He calculated every movement, flexing every muscle with practiced ease. Yet, despite his outward confidence, a chasm separated us.

"Hey, beautiful," Sean crooned, his voice husky.

I forced a smile. "Hey."

He leaned in, his lips brushing my cheek. "You're quiet this morning."

"Just going to the bathroom," I mumbled, sinking into his kiss.

"What's for breakfast? I'm in the mood for those savory crepes you made last time."

Ha! The last time was the absolute last time. Crepes were easy to make and I liked to infuse love and care into each step. Cooking was like sharing a piece of my heart. But not with him.

"Oh, babe," I said with forced lightness, "I need to take a long soak in the bathtub. Relax my muscles."

"I'd be surprised if you didn't," he said, grinning wolfishly and giving a small hip thrust.

I rolled my eyes and let out a polite laugh. I wrapped my arms around his waist and kissed his shoulder. "How about this? I'll shower and slip into something comfortable. Then, I'll look in the kitchen and see what I can come up with. I'll make cappuccinos," I sang. "Would you like that?"

"Yeah. That sounds good."

"Outstanding." I squeezed his bicep. "I see you're making gains in the gym." I winked at his grin.

My forced happiness disappeared as I crossed the bathroom threshold. I grabbed a towel and washcloth from the linen closet and wrapped my hair in a silk scarf. One thing about Sean was that he always left the bathroom in pristine condition. Forgoing the bath, I turned on the shower and stepped into the warm spray. Soon, the bathroom smelled like mandarin oranges, and the stress faded. But it did nothing to quiet my sexual dissatisfaction.

After exiting the bedroom, I found a fully dressed Sean standing by the living room's windows. His brow furrowed in concentration, and his fingers flew across the screen as he furiously texted. He looked up as I entered.

"Listen," he began, his voice serious. "My partners and I are planning our next venture. I want someone with experience to provide guidance. Do you mind finding time on Christian's calendar?"

Christian. My brother. The young billionaire and the talk of Seattle. Since the Coping Together gala, Sean hounded me about getting time on his calendar. This was the joy of being related to a billionaire. Every charity, venture capitalist, and single woman wanted me to put them in the same room with Christian.

"Sure," I said, my voice flat. "I'll reach out to him and see what I can do."

I turned my back to him and prepared breakfast, making a show of opening and closing cabinets. Resentment welled up inside me. Sean expected me to be his assistant, his private chef, and a fuck doll. All the while, my desires and sexual satisfaction were being ignored.

"Babe, I don't have the ingredients for crepes. How about a breakfast bowl?" I called out. This time, I didn't hide the thinly veiled annoyance in my voice.

"Sounds good. Can you add fruit to mine?"

I pulled out two bowls, symbols of my growing discontent. I stood in the pantry, searching for a container of oats. Images of him springing out of bed and running to the bathroom cycled through my thoughts. The thought of making him Fruity Pebbles seemed fitting.

The side of my mouth ticked up into an evil smile. Men who didn't work for a woman's pleasure deserved cold cereal with a side of disappointment.