You're the One I Moan for in My Head
She feels a faintly warm draft on her face as she enters the loft. Dim light from the skyscrapers bleeds through the tall windows, casting fractured lines across the honey-toned wooden floor.
Donna lets the door close behind her, the sound soft yet sharp in the stillness of the night. The place smells of cedarwood and bergamot from the diffuser, familiar but somehow not comforting tonight. Not with her pulse still thrumming from earlier.
As she steps further into the open space, she spots her boyfriend, sprawled comfortably on the deep gray sofa, thumbing through a script.
He looks up the moment the door clicks shut, his voice drifting towards her, low and easy. "Hey. Finally," he says, closing the script and resting it on his chest. "How was dinner?"
His eyes, warm and attentive, flick over her, maybe looking for signs of tension, or the storm he believes always brews around her when it comes to Harvey. Then he flashes her a smile. "Did Harvey behave himself?"
A rush of heat pulses low in her belly at the sound of that name. Images flash—Harvey's eyes, dark as sin, fixed on her as she spread her legs beneath the tablecloth. The slow, languid slide of her fingers as she worked her pussy in full view of him. She almost smirks at the memory, but she catches herself, slipping easily into the role of the composed girlfriend.
Her lips curl into a pleasant smile as she crosses the room, loosening the tie of her trench coat and letting it slip from her shoulders. Beneath, her dress clings to her like a second skin, the hem riding just high enough to tease.
She feels Mitchell's stare before she sees it, and when she does, she returns the look, her eyes drifting over his golden-tanned skin, his sculpted shoulders and muscular arms.
"You're late… so it wasn't a disaster, then?"
Instead of answering, Donna leans in, her mouth finding his in a kiss that's slow and deliberate, designed to short-circuit his curiosity. Her fingers skim his jaw, holding him in place just long enough to deepen the distraction. When she pulls back, her eyes sparkle with carefully crafted nonchalance.
"Dinner was…" She pauses, her gaze slipping over him like silk. "Predictable," she finally says. "He's as insufferable as ever."
Mitchell gives a short laugh, seemingly satisfied. He stretches out on the sofa, script abandoned, his guard dropping a notch beneath her touch.
Donna seizes the moment, straddling his lap casually, looping her arms around his neck, as if she were easing into comfort. But in truth, her mind races. Her panties are still damp, slick from her risky stunt with Harvey. One wrong move, and Mitchell's hands will find undeniable evidence of her earlier indiscretion. She can't have that.
"You know," she purrs, her lips brushing his ear, "I was thinking…" Her voice drops to a sultry whisper. "We both could use a shower." Her fingers toy with the collar of his shirt, teasingly unfastening a button. "I've missed you today."
A slow smile tugs at Mitchell's lips as he cocks a brow, intrigue dancing in his gaze. "Really? You sure you're not too tired from battling with Harvey all night?"
Donna chuckles softly. "Oh, I'm not tired," she promises, her tone pure velvet. Pure seduction. "But I am in desperate need of washing the studio politics off me." And washing off the scent of her own arousal, she thinks grimly, though her smile never wavers.
He brushes her hair back so he can nip and nibble his way up her throat, his strong hands kneading her butt through her dress. Donna moans lowly, her eyes closing at the thrill of him kissing behind her ear. He takes her earlobe in his teeth and murmurs, "After you, baby."
Without missing a beat, she slips out of his lap and pulls him up from the sofa, and Mitchell follows her lead like a moth to flame.
As they move toward the bathroom, passing one of the giant erotic impressionist paintings on the second floor, one that's somewhat connected to him, Donna's mind drifts off once more.
Two men. One she tamed long ago, kept safe and predictable in her life. The other? The other sets fire beneath her skin with a single glance.
•••
Steam begins to rise as water thunders against the stone tiles, fogging the wide glass panels of the shower enclosure. Donna adjusts the temperature, ensuring it's just shy of scalding.
Mitchell's hands find her waist from behind, his lips brushing the slope of her neck as she slips free of her dress. It falls to the floor in a silken puddle, leaving her bare to the humid air and his hungry gaze.
"Missed this," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
Smiling softly, Donna steps into the shower first, the hot spray cascading over her skin, washing away remnants of the evening—the sweat of desire, the ghosts of Harvey's smoldering stare. Water beads on her collarbone and trails lower, over the lingering evidence of her recklessness.
Mitchell follows, sliding the door closed behind him with a low grunt of appreciation. His hands smooth along her slick skin, tracing her hips, her thighs, dangerously close to where she still feels the aftershocks of her earlier mischief.
She tilts her head back, letting the water soak her hair as she guides his hands higher, away from where they might discover too much. Her fingers tangle in his wet curls, pulling him in for a kiss that's both a distraction and a deflection. Hot, wet, and consuming.
She kisses him as if she means it. And maybe, for a fleeting moment, she does. But beneath the press of mouths and the slide of hands, her mind betrays her. Because Harvey's there—the rough scrape of his voice, the challenge in his smirk, the electric charge when he caught her in the act across that intimate dinner table.
Donna inhales sharply, the thought threading heat through her veins. Mitchell mistakes it for desire, deepening the kiss, pressing her back against the cool glass wall.
"Someone's impatient tonight," he teases, lips trailing down her throat.
No, Donna thinks, almost breathless with her inner conflict. Not impatient. Cautious.
"Maybe I am," she purrs aloud, wrapping her leg around his waist, keeping him occupied, focused on her rhythm rather than his curiosity.
The shower's mist clings to her lashes as she lets herself sink into the moment, not for pleasure, but for preservation. She needs the illusion. To hold on. To stay in control. And Mitchell, unlike Harvey, makes it effortless. With him, control is easy. Predictable. Safe.
Donna presses her lips to his ear, her voice a low, commanding whisper. "Focus on me," she says, almost as much to herself as to him. And he does. Eagerly, blindly. Exactly as she needs.
As Mitchell's hips drive into her with force, Donna clings to him, her nails digging deep into his back, leaving red trails in their wake. "Harder," she pants, breath hot against his skin. "Don't stop… please, harder."
With a growl of effort, he adjusts his grip, one hand firm beneath her ass as the other braces against the tile. He obeys without question, his thrusts growing rougher, more frenzied. The slap of wet skin against wet skin echoes sharply in the steamy shower, each motion pushing her higher, dragging her closer to the edge.
Her head lolls back, eyes fluttering shut as a choked moan escapes her lips. Her body arches against him, craving more, needing more. Every nerve feels raw, electric, but the man she sees behind her eyelids isn't the one inside her.
Her breath catches, heart skipping. But she lets it happen, lets him fill her mind, lets the fantasy bleed into reality. It's Harvey's broad shoulders in front of her, Harvey's mouth hot and demanding against her throat, whispering filth against her skin, Harvey's cock slamming into her, deep and unrelenting, claiming her like she's his and only his.
She squeezes her eyes tighter, biting back a cry as her orgasm crests. It crashes through her like a fucking tsunami, spine arching, muscles clenching around Mitchell—no, Harvey—as shockwaves roll through her body.
Mitchell groans her name into her neck, his own release following fast and hard, his body shuddering with each final thrust. He slumps against her, breathing hard, utterly spent. But even as the tremors fade and their bodies still, her mind stays locked on the man who isn't there.
She opens her eyes, blinking away the haze. Reality settles back in with the weight of her boyfriend's touch and the steady thrum of water. She exhales slowly, hands smoothing down his back, soft now where they were once clawing.
"You okay?" he murmurs, voice rough, lips brushing against her temple.
She nods before she speaks. "Yeah. Just… a lot."
Mitchell pulls back slightly, offering a crooked, satisfied smile. "Good kind of a lot?"
Donna forces a small smirk in return, the kind she's mastered, a mask that gives nothing away. "Yeah," she lies, kissing him lightly. "Definitely."
He reaches for the faucet, twisting the handle until the water sputters to a stop. Without a word, he lifts her again, arms steady, and she lets him. Lets him carry her, even as the ache between her legs still pulses with phantom memories that don't belong to him.
Back in the bedroom, the sheets are cool against her damp skin. Mitchell lowers her gently, his hands gliding over her thighs before joining her in bed. He slides in close, pressing warm kisses along her shoulder, up to her jaw. He's still in it, still connected, still trying. God, this isn't fair! She shouldn't be thinking of another man. Not like this.
Donna threads her fingers through his damp hair, offering a soft smile. He's so good to her. The perfect man, really. But she doesn't want him. Not enough. And she knows it. She has to end this—eventually. If only she knew how. It'll break his heart.
"You know I love you, right?"
Just not like that.
He leans in, chuckling against her skin as he trails kisses along her neck. "I love you too," he murmurs.
As they go to sleep later, Donna imagines a different set of arms pulling her close. A deeper voice whispering her name in the dark. A strange pair of lips grazing her neck, then finding that spot just beneath her ear, the one he's never touched but somehow knows is her weakness.
A shiver rolls down her spine, subtle but undeniably exquisite, as goosebumps break out across her skin as if summoned by a ghost of a touch. Even in the stillness, her body betrays her, responding to a presence that no longer exists.
Her breath hitches, but she masks it. Smiles through it. Because for now, she still belongs to Mitchell... even if, in her mind, she's already gone.