Part 2

She doesn’t remember exhaling, only the sensation of stepping forward—crossing the invisible boundary between hesitation and certainty. The soft click of the door closing behind her feels final, yet nothing has truly begun. The dimly lit suite is warm, casting long shadows across polished wood and deep leather. Outside, the sounds of the French Quarter pulse beneath the balcony, distant and unimportant. Inside, the air is charged, expectant.

He doesn’t rush her. Doesn’t reach for her. He watches, waiting for her to settle into the moment, to realize she is not here for him—she is here for herself.

“Drink?” he offers, his voice smooth, edged with something she can’t quite name.

She nods, needing a moment, needing something to hold, something to ground her. He pours, handing her a glass, his fingers brushing hers for the first time. The brief contact is electric, sending a quiet shiver down her spine. He notices. He sees everything.

“Tell me,” he says, leaning back in his chair, the picture of quiet control. “Why did you come?”

She hesitates, then exhales a small, shaky laugh. “You already know.”

He tilts his head, considering her. “I know what I see. I know what you’ve hinted at. But I want to hear you say it.”

Her pulse quickens. It’s not an easy answer, not something she can summarize in a single breath. Because it’s not just about the thrill, not just about desire. It’s about surrender—not to him, but to herself. To the part of her that has always wondered, always ached for something she couldn’t quite define. And now, here she is, standing on the edge of it, knowing that once she steps forward, there will be no turning back—not to who she was before.

“I wanted to see,” she finally says, her voice barely above a whisper. “What it would feel like… to let go.”

A slow smile tugs at the corner of his lips, approval flickering in his dark eyes. “Then let’s begin.”

He doesn’t move toward her. He doesn’t have to.

She’s already moving toward him.

NOLA