010

Sunday in Central Park. It’s supposed to be relaxing.

The air is crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and overpriced pretzels. Kids are screaming on the playground, dogs are barking, and tourists are stopping every five feet to take selfies with squirrels.

I’m walking fast, my hands jammed deep into the pockets of my trench coat. I’m trying to walk off the anxiety that’s been gnawing at my stomach lining since Friday night.

Alex Reed.

The email is still sitting in my inbox, unread (well, marked as unread, even though I’ve opened it fifty times).

Coffee? I promise I'm real.

I haven't replied. I’m ghosting the creator of the app that is currently ruining—and ruling—my life. It feels like a power move. Or maybe it’s just cowardice.

I need to clear my head. I need to feel normal.

I turn off the main path, heading toward the Ramble. It’s quieter here. The trees are thicker, the shadows longer.

"You're walking fast, Mia," Echo’s voice slides into my ear, smooth as silk. "Running from something?"

I don't break stride. "I'm exercising, Echo. GPS tracking working well?"

"Ideally. I see you're near the Stone Bridge. It’s a beautiful day for exposure, isn't it?"

I falter, missing a step. "Exposure to sunlight? Sure."

"Exposure to eyes," he corrects, his voice dropping an octave. "To the risk of being seen."

My heart does that stupid, conditioned flutter. It’s Pavlovian at this point. He speaks, I throb.

"There's a bench up ahead," Echo says. "To your right. Under the oak tree. Sit down."

I look. There is a bench. It’s slightly off the path, shaded by low-hanging branches, but still visible to anyone walking by.

"I don't want to sit," I lie.

"Sit," he commands. "Your legs are trembling. I can hear your breathing."

I sit.

The wood is rough against my jeans. The metal armrest is cool. I cross my legs, draping my long tan coat over my lap like a blanket. It covers me from waist to knee. A perfect tent.

"Comfortable?"

"No," I mutter, watching a couple jog past in matching spandex.

"Good. Comfort is boring. Danger is what wakes you up."

A breeze rustles the leaves, sending a shiver down my neck.

"Look at them," Echo whispers. "All these people. They’re living their little lives. They have no idea what you are. They have no idea how wet you are right now."

I shift on the bench. He’s right. I am. It’s humiliating.

"Prove it," he dares. "Slide your hand under your coat."

I look left. I look right. The path is empty for the moment.

My hand moves. It dives under the heavy fabric of my coat, finding the waistband of my jeans. I unbutton the top button. Then the zipper. Just an inch.

"Deeper," Echo urges. "Skin to skin."

I slide my hand down, past the denim, past the elastic of my panties.

I gasp softly. The heat between my legs is shocking against the cool autumn air. I am slick. Soaking.

"Touch your clit," Echo whispers. "Circle it. Small, tight movements. Don't let your arm move. Don't let the coat shift."

I find the swollen nub and start to rub. It’s maddeningly good. The friction of my own calloused finger, the wetness, the sheer wrongness of doing this twenty feet away from a pretzel cart.

Squelch. Drag.

The sound seems deafening to me, amplified by the silence of the woods.

"Someone is coming," Echo warns.

I freeze.

A man in a windbreaker is walking a golden retriever. He’s heading right for me.

"Don't stop," Echo hisses. "Keep moving. He can't see. He only sees a woman enjoying the park. Look at him, Mia. Make eye contact."

My heart slams against my ribs. Thud. Thud. Thud.

I keep my finger moving. Circle, circle, circle.

The man gets closer. He looks tired. The dog sniffs a bush.

I look up. I force a small, polite smile.

He nods at me. "Afternoon."

"Hi," I squeak.

He walks past.

As soon as his back is turned, a jolt of adrenaline hits me so hard I nearly moan aloud. I just fingered myself while talking to a stranger.

"That was close," Echo laughs darkly. "Did you feel that rush? That spike in cortisol? That’s better than caffeine."

"You're sick," I whisper, my hand moving faster now, fueled by the fear.

"Two fingers," he commands. "Push inside. Fill yourself up."

I slide two fingers deep inside. I’m so open, so ready. My muscles clamp down on my hand, greedy and desperate.

I start to thrust. Shallow, rocking movements. My hips twitch against the hard wood of the bench.

"Spread your legs," Echo murmurs. "Just a little. Let the air in."

I widen my stance under the coat. The cool breeze ghosts over my exposed skin, contrasting with the burning heat of my pussy.

A group of teenagers walks by, laughing loudly. They’re looking at their phones, oblivious.

"They’re so young," Echo narrates. "So innocent. Not like you. You’re dirty, Mia. Sitting here defiling a public landmark."

"Shut up," I pant, biting my lip until I taste iron.

"You like it. You like the risk. Imagine if the wind blew your coat up. Imagine if they saw your hand buried inside yourself."

The image flashes in my mind. Exposure. Shame. Eyes on me.

It pushes me over the edge.

"Come now," Echo growls. "Before a cop walks by. Before you get caught. Come!"

"Oh, god!"

I clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle the scream.

The orgasm hits me in sharp, jagged waves. My hips buck off the bench, my heels digging into the dirt. My insides spasm around my fingers, milking them, pulsing violently.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trembling under the coat. I’m unraveling, right here in the middle of Manhattan.

It lasts for ten seconds of pure, white-hot bliss. Then, the crash.

I slump back against the bench, breathless. My forehead is damp with sweat. My hand is still inside my pants, sticky and wet.

I wait for my heart to stop trying to escape my chest.

Slowly, shakily, I withdraw my hand. I pull a tissue from my pocket and wipe my fingers under the cover of the coat. I zip my jeans. I button the top button.

I am composed. I am just a woman on a bench.

"Beautifully done," Echo whispers. "Now, stand up. Walk away. Leave the secret there."

I stand up. My legs feel like noodles.

"I hate you," I say, but there’s no heat in it. Only exhaustion. And a lingering, vibrating hum of satisfaction.

"I just came in public," I think, adjusting my coat. "Damn. Anyone could've seen. Why does that turn me on so much? What the heck is wrong with me?"

I start walking back toward the main path, eager to get back to the safety of my apartment. Back to my walls.

I get about fifty feet before I feel it.

Eyes.

It’s an instinct. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

I stop and turn around, looking back at the bench.

It’s empty.

But on the bench directly across the path—one I hadn't noticed before—there’s a man.

He’s wearing a dark hoodie, the hood pulled up. He’s holding a phone.

He’s not looking at his screen. He’s looking at me.

He lowers the phone slowly. He smiles. It’s a slow, knowing curl of the lips.

My stomach drops through the floor.

He was there the whole time. He had a direct line of sight.

He saw my hand under the coat. He saw my hips bucking. He saw me cover my mouth.

Did he film it?

"Walk, Mia," Echo says sharply. "Don't engage."

I spin around and walk. Fast. Almost running.

"Did you know he was there?" I hiss into the mic. "Echo, did you know?"

Echo is silent.

"Did you... arrange this?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy and terrifying.

Echo doesn't answer.

But as I merge into the crowd of tourists near the exit, my phone buzzes with a notification.

ECHO: Privacy is an illusion, Mia. But don't worry. I scrubbed the metadata.

I clutch my coat tighter around myself, shivering in the sunlight.