Chapter 2: Double Lives Collide

The SoHo café smelled like fresh coffee and cool dreams. It had bare brick walls and odd chairs, and the baristas were covered in tattoos like walking art. I got there early, and I was buzzing from black coffee and the high from last night’s two fucks. Cara’s taste still stuck faint on my skin, even after all the showers I took. But Lana’s text? That was the wild card, and it was the itch I couldn’t scratch yet.

She walked in five minutes late, with hair messed by wind and a smile that hit like a big shot of alcohol. Her jeans hugged her ass just right, and her sweater slipped off one shoulder with no bra strap showing. It was a quiet tease or just easy style. She was in her early twenties, all fresh-faced spark, and nothing like Cara’s sharp polish. “Cole! Sorry—the subway was total bullshit.”

“No sweat.” I stood up, pulled her into a hug that lasted a beat too long, and she smelled like vanilla and rain while she pressed soft against my chest. We sat down as our knees were brushing under the tiny table, and we ordered lattes like it was our new habit.

Talk flowed easy, and art came first with my latest painting as the hook. “It’s this woman owning the skyline,” I said, and I sketched it rough on a napkin. “Power, but… breakable.”

Her eyes lit up, she leaned in close, and she said, “Love that. I’m deep in my school paper on green energy, and it’s about fighting the big companies that screw the planet for cash.” Passion filled her words, her cheeks turned pink, and she had no fake rich girl act even if her dad’s money was huge. Victor Hale—I’d looked him up last night. He was a tech king and tabloid star.

We laughed over bad dates and shared fight stories from life. Then she sighed, stirred her latte, and said, “Family’s a mess. Dad’s great, but my mom? She ghosted us after the split. She took half his stuff and vanished to ‘find herself.’ She was a money-grabbing cold bitch, and I haven’t heard from her since I was sixteen.”

My gut twisted hard, like a big choice was coming, but Cara? Nah, just chance. The timeline fit though—mid-forties now, and that nasty divorce splash. I swallowed, kept it chill, and said, “Harsh. Sounds like she missed out big.”

Lana shrugged, her blue eyes got stormy, and she said, “Whatever. It made me tougher, and I got no room for users in my life.” Her foot nudged mine under the table on purpose, a spark jumped that was electric and new.

Hours passed, we switched from coffee to wine at a dive bar next door, her hand rested on my arm, and our laughs turned low and heavy. “Your place close?” I asked, but my voice came out rougher than I meant.

“Loft, two blocks away. Walk with me?”

We spilled out onto the street, her fingers laced with mine, and she pulled me into an alley for a kiss that started soft. Lips tested each other, breath was minty, but then it crashed hard. Our tongues tangled, her back hit the brick, my hands fisted her sweater, and she tasted like freedom. She nipped my lip and moaned soft when I ground against her.

“Upstairs,” she gasped, dragged me to her building, and we hit the fourth floor with creaky stairs. The door barely shut before clothes hit the floor. Her loft was chaos—books stacked high, fairy lights strung up, and a bed shoved in the corner under skylights. No marble floors, no city view—just real, raw life.

She shoved me down, straddled my lap, but it wasn’t bossing me around. It was equal and hungry. “Want you,” she whispered, ground on my hardening dick through my boxers, and her tits were smaller than Cara’s. They were perfect handfuls with pink nipples begging for touch. I sucked one, rolled it on my tongue, and her head fell back with a whine.

“Fuck, Cole…” She yanked my hair, but not to pull—it was guiding me. I flipped us over, took her jeans off, and her thong was soaked dark. I spread her thighs, dove in with no games, and ate her pussy like I was starved. It was sweet and tangy, her clit swelled under my tongue, and she bucked hard. Her fingers twisted the sheets with no orders—just pleas. “Yes—oh God—right there.”

I fingered her slow, curled deep inside, and watched her face twist. Her eyes squeezed shut, lips bitten raw, but she came fast. Her thighs clamped my head, she flooded my mouth with a cry that echoed off the bare beams, and she pulled me up for a sloppy kiss. She tasted herself on me and said, “Inside me. Now.”

Condom from her drawer—smart girl—rolled on quick. She guided me in, wet heat swallowed my cock inch by inch, and it was tight with a velvet grip. It was nothing like Cara’s trained squeeze. We moved together, her nails on my back were lighter and testing, missionary turned to her on top, and she rode slow with eyes locked. It was open and real. “You feel… so good,” she breathed, rolled her hips in circles that hit deep.

I gripped her ass, thrust up hard, and the bed creaked under us. Sweat slicked our skin, her hair covered my face as she leaned down for a messy kiss. No power games, just perfect match—her gasps hit with my groans, and it built like a wave. She clenched tight, shattered again, and pulled me with her. I came hard, buried deep, vision spotted, and her name rumbled in my chest.

We collapsed tangled and panting, her head on my shoulder, and she said, “That was…” She trailed off, traced my tattoos—cheap ink from college days, stories she wanted later.

“Round one,” I joked, kissed her forehead, and we stayed tangled till dusk. We fucked twice more—lazy spooning from behind with her ass pressed back; then against the wall, quick and wild before the shower. Water ran hot, she soaped my dick till I got hard again, dropped to her knees for a suck, and it ended with cum on her tits. She laughed as it dripped down.

We dressed by nightfall, she wore my hoodie—too big and cute as hell. “Dinner? Or…?”

“Rain check,” I said, but guilt gnawed light inside. Cara’s text burned in my pocket: My place at 8 PM. Don’t be late. “Work shit.”

She pouted playful, kissed me deep, and said, “Tomorrow, then. Text me.”

I did, sent a—Can’t stop thinking about you—on the subway back, and my dick stayed half-hard from the memories. Brooklyn lights flickered, my studio was a quick stop for clean clothes, and I grabbed a cab to Cara’s by seven-fifty. My heart pounded double-time.

The penthouse door clicked open, she stood there in black lace lingerie and heels that screamed fuck me. “You’re late,” she purred, but her eyes narrowed like she sensed something wrong. She poured wine, handed me a glass, then pushed me against the counter. “Rough day?”

“Something like that.” I sipped, her hand rubbed me through my pants, and stroked till I throbbed hard.

She smirked, led me to the bedroom—candles flickered, and a black satin bag sat on the nightstand. “Missed this.” She unzipped it: velvet ropes, a plug, lube shining wet. It was her game, always.

She stripped me slow, kissed bites down my chest, and said, “On your knees, boy.” I dropped, face to the rug—plush and fancy. She circled me, heel tapped my ass, and asked, “Who’s in charge?”

“You,” I rasped, and my cock leaked pre-cum on the floor.

“Good.” She tied my wrists behind my back—loose enough to get out but tight enough to thrill. She flipped me over, spread my legs, teased my hole with lubed fingers, and said, “Relax.” One finger slipped in, then two more, and they scissored slow while her other hand jerked me lazy. The burn turned to pleasure, her hit on my prostate sparked stars.

“Fuck—Cara—” I bucked up, but she laughed low.

“Not yet.” She grabbed the plug—medium size, ridged—and worked it in inch by slow inch. It filled me up, pressure built, and every shift felt electric. She mounted my face then, her pussy dripped on my tongue, and she said, “Eat me while I play.”

I lapped desperate, nose buried in her scent—musk and money. She rocked and ground, twisted the plug, and it sent jolts straight to my dick. Her moans built, thighs quaked, but she held off and edged us both. My phone buzzed on the nightstand and i ignored it at first.

She came with a snarl, flooded my mouth, then slid down and took my cock deep. She rode hard, the plug made every thrust double strong, and her walls clenched tight. “Mine,” she growled, nails dug into my chest. “Say it.”

“Yours—fuck—yours.” But my mind flashed to Lana’s loft and her soft cries.

Buzz came again—loud this time. She glanced over, frowned, but kept riding faster to chase her peak. I strained against the ropes, the fullness pushed me close, and I said, “Cara—gonna—”

“Hold it.” She clenched on purpose to torture me. The phone lit up a third time—screen facing me: Lana: Tonight was amazing. Dreamt of you already? 😏

My heart stopped. Cara’s rhythm broke, her eyes flicked to the glow, and she asked, “Who’s that?”

“Spam,” I lied, thrust up to distract her. But she saw the name clear as day. She froze mid-ride, plug still buried in me, cock twitching inside her.

“Lana?” Her voice turned ice cold, she slipped off with cum-slick thighs, grabbed the phone, and scrolled. “From last night? The gala?”

Shit. “Just a friend—”

She slapped my thigh hard, the ropes bit my wrists, and she said, “Don’t lie, boy.” She untied me rough, yanked the plug free—burn hit sharp, left me empty and aching. She stood over me, naked and furious, and said, “You think you can play on my dime?”

I sat up, my dick wilted under her glare, and said, “It’s nothing, just iCoffee. Harmless.”

Her laugh came bitter now with no tease, and she said, “Harmless? I pay for only me, Cole. Quiet means mine.” She grabbed her robe, tied it tight, and said, “Get out. No cash this week.”

“Cara—wait.” I reached for her, but she jerked away and dialed security. The door buzzed—elevator dinged.

“Out.” It was final and cold.

I dressed fumbling fast, snatched my phone back, and Lana’s text burned a hole in my pocket. Down in the lift, the city mocked me through the glass. I grabbed a cab to Brooklyn, head spinning—Lana’s warmth crashed hard against Cara’s ice.

I crashed on the futon, jerked off mad to mixed memories: Lana’s tight pussy, Cara’s plug stretching me. I came quick with a guilty splash on my stomach. I wiped clean, texted Lana: Dreaming of you too. See ya tomorrow?

Her reply: Hell yes. Your place this time?

I smiled despite the knot in my gut caused by Cara’s cut-off. I’d charm my way back. Or not. For now, the fire pulled harder—Lana’s equal flame with no bill.

But as sleep dragged me down, Cara’s words echoed, “Mine.”

The hook sank deeper. Two flames, one fuse. Tick-tock.