The Agreement

Chapter Two: The Waiting

Marcus stared at the clock as if it were an adversary. Ten thirty-seven. He'd been alone in the apartment for three hours and twenty-two minutes, each one stretching longer than the last. Elena was with Daniel now, had been since she kissed Marcus goodbye, her lips tasting of promise and apprehension.

The living room felt too spacious, too silent. He'd tried watching television, reading, even answering work emails, but his mind kept circling back to the same vivid images: Elena's fingers intertwined with Daniel's, her dress sliding from her shoulders, her lips parting in pleasure beneath another man's touch.

"Fuck," he whispered, adjusting himself in his pants. This wasn't how jealousy was supposed to feel — hot and electric, sending pulses of desire through his body with each mental snapshot. He'd expected pain, anger, maybe even numbness. Not this aching arousal that left him hard and restless.

His phone sat on the coffee table, screen dark and accusing. The Cardinal Protocols allowed for — no, encouraged — communication during separate encounters. Transparent Visibility. Marcus picked up the device, fingers hovering over the keyboard. What could he possibly say? I can't stop thinking about you with him. I hate it. I love it. I want to know everything.

Instead, he typed: How's it going?

Three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared. Reappeared. His stomach tightened.

Good. Different than I expected.

Marcus swallowed hard. Different how?

Another pause. He keeps talking about you.

Heat coiled low in Marcus's belly, spreading outward until every inch of him felt feverish and raw. His jeans pressed tight against his swelling cock, each heartbeat harsher than the last. He shifted restlessly, palm cupping himself through the denim — half for comfort, half to savor the pressure, as if it might ground him while his mind spun with need.

What are you wearing? he typed before he could second-guess himself.

Nothing anymore.

He should have felt a surge of possessiveness, the urge to reclaim her, to call her home. But all he felt was hunger — sharp, confusing, impossible to deny.

The image hit him like a physical blow. Elena naked in another man's apartment, her olive skin flushed with arousal, her dark hair spread across unfamiliar pillows. His breath caught.

Tell me what he's doing to you.

The response took longer this time. Marcus imagined Elena showing Daniel the message, the two of them exchanging glances as they decided how much to share. When his phone finally buzzed, he almost dropped it in his haste to read the reply.

He's touching me the way you do when you're taking your time. But his hands feel different. Rougher.

Marcus closed his eyes, his hand slipping inside his jeans. The contact was electric — his whole body jolted, hips arching off the couch, breath caught on the edge of a moan. He conjured Elena's mouth, the velvet heat of her tongue, the lingering taste of wine and longing on her skin, the way she whispered his name when she came undone beneath his touch.

But tonight, someone else was discovering her. Marcus let himself imagine Daniel's hands exploring her body — fingertips tracing the delicate hollow of her hip, moving with deliberate slowness up her thigh, finding that sensitive spot that always made her gasp and clutch the sheets. Jealousy and longing tangled inside him, sharp and sweet; his grip tightened, aching for both memories and the present.

And? he prompted.

He wants me to call you. Put you on speaker while he goes down on me.

"Jesus," Marcus whispered, his cock now fully hard in his hand. They'd discussed phone participation as a possibility during their compass conversations at The Circle, but he hadn't expected it tonight. Hadn't expected to want it so badly.

His phone rang before he could reply. Elena's name flashed on the screen.

Marcus answered, his voice rough with desire. "I'm here."

"Hi," Elena's voice was breathy, distant as if she'd put him on speaker already. "Are you alone?"

"Yes." He stroked himself slowly, imagining her spread out on Daniel's bed, waiting. "Tell me where you are."

"His bedroom." A small catch in her voice. "He's — oh —"

The sound that followed was unmistakable: Elena's soft moan, the one that always escaped when someone touched her just right. Marcus closed his eyes, his grip tightening.

"He wants to know if you're touching yourself," Elena said, her words punctuated by shallow breaths.

"I am." Marcus didn't bother denying it. "Put him on."

There was a rustling sound, then Daniel's voice — deeper, rougher than Marcus remembered, thick with arousal — filled the line. For a split second, Marcus thought he could hear the wet, desperate sounds of Elena's pleasure in the background.

"Marcus." Daniel's tone was stripped of all its practiced composure, urgent and intimate. "She tastes incredible."

The words should have sliced through him like a knife. Instead, they wound around his spine like heated wire.

"Tell me what she looks like now," Marcus said.

Daniel's description came low and precise, each word landing somewhere between pleasure and devastation. Marcus listened, his hand still, the city humming fifteen floors below. When the call finally ended, he sat motionless for a long moment, phone warm against his palm, heart hammering against his ribs.

But tonight, waiting was unbearable. The story wasn't enough. He needed to be inside it — breathing the same charged air as Elena, seeing the flush rise on her skin, shattering the boundary between fantasy and memory.

Then Daniel's voice came back on the line, quieter now, deliberate. "Come." A pause. "She wants you here. So do I." The call ended. A moment later his phone buzzed — Elena's number, no message, just an address in Chelsea and a single word: Tonight.

Marcus set down his phone, pulse thudding in his neck — every nerve awake, trembling with anticipation. He changed his shirt, then changed it again, the brush of fabric against his skin like a caress, reminding him how little separated him from nakedness and want.

He was out the door before he could think twice. The elevator down felt endless — fifteen floors of his own reflection: eyes wild, lips parted, a man teetering between dread and desire. Outside, the night air hit his skin like a hand. He flagged a cab on the corner and gave Daniel's address without hesitation, his voice steadier than he felt. Manhattan blurred past the window, all amber and glass, his wedding ring catching the passing lights. The ride took eleven minutes.

He counted every floor that slid by in silence, the seconds stretching, taut with possibility.

Daniel's door swung open before Marcus could knock. Daniel stood barefoot, stripped to dark briefs, his body all lean muscle and quiet confidence. The air carried a trace of Elena's perfume — jasmine and sweat — a scent Marcus knew like a secret.

Elena sprawled on the sofa, a glass of wine in her hand, nothing on but black lace that left her bare shoulders and the curve of one breast exposed, her legs draped open in shameless invitation. Her skin gleamed in the golden light, hair wild around her face, lips wet and parted.

For a breathless moment, Marcus hovered in the doorway, the cool air brushing his skin, every sense sharpened by anticipation. Elena's gaze claimed him as she curled a finger, beckoning him closer, her smile daring him to cross the distance. Heat flooded his body — he felt exposed and desired, unable to look away.

Marcus stepped inside. The door closed behind him with a quiet click — less a door, more a threshold, the crossing of a line he'd spent a lifetime imagining but never dared to breach. The air shimmered with promise, every beat of his heart measured in the distance between what he wanted and what would happen next.