Page 68 of Unleashed

He grabbed his shirt from the chair and yanked it over his head, his movements harsh and quick. I stayed silent, feeling a pang of guilt as I heard the door to my apartment slam behind him. I sank back onto the bed, a sigh of relief escaping me despite the lingering heaviness in my chest. This was exactly what I wanted to avoid.

As I stepped into the shower, the hot water cascading over me, my thoughts churned. Why was it so hard to balance two relationships? Men did it all the time, so why couldn’t I? The double standards that plagued my life—where a man juggling multiple women was seen as a stud, but a woman in the same position was labeled a slut—seemed increasingly absurd.

At twenty-seven, I realized it was time to shake things up. I had spent so long controlling every aspect of my life, clingingto my plans and routines. Erika was right; I needed to embrace life’s unpredictability. I had time to save for retirement, but right now, I needed to live a little.

I couldn’t sleep while Slade held me and slumbered. Guilt ate away at me the longer I wondered how long I could handle the situation I was in.

On one hand, I wanted to see where this thing with Michael went, but on the other, my crush on Slade couldn’t be denied. I was grumpy when 9 am nearly rolled around due to fitful rest. Winston would be downstairs by 11 and I still had to decide what to wear.

Winston stoodby the curb as I exited my building, his expression as impassive as ever. I had expected Michael to be in the car, but he was notably absent.

“Where’s Michael?” I asked, sliding into the cool embrace of the car’s interior.

“Mr. Elliott had a last-minute phone call. He’ll meet you there,” Winston replied, his tone leaving no room for further inquiries.

I nodded, settling into the plush seat and pulling out my phone. The drive felt unusually long as I scrolled through the news, trying to distract myself from the flutter of anticipation and nerves.

When Winston pulled up to The Diamond Square, a doorman dressed in a black uniform and white gloves opened the car door for me. The grandeur of the restaurant took my breath away—the red carpet, the gold-framed doors, the opulence reminiscent of The Waldorf.

Inside, I spotted Michael immediately. He was dressed impeccably in navy slacks, a tan sports jacket, a crisp white shirt, and a blue tie. His eyes lit up when he saw me, and he moved toward me with an easy confidence.

“I thought I would be seated alone until you got here,” he said, leaning in to place a soft kiss on my cheek.

I couldn’t help but smile as I looked down at my gray sheath dress, which hugged my curves just right. “I wasn’t sure what to wear.”

“You did perfect,” Michael said, his eyes lingering appreciatively on the dress. “Our reservation is for eleven.”

The Diamond Square’s elegance was undeniable. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the room, and the clink of fine china and murmured conversations filled the air. Michael took my hand, guiding me through the bustling dining area to a quieter corner.

A waiter greeted us and led us to our table, where a lavish champagne brunch awaited. The serving stations were a feast for the eyes—an array of delectable dishes crowding the tables.

Once we were seated, Michael ordered mimosas with a casual wave of his hand, then pulled out my chair with a charming smile. As he settled into his own seat, he cast a curious glance my way.

“How was your dinner last night?” he asked, his tone light yet probing.

“It was fine,” I replied, picking up my mimosa and taking a sip to steady my nerves.

Michael studied me for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. “I was tempted to call, but I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“What do you think I was doing that would disturb me?” I asked, a playful edge in my voice.

Michael’s smile widened, but he lowered his voice. “I’m not implying you were having sex.”

“You would be correct if you were,” I said, my cheeks warming slightly. “But you could’ve called.”

I wouldn’t admit I had sex with another man even if he asked me directly. I was already feeling guilty but men played the field all the time. Why couldn’t I?

“I didn’t want to seem too eager. You’re getting under my skin,” Michael confessed, leaning closer.

“Is that a bad thing?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, I wouldn’t say that,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “But I have to ask—are you enjoying this?”

“Enjoying what?” I echoed, puzzled.

“Me squirming and begging,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

I laughed softly. “I hardly think what you’re doing is begging.”

---