Late March - New York - Mark Steele’s Penthouse

Mark tried to be helpful. Really.

He knew what posh girls used on their faces though he never really had the money to buy any of it when he was working at the Licorice Elephant. So he bought Angel three types of cleanser, and a Sephora haul large enough to bankrupt a minor country. The first morning, he left a care package on her side of the sink: organic moisturizer, a detangling brush, a perfect lipstick matched to her skin.

Angel found it and said nothing.

He watched from the kitchen as she did her makeup—fast, precise, the way Ruby had taught her. It was good, almost as good as he had been when he was the one in her shoes; but slower and more dedicated to getting it exactly right.

“You should do a tutorial,” he said.

“Why?” Angel replied, not looking up from the mirror.

“Could help girls who—” Mark stopped. “Never mind.”

Angel snapped the compact shut, her eyes narrowing as she shot Mark a pointed glare. “I’m not your project.” She had spent too long being molded by others—first by the expectations of the corporate world, then by the whims of men who thought they could dictate her worth.

Mark raised his hands in a placating gesture, his sheepishness evident. “I know,” he replied, but there was an undercurrent of uncertainty in his tone.

“Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do,” she began, her voice softening. “But after three months at the Elephant, I’ve learned something important about myself. I’ve discovered what I want—not just in my career, but in life and relationships. I won’t let anyone else define that for me again.”

Mark nodded slowly. He could see the fire in her eyes, a reflection of the woman she had become.

“Let’s go shopping,” he suggested suddenly, wanting to shift the mood. “You can pick out what you really want.”

“Alright, but only if you promise to keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Deal,” he replied, relief washing over him.

The shopping trip started fun, then turned ugly.

They went to SoHo, drifted through the boutiques. Angel didn’t hesitate; she picked what she wanted: slouchy knits, power suits, sneakers, things with sharp edges or strong colors. Mark kept choosing low-cut dresses, low-waist jeans, micro-minis, all the lingerie he’d seen on Angel’s Instagram.

“Put this on,” he said, handing her a leather bralette and pants set.

Angel wrinkled her nose. “You wear it.”

“Come on. You wore less at the Elephant.”

She dropped the clothes in the cart. “That was a job.”

Mark smirked. “This is too. We’re supposed to look like a couple.”

She stared at him. “A couple, not a porn ad.”

He bristled. “It’s just for the look.”

“Your look, not mine.” She stalked to the next rack.

They fought all the way to the register. The sales assistant pretended not to notice, but when Mark tried to insist Angel model a bodysuit for him, she gave a sharp “Sir, maybe let her try in her own time?”

Mark saw the look: pure disgust. And in that second, he saw himself, saw what he’d become—a parody of every asshole who’d ever tried to dictate a woman’s worth. He paid, grabbed the bags, and left.

Angel followed, silently.

On the sidewalk, he halted. “Sorry. I was out of line.”

Angel shrugged, her expression a mix of anger and disappointment. “Used to it,” she replied curtly.

As they settled into the plush back seat of their chauffeured car, they sat looking straight ahead, not daring to meet each other’s glances. Angel's focus remained on Mark; she didn’t want to remain pissed at him and she didn’t want to be constantly “difficult.”

“You know, it’s like this—” she said. “When I went shopping with Ruby or Maud back in London, it felt different. We were two girls having fun, sharing opinions, and navigating the world together. But with you? It’s like I’m back in that corporate boardroom, where everything’s about control and power plays.”

Mark shifted in his seat, the shame curling in his stomach like a tight knot. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t,” she interrupted, her voice rising slightly. “But it felt like you were trying to mold me into something you wanted, not letting me be me. We both know what it means to be a woman now, and that should change how we interact. It shouldn’t feel like a competition or a transaction. It’s supposed to be about support and understanding.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

Angel continued, her tone softening slightly. “Look, you’re less of an asshole than I was in my previous life. I can see that. But you’ve changed, just like I have. You need to sort out the things that made me such a piece of shit before. It’s not enough to just be better; you need to understand why I was that way in the first place. Also, I quit smoking a few weeks back and it’s still making me irritable.”

“Maybe we both need to learn how to be better,” he finally admitted.

Angel nodded. “Exactly. Let’s figure this out together, but it starts with you recognizing your own flaws. I can’t keep pretending we’re just playing house when there’s so much more.”

Late March - New York - Mark Steele’s Penthouse

The sky was a symphony of warm, pastel hues—soft pinks, purples, and golden tones—creating a dreamy atmosphere. A perfect antidote to the fake engagement that was about to be filmed.

Angel was standing on the balcony waiting for Mark, wearing an elegant, floor-length gown adorned with intricate beadwork and sequins that shimmered in the ambient light.

She heard the lights and cameras whir to life, following Mark as he approached her, ready to capture every meticulously staged detail of their performance.

“Ready?” he whispered, leaning down close to her ear; his voice low and intimate, sending a flutter through her stomach. Her heart raced, caught between the thrill of the performance and the reality of their complicated relationship.

When he dropped to one knee, the cameras sprang into action, the crew poised for the perfect shot.

“Angel Valentine,” he began, his voice steady yet laced with an undercurrent of excitement that made her pulse quicken. “Will you marry me?”

The words hung in the air like a spell, and Angel feigned shock, her eyes widening in faux surprise. She felt the heat of the moment envelop her, a mixture of adrenaline and something deeper that she couldn’t quite name. Her gaze was directed downward, and her hands gently clasped in front of her,

With a flourish, Mark slipped the diamond and sapphire engagement ring onto her finger, and she let out a gleeful squeal that surprised even her. They kissed passionately, lips colliding in a way that ignited a spark deeper than the ruse they were playing. Mark's hands found their way to her waist, pulling her close, and she melted against him, feeling the warmth radiate from his body.

A drone buzzed overhead, capturing the scene from above as Mark dipped her low, their kiss framed by the golden hues of sunset, the world around them fading into a blur.

“Cut!” the director’s voice crackled through the earpieces, but neither seemed to hear, lost in the intoxicating moment. They continued to kiss, deepening the connection that had begun as mere performance. Mark’s grip tightened, fingers splayed possessively across her back, and Angel reveled in the sensation, her breath hitching as she leaned into him, feeling the world drop away.

They exchanged flirty whispers, teasing each other with playful banter that only heightened the electric tension between them.

“You know, I think I could get used to this,” he murmured against her ear, his warm breath sending shivers cascading down her spine. Then the reality crept back in, and they reluctantly pulled apart, adjusting their clothes and smoothing down their clothes and hair. As the crew packed up and filed out, the atmosphere shifted, leaving behind a charged silence.

Angel changed quickly and flopped onto the couch, shedding the layers of their performance like a snake molting its skin. Dressed in a loose T-shirt that hung just right and shorts that showed off her legs, she flicked on Netflix, but the flickering screen barely registered in her mind. Instead, her thoughts were tangled in the aftermath of their staged romance, replaying the way Mark’s lips had felt against hers, the heat of his body so close.

Across the room, Mark remained at the table, poring over a stack of company reports, though his focus was clearly fragmented. The crisp papers crinkled under his fingers as he tried to immerse himself in numbers and projections, but his mind kept drifting back to the kiss they had shared. He could still feel her body, the way she melted against him, and it tugged at something deep within him—a yearning he hadn’t expected.

Every now and then, their eyes would meet, quick glances filled with unspoken words, each one crackling with tension.

Mark caught himself stealing a look at Angel, her hair cascading over her shoulders, the soft glow of the television illuminating her features in a way that made her look almost ethereal. He felt a rush of desire, a primal urge to bridge the distance between them, but fear held him back. What if this was just a fleeting moment, a remnant of their charade? He wanted to reach out, to pull her close, yet he hesitated, rooted in place by the uncertainty of what crossing that line would mean for them both.

Angel bit her lip, torn between the urge to close the gap and the fear of what that might mean.

She sensed the way his gaze lingered on her. “Should we…?” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, but the words trailed off, swallowed by the charged silence that enveloped them.

“Yeah,” Mark replied, his voice thick with need. But still, they lingered in that electric stillness, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

That night, Mark lay in bed, wide awake. He heard Angel moving on the other side of the dividing bolster. “You still up?” he asked quietly.

“What’s on your mind?”

He hesitated before speaking. “It’s strange. Being you is exciting, empowering, but sometimes when I look at you, I kind of miss it. The freedom, the clothes, the way people look at you. I miss just being able to—do what I want.”

“Like what?” she asked.

He pondered for a moment. “Like looking at you without feeling...”

Angel didn’t answer, but a few seconds later Mark could hear her getting up from her side of the bed to go to the bathroom. About five minutes later, she returned to the room and turned up the dimmer slightly.

She was in one of the lingerie sets he’d picked.

The bodysuit clung to her curves like a second skin, the fabric whispering against her skin as she moved. Lace spiraled across her bust and hips, and the structured cups cradled her breasts alluringly. The high-cut sides elongated her legs, making them appear endless, while the low back dipped daringly, inviting exploration.

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

“You want to look?” she said, voice tight.

He nodded, stunned.

She stepped closer, every inch of her a challenge. “It’s just skin, Mark. Yours, mine, whatever. And if nothing changes and I have to grow old in this body, it will all go away. The last few months have been, let’s say, educational. You already know this but being a man—especially a man like you—complicates things. For both of us.”

He sat up, nervous. “You’re not a trophy.”

She laughed bitterly. “Tell that to the media.”

He reached out, and for a second, he saw the pain there the exhaustion, the armor barely holding. She took his hand, let him trace her tummy and the taut muscles under her soft skin through mesh of her bodysuit.

“You want me to wear what you like?” she said, softer now.

He shook his head. “I want you to wear what you want.”

“You want me to be yours, but I’ve always been mine first.” Angel looked at him intently. “Mark, look at me,” she said gently. ”It’s not like I find it horrifying that you like my body. If anything, it makes me happy. But you don’t know me, or what I’ve become.”

He wanted to say sorry, but instead, he kissed her palm, gently.

At the press shoot the next day, Angel wore the leather pants and bralette that Mark had wanted her to model for him. She smirked at the cameras and played the part. Mark couldn’t take his eyes off her.

In the cab home, she said, “You’re still an asshole, but at least you’re my asshole.”

He laughed, feeling the tension finally ease.

That night, she tucked herself into bed and threw the large bolster between them on to the ground. She turned away from him, and Mark instinctively shifted closer, wrapping his arm around her waist as he spooned her. His hand slid over to rest on her belly, fingers splayed gently against the soft fabric of her shirt. Angel let him keep it there, savoring the warmth radiating from his palm, a soothing contrast to the coolness of the night.

She nestled into him, her heart racing at the intimacy of the moment, grappling with the strangeness of their connection; the gentle rise and fall of her breath mingled with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Just before she fell off, Angel whispered, “I still hate you.”

Mark, half-asleep, mumbled, “Good. Hate’s honest.”

She squeezed his hand, and they drifted off, together, neither admitting just how much they needed it. As she faded, Angel thought, I’ve never wanted to kiss myself so badly in my life.

April - New York to Indonesia - Angel and Mark

Mark hated flying. Angel, on the other hand, loved everything about it: the antiseptic lounges, the endless drinks, the strange suspension of normal time. From the moment they hit the lounge at Teterboro, she grasped the upper hand—insisting on bourbon (just a tinge) at breakfast and smuggling a box of pastries into the private jet.

“Relax,” she said, cramming a pain au chocolat into her mouth. “Nobody’s looking for you up here. You can act like a degenerate for once.”

Mark glared, but took the other pastry. “You’re the degenerate. I’m the CEO.”

“Not tonight. You’re just the guy stuck beside me,” Angel said, stretching out and propping her boots on the footrest. She had the catlike calm of a person who’d survived worse than turbulence. He admired it. Secretly. And he didn’t tell that beside her was exactly where he wanted to be.

Yogyakarta was a wall of heat and humidity that reminded Mark of all the things he hated about the outside world.

The hotel was a palace—cool marble, polite staff, a breakfast buffet that put New York’s to shame. Angel spent her first afternoon in the pool, then got a massage, then a facial, then another massage. Mark met with lawyers and portfolio managers for six hours straight. By the time he made it back to the suite, Angel was on the terrace, drinking coffee and watching the sun crash behind the volcanoes.

“You look like an influencer,” Mark said, flopping onto the chair next to her.

Angel grinned. “If I was, I’d be doing this naked.”

“You’re impossible,” he said, but already his mind was drawing images of Angel naked tanning in the Indonesian sun. Mark was obviously familiar with his old body but seeing it from the perspective of man was quite another matter.

He could see that Angel had effortlessly embraced her new life as a woman of leisure. She flitted from one indulgence to the next, savoring each moment with a zest that left him both envious and intrigued. The spontaneous adventures, luxurious pampering—the simple joy of doing absolutely nothing that she had denied herself when she was a man—were now hers to relish, and she was making up for lost time with a fierce determination.

Angel sipped her coffee. “So what’s on tomorrow?”

Mark rattled off the agenda: “Nine a.m., meeting with the Minister of Energy. Noon, closed session with the VC syndicate. Four, call with World Bank.

“You want to run some of the stuff by me? I’m good at stuff, you know?” she asked.

“Sure,” Mark said, leaning back in his chair. “High upfront costs and long payback periods for the solar project are a tough sell for traditional VCs.”

Angel nodded, her fingers tapping lightly on the table. “Exactly. They’re looking for quick exits—five to seven years max. We need to pivot our approach if we want to attract them.”

“What do you suggest?” he asked, intrigued.

“We can explore asset-light models, like PAYG leasing platforms. It reduces the capital burden and makes it more appealing to investors.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “And what about blended finance?”

“Good point. Most successful solar home system companies rely on that mix—VC equity for innovation and growth, alongside concessional debt from DFIs like the World Bank. It’s all about balancing risk.”

“Right, but that complicates things with multiple stakeholders,” he replied, rubbing his temples.

“True, but we can co-invest with impact funds or green development banks. Let them absorb more risk while we focus on scalability, especially with software layers rather than just hardware,” she suggested.

He leaned forward, intrigued. “What about exit strategies? Those seem limited.”

“Very few clear paths,” she admitted. “IPOs are rare in rural energy, and acquisitions are tricky. Our best bet is secondary sales to impact funds or infrastructure investors.”

Mark frowned. “That poses liquidity risks. We can’t afford to be stuck.”

“Agreed. We should target companies with data-rich platforms—energy plus fintech. They attract tech buyers and offer flexibility with convertible instruments or revenue-sharing models.”

Mark couldn’t hide his admiration. “You’ve really thought this through.”

Angel smiled. “It’s what I do best. Let’s make this work.”

“But after I finish, if there’s time, we’re going to Borobudur for the sunset?” There was a note of hopeful expectancy in Mark’s voice.

Angel raised an eyebrow. “A date? I thought this was a business trip.”

He shot her a look. “We’re engaged, remember?”

She arched her eyebrows, but a flush rose in her cheeks.

In the morning, Mark suited up and hit the meetings—he was there for an Energy Transition Summit.

Angel went for a long run, then took a cab to Borobudur alone, and lost herself in the carvings and the haze of incense. She took a hundred photos and sent only one to Mark, preferring to keep the experience to herself.

When Mark got back at eight, he found her sprawled on the bed, reading Céline and eating the minibar’s entire chocolate supply.

“Nice day?” he said, pulling off his tie.

She shrugged. “Could’ve been better.”

“You went without me,” Mark accused.

Angel didn’t look up. “You were busy saving the planet.”

He groaned, but felt something soft open in his chest. “Next time, you’ll take me?”

She considered it. “Maybe.”

They spent the rest of the week hopping from city to city: Jakarta to rewrite some of their old palm oil deals to make them more sustainable; Surabaya to seal some logistics and warehousing deals; a brief stop in Bali for a roundtable with Australian VCs.

Everywhere they went, Angel found something to love—visiting the Masjid Al-Akbar in Surabaya; an old Dutch pastry shop in Jakarta; a tiny jazz club with a crooked neon sign; a great Babi Guling shop in Bali.

At night, they’d work through Mark’s decks together. Angel was still shockingly sharp. She flagged weaknesses in the sustainability memos, rewrote half his talking points for the NGO crowd, even coached him on how to handle a hostile panelist at the UNDP forum.

“Look, I love that you’re turning Steele into a more ethical company, but—” she said, gesturing with a pencil at one slide. “If you want this to land with impact investors, you need to talk about blended capital up front. They don’t care about six-year returns. They care about visibility, about reputational lift.”

Mark scribbled notes, then looked up. “You’re scary.”

She smiled. “That’s why you like me. You do like me, don’t you?”

They worked late and argued about leverage and social capital until 2am. Mark had never enjoyed business more.

When the trip was nearly over, Angel suggested a detour.

“There’s this boat that does overnight tours around Flores and Komodo. You can see the dragons, go diving, drink rum on the deck. I already booked it and you’re coming,” she said, smugly. “Yeah, that hangdog expression when I told you I went to Borobudur by myself—not having that hanging over me when we get back home.”

He pretended to be annoyed but went along.

They flew into Rinca and took a private charter to Flores. The yacht was small but perfect—a luxury phinisi with a large master bedroom and 9 crew. It had an exquisite master cabin with a private terrace above deck and an additional cozy cabin below for two guests. Ideal for unforgettable honeymoons and milestone anniversaries, even if you weren’t on one.

The guide had just finished a harrowing story about how one dragon nearly ate a vertically challenged tourist last year, when they spotted their first one.

Angel got as close as the guide allowed, then closer, daring Mark to follow.

“Come on, they won’t eat you,” she said.

“They eat everything,” Mark countered.

“That’s what makes it fun.”

Mark did, grinning for the first time in days. The dragons, for all the hype, mostly just sprawled on their bellies and flicked their tongues at the air. Mark got a selfie of Angel making a face at the beast, and for once, nobody watching could’ve said who was the wild animal and who was the tamer.

Later, on the deck, they watched the sunset. Angel wore a loose white shirt and nothing else, legs stretched out, hair loose. Mark had never seen her so relaxed. She poured them both a glass of mediocre rum. “To us, the world’s weirdest couple.”

He toasted. “To us.”

For a long time, they sat in silence, watching the water burn gold and red and then fade to black.

Angel put her hand on his thigh. Not sexually, just there; it felt good under her palm. He didn’t move.

“Do you ever think,” she said, “that this could’ve all gone differently? You, me, everyone?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

She squeezed his leg. “I like the way it went.”

He covered her hand with his own.

They didn’t kiss, not yet. They didn’t need to. Not with the ocean and the sky and the world holding its breath for them.

They spent the next afternoon snorkeling off the beach. The water was blue and glassy; Angel dove down, lithe and unafraid, while Mark floundered above, cursing into his mask.

Back on the yacht, sunburned and sleepy, they sipped cocktails and let the ocean air take over.

Angel said, “You’re terrible at swimming.”

Mark said, “You’re a show-off.”

She shrugged. “I like being good at things.”

He smiled. “Me too.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the sunset, the boat rocking gently.

Angel was lost in a whirlwind of thoughts. This was good, even great, but it wasn’t always like that. How had she accepted this fate so easily? It felt like just yesterday that she was moping around, filled with anxiety and dread, planning her escape for two days before finally stepping into the world of the Licorice Elephant. Was it simply the weight of the situation that had pressed her down, or was it fear of being cast out onto the unforgiving streets?

Could she have thrived in another low-paying job, scraping by in a life far removed from the luxuries she once knew? The thought sent shivers through her. She had always been fiercely independent, yet now she questioned if she could truly survive on her own—just her, alone, struggling to make ends meet—or even with Maud's support or the camaraderie of the other dancers

Was it the magic that had shifted her perspective, or had she always harbored this hidden part of herself, waiting for the right moment to emerge? Had everything before been a mere façade, a mask she wore until it fell away?

She thought back to the moments when Mark had started restructuring the company; a process she had once fought against fully understanding the disapprobation which lingered wherever she went. Why hadn’t she protested? It was her creation, her empire built from the ground up, yet now it seemed she had relinquished it without a second thought; even aiding in mitigating its evils, almost enfeebling it. Yet, it all seemed so insignificant to her.

Each question gnawed at her. The more she reflected, the more she realized how deeply intertwined her past and present had become, and how her journey was only just beginning.

Angel looked at Mark sideways. “You want to talk about it?”

Mark pretended not to understand. “About what?”

“About why we’re here. About the last three months. About Lena, who is clearly avoiding me at company functions.”

He exhaled. “I don’t know if I want to talk about Lena.”

“Why? It’s obvious that you two are together again.”

He looked at her “Because I’m not sure whether I’m good for her. Especially with you...”

Angel propped her chin on her knees and they watched the horizon together.

“I met someone at the club. Kind of… ” Angel said. “His name’s Tom. He’s… decent.”

“He’s a very old friend from foster care. He’s a good person, at least when he was around me. Kind. Did you sleep with him?”

She smiled. “Would it matter? I’m pretty sure you slept with him before.”

He shook his head. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

Angel looked out at the water. “It’s hard to explain. When you’re in the wrong body, everything gets scrambled. Needs, wants, all of it. But with Tom, I felt—safe. Like it was okay to just be.”

Mark was quiet for a long time. Then: “You’re happy?”

“I’m alive, not just living,” she said. “That’s better.”

He nodded. “You make it look easy.”

She laughed. “It’s not. You know that better than I do. I think.”

He set his glass down. “When we get back, I want you to come to the next board meeting.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because you’re better at this than I am. The strategy, the people. I want you there.”

She hesitated. “What about Jane? The rest of the board?”

He smiled. “You never let that stop you before.”

Angel caressed Mark’s hair. “You know, I think we’re both better now. Maybe not good, but better.”

He covered her hand with his own, and they let the dusk settle around them.

April - New York - Mark and Angel

Mark was already in bed, scrolling through emails and pretending he wasn’t waiting for her. He’d spent twenty minutes selecting the perfect pair of boxers—something classic, snug enough to accentuate the contours of his sculpted thighs without feeling constricting.

He wanted something that whispered confidence rather than shouted for attention. As he stood before the mirror, Mark flexed slightly, allowing his muscles to ripple beneath the surface, imagining how Angel would react to this display of raw masculinity. He felt a thrill at the thought of her gaze lingering on him, the way her eyes might widen in appreciation, and he couldn't help but smile at the anticipation of their encounter.

He left the lights low, a single lamp spilling gold across the duvet.

Angel’s voice came from the bathroom. “You still awake?”

He cleared his throat. “Couldn’t sleep. Jet lag’s a bitch.”

She stepped in, wearing a frumpy white bath robe. “That so?”

He nodded. “Long day.”

She turned, untied the belt, and let the robe slip off.

The lingerie was obsidian black, a web of satin straps that crisscrossed her torso like calligraphy. The high collar encircled her throat with delicate chains that caught the light when she swallowed, while the quarter-cup bodice lifted and separated her breasts, presenting them like offerings on an altar of skin.

Below, a geometric maze of elastic bands framed her hipbones, leading the eye downward to where a barely-there thong disappeared between her thighs. Suspenders stretched taut against her legs, creating shadows in the hollows of her muscles.

The entire ensemble transformed her body into something both vulnerable and dangerous—a creature of pure sensation designed to be worshipped rather than touched.

Mark’s mouth went dry. His cock went hard, instantly, no warning.

Angel watched the bulge with a slow, wicked smile. “Well. I guess you’re not that tired.”

Mark sat up, too stunned to talk. “You—”

She stalked toward him swaying, every step precise. “You picked it, remember?”

He nodded, the room spinning.

Angel stopped at the foot of the bed. “You want me to take it off?”

He couldn’t speak, just shook his head.

She laughed, low. “That’s a first.”

She climbed onto the bed, straddling his legs, the heat from her body making his skin prickle. She put her hand on his chest, feeling his heart hammer.

Mark tried to play it cool. “You look...”

Angel ran a finger down his abs, then circled his cock through the boxers. “I know.”

She pulled the waistband down, freeing him. He was bigger than he remembered—than she remembered? Maybe it was the change in perspective.

Angel gripped him, slow, lazy strokes, her other hand braced on his shoulder. She looked down at him, unblinking, and realized she was just as turned on as he was.

He groaned. “Fuck.”

Angel grinned. “That’s the plan.”

She stroked harder, using her thumb to tease the head, and Mark felt himself losing control. He tried to hold back, but she leaned in and whispered, “Don’t.”

He came hard, shuddering, as waves of pleasure ricocheted up his spine, each pulse igniting a fire deep within him. Angel held him through the intensity, her fingers gentle yet firm, grounding him in the moment. She wiped her hand clean with a piece of tissue. But the lingering heat of their connection hung thick in the air.

Leaning in, she pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, an unexpected tenderness that sent shivers down his body.

As Mark caught his breath, he felt the aftershocks of his release reverberate through him. The experience had been overwhelming, almost disorienting. He wasn’t the one in control anymore; Angel had taken the reins, and it was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. He had always been the dominant one, guiding Lena with confidence, but now he was like putty in Angel's hands—vulnerable and exposed.

Angel sensed the shift in power. She had never admitted to Mark but the months as Angel had brought with it a newfound appreciation for the male form. Every time, Mark had nonchalantly disrobed in front of her; their time on Flores with him in his speedos; tonight with his pathetic attempt to seduce her with his body—all of it had made her salivate with need. She could feel the warmth radiating from Mark's skin, the sculpted muscles beneath, and it excited her in ways she hadn't anticipated. The way his body responded to her touch, the way he surrendered to her whims, made her heart race.

Angel knew that Mark had at least one more in him, but he would need a bit of encouragement.

Pushing herself up, she began to kiss her way down his body, trailing soft, heated kisses across his abdomen, lingering at his nipples, and nipping gently at his neck. His muscles tensed under her lips, and she felt an electrifying warmth pooling in her core, her nipples hardening in response. Mark squirmed beneath her, his inexperience as a man evident in the way he reacted to her every move. She could see the struggle in his eyes, a mix of desire and frustration, and it only fueled her confidence.

Then, mounting him in a fluid motion, she took charge, riding him and pleasuring herself at the same time, her vaginal muscles clenching around him, relishing in the sensation of him filling her completely. She felt powerful, in control, and utterly alive.

Mark’s breath quickened, and she could feel his tension building again. He was losing himself, unable to hold back, and as she took him deeper, he finally succumbed.

Once he was fully spent, she curled up next to him, tucking her head under his chin.

“You still want to swap back?” she murmured.

He wrapped his arm around her. “Only if we do this first.”

Angel laughed, warm and sleepy. “Next time, maybe you’ll last longer.”

He smiled into her hair. “Next time, don’t make me wait so long.”

Mark soon surrendered to the warmth of the moment; and was soon deep in slumber. Angel propped herself up on her elbow, gazing down at him with a mixture of affection and something new.

She traced the outline of his jaw with her fingertips, marveling at the way his strong features softened in sleep. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. Angel leaned closer, brushing a gentle kiss against his forehead. In that silence, she allowed herself to dream of possibilities, feeling the weight of her past slip away, replaced by the tender hope of what could be.