The morning after the ErosAI launch party, Simon West woke up alone in his king-sized bed, sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows like golden fingers caressing the silk sheets. For a man accustomed to company, the solitude felt strangely refreshing. He stretched, muscles aching in that pleasant way that reminded him of possibilities rather than regrets. Lily Pan. The name rolled through his mind like a catchy tune he couldn't shake.
His phone lit up on the nightstand—dozens of notifications, but only one mattered. A text from "Lily Pan—Trouble."
Lily: Still think your algorithm got it right? Or was that just liquid courage talking?
Simon grinned, typing back before he'd even swung his legs out of bed.
Simon: Algorithm's batting 1000. But I'd rather prove it sober. Breakfast?
The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. He could almost picture her biting that full lower lip, weighing options.
Lily: Can't. Client pitch at 10. But coffee? 8:30 at Blue Bottle on 5th?
Simon: Deal. Wear the red dress again. For science.
Lily: Dream on, Oracle.
He laughed out loud, the sound echoing in the vast penthouse. Mia would arrive soon with his schedule, but for the first time in years, Simon considered clearing his morning. His intuition pinged softly—not alarm, but anticipation. This woman was going to complicate his life in the best possible way.
Blue Bottle was packed with the usual Manhattan morning crowd: finance bros in Patagonia vests, freelancers hunched over MacBooks, tourists snapping photos of avocado toast. Simon arrived first, claiming a corner table with a view of the door. He wore dark jeans and a charcoal cashmere sweater that hugged his frame just enough to turn heads without trying too hard.
When Lily walked in, the room seemed to dim around her. She'd opted for black high-waisted trousers and a silk blouse the color of champagne, hair pulled into a messy bun that somehow looked deliberate. Professional, but with an edge that promised mischief. His gut did that now-familiar flip.
She spotted him immediately, weaving through the crowd with a grace that made people move without realizing why. Up close in daylight, she was even more striking—freckles across her nose he hadn't noticed under club lighting, hazel eyes shifting gold in the morning sun.
"Mr. West," she said, sliding into the seat opposite him. "Slumming it with us common folk?"
"Only when the company's exceptional." He pushed a latte toward her—oat milk, two shots, exactly how she'd mentioned liking it in one of their late-night texts. Her eyebrows rose.
"Stalker level: expert."
"Memory like a steel trap. Comes with the intuition package."
They fell into conversation as easily as breathing. She talked about her pitch—a rebrand for a sustainable fashion startup—nerves hidden behind dry humor. He shared war stories from WestTech's early days, when he'd nearly lost everything on a bad investment his gut had warned him against but pride had ignored.
"You actually listen to it?" she asked, stirring her coffee. "The famous golden gut?"
"Religiously. Saved my ass more times than I can count."
"Must be nice, having a built-in bullshit detector."
He leaned forward. "It's not infallible. Sometimes it just says 'danger—proceed anyway.'"
Her smile turned wicked. "Sounds like my type."
The chemistry crackled like static electricity. Every brush of fingers when passing sugar, every shared laugh, built tension until Simon's legendary control frayed at the edges. When she checked her watch and sighed, "I really have to go," he felt genuine disappointment.
"Walk you to your meeting?" he offered.
"It's only three blocks. But…" She stood, slinging her bag over one shoulder. "Company would be nice."
They stepped out into the crisp spring air, Manhattan humming around them. Simon matched her stride easily, hands in pockets to resist the urge to touch her. She smelled like jasmine and something warmer—vanilla, maybe.
"So," she said as they waited at a crosswalk, "what happens now? You add me to your little black book and move on to the next conquest?"
He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. "You think that's what this is?"
"Isn't it what you do?" Her tone was light, but her eyes searched his face.
"My reputation precedes me," he admitted. "But reputations are like algorithms—based on past data. Doesn't account for anomalies."
"And I'm an anomaly?"
"You're a glitch in the matrix, Lily Pan. The kind that makes the whole system better."
She laughed, but there was surprise in it. "Smooth, West. Dangerous levels of smooth."
The light changed. They crossed, pausing outside her client's building—a sleek glass tower in Midtown.
"This is me," she said, gesturing.
"Good luck with the pitch. Knock 'em dead."
"Thanks." She hesitated, then stepped closer. "For the record, your pupils are doing that dilated thing again."
Before he could respond, she rose on tiptoes and kissed him—quick, teasing, gone before he could deepen it. Then she was walking away, hips swaying with deliberate provocation.
Simon stood rooted to the sidewalk long after she disappeared inside, tasting her on his lips—coffee and something sweeter. His phone buzzed.
Lily: Don't follow me up. Restraint builds character.
Simon: Already planning our second date. My place. Tomorrow night.
Lily: We'll see, Oracle.
He smiled all the way back to his office.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings and calls, but Simon's focus kept drifting to Lily. By evening, he found himself at his home gym, pushing harder than usual on the treadmill, trying to burn off restless energy.
Mia appeared in the doorway, tablet in hand. "Everything alright? You've rescheduled three calls today."
"Fine," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Just… distracted."
Her eyebrow arched—the closest she ever came to judgment. "The woman from last night?"
"Am I that transparent?"
"Only to those who've worked for you five years." She paused. "She's different."
"Yeah," he admitted. "She is."
That night, they texted until the early hours—flirting escalating from suggestive to explicit with breathtaking speed. Lily had no shame and a filthy imagination that matched his own. When she finally sent a photo—just her collarbone dusted with freckles and the strap of something black—he nearly dropped his phone.
Simon: You're killing me.
Lily: Good. Suffer beautifully.
The next evening, she arrived at his penthouse exactly fifteen minutes late, carrying a bottle of gin and wearing a dress that should have been illegal in all fifty states. Black, backless, clinging in ways that made rational thought difficult.
"Thought we'd make our own dirty martinis," she said by way of greeting, brushing past him close enough that her perfume wrapped around his senses.
The kitchen became their playground. She mixed drinks with confident precision while he watched, leaning against the counter. When she handed him a glass, their fingers lingered.
"To anomalies," she toasted.
"To glitches worth keeping."
They drank, eyes locked over the rims. Then the glasses were abandoned, and he was kissing her against the fridge—deep, hungry kisses that tasted of gin and olives and pure want. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer.
Somehow they made it to the living room, clothes shedding like inhibitions. She was fire and silk beneath his hands—responsive, demanding, laughing when he growled her name against her throat.
On the plush rug before the fireplace, with the city glittering beyond the windows, they came together in a rush of heat and urgency. She moved like she designed everything else—with intention and artistry. Every touch, every gasp, felt deliberate and perfect.
Afterward, tangled and breathless, she traced lazy patterns on his chest.
"So," she murmured, "was the wait worth it?"
He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her damp temple. "My gut's never been more vindicated."
They dozed briefly, waking to explore each other again—slower this time, savoring. The second round migrated to his bedroom, where the massive bed finally got proper use. Lily proved inventive and tireless, drawing sounds from him he didn't know he could make.
Much later, showered and wrapped in his robes, they raided the kitchen for leftovers. She sat on the counter eating cold pizza while he made fresh drinks, looking utterly at home in his space.
"This place is ridiculous," she said, gesturing with a slice. "You could land a helicopter in here."
"Jealous?"
"Intimidated. Slightly." She tilted her head. "Does it ever get lonely, living in a palace?"
The question caught him off guard. Most women saw only the glamour.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "But I fill it with… distractions."
She studied him. "Past tense?"
He met her gaze steadily. "Present tense feels different with you here."
Something softened in her expression. Then she hopped off the counter, closing the distance between them.
"Careful, Simon West," she whispered against his lips. "Keep talking like that and I might start believing you're human."
The kiss that followed was gentler, almost tender. When they finally returned to bed, she curled against his side like she belonged there. Simon fell asleep with her hair tickling his chin and the unfamiliar warmth of possibility in his chest.
Morning brought reality crashing back. His phone exploded with alerts—ErosAI's launch numbers were through the roof, but a major investor was pulling out, spooked by rumors of a competitor's superior algorithm. Simon handled the crisis with his usual efficiency, intuition guiding damage control.
Lily watched from bed, wrapped in sheets, as he paced naked taking calls. When he hung up, frustration etched on his face, she crooked a finger.
"Come here."
He obeyed without thinking. She pulled him down, kissing away tension until crisis management took a distinctly horizontal turn. By the time they showered—together, inevitably—the investor had been soothed and numbers were climbing again.
Over breakfast on the terrace, she asked, "How do you do that? Turn disaster into triumph before coffee?"
"Practice. And good company." He brushed a thumb across her cheek. "Stay tonight?"
"Can't. Deadline." She stood, dress from the night before somehow looking fresh. At the door, she paused. "But tomorrow? I'm free."
The smile she left him with carried him through another brutal day.
Thus began their pattern—stolen nights, lingering mornings, texts that ranged from filthy to philosophical. Lily never stayed more than one night at a time, always citing work, always leaving him wanting more. Simon, who'd never chased anyone in his life, found himself rearranging schedules to accommodate her.
Three weeks in, during a particularly memorable evening involving his rooftop hot tub and very little clothing, she asked the question he'd been avoiding.
"So what are we doing here, Simon?"
He stilled, water lapping around them. Moonlight painted silver across her wet skin.
"What do you want us to be doing?"
She considered. "I like this. A lot. The sex is…" She grinned. "Olympic gold. And you're surprisingly good company when you're not being insufferable."
"But?"
"But I know your reputation. I'm not naive."
He turned to face her fully. "My reputation is based on women who wanted the same thing I did—fun, no strings. You're different."
"Am I?" Her tone was light, but her eyes were serious.
"You've been in my head since the moment you called my pickup line bullshit. That's never happened before."
She searched his face. "So exclusivity? Because I don't share well with others."
The words hung between them. Simon's intuition pinged—not warning, but clarity. He wanted this woman, wanted more than stolen nights.
"Yes," he said simply. "If that's what you want."
She studied him for a long moment, then leaned in to kiss him—slow, deliberate, sealing something unspoken.
Later, in bed, she murmured against his chest, "Exclusive, huh? Big words from Manhattan's most eligible bachelor."
He tightened his arms around her. "Worth it for the right glitch."
Outside, the city kept spinning, oblivious to the fact that Simon West had just made a promise that would complicate his carefully ordered world in ways neither of them could yet imagine.
But for now, with Lily breathing softly against his skin, complications felt like the best kind of future.