Manchester United Revival

Pulling open the heavy passenger door of the 1991 Mercedes-Benz estate, Milly Alcock slid into the custom leather seat and pulled it shut. Instantly, the muffled roar of the Manchester traffic disappeared into the cabin's insulated silence.

"Hey again," she greeted with a relaxed grin.

"Hello," Marcus replied, pressing the ignition button. As the electric motors engaged silently, he guided the vehicle away from the curb and merged seamlessly into the evening flow.

"That was absolute madness today," she remarked, buckling her seatbelt. "Five-one. Honestly thought the stadium was going to collapse from the noise. Emily was literally terrified for the first twenty minutes."

"It gets loud," he agreed, keeping his eyes locked on the road ahead. "But they sang nicely at the end."

"You didn't even celebrate, though," the actress pointed out, studying his profile. "I watched you. When Sancho scored the fifth one, seventy thousand people completely lost their minds. Meanwhile, you just sat on a plastic cooler and stared at the grass like a weirdo."

Turning the steering wheel smoothly, the manager replied, "I prefer to calculate the consequences of the goal. Celebration does not change the scoreline; it merely wastes energy."

A laugh escaped her. "You're literally a robot. A bloody successful one, but still a robot."

"I am flesh and bone," he corrected flatly. "I simply prefer logic over jumping around."

Driving them toward the center of Manchester, Marcus deliberately avoided the congested commercial districts. Instead, he navigated a labyrinth of narrow, brick-lined streets in the Northern Quarter before finally parking the grey estate car near a quiet alleyway.

Stepping out of the vehicle into the brisk night air, he led her down the dark path until they stopped in front of an unmarked wooden door. Pushing it open, he gestured for his companion to enter.

Crossing the threshold, they stepped into a warm, low-lit space smelling richly of roasted garlic and fresh sourdough. It was an exclusive, hidden Italian restaurant.

A sharply dressed maître d' approached immediately, his posture straightening upon recognizing the new arrival.

"Mr. Vale," the man greeted warmly. "Congratulations on the massive victory tonight. A true masterclass."

"Thank you, David," Marcus replied politely. "A table for two, please. Somewhere in the back."

Muttering a quick "Right this way," the host guided the pair through a dining room scattered with a few lingering patrons.

As they passed a large mahogany booth, a customer wearing a red Manchester United scarf abruptly leaped to his feet, clutching a half-empty glass of wine.

"Gaffer!" the fan shouted happily. "Absolute genius today! You completely ruined Klopp!"

Halting his stride, the manager looked over and offered a polite nod. "Thank you. The squad played very well."

"I actually have to thank you for something else," the supporter continued, his smile stretching significantly wider. "When you gave your first press conference last November, you promised to win the Champions League. Everyone laughed, and the bookmakers gave odds of one to one hundred."

Pointing an emphatic finger directly at the coach, he beamed. "I bet one thousand pounds on that promise. After the final in Paris, you essentially bought my new house extension. So, thank you for the win."

Meeting the man's ecstatic gaze with a perfectly flat expression, he replied, "Thanks for having faith in me."

"Can I grab a quick photo?" the fan requested, already scrambling for his phone. "My son will not believe this."

"Make it quick," came the calm agreement.

Stepping eagerly out of the booth, the man threw an arm around the manager and held the glowing device high. Beside him, Marcus gave a small smile into the camera lens as the bright flash illuminated the dim room.

"Cheers, boss. Absolute legend," the ecstatic fan praised, pocketing his phone. "The bill is entirely on me tonight, and you cannot say no."

Offering a single, crisp nod, he simply resumed walking.

The pair finally reached a secluded table tucked away in the far corner and settled into the plush velvet seats.

Before a waiter could even distribute the menus, a young boy nervously approached the booth. Holding a crumpled paper napkin and a pen, his small hands shook visibly.

"Excuse me, Mr. Vale," he squeaked out quietly. "Could I please have your autograph?"

Looking down, the United boss took the proffered items, signed his name in quick, sharp strokes, and handed everything right back.

"Study hard in school," he instructed gently.

"I will! Thank you!" the child beamed, immediately sprinting back toward his parents' table.

Watching the entire sequence unfold, Milly rested her chin thoughtfully on one hand. "You're treated like a god out here."

"I am just a football manager," he countered, opening the leather-bound menu. "If we lose three consecutive games, those same people will petition the board to fire me. The adoration is highly conditional, so I never let it affect my ego."

"Does it ever get to you, though?" she pressed. "Having zero privacy? Everywhere you go, someone wants a piece of your time."

"I drove here in a thirty-year-old grey station wagon," he reasoned calmly. "I control my own privacy. When choosing to walk into a public space, I must accept their attention. They literally pay my wages by purchasing tickets, meaning I definitely owe them a signature on a napkin."

Absorbing the grounded perspective, she nodded slowly.

A waiter soon arrived to take their drink and food orders simultaneously. Requesting sparkling water and a simple pasta dish for himself, his date opted for a glass of red wine alongside a rich seafood risotto.

Gathering the menus, the server retreated toward the kitchen.

"You portrayed Rhaenyra very well in the premiere," Marcus noted, looking across the candlelit table. "Your acting was genuinely excellent."

Raising a skeptical eyebrow, she shot him a highly suspicious glare. "Did you actually watch it, or are you just saying that?"

Maintaining an unreadable expression, he deadpanned, "Even if I hadn't watched it, I would be obligated to say the same thing, right?"

Bursting into genuine laughter, she shook her head in disbelief. "Be honest. Did you literally watch the episode?"

"Yes, I watched it," he finally confirmed. "It was genuinely great, and the online reviews reflect that. Congratulations on the massive breakthrough."

Sighing softly, the Australian actress plucked a piece of crusty bread from the woven basket. "Thanks, appreciate it. But honestly? The sudden fame is terrifying. I grew up in Sydney, literally washing dishes in a cafe not that long ago and self-taping auditions from my bedroom. Now the show's out, my giant head is plastered across London buses, and randoms stare at me on the pavement. The whole thing feels entirely fake."

Studying her features carefully, he easily detected the genuine anxiety lurking just behind her confident exterior.

"It isn't fake," he assured her, his voice dropping to a quieter, much more serious tone. "You secured the role by possessing a highly specific talent, not because executives pulled a random name out of a hat. Having earned the position through hard work, the giant billboards and public stares are merely byproducts of the entertainment industry."

Meeting his intense gaze, she murmured, "You make it sound so bloody straightforward."

"Because it is straightforward," he insisted. "Pressure is simply a byproduct of caring what random strangers might think about your potential failure. Care too much about their fickle opinions, and the weight will eventually crush you. Only care about your personal success, and the pressure completely disappears."

"Is that seriously how you handle seventy thousand people screaming at you every weekend?" she asked softly.

"Yes," came the immediate confirmation. "I simply do not hear the crowd. Instead, I watch the space between the center-back and the full-back. I analyze the exact angle of the opposition's pressing trigger. By focusing entirely on the game itself, the background noise becomes irrelevant."

Interrupting the quiet moment, the waiter returned to place a delicate wine glass in front of her and a sparkling water near his right hand.

Taking a thoughtful sip of the dark red vintage, Milly exhaled slowly. "I really do try to focus on the work and just nail the scripts. But the internet is so loud, man. The hardcore book fans are intense, and they already have this hyper-specific image of the character in their heads."

"Let them talk," he advised, taking a casual sip of his water. "People constantly complain because they lack the fundamental ability to do the actual work themselves. The bitter critic is always louder than the artist. Just do the work, take the paycheck, and go home."

A bright laugh escaped her lips. "You've got a pretty cynical view of the world, Marcus."

"I have a highly efficient view of the world," he corrected smoothly.

When the steaming plates finally arrived, the heavy conversation shifted toward lighter topics. Eating their respective meals, the pair comfortably discussed favorite movies and past travels.

She vividly described the blistering heat of brutal Australian summers, prompting him to counter with dry complaints about the constant, depressing rain blanketing Manchester.

Throughout dinner, the young actress proved to be incredibly sharp, refusing to let her date dominate the conversation with unyielding logic. Instead, she constantly challenged his analytical answers, deploying sharp sarcasm to expertly crack his notoriously flat delivery.

"So, you basically just stand on the touchline and stare people down," she summarized playfully after enduring a lengthy explanation of his tactical process. "You barely yell or wave your arms around. You just stand there like a creepy statue while everyone else runs around sweating."

"I wave my arms occasionally," he defended lazily. "Earlier today, I pointed exactly two fingers in the air, which directly resulted in a set-piece goal. Frankly, it was very exhausting."

Rolling her eyes with a wide grin, she shot back, "You're an absolute menace."

"I am productive," he repeated stubbornly.

After finishing the excellent food, the waiter returned to confirm the grateful fan in the front booth had already settled the entire bill. Standing up together, the couple exited the warm restaurant.

Strolling back down the dark alleyway, the cool air felt refreshing against their skin.

"Would you care to see a bit more of the city?" Marcus offered politely. "Or would you prefer to head back to your place?"

Glancing down at her wrist, she noted it was nearing midnight. "I'm not tired yet. Show me around."

Nodding in agreement, he led her down the pavement on foot.

Wandering toward a much brighter intersection, flashing neon lights beckoned from a corner building housing a late-night arcade. Loud, thumping electronic music spilled freely out of its open doors.

"Let's check that out," she suggested eagerly, pointing a finger at the vibrant entrance.

Following her inside, he was immediately assaulted by the chaotic noise of dozens of glowing arcade cabinets lining the walls.

Striding purposefully over to a set of electronic basketball hoops, she claimed one of the two empty, side-by-side machines.

"Play me," came the confident challenge as she fished a token from her purse and shoved it into the coin slot.

Stepping up to the adjacent cage, he wordlessly inserted his own token. Above them, red digital timers lit up simultaneously as a row of small, worn orange basketballs rolled down the metal return ramps.

"Ready?" she asked, grabbing the first sphere with both hands.

"Yes."

The loud buzzer blared to start the clock. Firing her first shot quickly, she groaned as it clanged violently off the metal rim. Grabbing a second ball, she rushed the release and missed the mark entirely again.

In stark contrast, her opponent picked up a ball without an ounce of rush. Staring analytically at the static hoop, he raised his arms and flicked his wrists smoothly. The ball dropped straight through the center of the net. Methodically picking up the next sphere, he replicated the exact same biomechanical motion. Swish. Next ball. Swish.

While she chucked heavy plastic frantically to scrape together a meager handful of points, the manager beside her did not miss a single, calculated shot.

The final horn blared, abruptly ending the lopsided contest.

Glaring up at the glowing red scoreboards, she read a paltry forty points on her side compared to a flawless one hundred and twenty on his.

"You literally didn't miss once," she accused, crossing her arms defensively. "Have you played this machine before?"

"No," he answered truthfully, his tone incredibly flat. "I just shoot and it lands."

Shaking her head in disbelief, she muttered, "You completely ruin the fun of simple games."

Retreating away from the noisy basketball cages, the couple located a small, sticky booth near the back of the arcade where the volume was slightly more manageable, and sat down across from one another.

"Alright, fine," she conceded with a huff. "You beat me at arcade hoops. Let's play a completely different game."

"What game?"

"You claimed you read the books," the actress reminded him, a competitive glint in her eye. "A Song of Ice and Fire. Rapid-fire trivia. Ten questions each, we take turns. First person to get a lore question wrong immediately loses."

Leaning back into the vinyl cushion, he nodded. "I accept the terms."

A wicked smile crossed her face. "I'm going first. Question one: What's the name of the ancestral greatsword belonging to House Stark?"

"Ice," he answered instantly without a fraction of a pause. "My turn. Question one: Who was the very first King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men?"

Rolling her eyes at the softball pitch, she scoffed. "Way too easy. Aegon the Conqueror."

Leaning eagerly across the table, she fired back. "Question two: What's the official motto of House Tyrell?"

"Growing Strong," came the effortless reply. "Question two: Name the three massive dragons ridden by Aegon and his two sisters."

"Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes," she listed confidently, tapping a fingernail rhythmically against the table. "Question three: Who famously killed the Mad King?"

"Jaime Lannister," the manager stated. "Question three: What specific poison was used to assassinate Joffrey Baratheon at his wedding?"

"The Strangler," the Aussie replied with a growing smirk. "We really need to make this harder on ourselves. Question four: What's the name of Arya Stark's direwolf?"

"Nymeria," he countered effortlessly. "Question four: Who supposedly founded House Lannister during the fabled Age of Heroes?"

Pausing for a brief second to search her memory, she snapped her fingers. "Lann the Clever. Question five: Where exactly is the mountainous seat of House Arryn?"

"The Eyrie," Marcus stated plainly. "Question five: What is the actual name of the Valyrian steel dagger originally owned by Petyr Baelish?"

A heavy frown creased her brow as she searched the lore banks. "It doesn't actually have a formal name in the text. They just call it the catspaw dagger."

"Correct," he conceded smoothly.

"Question six," she pushed forward, determined to crack him. "Who served as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard under Aerys the Second?"

"Gerold Hightower," the United boss answered without blinking. "Question six: Who historically built the massive ice Wall in the North?"

"Bran the Builder," Milly shot back, taking a quick breath to steady the rapid pace. "Question seven: What are the defiant words of House Martell?"

"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken," came the instant, robotic reply. "Question seven: Name the ancestral castle belonging to House Tarly."

"Horn Hill," the actress answered, pointing an accusing finger across the table. "Question eight: Who was famously known as the Sword of the Morning?"

"Arthur Dayne," he parried. "Question eight: What was the name of the vicious dragon ridden by Daemon Targaryen during the Dance of the Dragons?"

A loud laugh erupted from her chest. "Caraxes! That was way too easy, mate. I literally play the guy's niece in the show."

"I was merely being polite," he justified flatly.

"Question nine," the blonde challenged, her tone turning decidedly more serious as she hunted for a truly difficult piece of obscure lore. "Who holds the title Lord of the Tides?"

"Corlys Velaryon," Marcus answered, unfazed. "Question nine: What is the name of the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of House Hightower?"

Hesitating slightly, she looked up at the ceiling to visualize the family trees. "The sword of House Hightower... Vigilance."

A tiny nod confirmed her success. "Correct."

"Alright, final question," she announced dramatically. "Question ten: Name all nine Free Cities of Essos."

Never breaking eye contact, the manager recited the extensive list in a flat, perfectly even tone. "Braavos, Pentos, Volantis, Lorath, Lys, Myr, Norvos, Qohor, and Tyrosh."

A defeated sigh escaped her lips. "You actually memorized the entire geographical map."

"I simply possess a good memory," he noted. "My turn now. Final question. Question ten."

Fixing her with a piercing stare, he asked, "Who was the mother of Doran, Elia, and Oberyn Martell?"

A deep frown marred her features as she desperately scanned her knowledge of the heavy books. Thinking back to the specific chapters set in sun-baked Dorne, she tried to recall a specific name attached to the ruling family.

"The mother of Elia Martell," she muttered quietly to herself, piecing together the timeline. "She traveled all the way to Casterly Rock. She met with Tywin Lannister."

Meeting his gaze with a frustrated grimace, she surrendered the specific detail. "I don't remember her actual first name. The text just calls her the Princess of Dorne."

"Correct," he confirmed smoothly. "She remains entirely unnamed in the published text."

A massive wave of relief washed over her face, resulting in a bright smile.

"However," the trap suddenly snapped shut as his voice remained entirely unchanged. "Who served as her official sworn shield during that specific journey?"

The victorious smile vanished instantly. Staring blankly across the table, she opened her mouth, but absolutely no name materialized. Frantically searching the deepest, darkest corners of her memory regarding obscure Dornish lore yielded nothing but empty silence.

Defeated, she slumped heavily against the sticky vinyl booth.

"I honestly have no clue," she finally admitted in total defeat.

"It was a trick question," he revealed calmly. "The Princess did not bring a traditional sworn shield; rather, she traveled alongside her brother, Prince Lewyn Martell."

Grabbing a crumpled paper napkin from the tabletop, she hurled it directly at his smug face. Bouncing harmlessly off his chest, the paper fluttered to the arcade floor.

"You totally cheated!" she laughed, the competitive tension breaking completely.

"I merely exploited your baseline assumption," he corrected with a maddening lack of emotion. "By assuming there was a specific guard's name to remember, you lost focus on the actual lore."

Pushing away from the table, the pair finally exited the deafening, neon-lit arcade and stepped back out into the quiet, chilly Manchester night.

Wandering toward Castlefield, they entered the oldest historic district of the sprawling city. Beneath their feet, smooth tarmac abruptly transitioned into old, uneven cobblestones, while massive red-brick railway viaducts towered intimidatingly overhead. In the darkness, the ancient iron bridges looked incredibly industrial and heavy.

Strolling leisurely along the edge of the Bridgewater Canal, they admired the perfectly still, black water mirroring the glowing yellow streetlights above. The immediate area was wonderfully quiet, leaving the rowdy, drunken football fans miles away inside packed pubs.

However, as they passed a solitary old pub huddled near the water, the booming sound of slurred singing suddenly spilled out into the narrow street. A large group of diehard United supporters congregated outside holding overflowing plastic pint glasses, wearing identical red replica shirts while belting out a unified chant.

Dozens of rough voices carried the crude lyrics perfectly through the crisp night air:

What's that in his hand? What's that in his hand? It's a fucking red magnet, What's that in his hand?

What's he gonna do? What's he gonna do? Win another fucking trophy, That's what he's gonna do!

Looks like he needs a nap, Looks like he needs a nap, Still sends every bastard home, Looks like he needs a nap!

Tie hanging loose, Coffee in his hand, Doesn't give a flying fuck, Still the best in the land!

What's that in his hand? What's that in his hand? It's a fucking red magnet, What's that in his hand?

Looks like he needs a nap, Looks like he needs a nap, Still wins every fucking game, Looks like he needs a nap!

Halting her stroll completely, Milly listened intently to the ridiculous lyrics before looking directly at the man standing beside her. Bursting into loud, uncontrollable laughter, she quickly slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound.

"Is that seriously your dedicated fan chant?" she wheezed, tears of mirth forming in her eyes.

Standing rigidly on the uneven cobblestones, the subject of the chant listened to dozens of drunken men scream about his apparent need for a nap while keeping both hands securely tucked deep inside his pockets.

"It is a rather nice one," he evaluated neutrally. "There are a few alternative chants featuring highly explicit language, so it is probably better that you have not heard those versions."

Shaking her head, she giggled. "They really do love you out here. Even if you constantly look like you're sleepwalking."

Resuming their quiet walk along the canal path, they eventually passed a crumbling set of old Roman fort ruins. Looming in the background, towering modern glass skyscrapers provided a striking visual contrast against the ancient, weathered stones.

"This city has a really weird beauty to it," the actress observed thoughtfully, gazing up at the massive, riveted steel bridges. "It looks so rough and industrial, but it undeniably has heaps of character."

"It is fundamentally a city built on hard labor," he replied, maintaining his relaxed, hands-in-pockets stride. "Previous generations dug these canals to move cotton and laid heavy railways to transport coal. Because this city implicitly understands grueling work, the locals expect their football team to replicate that exact effort. They simply do not tolerate laziness on the pitch."

"Then you fit in perfectly," she murmured, bumping her shoulder playfully against his arm as they walked.

The casual physical contact caused him to stop walking entirely.

Finding themselves bathed beneath a single, flickering yellow streetlight next to the towering brick wall of a viaduct, the dark canal water lapped quietly just a few feet to their left.

Realizing he had halted, Milly stopped a pace away, turning around to look up into his face.

Staring back down, he noticed how the hazy ambient light caught the edges of her blonde hair, making her eyes appear incredibly bright against the surrounding gloom.

Slowly withdrawing a hand from his pocket, he reached forward to rest a warm palm firmly against her waist, gently pulling her closer to his chest.

Offering absolutely zero resistance, she stepped willingly into his personal space and tilted her chin upward.

Leaning down, he captured her lips.

The resulting kiss was incredibly slow and highly deliberate. Raising both hands to grip the soft cotton of his white t-shirt, she kissed him back eagerly, parting her lips slightly to allow the intimate embrace to deepen.

Pressing her gently backward against the rough brick masonry, they remained locked together for several long minutes, entirely isolated from the world save for the faint hum of distant traffic and the ragged sound of their shared breathing.

Eventually pulling back at a glacial pace, he kept a possessive grip anchored securely to her waist.

Gazing up through hooded eyes, her breathing was noticeably heavier than before, her swollen lips remaining parted in the cool air.

Staring deeply into those bright eyes, he broke the heavy silence. "I happen to possess a vast collection of antique maps back at my house," he offered, his voice completely, hilariously flat. "We could easily travel there tonight and examine the intricate cartography of eighteenth-century Europe. Personally, I find the shifting borders of the Prussian empire to be very fascinating."

Stunned into silence, she simply stared at the man, blinking rapidly to process the abrupt tonal shift.

Releasing her tight grip on his shirt, she took a cautious half-step backward.

"Marcus," she finally managed, her voice thick with a chaotic mix of utter disbelief and sheer amusement. "That is hands down the worst pickup line I have ever heard in my entire life."

Refusing to break character for even a second, he defended the pitch. "Cartography is a highly respected science."

"You are actually unbelievable," she laughed, throwing her head back in genuine delight. "Did you seriously think that specific line would work on a woman? Antique maps?"

Letting out a heavy, exaggerated sigh, he dropped his hand from her side to adopt a look of serious resignation.

"Okay."

"Do you want to come back to my house and have sex?" he asked bluntly.

The question caused her to freeze completely in place.

Hitting her like a sudden physical force, the sheer bluntness of the invitation left her staring wide-eyed at the brick wall behind his head. Her mouth opened slightly, yet absolutely no sound emerged, as the whiplash transition from a terrible, cheesy pickup line to uncompromising, naked honesty completely short-circuited her brain.

Searching his impassive face frantically, she quickly realized he wasn't joking or playfully teasing her anymore. He merely stood casually under the flickering streetlight, patiently awaiting a logical answer to a direct, biological question.

Clicking her jaw shut, she inhaled a sharp breath as a wicked, hungry smile slowly spread across her face. Stepping aggressively right back into his space, she grabbed the cotton collar of his shirt securely in both fists.

"Let's go," she commanded.

Offering one sharp nod, the manager agreed.

Retreating swiftly back to the hidden alleyway where the wagon remained parked, their walking pace increased dramatically. Unsurprisingly, neither party brought up local industrial architecture or the rich history of the canal system during the rushed trek.

Piling hastily into the grey Mercedes, Marcus fired up the silent engine and navigated the tight urban streets with expert speed, violently accelerating down the slip road to merge onto the highway heading south toward Hale Barns.

Lasting exactly twenty minutes, the resulting drive featured a heavy, suffocating silence thick with palpable anticipation. Unable to look away, Milly kept her eyes firmly locked on her driver, tracing the veins on the hands gripping the steering wheel while watching passing streetlights paint his sharp profile in rhythmic, glowing flashes.

Swinging the heavy chassis into the wide driveway of his luxurious estate, the massive property sat cloaked in total darkness, isolated perfectly by a perimeter of tall, swaying trees.

Pressing a remote button clipped to the sun visor, he waited for the heavy garage door to grind open before parking the vehicle safely inside and killing the power.

Bailing out of the sleek cabin, he quickly keyed open the internal security door leading directly into the main residence.

Pushing the heavy wood aside, both stepped over the threshold into a sprawling, shadowed hallway.

Reaching a hand blindly toward the wall to locate the nearest light switch, he was immediately interrupted.

Milly absolutely refused to wait for proper illumination.

Before the security latch could even click shut behind them, she stepped boldly into his path and shoved him hard in the chest. Stumbling backward, his shoulder blades hit the solid oak door with a heavy, violent thud that echoed loudly throughout the cavernous, quiet house.

Grabbing his face roughly with both hands, she kissed him with fierce, desperate intensity. Crushing her mouth against his, her soft lips felt incredibly warm, carrying the lingering, intoxicating taste of the dark cherry and spiced red wine consumed during dinner.

Responding instantly to the sudden aggression, large hands slid rapidly down her spine to grip her narrow waist tightly. Burying his face against her neck, he inhaled the dizzying blend of expensive floral perfume mixed with the faint, natural salt of her skin earned from a long night trekking across the humid city.

Wrapping thick arms securely beneath her thighs, he hoisted her completely off the hardwood floor. Without hesitation, she wrapped both legs tightly around his hips, locking her ankles firmly behind his lower back to anchor herself as the burning heat of her body pressed flush against his own through their restrictive clothing. Kissing him even harder, she slid her tongue dominant against his, a low, incredibly hungry sound vibrating deep inside her throat.

Carrying the clinging woman blindly down the pitch-black hallway, their mouths refused to part for even a fraction of a second. Piercing the total silence of the empty mansion, the only sounds were their ragged, overlapping breathing, the frantic rustle of shifting fabric, and the heavy, rhythmic creak of vintage wooden floorboards protesting under his hurried footsteps.

Bypassing a sprawling living room where pale moonlight poured freely through massive, floor-to-ceiling windows to paint silver streaks across the expensive rugs, he hit the grand staircase. Climbing the carpeted steps steadily, her slight weight barely registered against his strength. Meanwhile, frantic fingers tangled violently in his dark hair, tugging just hard enough at the roots to send electric sparks shooting directly down his spine before she ruthlessly nipped his lower lip and immediately soothed the sting with a wet swipe of her tongue.

Reaching the top landing, a heavy shoulder barged open the master bedroom door. Stepping into a massive space smelling faintly of rich cedar wood and freshly laundered linen, he carried his prize straight toward the center of the room before finally letting her slide downward until her sneakers touched the plush rug.

Immediately shrugging her shoulders, the oversized black designer jacket slid off her arms to hit the floor with a soft, expensive whisper. Mirroring the urgency, he grabbed the back hem of his anime t-shirt, ripped the cotton over his head in a single, fluid motion, and tossed the garment carelessly into the shadows.

While the blast of cool air-conditioning instantly hit his bare chest, her wandering hands were already mapping the territory—sliding warm palms upward to trace the hard, defined ridges of his abdominal muscles and leaving blistering trails of heat wherever her fingertips dragged.

Reaching around her trembling frame, he located the hidden zipper at the back of her stylish top and dragged it downward, the metal teeth parting with a loud, metallic rasp. As the loosened fabric slipped effortlessly from her shoulders to join the discarded jacket, he ran calloused hands reverently over her newly exposed skin, marveling at how smooth, incredibly warm, and slightly flushed she felt under his touch.

Leaning down to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the sensitive curve of her neck, he breathed deeply to capture the lingering scent of her shampoo. Trailing his lips deliberately along her sharp jawline, he finally settled against the delicate hollow of her throat, smiling against the skin as he felt her frantic, hammering pulse beating wildly right beneath his tongue.

Letting out a soft, breathy moan of pure surrender, she tilted her head back blindly to grant him even greater access, her fingernails digging painfully deep into the thick muscles of his shoulders. Hearing the desperate sound slip from her lips sent a massive, blinding rush of heat roaring straight through his veins.

Capturing her mouth once more, the subsequent kiss was infinitely deeper—slow, highly deliberate, and entirely commanding. Moving in perfect, desperate sync, he blindly guided her backward step by step until the backs of her knees finally buckled against the sturdy edge of the mattress. Collapsing together onto the sprawling bed in a frantic tangle of bare limbs, the shocking chill of the crisp, high-thread-count sheets contrasted violently against the burning, feverish heat radiating from their entwined bodies.

Hovering dangerously above her prone form, silver moonlight sliced through the windows to cast sharp, beautiful shadows across her flawless face and delicate collarbones. Staring up at him with eyes absolutely dark with naked want and lips attractively swollen from the relentless kissing, she simply reached up, grabbed the thick hair at the nape of his neck, and pulled the manager down hard into the darkness.