Friday night in New York always feels like a collective release. After five days trapped in that tiny Brooklyn office, playing shadow secretary to people who don't even know my name, I needed noise, lights, friends who reminded me I exist.

The Vault was our regular spot: a chic club in Chelsea, with dark velvet sofas, low amber lighting, and a DJ who knew exactly when to turn up the volume. I was sprawled on the sofa, gin and tonic in hand, watching Amanda and Samy bicker as usual. Those two are my lifeline. Without them, I'd probably have lost it by now.

"Another round?" Amanda asked, shaking her nearly empty cosmopolitan.

"For me, yes," I replied, sucking the last drop through the straw. "I don't work tomorrow anyway. My boss barely knows I exist. For him, the 'best' are always the same two. I'm just the guy who brings coffee and makes copies."

Inside, I was boiling. I believe in my abilities, I swear. I've spent nights studying case law that the others don't even open. But nothing. Zero recognition.

Amanda fixed me with those brown eyes that never let go. "Wait a minute. If I remember right, you solved that last case. You found the 2012 ruling everyone had overlooked."

I nodded, feeling bitterness rise in my throat. "Exactly. And guess who took the credit in front of the client? The usual golden boy. He got all the praise. Me? 'Good job on the research, Matthias.' Like I'm a first-year intern. If I'd known, I'd have become a secretary at a university. At least there someone would say thank you."

Samy, who was fiddling with his phone like his life depended on it, glanced up for a second. "Come on, princess, don't get down." Then he went right back to the screen, fingers flying.

I shot him a look, but with affection. Samy is like that: a diva even when he's not in Samira Luxe drag. Tonight he was in "normal" mode—tight jeans, black shirt unbuttoned just enough—but his energy still filled the room.

Amanda leaned toward him. "Samy, what the hell is wrong with you tonight? You look possessed by that phone."

He shrugged without looking up. "Sorry, someone sent me... well, you know. A photo. Of the full package."

Amanda's eyes widened, feigning shock. "Oh my God. Gay or straight, it's all the same. You guys send dick pics like 21st-century carrier pigeons."

Samy burst into loud laughter. "Jesus, Amanda, that's gold. I'm saving it for my next night at the Spotlight Lounge. 'Carrier pigeons.' Perfect for my lipsync number."

I shook my head, chuckling softly. These two could turn even my frustration into a show.

Amanda turned back to me, ignoring him. "Okay, leaving the shitty job aside... how's the novel going, princess? I'm dying for the next chapters."

I took a long sip of gin and tonic, trying to hide behind the glass. The novel. My little secret world. The one where I'm actually good, where no one steals my credit.

"It's just a hobby, Amanda," I said defensively. "It keeps me busy when I'm at the office doing nothing. In those deadly boring moments."

Samy finally put down the phone and leaned forward. "And your alternative to sex, let's be honest. You get off writing, honey." He winked. "Anyway, I'm waiting for the new chapters like an addict. That car scene between Lukas and Yuta? Matthias... my God. You gave me a literary orgasm. Car sex is so awkward, cramped, impossible... and you made it so realistic and hot that now I desperately want to try it for real."

I blushed to my ears, but couldn't help smiling. "Thanks... I think."

Amanda clapped, excited. "Aside from the sex scenes—which I love, by the way, they're my favorite chapter—I'm obsessed with Miky, the Cuban. Tell the truth: you based him on your ex, didn't you? Don't deny it."

I sighed, defeated. "Yeah, fine. It's him. All him."

"I knew it!" she exclaimed triumphantly.

Samy raised an eyebrow mischievously. "I love Miky too. Especially for his... generous size. Was your ex that well-endowed too, princess?"

Amanda elbowed him hard. "Samy! You have a pathological fixation on other people's dicks."

"Honey," he replied unfazed, "everyone has their hobbies. You collect cats. If you keep going, you'll end up the classic single cat lady with twenty cats and zero dates."

"Fuck off," Amanda shot back, but she was already laughing.

"I hope to soon," Samy replied with the most satisfied grin in the world.

At that point, I burst out laughing for real. One of those laughs that frees your chest. "Thank you, girls. Seriously. You always know how to lift my spirits when I'm about to drown."

Samy winked. "It's our superpower."

Amanda smiled softly. "Anyway, leaving the dick discussion aside... why don't you publish the novel on BookWriting? Tons of authors started there. Some got famous, Matthias. For real."

I shook my head, feeling the usual resistance. "I don't know. I write for fun, not to become a writer. I have a law degree, remember? It's already a miracle they haven't fired me."

"At least think about it," she insisted, taking my hand. "Try uploading the first chapter. What do you have to lose? You might surprise yourself."

"Okay," I finally conceded. "I'll think about it. Promise."

I looked around, letting the club wrap around me. Guys kissing in darker corners, groups of friends laughing too loud, shy glances between strangers—first dates, probably. The air was thick with possibilities, stories starting right there, in that moment.

Then my eyes stopped on him.

At the end of the bar, a platinum blond guy. Short, perfect hair, pearl gray jacket open over a white shirt that clung to his chest in a criminal way. Casual but elegant, the kind who walks into a room and everyone turns. He was typing something on his phone, focused.

He looked up.

Our eyes met for a second—just one—but it was like an electric shock straight to my stomach. Green eyes, cold, intense. I looked away first, heart racing for no reason.

"So," I said, trying to regain control of my voice, "what are we doing tomorrow?"

Amanda shrugged. "I'm free in the morning."

Samy, glued to his phone again, muttered: "I work."

"Samy," Amanda scolded, "can you go without your phone for five consecutive minutes?"

"Shh, quiet a second. I'm looking for something."

"Come on, leave him alone," I intervened, smiling.

Samy suddenly exclaimed: "Found it!"

Amanda raised an eyebrow. "Another dick roaming Manhattan?"

Samy laughed heartily. "No, dummy. I found something for our princess."

I looked at him suspiciously. "If it's about guys..."

He interrupted immediately. "No, it's not about guys, princess. We all know you've become a nun lately. Total abstinence."

Amanda burst out laughing. "He's not wrong. But your abstinence makes you write insane novels, so it's welcome."

"Bitch," I muttered, but without malice.

My phone vibrated on the table. A message from Samy: a link.

"I sent it to you," he said. "It's a great opportunity for you."

"Opportunity?" Amanda and I asked in unison.

"Yesterday morning at the restaurant, I served a table of lawyers. And what lawyers, girls. One was totally my type—short hair, gray beard, suit that fit like a glove..."

Amanda stopped him with a gesture. "Samy, we're not interested in your teenage crushes on daddies."

"He wasn't a daddy! Anyway, I overheard their studio has an opening. They're looking for someone good."

Amanda lit up like a Christmas tree. "What? You idiot, why didn't you say so sooner? Matt, this could be perfect for you!"

"What studio?" I asked, heart already beating faster.

"Harrington, Locke & Partners."

My eyes widened. "What?"

Amanda's mouth dropped open for a second, then she exploded: "That's a dream job, Matthias! Top of Manhattan!"

I sighed, feeling the excitement deflate like a punctured balloon. "I applied for an internship there years ago. They didn't even reply."

Amanda stared at me hard. "Here we go again. You shoot yourself down before even trying. They rejected you once, okay. This is different: they're looking for a real junior lawyer, and you have experience."

"Experience that others take credit for," I pointed out, voice more bitter than I intended.

"Forget those assholes," she said firmly. "Courage. Send the resume and fuck them all."

Samy chuckled. "I love when you talk like a Southern country princess."

I opened the link Samy sent. Read the requirements, responsibilities, salary—holy shit, the salary—and for a moment I allowed myself to dream. Then I got to the bottom of the page.

Preferably female candidates.

I cursed under my breath, closing my eyes. "Shit."

"What's wrong?" Amanda asked, worried.

"This position... it's specifically for a woman."

I leaned my head back against the sofa, staring at the dim lights of the club. "And here comes karma fucking me over. Again."

The weight of the evening crushed me. Invisible work, vanished opportunity, not even a thrill to distract me. I looked around one last time, searching for that platinum blond who'd pierced me with a single glance at the bar. Nothing. Gone, probably already in someone's arms—someone more confident, hotter, more... worthy. I sighed deeply, feeling a tiredness that went beyond physical. Tonight's just not the night, I thought. Better call it quits and go home to write, where at least I control the endings.

Amanda stood with energy. "Okay, enough self-pity. I'm getting more gin and tonics. We all need them."

Samy was glued to his phone again, fingers dancing on the screen. I stood, legs heavy. "I'm going to the bathroom to empty my bladder. Be right back."

The path to the back of the club was a slalom through heated bodies, clinking glasses, and hands brushing too close. The bathroom door closed behind me, muffling the chaos into a muffled silence. Shiny black and white tiles, spotless mirrors, fresh lemon and soap scent—someone had cleaned recently. It was empty, thank God.

I approached one of the open urinals—those anonymous ceramic mouths—pulled down my zipper, and let my cock out, still soft from the evening's frustration. I relaxed completely, the warm stream giving me a moment of physical relief while my mind obsessively returned to the ad.

Fuck, Harrington, Locke & Partners. My absolute breakthrough. Important cases, salary that would change everything, respect. And instead... preferably female candidates. Another door slammed in my face. What have I done to deserve this endless cycle of rejections?

Then, like a crazy thought born from desperation, a wild idea flashed in my head: what if I really dressed as a woman? Wig, makeup, skirt... and showed up to the interview anyway?

I laughed to myself, shaking my head. What an idiot. Impossible. Ridiculous.

The door opened with a creak.

I composed myself quickly, shaking off the last drop, but didn't have time to zip up.

A scent hit me like a wave: warm wood, spicy citrus, something expensive and intoxicating, the kind of fragrance that screamed money, gym, and absolute confidence.

I glanced sideways.

I nearly had a heart attack.

It was him. The platinum blond from the bar. Tall, broad shoulders under the open pearl gray jacket, white shirt clinging to a chest that looked sculpted. He stood at the urinal next to mine, zero privacy as always in these places, and pulled down his zipper with irritating slowness.

I heard the rustle. Then silence. He wasn't peeing.

I couldn't resist. I glanced down for a fraction of a second.

Holy fuck.

Even soft, it was impressive: long, thick, with a pink head just peeking out. My eyes flicked up for a moment to his profile, then to his hair—the roots a shade darker, almost copper—maybe a platinum dye job to change look, who knows. My brain short-circuited. Fuck.

"Quiet night," he said suddenly, low, velvety voice with that upper-class New York accent that gave me goosebumps.

I swallowed hard. "Yeah. Fridays are usually like this."

Inside I was a mess. Talk to him, Matthias. Try. It's just a guy in a bathroom. One more rejection won't kill you—you've had enough lately. But I was paralyzed. Almost a year of abstinence had turned me into a nun, like Samy said. And after a shitty week at the office and that discriminatory ad, my body was craving attention.

He spoke again. "Everyone out there seems calm. But he doesn't seem to agree."

I followed his gaze. My cock was hard, exposed, throbbing in the air, impossible to hide.

My cheeks burned. "Shit... it's not... I mean..."

He chuckled softly, a deep, dangerous sound that vibrated in my stomach. "It's not polite to leave your friend feeling lonely."

He turned toward me. His erection was now full: thick, veiny, throbbing in his large hand.

My brain shut down. What the fuck is happening? Just like that?

His free hand grabbed my exposed cock. Warm, sure, possessive. I gasped loudly.

"You'd better stop," I said, voice trembling. "Someone could walk in."

He arched an eyebrow, green eyes gleaming mischievously. "And if I don't want to stop? Is that really what you want?"

I looked him up close as our mouths were inches apart: perfect cheekbones, full lips, and there, on his left earlobe, a small dark mole, almost hidden by the blond hair. I thought of Samy calling me a nun, Amanda pushing me to live.

That night, after all that mess, something was finally happening. Something alive, real.

A fantasy I'd written a thousand times in my most perverse chapters.

Fuck everything.

I threw myself at his lips.

He responded as if he'd been waiting for me forever: voracious, hungry, tongue invading my mouth without asking permission. His hands slid from my hips to my back, crushing me against him. I grabbed his face, then down to his chest, hard muscles under the shirt, and lower, until my fingers closed around his cock.

I dropped to my knees on the cold floor. My tongue traced his entire length, from base to head, licking every vein, every drop of salty precome. He moaned, a guttural sound that vibrated inside me.

I took the head in my mouth, sucked slowly, then deeper. His hand ended in my hair, gripping. My cock, still out of my jeans, dripped on the floor, hard and neglected, throbbing with every thrust.

"Fuck, you're good!" he gasped, pushing deeper.

Then he thrust. Hard. His head hit the back of my throat, making my eyes water, but I didn't stop. Saliva ran everywhere, wetting his balls, my chin. He fucked my mouth mercilessly, a perfect rhythm, possessive, as if I were his. Every thrust sent waves of pleasure straight to my exposed cock.

He pulled out, shiny and throbbing. Grabbed a condom from his jacket—thank God someone was thinking—and rolled it on.

"Hope you're ready," he said, voice hoarse. "Because I don't think I can hold back."