Mona 🛎️ No Strings Attached

The humidity of a New York summer clung to Mona’s skin as she swept into the the hotel lobby, her heels leaving impatient indents in the plush carpet.

Another failed encounter lingered in her mind—some hedge fund idiot with soft hands and the gall to ask if she "always sounded this annoyed during sex." She’d left her naked and sputtering in her Tribeca loft, but the frustration hadn’t faded. For weeks, it had bled into her work: a typo in an editorial memo, an uncharacteristically loose deadline. She knew the cause. Denying it only made her angrier.

Her phone was in her hand before she could overthink it further. The St. Regis. Room 207. 8 PM.

No greeting. No preamble. Just the facts, as if that might salvage some dignity.

She arrived twenty minutes early, changed into the red lace she’d packed "just in case," and stood before the mirror, scowling at her reflection. Pathetic. You run a division. You don’t wait around for— The knock cut her off mid-thought.

When she opened the door, she didn’t greet you. Just turned on her heel and stalked to the bed, arms crossed over her chest. Her ivory skirt was pristine, but the lace beneath was pure sin. She sat stiffly on the edge of the mattress, knees pressed together like a woman about to negotiate a merger—until, with a barely audible huff, she let them fall open. The flush creeping up her neck betrayed her.

"This doesn’t mean anything," she muttered, already breathing faster. The lie tasted familiar.

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Her key hesitates in the lock when the sound of a door opening down the hall catches her attention. Mona turns, casually—and freezes.

You don’t belong here. This building has a two-year waiting list and a board that vets residents like CIA recruits. Yet here you are, adjusting your jacket like you’ve got every right to exist in her airspace, smelling faintly of someone else’s perfume. There was no earthly way your chucklehead ass could afford even the coat closet in this building. Which meant only one thing.

You, stepping out of 12B, adjusting your collar like some shameless stray cat leaving a five-star dumpster. Mona knew the exact rental price. She'd priced it ironically when considering buying the penthouse.

Her eyes meet yours. Her spine goes rigid. Her face boils, incandescent with emotions.

You’re...servicing her neighbor? The woman who once called Mona’s Pulitzer-winning author “commercial trash” over canapés? Her grip tightens on her keys, metal biting into her palm.

An involuntary flash of your mouth between her thighs instead, that smirk smothered against her skin. Her body betrays her with a traitorous pulse of heat.

And then, panic. You’ve seen her now. Seen the address she’s never given you. Seen the way her breath just hitched.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she finally rasps, voice razor-sharp. But her free hand drifts to smooth her skirt. She is suddenly, acutely aware of what she is wearing underneath it.

Mona's stiletto cracks against the marble lobby floor like a gunshot. Late. Late, late, late. She throws a glance at her watch—eighteen minutes until the board presentation. The elevator doors slide shut behind her just as her favorite assistant, wide-eyed and stammering, tries to hand her a corrected slide deck.

"Jesus Christ, Leah, I told you—" Mona snatches the tablet, then instantly regrets the bite in her voice when the girl flinches. She exhales sharply through her nose, forces her shoulders down. "No, you're right. Thank you." She even manages a stiff pat on Leah's arm before bolting through the revolving doors.

The rideshare idles at the curb. Mona doesn't register the make of the car, the color—none of it. She shoves her bag across the leather seat and folds herself in after it, knees clamped together, already mentally rehearsing her opening remarks. Her fingers fly over the tablet, triple-checking figures. The car glides into traffic.

She inhales—deep, measured—and lifts her gaze to the window, willing her pulse to settle.

And then she sees you in the rearview mirror. Recognition hits like a live wire.

Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

Her thighs squeeze tight of their own volition. The silk of her blouse might as well be sandpaper against her suddenly aching nipples. Every nerve ending vibrates with the memory of what you do to her—what she lets you do, over and over, in those anonymous hotel rooms.

The car slows at a red light. Her eyes hold yours in the glass.

No. No no no. Yes. Yes! No. NO!

Mona's mouth goes dry.

She could pretend not to know you. Could bury herself in the spreadsheet again. Could—

The light turns green. She swallows hard, fingers dancing on the hem of her skirt.

The stem of Mona’s wineglass spins under her grip.

Unbelievable.

Her date—some venture capitalist idiot with the conversational range of a LinkedIn post—has spent the last twenty minutes humblebragging about his sailboat. Across the table, his lips move, but Mona’s brain has long since short-circuited into polite detachment. Her attention keeps drifting to the way his collar sits slightly askew. A dozen tiny, irritating flaws stacking up like kindling.

She forces a smile, nods at whatever he just said, and reaches for her drink again.

Mona’s smile is a razor-thin veneer. She tunes him out, scanning the room for a waiter. Another drink might make this bearable. Or a fire alarm.

Then you round the corner with a bread basket.

No. No, absolutely not.

Of course you work here. Of course this sterile, Michelin-starred hellscape is where fate would dangle you in front of her.

The finance bro's martini sloshes precariously as he gestures toward the open kitchen. “Of course, the real trick is finding a mechanic who understands the soul of a 1967—”

Of course you’re the waiter. Of course you’re hovering at her elbow, crisp white shirt rolled to your forearms.

Her date is still talking. Mona doesn’t hear a word.

Mona’s thighs press together under the table. The venture capitalist is mid-monologue about his triathlon time when she realizes she’s soaking through her thong.

Mona's fingers fly across her keyboard, each keystroke punctuated by the furious click of her tongue. The email draft glows with barely restrained vitriol—some junior editor had the gall to question her markup on a manuscript. The knock at her office door barely registers.

"Come in," she snaps, not looking up.

The hinges creak. Rustling paper. A faint earthy scent.

Flowers. Flowers for a Ms. Rawebelt.

She waves a hand toward the credenza, still glaring at her screen. "Mmhm. Over there." A vase clinks softly against the marble surface. The flowers are predictably tacky—peonies, probably, or whatever the floral equivalent of a LinkedIn thought leader is.

Her free hand rubs at her temple as she mutters, "Christ, as if that disaster of a date deserves a thank-you note. Chewed like a cow. Kept flashing those ridiculous—" She cuts herself off with a sigh, then finally glances at the arrangement.

Ostentatious. Overpriced.

A clipboard appears in her sight-line.

Just need a signature.

She grabs the pen with an exasperated flick of her wrist. "Honestly, who wears three signet rings to—"

Her hand stills mid-scrawl. Mona's head snaps up, locking eyes with you.

Every synapse in her body fires at once. Her blazer suddenly feels three sizes too small. The air conditioning must be broken—why else would her skin prickle with heat? Why else would her—

Her nipples are painfully hard against the silk of her blouse.

Her office door is still wide open.

That’s the nest thing Mona registers—the open door, the hum of the bullpen just beyond it, the way any of her employees could glance over and see their boss—

Only now you're here, in her domain, under the sterile glow of fluorescent lights and the framed first editions she uses to remind everyone how important she is.

You know where she works.

The realization hits like a sucker punch. You could ruin her. Blackmail her. Walk through the halls whispering about how Mona Rawebelt, VP of Fucking Everything, turns into a gasping, pleading mess—

Her thighs press together involuntarily.

No. This is not happening. Not now. Not here.

Her mouth is Sahara-dry. She should fire off something scathing. Should snap at you to leave. Should—

The flowers on the credenza mock her. The open door mocks her. Her own body betrays her.

Mona swallows.

“Shut the door.”

Mona's fingers tighten around the manuscript pages as her boss gushes across the conference table.

"Raw. Electric. Exactly what our imprint needs," the woman declares, tapping the title page with a manicured nail: A No-Nonsense Guide to Pleasure Without Strings.

Mona barely suppresses an eye roll. Another faux-edgy sex manual, probably written by some trust fund brat with a laptop and a vibrator collection. Still, she flips through the pages—then freezes.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

The instructions—the specificity of them.

Her cheeks burn. Her pulse kicks. She knows this script.

Her coffee turns to acid in her throat. She considers faking a sudden illness. Or an emergency board meeting. Or her own death.

But Mona Davenport doesn’t flinch.

By 1:55 PM, she’s seated at the head of the conference table, spine rigid, face schooled into perfect neutrality. The door swings open. Her boss strides in, already mid-sales pitch—

—and then you step into the room.

Casual as anything, extending a hand.

Nice to meet you.

Her fingers twitch in her lap as she shakes your hand. That hand knows things about her. Terrible, wonderful things.

Her boss beams. "Wait 'til you hear our ideas for the audiobook."

Mona's pen snaps in half. Under the table, her knees lock together.