Sienna sat in the center of her apartment floor, wrapped in an oversized Ankara-print robe, fingers ink-stained, bare legs folded beneath her. Around her: sketchbooks, wine, silence.
No Luca.
No Malik.
Just her.
The scent of eucalyptus oil floated in the air.
The kind Luca rubbed on her thighs the first night he whispered, "Let me take care of you."
The oil Malik had in his studio when he said, "Strip, and create."
She hadn't washed it off her skin yet.
Because it wasn't just oil.
It was memory.
It was confusion.
It was desire.
And right now, she didn't know which man lived deeper in her body.
Luca was worship and weight. He made her feel like a storm in slow motion. He took, but only what she gave. And he gave back in ways no man had ever dared—on his knees, in his fists, in his breath against her neck at 3 a.m. when he whispered, "You don't belong to me. I belong to you."
But Malik…
Malik was invitation. Fire without chains. Heat that said I won't hold you—I'll follow you. He didn't need to fuck her to make her feel unzipped. He made her feel expansive. Like her pleasure didn't need to be framed—it was the frame.
Sienna picked up a pen.
Pressed it to her notebook.
What do I want?
She paused.
Then wrote:
I want to be soft without disappearing.
I want to be worshipped without being feared.
I want someone who can match my mind and my heat.
Who doesn't just take me—but remembers me.
I want to be led sometimes.
And I want to be followed when I blaze ahead.
The words shook her.
Because suddenly… she wasn't asking about the men anymore.
She was asking about herself.
Who was she when she wasn't on her knees?
When she wasn't naked in gold oil?
When no one was watching, and no one wanted a performance?
She walked to the mirror.
Untied the robe.
Let it fall.
Looked at her body.
Brown. Beautiful. Still glistening faintly.
She traced her breast.
Her hip.
Her inner thigh.
Slow.
Not to turn herself on.
But to remember whose body this was.
She closed her eyes.
One hand cupped her own breast.
The other slipped between her legs.
Not like Luca.
Not like Malik.
Just Sienna.
Alone.
Her pleasure wasn't about possession now.
It was about return.
She came softly, breath caught in her throat, thighs trembling, tears slipping out of the corners of her eyes.
Because that orgasm didn't belong to anyone.
Not even the two men she was torn between.
It was hers.
And when her body finally calmed, she whispered to the ceiling:
"I choose me. First."
Then she smiled.
Because she knew…
Whoever she picked next—if she picked anyone—would have to meet her there.
At her level.
Or not at all.