Samantha is invited to Paris as well...

Samantha stood before the full-length mirror in her Brooklyn apartment wearing nothing but a pair of simple white cotton panties, the kind that came in a six-pack from Target and had no business being sexy but somehow felt more revealing than her expensive lingerie ever had. Her suitcase sat open on her bed behind her, half-packed with clothes she'd selected and then second-guessed and then selected again, but for the past ten minutes she'd been frozen in front of this mirror, studying her reflection with the critical eye she usually reserved for her own writing.

The email from GeneMatch had arrived yesterday morning while she was in a meeting with her editorial team, and she'd nearly dropped her coffee when she'd glanced at her phone under the table. Dr. Genet wanted to meet with her in Paris this weekend to discuss her results in person. All expenses paid. She'd typed her acceptance before the meeting even ended, her fingers trembling against the screen.

Now, twenty-four hours later, she stood half-naked in her apartment trying to reconcile the body in the mirror with the idea that somewhere out there, someone's DNA had identified her as compatible. As desirable. As worth crossing an ocean for.

Her hands came up to cup her breasts, and she felt the familiar disappointment settle in her chest. They barely filled her palms—32A on a good day, probably closer to AA if she was being honest with herself. Small, pert, with pale pink nipples that looked almost childish against her skin. She'd read all the body-positive articles, knew intellectually that breast size didn't determine her worth, but knowing something and believing it were different things entirely.

Samantha turned sideways, examining her profile. Her stomach was flat, concave even, her ribs visible when she raised her arms. Her hips barely flared from her narrow waist, creating that straight line down to her thighs that made shopping for jeans a nightmare. She looked like a teenage boy playing dress-up in women's underwear, and the thought made her throat tight.

But someone's DNA said she was compatible. Someone's genetic markers had aligned with hers in ways that suggested biological destiny. The science didn't care about cup sizes or curves—it cared about immune systems and pheromone receptors and neurochemical responses. Maybe that was more real than any of the arbitrary beauty standards she'd been failing to meet her entire life.

Her phone rang, shattering the quiet of her apartment. Samantha grabbed it from the bed, grateful for the interruption to her spiraling thoughts. Zoe's name flashed on the screen.

"Hey, Zo," she answered, still standing in front of the mirror.

"Okay, so we need to talk," Zoe said without preamble, her voice taking on that tone she used when she was about to share unsolicited advice. "You're leaving for Paris tomorrow and you need essential information."

"I'm just meeting with the doctor," Samantha protested, turning away from her reflection. "It's not like I'm immediately hooking up with whoever this person is."

"Oh honey, that's exactly what you're doing," Zoe said with a laugh. "You're genetically matched, scientifically compatible, and you're meeting in the most romantic city in the world. You're going to fuck. And since you've never actually fucked anyone, you need a crash course."

Samantha's face flushed hot. "Zoe, I really don't—"

"Remember, men love it when you take control of their cock," Zoe interrupted, her voice dropping to that sultry register she used when she was being deliberately provocative. "Grip it firmly, but not like you're strangling it. You want to use your whole hand, thumb and fingers working together, and vary your pressure. Start gentle at the base and work your way up to the head, which is the most sensitive part."

"Oh my god," Samantha muttered, sitting down on the edge of her bed. Her nipples had hardened against the cool apartment air, or maybe from Zoe's words. She wasn't sure which.

"And when you go down on him—because trust me, you will—don't try to deepthroat right away like they do in porn," Zoe continued, clearly enjoying herself. "Use your tongue on the underside of his shaft, right where the head meets the base. That spot is magic. Lick it, suck it, pay attention to how his body responds. Men are terrible at verbalizing what they want, but their cocks will tell you everything."

Samantha's free hand had moved unconsciously to her chest, fingers splayed across her sternum. Her heart was racing beneath her palm, and she could feel the heat spreading down her neck and across her modest breasts.

"I don't think I can—" she started, but Zoe cut her off again.

"Yes, you can. You're a grown woman with working anatomy, and this guy is supposed to be your perfect genetic match. Your body will know what to do even if your brain is freaking out." Zoe paused, then added with a hint of genuine warmth beneath the teasing, "Just remember to breathe and enjoy it. Sex is supposed to feel good, not like a performance review."

"What about positions?" Samantha heard herself ask, mortified by her own curiosity. "I mean, if—hypothetically—we actually do..."

"Start with missionary or you on top," Zoe said immediately. "Missionary lets you control the depth, which is important for your first time. It's probably going to hurt a little when he first pushes in, so you want to be able to tell him to stop or slow down if you need to. Plus you can see his face, connect with him, make it intimate instead of just physical."

Samantha's fingers had moved from her sternum to trace the curve of her small breast, circling her hardened nipple without conscious thought. "And if I'm on top?"

"Even better for control," Zoe said, her voice taking on that instructional quality that made her so good at her PR job. "You set the pace, the angle, the depth. Plus men love watching you ride them. Even with your small boobs—especially with your small boobs—the way they bounce when you move drives guys insane. And being on top puts his hands right at your chest level, so he can play with your nipples while you fuck him, which feels incredible."

The word "fuck" sent a jolt through Samantha's body. Her hand cupped her breast fully now, thumb brushing across the sensitive peak. Her other hand still held the phone to her ear, but she was acutely aware of her state of undress, the cool air on her exposed skin, the growing warmth between her thighs.

"One more thing," Zoe added, her voice softening slightly. "After he comes—and he's going to come fast the first time because you're both virgins and it's going to be intense—don't freak out if you didn't get there yet. First-time sex is usually mediocre at best. But round two? Round three? That's when it gets good. That's when you figure out how your bodies fit together."

"Thanks, Zo," Samantha managed, her voice slightly strangled. "I think I've got enough information now."

"Call me after," Zoe demanded. "I want all the details. Every. Single. Detail."

"You're terrible," Samantha said, but she was smiling despite her embarrassment.

"I'm essential," Zoe corrected. "Now go pack some sexy underwear and have the best weekend of your life."

The call ended, and Samantha sat there on the edge of her bed, phone still pressed to her ear, her body humming with unfamiliar energy. Her nipples were tight and sensitive, clearly visible through the thin skin of her modest breasts. Her breathing had gone shallow, and when she finally lowered the phone, her hand seemed to have forgotten how to move.

She looked down at herself—one hand still cupping her small breast, the other holding her phone limply. Her reflection in the mirror across from her bed showed a woman who looked confused and aroused in equal measure, her cheeks flushed pink, her lips slightly parted.

Samantha's fingers began to move again, tracing patterns across her sensitive skin without conscious direction. They circled her nipple slowly, feeling it tighten further under her touch. The sensation sent small sparks of pleasure radiating through her chest, settling low in her belly. Her hand drifted down from her breast, trailing across her flat stomach, fingers splaying across her ribcage.

She'd touched herself countless times before, but this felt different. Her body seemed to be yearning for something she hadn't even experienced yet—for hands that weren't her own, for a mouth on her breasts, for the weight of someone else pressing her into the mattress. For her perfect genetic match, whoever he was, wherever he was right now.

Her fingers reached the waistband of her simple cotton panties and paused there, hovering. She could feel the heat between her legs, the dampness that had formed during Zoe's explicit advice. Her body was responding to possibilities it had only imagined before, and the intensity of it surprised her.

Samantha let her hand slide lower, pressing against herself through the cotton. The fabric was definitely damp, evidence of her arousal that made her face flush with a mixture of embarrassment and excitement. She'd never gotten this wet just from talking, from imagining. Her solo sessions were functional, almost clinical—a means to an end rather than an exploration of pleasure.

But this felt different. This felt like her body was preparing for something real.

She pulled her hand away and stood up, deliberately turning away from the mirror. Her suitcase still needed to be finished, and she needed to get her head together before tomorrow. But as she selected clothes and folded them with trembling hands, she couldn't shake the awareness of her body—the sensitivity of her nipples against her shirt when she finally dressed, the persistent warmth between her thighs, the way her pulse seemed to beat in time with some internal clock counting down to Paris.

Tomorrow she'd meet Dr. Genet. Tomorrow she'd learn about her results. And maybe—maybe—tomorrow she'd meet the person her DNA said she was meant for.

The thought sent another wave of heat through her body, and Samantha pressed her thighs together, trying to ignore the ache that had settled there.