Deal with it later, focus on tonight

I stare at the crimson dot pulsing on the overlay, its interference radius creeping like spilled ink across my green perimeter. Tier lockdown. The words hang stark, Adept privileges frozen until this ghost gets ghosted. But not now. Night three ticks forward; Tessa's oath drags her my way, hungrier, wetter, as commanded. I swipe the alert minimized, screen blacking out with a **** chime. The phone slips back into my pocket, my strides quickening through the alley's gathering dusk, the rival's shadow dismissed for the pull of flesh I know.

The apartment complex looms ahead, sodium lamps flickering alive along the squat brick facade. I take the exterior stairs two at a time, key turning smoothly in the lock—left unlocked earlier for Sarah's potential rush home, but her barista shift lingers on, craving gnawing at her from afar. The door swings shut behind me, latch clicking solid. The place greets me dim and quiet: couch askew from Elena's heat last night, air still faint with her shampoo ghosting the pillows. I drop my bag by the kitchenette counter, fridge humming low, and pour a glass of water cool down my throat, muscles uncoiling from the day's code grind.

Clock reads 6:42. Tessa's pull tugs sharper now, a psychic itch under my skin—the app's passive sense thrumming even locked. Her resistance frays nightly; tonight, she'll edge in ****, full lips parting for what denied her yesterday. I sink onto the couch, legs stretching long, and thumb open my phone despite the red-flagged interface. Tessa's profile pulses faint: proximity rising, 1.8km out, libido spiking blue-hot toward addict threshold. Proxy command from last: edge yourself tonight, no release. Good girl.

Minutes bleed slow, street noise filtering muffled through the thin walls—tires hissing wet on asphalt, a dog yapping distant. Then a knock rattles sharp, three raps hesitant but urgent, her signature from nights prior. I rise fluidly, crossing the room without haste, and pull the door wide.

She stands there in the hall's yellow wash, pizza uniform askew: visor jammed back over her messy bun, dark strands escaping wild; olive skin flushed deep under the collar, thick thighs shifting restless in black work pants that hug her round ass too tight for comfort. Full lips part wet, breath coming shallow, eyes locking mine with that haunted glaze—compulsion warring her confusion. No box in her hands this time; oath alone hauled her here, dripping as ordered.

"You," she whispers hoarse, olive throat working. One step forward, then halting, hands twisting at her waistband. "Can't stay away. Edged all day after last night. Please. Let me..."

The door clicks shut behind her, sealing us in. Her gaze drops ravenous to my belt, body swaying closer, thick thighs pressing together subtly against the ache.