Chapter 68 : Aftermath and Presentation
New York, Lower East Side – Darcy's POV
The first thing I became aware of was the emptiness.
Not just the space in the bed beside me, cold sheets where a warm, solid body should have been, but an emptiness inside. A profound, physical echo of the fullness that had been there hours before. I stretched, muscles aching in a dozen new, delicious ways, a mosaic of pleasure-pain that mapped every touch, every thrust. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting striped warmth across the rumpled sheets. The room still smelled of us—sex, sweat, and something darker, muskier, uniquely Alex.
My hand drifted to the other side of the bed, fingers splaying across the cool cotton. That's when I saw it. A crisp white rectangle of paper, folded neatly and propped against the lamp on my nightstand. A jolt, sharp and surprisingly cold, went through me. I sat up, the sheet pooling around my waist, and snatched the note.
Darcy,
Had a plane to catch. Didn't want to wake you—you looked too peaceful, and frankly, after last night, you deserved the rest. It was… more than I can put into words. I'll call you when I land.
A.
P.S. You taste even better in the morning.
A blush ignited my cheeks, burning all the way down my neck. He was just… gone? The disappointment was a quick, sharp sting, but it was immediately drowned out by a surge of something else, something hotter and far more demanding. The memory of his mouth, his hands, his cock, flooded back with the force of a tidal wave. My skin prickled with a fresh, urgent heat. The P.S. echoed in my head, and without thinking, my fingers dipped between my legs.
Oh. I was still slick, swollen, incredibly sensitive. Just the lightest touch sent a jolt straight to my core. I slumped back against the pillows, the note fluttering to my chest. My eyes closed, and I was right back there.
It wasn't a conscious decision to start; my body just took over, my fingertips circling the aching, needy nub of my clit with a rhythm learned from him. It felt good, a shallow, familiar pleasure. But it was nothing. A faint echo compared to the symphony he'd conducted in my nerves. I needed more. I needed the memory to be sharper, more real.
I slid two fingers inside myself, gasping at the intrusion. My body was still loose, accommodating, but my own touch felt… small. Inadequate. I remembered the stretch, the unbelievable, mind-altering fullness of him filling me. My hips bucked off the mattress, seeking a pressure that wasn't there.
That's when the fantasy took hold, vivid and unstoppable.
I'm on my knees on the floor, the rough texture of the rug biting into my skin. Alex is standing over me, his huge cock glistening, already wet from my mouth. He doesn't speak, just fists a hand in my hair and guides me forward. "Open," he whispers, and the command is absolute. I take the head into my mouth, struggling to stretch my lips around his girth. Glrk. The sound is obscene. I can't breathe, tears welling in my eyes as he pushes deeper, my throat convulsing around him. "That's it, take it all," he groans, and I feel him hit the back of my throat. I gag, saliva dripping down my chin, but he holds me there, a willing prisoner. The pleasure is mixed with a thrilling sense of helplessness. This is what he wants. This is what I want.
My fingers worked faster, plunging in and out of my soaked cunt, my thumb frantic on my clit. A low moan tore from my throat. It wasn't enough. I needed a different image.
Now I'm bent over the edge of the bed, my ass in the air. His hands are on my hips, gripping hard enough to leave bruises I'd cherish for days. I feel the blunt, insistent pressure of his cockhead against my other hole, the one that's still virgin-tight. "Shhh, relax for me," he murmurs, but there's a predatory edge to his voice. He pushes, and there's a burning, tearing sensation that makes me cry out, but it's swallowed by the pillows. It's a pain that morphs instantly into the most intense, forbidden pleasure as he sheathes himself completely inside me, claiming a part of me no one else ever has. Squelsh. Splurt. The sounds of his relentless thrusts are wet and messy. "You're so tight here, darling," he grunts, his pace punishing. "My perfect, filthy girl."
"Yes… fuck," I panted into the empty room, my back arching. My body was trembling, a coil wound too tight. The fantasy shifted again, faster now, a montage of depraved need.
Him taking me from behind in the shower, water sluicing over our heated skin. Him laying me on the kitchen counter, fucking me amidst the breakfast dishes. His voice, a constant, low growl in my ear. Mine. You're mine. And always, always that moment of ultimate surrender— the avalanche of sensation he alone controlled.
I was right there. Right on the edge. My breaths were ragged sobs, my muscles tensed for the fall. "Alex, please… please let me come," I begged the ghost in my room, my fingers a blur of frantic motion.
The orgasm crashed over me, a crashing wave that made my toes curl and my vision spot. It was good. It was a sharp, shuddering release that left me gasping and slick with sweat.
But as the spasms faded, a hollow disappointment settled in my chest. It was a firecracker compared to the nuclear detonation he'd unleashed in me. It was just… a biological function. A poor imitation. There was no him. No dark, possessive eyes watching me shatter. No guttural command that held the key to my pleasure. No overwhelming flood of his cum painting my insides, triggering that secondary, deeper, soul-shaking climax.
New York, Lower East Side – Alex's POV
The next morning, I stepped out of Darcy's studio and into the pale Manhattan sunlight, the kind that felt too calm for everything that had just happened behind that door. The Lower East Side was quieter than usual, the streets still shaking off the remnants of dawn. The faint soreness in my body a reminder of the night's intensity—and of how thoroughly Darcy had crossed the threshold from possibility to certainty.
Before leaving, I'd written a short note and left it on her nightstand—a small reassurance for when she woke, something warm and grounding after a night that had pushed her so deeply past her usual limits.
I drew in a slow breath, letting the cool air settle my nerves. Today wasn't about Darcy. Today was about the trip—two to four days on the West Coast, depending on how long Valve wanted to keep me there. The presentation itself was set for tomorrow, but the rest… meetings, negotiations, whatever they had planned… would unfold on their terms.
I headed toward the subway, weaving through early risers and half-awake shopkeepers rolling up metal shutters. The city felt muted, suspended in a rare pocket of stillness, as if it understood I was already mentally three steps ahead, sorting priorities and contingencies before the day could catch up.
By the time I reached my apartment, the sun had climbed high enough to light the hallway. When I unlocked the door and stepped inside, I heard movement from the kitchen—the soft clink of dishes. My mother was already awake, dressed for the morning, a mug of coffee in her hands.
She glanced over her shoulder when she heard me. "You're up early," she said, though her voice carried that knowing edge that suggested she understood more than she let on.
"Big trip," I replied simply, offering the kind of smile that answered nothing and everything at once.
I moved through the space with practiced precision—set my bag down, head to the shower, strip off last night's clothes, wash away the exhaustion and the faint trace of Darcy's perfume. When I stepped out, the steam had cleared my head enough for focus.
I dressed quickly: clean jeans, a dark shirt, a jacket suited for travel and meetings alike. Neutral. Efficient. Something that wouldn't wrinkle too badly.
Then to my room to double-check the documents I'd prepared: build notes, prototype documentation, backup disk, demonstration script, hardware list, contact numbers Valve had provided. I added a few extra items—portable tools, redundant storage—because one lesson life had taught me was that redundancy saved lives and opportunities.
Clothes for several days went into the suitcase. Electronics and essentials went into the carry-on. Everything I would need if Valve decided they wanted more time, more details, more proof.
A glance at the clock told me I still had enough time to reach the airport comfortably—but not enough to linger.
I stepped back into the main room. My mother looked up from the table, giving me that soft, steady look only she had. "Travel safe," she said.
"I will," I answered. "I'll call when I land."
Bag over my shoulder, I gave the room one final sweep before locking the door behind me. The city was fully awake now, the streets filled with commuter noise and moving bodies. But my mind was quiet, centered.
Darcy. Valve. The Void expanding in the background. Threads pulling tighter.
The next few days could change everything.
I headed toward the airport, letting the weight of the upcoming meeting settle—not as pressure, but as momentum.
Seattle – Alex's POV
By the time I stepped out of the plane and into the cool Seattle air, the fatigue of the cross-country flight had settled in just enough to remind me how long I'd been awake. The trip itself had been uneventful—quiet, efficient, nothing worth remembering beyond the vague monotony of clouds and recycled cabin air.
A short shuttle ride later, I was crossing the bridge eastward, watching Seattle's skyline fade behind me as Bellevue's cleaner, quieter lines emerged. Sleek towers, tree-lined streets, the calm pulse of a tech hub that didn't need to prove anything. Valve's offices weren't far from here—close enough that tomorrow's commute would barely register.
The hotel they'd arranged was a modern business-class place tucked between glass buildings, the kind of spot designed to be comfortable without distracting. I checked in, rode the elevator up, and entered my room with a quiet click.
Instinct took over immediately.
I set my luggage on the bed and laid out everything with practiced precision:
Prototype disk—check.
Backup disk—check.
Printed build notes—intact, organized.
Documentation folder—untouched during travel.
Demo script—sharp, rehearsed.
Nothing missing. No weak links.
Good.
I could've stayed in the room, run through the demo again, tighten every edge of the plan—but the tightness in my chest and the lingering buzz of travel told me the opposite. I needed my mind clear, not overworked.
I grabbed my jacket and stepped back outside.
Bellevue greeted me with a crisp breeze and a tranquility Manhattan could never imitate. Wide sidewalks, efficient traffic, people moving with unhurried intent. A city built for tech, but without the frantic energy that defined New York.
I walked without direction, letting the softness of the evening settle into me. Cafés closing, office windows glowing faintly, the quiet hum of a place where innovation happened behind glass walls instead of in chaotic bursts.
A strange calm.
My thoughts drifted—to Darcy asleep in her Lower East Side studio, to Gwen and MJ undoubtedly dissecting every detail of the date, to the Void resting beneath my consciousness like a patient tide.
Then back to Valve.
To tomorrow.
To the opportunity waiting at the center of all this movement.
After half an hour, clarity settled—light, steady, enough.
I headed back to the hotel.
Inside, I showered, changed into comfortable clothes, and prepared tomorrow's outfit with precise intent—dark slacks, clean button-up, a jacket that walked the line between academic and professional.
I dimmed the lights and slid into bed, the sheets cool against my skin.
Bellevue, Valve HQ – Alex's POV, the Next Day
A gray Pacific Northwest sky hung low over Bellevue as I stepped out of the rideshare in front of Valve's headquarters. The building had that quiet tech-giant confidence: understated architecture, pristine glass, no signage screaming for attention. Very Valve.
My pulse stayed steady. Void not active—just me, fully present, sharp, grounded.
Inside, a receptionist guided me upstairs to a mid-sized conference room. Through the glass walls, I could see the team already gathering—engineers, a UX specialist, two producers, and someone who was very obviously a lead decision-maker despite the hoodie and coffee mug.
When I entered, they greeted me with a mix of curiosity and the reserved optimism of people hoping the trip wasn't a waste of time.
We exchanged handshakes, introductions. They settled in.
In the center of the table waited the setup Valve had prepared for me: a mid-range workstation tower, a CRT monitor, keyboard, mouse—exactly what they'd asked for in advance so I could bring my build and assets on physical media.
I opened my small black case, pulled out the stack of CDs and the printed documentation, and slid the first disc into the machine. The room fell quiet as it spun up.
To me, the demo felt like stepping into a pattern I'd practiced a dozen times.
I walked them through everything: the adaptive AI routines, the system behaviors, the predictable modeling, the debugging overlays. My explanations stayed focused, clean—nothing unnecessary, nothing indulgent.
Their reactions told a clear story.
Engineers leaning in. Brows lifting. Side glances exchanged.
One person muttered, "Holy hell…" under their breath.
The lead hid a smile, that tight upward curl that only appears when someone sees potential they didn't expect.
The entire demonstration ran maybe two to three hours. Efficient. Structured. Controlled.
When I ejected the last disc and shut down the workstation, a brief evaluative silence filled the room. The kind where people weigh words before speaking.
Then the lead broke it.
"Alex… this is exceptional work. Truly. We'll have to talk it over internally, but expect to hear from us soon."
Another chimed in, professional but clearly impressed:
"This is the kind of innovation that only shows up once in a while."
Compliments followed—careful, measured, all pointing in the same direction.
I nodded, letting a small controlled smile appear.
"Thank you. If you need anything else, I'm available."
We exchanged a final series of handshakes before I stepped out into the hallway, the tension easing, adrenaline smoothing into a quieter satisfaction.
It had gone exactly the way it needed to.
Once I stepped outside, the cool Bellevue air hit with a clarity that felt almost surgical. The sky had brightened, clouds thinning into a pale wash of light. I reached into my jacket, pulled out my phone, and powered it back on.
The screen flickered, the old startup chime cutting through the quiet.
Then the notifications appeared.
One. Two. Three.
Then the cascade.
12 missed calls — MJ
3 missed calls — Gwen
And one text blinking at the top of the list, timestamped barely an hour ago.
Gwen:Call me as soon as you see this.