Quiet Riots

The Ring vs. The Chase = Convenience

The board stood like a giant white tooth on the concrete path outside our building.

For Sale.

I stopped. My sneakers clicked against the grey pavement as I stared at the bold print. Auction last week, I thought, my mind trailing back to the Saturday morning murmurings of the crowd down in the courtyard. I had assumed it was done. Dusted. Settled. But the white plastic was still glaring under the crisp Canberra sun, untouched, waiting.

Right there, at the bottom corner, a mobile number. Luca.

I whipped out my phone. My thumb swiped, snapping a quick, slightly crooked photo of the board before pulling up a new text thread.

Hey Luca, I’m wondering if this place is still for sale? I thought the auction already happened.

I locked the screen, slipping the phone into my pocket as I walked through the heavy glass doors of my lobby. My building was comfortable. A two-bedder, two-bath rental with a couple of secure car spots and a decent view that stretched out toward the calm, blue expanse of Lake Burley Griffin. But comfort has a way of shrinking when you start filling the corners. My boyfriend and I—we were suffocating in the neatness of it. We had outgrown the lease. The living room was a hostage situation between a massive leather massage chair, towering stacks of legal texts, and an exercise bike that sat like a wire skeleton by the balcony door. We needed space. Four bedrooms. That was the dream currently floating around our morning coffee conversations.

The phone vibrated against my thigh.

Still available. Passed in at auction. Can do 3:00 pm today if you’re around?

I typed back a fast See you then, my heart doing a strange, unprompted little skip against my ribs.

At exactly five to three, I stepped out of the lobby doors, turning my head left and then right. The courtyard was quiet, the afternoon breeze carrying that sharp, clean, capital cold. I didn’t see anyone at first. I walked a few paces further out onto the stone, turning toward the right-hand wing of the complex, and that was when the air caught in my throat.

He was standing near the garden bed. Waving.

He had his phone pressed to his ear, but his eyes—wide, dark, and predatory—were locked instantly onto mine. He flashed a gorgeous, easy smile that seemed to light up the grey concrete around him. I could hear the low, rumbling cadence of his voice from across the space as he spoke rapidly into the receiver. “Look, I’ve gotta go. My client’s here. Yeah. Bye.” He clicked the call off, sliding the device into his suit pocket without ever breaking eye contact.

Instant. Visceral. The kind of attraction that doesn’t ask permission; it just drops into your stomach like lead.

He walked toward me, and the sheer presence of him was a complete disruption. He was tall—easily six-foot-one—with the broad-shouldered, beautifully buffed-out frame of a man who clearly spent his early mornings under a heavy barbell. He had an absolute television-grade magnetism to his look; his thick, golden-blonde hair was styled immaculately, framing a sharp, symmetry-perfect jawline that gave him a polished, high-end charisma. Yet, beneath that smooth professionalism was a dangerous, lazy heat. His heavy, hooded eyelids gave him a bedroom-eyed intensity that felt entirely uninhibited.

“Hello,” I said, my voice steadier than the pulse vibrating under my skin.

“Hi there. You must be the neighbour from next door,” Luca murmured, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative slant-eye slide from my face down to my shoes and back up again.

We started walking toward the secure side entry, the space between us charged with a sudden, silent static. I could feel him observing me just as intensely, taking in the full layout of my Mediterranean features. My rich olive skin tone was a warm contrast to the crisp afternoon light, my dark hazel eyes framed by thick, long lashes, and my heavy, deep brown curls fell in a wild, striking mane past my shoulders. The visual collision between his sharp, tailored angles and my soft, sun-warmed colouring felt instantly combustible.

“What nationality are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asked, his voice dropping a fraction lower. “You have an absolutely beautiful look about you.”

“A bit of a mix,” I replied, a sudden, hot blush creeping up the back of my olive neck. “Mainly Mediterranean.”

“It suits you,” he said, his eyes lingering on the curve of my mouth. “And your hair is stunning.”

He reached out, his long fingers wrapping around the heavy metal handle of the entry door. He pulled it open, his six-foot-one frame stepping back slightly to let me pass. “After you.”

I murmured a thank you, stepping across the threshold. The layout required a short flight of stairs up to the apartment level. I walked ahead, the rhythmic click of my heels echoing in the enclosed stairwell, intensely aware of the weight of his gaze tracking the curve of my jeans from behind. He didn’t rush. He stayed exactly two steps back, a silent, appreciative shadow.

By the time we reached the landing, the tension had morphed into an easy, comfortable energy. We traded light, friendly banter about the complex, the body corporate, the parking situation—comfortable words acting as a thin veil for the heat humming between us.

He slid the key into the lock, turning it with a crisp click. The heavy door swung inward.

The apartment was a vast, echoing expanse of empty space and flooded light. The wood flooring gleamed, rich and honey-colored, stretching toward floor-to-ceiling glass that framed a sweeping, uninterrupted panorama of the lake. I walked straight toward the kitchen, my hand tracing the cool, smooth stone of a massive island bench.

“Incredible,” I breathed, turning back to face him. “The island is perfect.”

Luca leaned his broad shoulders against the doorframe, his buffed arms crossed over his chest, watching me move through the space. “It’s a great layout. So, what do you do when you’re not scouting bigger properties?”

“I’m a lawyer,” I said, leaning back against the stone bench, my dark curls catching the sunlight. “Blackburn and Johnson firm. Family violence law.”

His eyebrows lifted, a genuine glint of respect softening his sharp eyes. “Impressive. Heavy work, though. Takes a lot of grit.”

“It does,” I nodded, shifting slightly. “My boyfriend is in Defence, so we’re a pretty structured household.”

Luca let out a low, knowing chuckle, that effortless, lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Not surprising, considering we’re in Canberra. Half the city is Defence or Public Service.”

He stepped away from the doorframe, his imposing height filling the kitchen as he walked over to stand on the opposite side of the kitchen island. As he rested his large hands on the stone, the afternoon sunlight caught the edge of his finger. A band. Platinum, heavy, and undeniably shiny. It glittered in the light, a perfect, blinding match to the sparkle on my own left hand.

He noticed my gaze. Slowly, without a word, he moved his hand across the grey stone, bridging the distance until his fingers were mere millimetres from mine. His pale skin looked incredibly stark against my deep olive tone. Our skin brushed—a feather-light, accidental-on-purpose touch.

Sparks. Pure, high-voltage current shot straight up my arm. We stood frozen in the empty kitchen, the silence suddenly so loud I could hear the rhythm of our breathing. I looked up, locking into his hooded, dark eyes. I swallowed hard. Luca’s throat shifted as he swallowed in response, his pupils dilating in the bright afternoon light.

The air was too thick. I cleared my throat, forcing myself to step backward, my heels dragging against the wood. “I... I better look at the rest of the house.”

“Right,” he murmured, his voice slightly rougher now. “The bedrooms are through here.”

He followed me down the wide hallway. To break the heavy silence, I threw out a casual question about the upcoming rugby match, our voices bouncing off the bare walls, a desperate attempt to pretend the kitchen hadn’t just evaporated into smoke.

We turned the corner into the master suite. The space was enormous, dominated by a huge window and an open doorway leading to a sleek ensuite. But my eyes dropped to the floor. Brand new, incredibly thick, charcoal-grey carpet stretched across the room, looking so plush it felt like a sin to step on it.

I paused right at the threshold, hesitating. “Oh, I should probably—”

Before the words could leave my mouth, I felt the solid, buffed weight of his chest press into my back. He had been following too closely. The impact was soft but heavy, his large hands immediately coming up to grip my waist to steady us both, his fingers sinking into the fabric at my hips.

“Sorry,” I whispered, my breath catching as I felt the intense heat of his palms through my shirt. “I was going to take my shoes off. The carpet looks so lush.”

“Don’t worry about the shoes,” he rumbled, his breath warm against the dark curls at the shell of my ear.

He didn’t let go. His hands stayed locked on my hips, his long frame pinned flush against my back, the hard line of his chest burning through my clothes. The sheer closeness of him turned me on instantly, a wave of heat pooling heavy in my lower belly. He didn’t move away, and I didn’t push him off. Instead, we moved forward into the room together, our steps synchronised, heavy and deliberate on the thick pile of the carpet.

I turned around in his grip, my back hitting the empty wall, and looked up into his face.

There was no explanation. No legal argument. No justification. Luca leaned down and caught my mouth in a kiss that was all hunger and sharp edges. The passion took us like an autumn gale—wild, frantic, and entirely unbothered by the rings on our fingers.

Clothes fell away in a quiet, heavy sequence, anchoring themselves to the cold floorboards like discarded layers of a season we no longer needed. The panoramic view outside the glass lost its focus completely. Inside our private perimeter, the texture of Lucas’s large hands moving slowly against my smooth skin was the only frequency that mattered.

He didn’t rush. He never rushed when the rhythm was deep. His knuckles trailed down the line of my waist, catching the hem of my underwear and pulling the fabric down with a slow, deliberate gravity.

“Lucas,” I breathed, my hands tangling in his dark hair as he dropped to his knees.

“Quiet, Lisa,” he murmured against my thigh, his deep voice vibrating right into my skin. “Just let me trace the map.”

He leaned down, his mouth finding the humid, aching core of my release. He tasted me slowly, his tongue mapping out a low, syncopated tempo that made my chest rise and fall in a fractured rhythm. The sheer drag of it anchored me straight to the room. Before I could even catch my breath, his hands slid upward, mapping the curve of my ribs until his lips met the peak of my breasts, lapping at the warm skin with a soft, heavy hunger.

The air in the room grew thick. He gripped my hips, firmly but smoothly turning my weight, flipping me over until the world was entirely inverted.

He shed the rest of his clothes in a single, dark motion. The rhythm shifted instantly, turning fluid and complex. We moved together into a shared, heavy symmetry, our bodies locking into a slow, breathless alignment—mouths and skin meeting in a quiet, inverted orbit where every single touch was a total eclipse of the outside noise.

The heat was building, a low bassline drumming beneath our skin. Just as the current began to short out—just as the final, desperate crest threatened to pull him under—he broke the alignment.

He didn’t let the momentum shatter. His massive hands clamped onto my waist, shifting my frame and guiding me up onto my hands and knees. He aligned his heavy chest directly behind me, trapping me securely in his personal space.

“Lisa,” he growled roughly into the crook of my neck, his jaw clenching with a fierce, protective bassline. “Look at me.”

I turned my head slightly, catching the dark intensity of his eyes in the shadows just before he entered me. It was raw, heavy, and completely unhurried, a deep and final reclamation that buried an echo straight into the marrow of our bones.

An hour later, the apartment was empty again.

We walked down the stairs together, our clothes neat, our hair smoothed back into place, the professional veneer firmly restored. We traded a polite, professional handshake at the glass lobby doors, his smile back to its standard, charming real estate gleam.

I walked back into my two-bedroom rental, the familiar scent of my own life greeting me at the door. My boyfriend was sitting on the couch, laptop open, the exercise bike looming right beside him.

“How was it?” he asked, looking up with a tired smile.

“Amazing,” I said, my voice smooth, my skin still tingling faintly under my clothes. “The space is exactly what we need. Four bedrooms. Views of the lake. I think we should buy it.”

We contacted Luca the next morning. The paperwork went through within the month. We bought the place.

A year passed.

The four-bedroom apartment became our home. The massage chair had its own corner; the books were neatly shelved; the exercise bike sat in a room of its own. It was a perfect, comfortable existence. Luca was just a name on a settlement contract, a ghost in the master bedroom carpet that I chose not to think about.

Until the night of the annual Defence Ball.

The Great Hall was a blur of polished brass, crisp white mess jackets, and elegant evening gowns. I walked arm-in-arm with my boyfriend, Julian, my silver dress trailing against the glossy floors, a striking contrast to my dark skin and hair. The music was a loud, brassy static in the air. Julian looked striking in his formal uniform, the medals on his chest catching the high chandeliers. We were socialising near the main bar, drinks in hand, when Julian suddenly stiffened beside me, a look of recognition crossing his face.

“Hey, look who it is,” Julian said, gesturing toward the crowd. “That’s the guy who sold us our place, right? Luca?”

My blood turned to pure ice.

Walking toward us was Luca. He looked devastatingly handsome, his six-foot-one frame clad in an impeccably tailored tuxedo that accentuated his broad, athletic shoulders. His thick hair was swept back perfectly, catching the ballroom light, his sharp jaw casting a clean silhouette. His arm was wrapped casually around the waist of a beautiful woman in black silk. His wife.

“Julian! Good to see you, mate,” Luca rumbled, stepping forward with an easy, booming confidence. He extended a hand to my boyfriend.

“Luca, outstanding to run into you here,” Julian replied, shaking his hand firmly. The grip was tight—two men exchanging the standard corporate-military pleasantries. Julian turned slightly, his hand resting on the small of my back. “You remember my partner, Lisa?”

Luca’s dark, hooded eyes shifted to mine. The transition was seamless to anyone else, but I felt the sudden, high-voltage current snap between us across the short distance. His gaze drifted down the silver fabric of my dress, tracing the warm tone of my bare, olive shoulders, before snapping back to my eyes with that polite, high-end charm.

“Of course. Good to see you again, Lisa,” Luca said, his voice dropping into that smooth, low register that made my lower belly tighten. He turned back to Julian. “I was just telling my wife, Chloe, how seamless your settlement was. You two like the place?”

“Love it,” Julian said, completely oblivious to the static thick enough to cut with a knife. “The extra space is a game-changer. That master bedroom layout is perfect.”

“Glad to hear it,” Luca murmured, his eyes flicking back to me on the word master, a wicked, private glint flashing behind those heavy eyelids. “It’s a fantastic room. Great insulation.”

I forced a tight smile, my dark curls bouncing slightly as I nodded, my knuckles white around the stem of my champagne glass. “Yes. The carpet is particularly nice.”

Chloe smiled warmly at me, completely detached from the silent war in the air. “Oh, I love thick carpet. Luca is always scouting the best listings. We actually live just down the road from you guys.”

“Small world,” I managed to choke out.

The conversation drifted into talk about the Defence budget, the property market, and local Canberra gossip. Julian stepped an inch closer to Luca, gesturing with his beer. “Honestly, Luca, we were looking at other four-bedders in the area, but the moment Lisa came back from the inspection, she was totally sold. Said she could just feel the energy of the room.”

Luca let out a low, rumbling chuckle, his eyes boring straight into mine. “Is that right? Well, some properties just have a way of leaving a lasting impression. You have to strike when the timing is hot.”

“Exactly,” Julian nodded, entirely aligned. “Good positioning is everything.”

Every time Julian laughed or patted Luca on his broad shoulder, a sick, thrilling spike of adrenaline shot through my veins. It was dangerous. It was reckless.

Ten minutes later, I murmured something to Julian about needing the powder room and slipped away from the circle, the air in the ballroom suddenly too hot to breathe. But I didn’t go to the bathroom. I walked straight toward the heavy glass doors leading out to the dark, sweeping balcony.

The Canberra night air hit me like a physical blow, freezing the sweat on my collarbone. The balcony was deserted, the music from the ballroom filtering out as a low, distant hum. I walked to the far corner, where the heavy architectural concrete blocked the view from the main doors, and leaned my olive hands against the icy railing, staring out at the black expanse of Lake Burley Griffin.

The glass door clicked open and shut behind me.

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. The heavy, expensive scent of his cologne preceded him, cutting through the freezing breeze.

“Your boyfriend is a nice guy, Lisa,” Luca’s voice rumbled from the dark behind me.

“Don’t do that,” I whispered, my teeth chattering slightly from the cold—or the adrenaline. “Don’t talk about him.”

“Just an observation,” he murmured, stepping closer until his buffed chest was inches from my bare back, his impressive height completely blocking out the wind. “But when Julian mentioned the master bedroom... all I could think about was the sound you made when your back hit that grey wall.”

A ragged breath caught in my throat. I turned around to face him, my back hitting the freezing concrete pillar. Luca stood over me, his tuxedo jacket open, creating a private alcove of absolute heat in the freezing dark.

“This is crazy, Luca. Our partners are literally thirty feet away,” I breathed, looking up into his dark, hooded eyes.

“They’re talking about interest rates,” he whispered, a low, cynical chuckle escaping his throat. “They won’t miss us for five minutes.”

He reached out, his long, warm fingers cupping my olive jaw, his thumb sliding over my lip. The contrast of his warm skin against the freezing air was a trigger.

“We are not doing this here,” I said, a desperate, weak attempt at boundaries.

“We are,” he replied, his voice a commanding, low vibration.

Luca leaned down and caught my mouth, shattering any lingering logic. The kiss was starved, heavy, and frantic, the taste of champagne and cold air mixing between us. His large hands travelled down my silver dress, his fingers bunching the fabric up around my waist with practised, silent urgency. He pinned my hips against the rough concrete, his powerful body pressing flush against mine, eliminating the space, eliminating the rules.

There were no words of love. No promises of a different life. He didn’t want to leave Chloe, and I didn’t want to leave Julian. We loved the comfortable structures we had built across the lake. But this? This raw, anonymous friction in the dark? It was a necessary sin. A secret currency traded between two people who lived too neatly during the day.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, my fingers gripping the lapels of his tuxedo jacket as he took me against the cold stone, the deep, syncopated rhythm of our breathing the only sound against the Canberra wind. My eyes stayed open, watching the distant, blinking lights of the city across the water, my heart hammering a furious, guilty beat against my ribs.

Ten minutes later, the balcony was empty again.

I stood in front of the mirror in the ladies’ room, smoothing down the silver fabric of my dress, checking my lipstick, brushing through my wild dark curls, breathing through the fading static in my veins.

When I walked back onto the ballroom floor, Julian was standing by the same high table, holding a fresh drink for me.

“There you are.” Julian smiled, wrapping an arm around my waist, his touch familiar, safe, and grounding. “You look cold. You okay?”

“Just needed some fresh air,” I said smoothly, taking a sip of the crisp champagne. I looked past his shoulder. Across the room, Luca was laughing at something a general was saying, his arm back around Chloe’s waist, his tuxedo pristine.

Julian followed my gaze. “Good bloke, that Luca. Really glad we bought that place from him.”

“Me too,” I murmured, leaning into my boyfriend’s side, feeling the solid, comfortable weight of my real life.

Some people would call it cheating.

I just called it convenience.