Virgin Dot Com Novel

[Jasmine's POV] The hotel room is gorgeous in ways that make my chest ache. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown Nashville, king bed with sheets that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget, bathroom with a soaking tub I'll never use. Everything is pristine, untouched, silent. First time I've been alone in a hotel room in five years-first time I've been truly alone anywhere in five years. I unpack with mechanical precision. Hang the blouse for tomorrow's panel, set out toiletries in the bathroom, plug in my phone.

Then I lie on the bed, arms and legs spread wide, starfished across expensive linens, and marvel at the silence. No small voices asking for snacks or arbitrating sister disputes. No work calls bleeding into family time. No guilt pressing down every time I think about myself instead of everyone else. Just me and this room and three days where no one needs me for anything beyond professional obligation. The freedom feels strange. Uncomfortable in ways I didn't anticipate.

My body doesn't know how to exist without the constant low-grade anxiety of maternal vigilance, the perpetual alertness to others' needs. I'm untethered, floating, and part of me wants to call them immediately. Anchor myself back to the life I know. Instead, I stare at the ceiling and breathe. At six PM, I FaceTime home. The girls' faces fill the screen-Chloe grinning, Zoe shy, both of them at the kitchen table with plates of pasta. Liam's voice comes from off-screen, and the domesticity of it makes something twist in my chest.

"Mommy!" Zoe's face lights up, and guilt floods through me so powerfully I have to close my eyes. "Hi, babies. How was your day?" They talk over each other-kindergarten stories about paint and playground politics and whether unicorns are real. Chloe's confident monologue contrasts with Zoe's shy interjections, and I drink in every detail. Memorize their faces, their voices, proof they're surviving my absence. "When are you coming home?" Chloe asks, and the question lands with precision. Not accusatory, just wondering. Calculating the distance between now and when things return to normal.

"Two more days, sweet girl. Two more sleeps." "That's forever," Zoe whispers, and my throat closes. Liam appears in frame, takes the phone. "Say goodnight, girls. Mommy needs to get ready for her big day tomorrow." They chorus goodbyes. Blow kisses. Disappear off-screen to wherever Liam's directing them, and then it's just his face filling my phone. He looks tired, hair disheveled, but there's something in his eyes-warmth, hunger, the kind of focused attention that's been absent for months. "Where are Asher and Finn?" I ask, though I already know. "Working late.

It's just me and the girls tonight." He's walking somewhere private, I can tell by the changing background. "They're fine, Jazz. We're managing." "I can see that." The words come out strange, hollow. Because I can see it, and the relief that floods through me is complicated. Guilt-tinged. They don't need me as desperately as I thought. Three days won't destroy them. Maybe I'm not as essential as the crushing responsibility suggests. "You okay?" His voice drops lower, intimate. "You look... different." "Different how?" "Lighter." One word, devastating in its accuracy.

We talk until the girls need him-bath time, the chaos of getting them into pajamas. He promises to call back later, and then the screen goes dark. I'm alone again, and the silence pressing in feels less uncomfortable now. More natural. A state I could maybe, dangerously, get used to. Hours later-girls in bed, hotel room dark except for the city lights filtering through windows-my phone rings. Liam's name glows on the screen, and my pulse kicks up before I even answer. "Hey." His voice is rough, lower than usual. Bedroom voice. "You alone?" "Yeah." My mouth goes dry.

There's something in his tone, promise and need tangled together. "Why?" "Because I've been thinking about you all day. About this morning before you left. The way you looked walking out the door." He pauses, and I hear him exhale slowly. "I miss you. Not just miss you. Need you." Heat floods through me, settling low in my belly. "Liam-" "Touch yourself for me." The command comes out rough, desperate. Not asking. Telling. My breath catches.

We haven't done this in years-phone sex feels like something from before children, before the exhaustion made us too tired for anything beyond quick, functional coupling. But my hand is already moving, sliding beneath my sleep shirt, and a sound escapes my throat before I can stop it. "That's it." His breathing turns ragged. "Tell me what you're doing." I tell him. Whisper details across state lines, describing touches and sensations in language we haven't used in so long I'd forgotten we knew how.

Filthy things, explicit things, all the want we've been too depleted to voice spilling out in the safety of distance. "God, I miss you." His voice breaks, hoarse with arousal and something deeper. "Miss your taste, your sounds, the way you say my name when you're close." I'm so close. Already trembling, body responding to his voice with an urgency I haven't felt in months. Maybe years. The distance creates intimacy we've been missing-unable to see his face means I can focus solely on his voice, the ragged breathing, the groans when I describe what I'm imagining.

"Come for me, Jazz." Not a request. Command wrapped in need. "Let me hear you." I do. Arch off the bed, biting my lip to stay quiet even though there's no one to hear, and the orgasm rips through me with visceral intensity. I hear him follow moments later-low groan muffled against something, breathing harsh and uneven. Silence after. Just our ragged breathing synchronized across hundreds of miles. "That was-" He can't finish. Neither can I. Because that was intimate in ways our recent physical sex hasn't been. More connected despite-or maybe because of-the distance.

No exhaustion, no interruptions, no weight of all our accumulated problems. Just need and voice and this thing between us that still works when we strip away everything else. "I should let you sleep," he finally says. "Big day tomorrow." "Yeah." My voice sounds wrecked. "Liam-" "I know." He knows what I'm not saying. That this felt important. That maybe distance is revealing things proximity has been hiding. "Sweet dreams, bunny." The endearment lands wrong-that's Finn's name for me. But I don't correct him.

Just end the call and lie in the dark, body still humming, mind spinning through implications I'm not ready to examine. The conference welcome reception starts at seven. I force myself to shower, dress in the professional outfit that makes me feel competent, apply makeup with hands that still aren't steady. The mirror reflects someone I don't quite recognize-Jasmine the producer, not Mommy covered in finger paint. The ballroom is packed with music industry people. Producers, artists, label executives all networking with the aggressive efficiency of professionals who live for these events.

I stand at the bar nursing wine, watching the choreography of ambition and connection play out in front of me. I don't belong here. The realization settles with devastating clarity. I've been out of this world so long I've forgotten the rhythms, the language, the easy confidence required to navigate these spaces. Five years of domestic obligation has eroded whatever professional persona I used to inhabit. I'm about to leave when a voice beside me says, "First conference?" I turn. And meet Elijah. Virgin Dot Com