🔥 The Unreleased Collab 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Influencer With Benefits

Thank You for Reading! 💛

You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve survived the margin notes, the stretching mat, the page-forty-seven incident, the face mask, the door, the parking-garage sandwiches, and two people who fell in love while the internet watched.

Thank you for giving Jordan and Riley’s story a chance. This exclusive scene is our gift to dedicated readers like you.

The Unreleased Collab

Riley’s POV

The couples’ challenge was Jordan’s idea.

Not for content — or at least, not for content that was ever going to see the internet. She’d pitched it on a Thursday evening, three weeks after the hard launch, while they were lying on her couch in the post-dinner lull that had become their nightly ritual: him horizontal, her draped across him, both of them scrolling their phones and periodically reading each other things from the internet that were interesting or infuriating or, in the case of the @JorleyEvidence account, both.

“Couples’ question challenge,” she said, holding up her phone to show him a TikTok of another couple answering increasingly personal questions from a card deck. “It’s trending. Huge engagement. Tessa would love it.”

“We could do that.”

“The questions start innocent and get progressively more—” She scrolled. Read ahead. Her eyebrows climbed. “Oh. They get very personal.”

“How personal?”

“‘What’s the most adventurous place you’ve had sex’ personal.”

“The gym stretching mat.”

“We are not telling the internet about the gym stretching mat.”

“The internet already knows about the gym stretching mat. The ‘functional fitness’ clip has been set to ‘Earned It’ by The Weeknd four thousand times.”

“They suspect. They don’t know.” She scrolled further. “Some of these questions are — Riley, some of these are explicit. ‘What’s something you’ve never done in bed that you want to try?’ ‘What’s the hottest thing your partner has ever said during sex?’ ‘If you could describe your sex life in one sentence—'”

“Let’s do it.”

She looked at him. “For content?”

“For us.” He took the phone. Scrolled through the question list. His mouth curved. “We film it. We answer honestly. When it gets too hot for the internet — and it will — we turn off the camera and see what happens.”

“That’s not a content strategy.”

“It’s a foreplay strategy.”

Saturday. 8 p.m. Her apartment.

She’d set up the camera on the coffee table — phone on a tripod, wide angle, capturing both of them from the waist up on the couch. The fairy lights were on. A candle was burning. Two glasses of wine sat on the table between them and the card deck she’d ordered — a viral “Couples’ Intimacy Challenge” set that came in a sleek black box and promised to “deepen connection through radical honesty,” which was marketing-speak for these questions are going to make you blush and then make you fuck.

She hit record.

“Okay.” She squared herself to the camera, then to him. “Rules. We answer every question honestly. No deflecting, no jokes, no—”

“I’m absolutely going to joke.”

“Minimal jokes. And when one of us taps out—”

“Nobody’s tapping out.”

“When one of us decides the question is too much for the internet, we stop the camera and—”

“And?”

“And we figure out the rest off-script.”

She drew the first card.

“Easy one. ‘What was your first impression of your partner?'”

“That you were the most genuine person I’d ever seen on a screen and that I wanted to know what you smelled like.”

“What I smelled like?”

“You looked like you’d smell good. I was right. Vanilla and old paper. Vanillin. I Googled the chemistry.”

“You Googled the chemistry of what I smell like.”

“At 4 a.m. The night after our first kiss. I’m not proud. Next question.”

The questions escalated. Gently at first — “Where’s the most romantic place you’ve kissed?” (the hilltop, both agreed, though Riley argued the car deserved honorable mention) — then less gently.

“‘What’s the hottest thing your partner has ever said during sex?'” Jordan read, and her voice had already shifted — lower, warmer, the register she used in the dark. She looked at him. “You first.”

He didn’t hesitate. “The night you showed up at my door in the coat. You said, ‘You’re mine, Riley. Say it.’ And I said it. And you said, ‘Say it like you mean it.’ And I—” He stopped. Took a breath. “That was the hottest moment of my life. Not just the words. The confidence. The fact that you’d driven across town to claim me. I replay that moment frequently.”

She was pink from her hairline to her neckline.

“Your turn,” he said.

“The gym,” she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “When you were — when you were going down on me and you said—” She closed her eyes. “‘Let me hear you. Don’t hold back. I want every sound.’ That. Those words. In that voice.”

She opened her eyes. They were dark.

“Next question,” she said.

He drew the card. Read it. Felt his pulse kick.

“‘What’s something you’ve never done in bed that you want to try?'”

The apartment went quiet.

“You first,” she said.

“I want you to talk to me,” he said.

She frowned slightly. “We already talk during—”

“Not like that. Not the ‘harder, right there’ stuff — though I love that. But I mean — talk. Narrate. In your voice. The voice you use when you recommend books. The soft, articulate, careful voice — the cadence, the attention to detail, the way you choose each word like it matters.”

She was staring at him.

“I want that voice,” he said, “saying the filthiest things you can imagine. I want the book-recommendation voice telling me what you’re going to do to me. I want the soft girl reading me a scene — except the scene is us, and it’s happening in real time, and you’re narrating it while you’re doing it.”

“That’s—” Jordan’s voice cracked. “That is the single hottest thing anyone has ever said to me, and I need you to know that I am currently experiencing a physiological response that is going to make sitting on this couch in a professional capacity very difficult.”

“Jordan,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Turn off the camera.”

She leaned toward the tripod. Reached past the lens. And with a deliberate, unhurried motion — a curtain rising, a door swinging wide — she turned it off.

The red light died. The apartment was entirely theirs.

“You want me to narrate,” she said.

“In your book voice.”

“Like I’m creating a scene. In real time.”

She stood up. “Stay there. Don’t move.”

She walked to the doorway between the living room and the bedroom. Leaned against the frame. Crossed her arms. And when she spoke, her voice was — different. The voice she used for book recommendations. Soft. Articulate. Measured. Each word chosen and weighted with the attention of a woman who understood that language was foreplay.

“Chapter one,” she said.

His mouth went dry.

“She stood in the doorway and looked at him. He was on the couch. Waiting. He’d asked her to use her voice — the real one, the one she reserved for the things she loved most — and she was going to give it to him. Every word. Every syllable. Because the one thing they hadn’t explored was this: the intersection of her mind and his skin. The place where language and touch became the same thing.”

She pulled her shirt over her head. Nothing underneath. She’d planned this.

“She took off her shirt,” Jordan continued, her eyes on his, “and watched his face. The way his jaw went slack. The way his hands gripped the cushion. The way his eyes dropped to her breasts and stayed there, helpless, the gaze of a man who had seen her body a hundred times and was still, every time, staggered by it.”

He was beyond staggering. He was sitting on her couch watching a woman narrate her own undressing in the voice she used to recommend books to a quarter of a million people and his brain had divided neatly into two halves: the half listening to the words and the half watching her body, and neither half was capable of producing speech.

She walked toward him. Slowly. The narrator’s pace.

“She crossed the room. Not fast — she wanted him to watch. She wanted the approach to be a form of torture. Gentle torture. The kind that made his breathing change and his pulse accelerate and his hands grip the couch because if he didn’t grip something, he was going to grip her, and she wasn’t ready for that yet.”

She stood in front of him. Between his knees.

“He looked up at her. And the angle of a man looking up at a woman from a couch while she stood above him, bare from the waist up — that angle was a sentence she wanted to write and rewrite until it was perfect.”

“Jordan,” he said, and his voice was ruined.

“She heard him say her name,” Jordan continued, her voice trembling — the first crack in the performance, the evidence that the narration was costing her composure as much as it was costing his. “And the way he said it — low, rough, like the word had to travel through something thick to reach the air — made heat pool in her belly. The kind of heat that had everything to do with the man on the couch and the way he was looking at her like she was a passage he wanted to read with his whole body.”

She sank into his lap. Straddling him. Her bare chest against his clothed one, and the contact made them both groan.

“She sat in his lap and felt him — hard, immediate, straining against his jeans. And she rolled her hips — once, slowly — and she thought: this is power. Not control. Not dominance. Just the ability to make someone you love lose their mind with a single motion of your hips.“

“You need to stop talking or I’m going to—” he started.

“She heard him threaten to lose control,” Jordan murmured against his mouth, “and she decided that losing control was exactly what she wanted. Not hers. His.“

She pulled his shirt off. Pressed her bare chest to his and the skin-on-skin contact drew a moan from her throat that broke the narration’s rhythm.

“She pressed — she pressed against him and — God, the way his skin felt—”

“The narrator is losing her composure,” he said.

“The narrator is experiencing technical difficulties.”

She gripped his hair. Pulled his head back. Looked down at him with the fierce, blazing expression of a woman who had started something and intended to finish it.

“She undid his jeans. Slowly. She reached inside and wrapped her hand around him and he was — oh — he was so hard, and so hot, and the sound he made when she touched him was the sound she’d been chasing since the first time she’d heard it in a gym on a stretching mat and known, with absolute certainty, that she wanted to hear it for the rest of her life.”

Her hand was on him. Around him. And the narration — the soft, measured, book-recommendation voice describing in real time what her hand was doing — was the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced. The doubling of sensation: the physical reality of her touch and the linguistic reality of her description, each amplifying the other.

The narration broke. The performance dissolved, and what was left was just Jordan — flushed and breathing hard.

“I want you,” she said. Not the narrator. Her. “Right now. Like this. I want to ride you on this couch and I want you to listen to every sound I make.”

He kissed her. His hands were on her jeans, undoing them, pushing them down. Her jeans next. The condom was in her back pocket — because she’d known, the way she always knew, exactly how this evening was going to end.

He rolled it on. She sank down onto him.

The sound she made was not a word. It was not a narration. It was the sound of a woman taking the man she loved inside her body and feeling every chapter of their story collapse into a single point.

She rode him. On the couch. In the fairy-light glow. And the narration returned — not as performance but as overflow, the words spilling involuntarily, the writer’s brain unable to stop translating sensation into language even as the sensation was obliterating her capacity for language.

“You feel — God, you feel like — like everything I was afraid to want — like every love scene I ever read and dismissed as fantasy — you feel like proof, Riley, proof that the books were right, and I can feel every inch of you and I’m — I’m—”

“Tell me,” he gritted. His hands on her hips. Meeting her on every downstroke. “Don’t stop telling me.”

“I’m going to come,” she said, and the words were part narration, part confession, part prayer. “I’m going to come on this couch with you inside me and the taste of your mouth on my lips and I want you to watch my face when it happens because the way you look at me when I come is the way the heroes look at the heroines in every book I’ve ever loved and I used to think that look was fiction and it’s not — it’s not — you’re doing it right now and I’m—”

She came. Her head thrown back, her hands gripping his shoulders, her body clenching around him in rhythmic waves. The sound she made was a cry that started as his name and broke into something beyond language.

He followed. The sound of her voice and the feel of her body pulled his orgasm out of him with a force that emptied his lungs and left him saying her name into the curve of her neck like the last word he’d ever learn.

They stayed joined. Breathing. Her forehead against his.

“That,” he said when speech returned, “was the greatest thing that has ever happened on this couch.”

“The narration thing worked?”

“The narration thing worked. I think you may have invented a new genre.”

“Immersive first-person erotic present-tense—”

“Don’t name it. It’s too powerful to name.”

She pressed her face into his neck. Laughed against his skin.

“We’re not posting that,” she said.

“Absolutely not.”

A beat. She lifted her head.

“Riley.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s a second condom in my other pocket.”

“Jordan Lee.”

“And a third in my purse.”

“You — three?“

“I told you the first time. I’m an optimist.”

He picked her up. She wrapped around him. They used the second condom at 10 p.m. — slower this time, face to face, her narration reduced to single words that were more devastating in their brevity than any paragraph. And the third at midnight — in the dark, from behind, his mouth at her ear whispering the words she’d taught him mattered, the language of devotion spoken at the frequency of desire.

Afterward. Wrecked. Tangled.

“We’re not posting any of that,” she said.

“Not a frame.”

“But maybe—” She bit her lip. “Maybe we keep the camera. For research.”

“Research.”

“Professional development.”

“For what profession?”

She rolled on top of him. Pressed her mouth to his.

“The profession of being yours.”

“I love you so much.”

“I know. I narrated it.”

~ The End ~

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