"I know what I said." I study the window drawing again, taking in every detail she labored over. "I didn't expect you to hand me a comprehensive instruction manual for ruining you."
"It's just?—"
"Just what? Just fantasy?" I move toward the bed. "You drew yourself surrendering in every way possible. Public. Private. Bound. On your knees.”
She pulls her knees up, suddenly self-conscious despite spending all day drawing pornography. "They're just drawings."
"They're confessions." I sit on the edge of the bed, close enough that my thigh brushes hers through the sheet. "You drew yourself being claimed. Exhibited. Owned. This one—" I hold up the window scene again, "—you want the whole fucking city to see who you belong to."
"Maybe."
"Not maybe." I set it down carefully and lean closer until she can smell the smoke on me, the violence. "You wouldn't have spent hours perfecting every shadow and reflection if you didn't mean it. So which is it, Lila? Still pretending this is just art?"
"I don't know what?—"
"Yes, you do. You know what you want. You're too scared to say it out loud." I pick up the drawing once more. "Get up."
"What?"
"Get up. We're making this one real. Right now."
She doesn't move, instead staring at me. "Right now?"
"Right the fuck now." I stand, extending my hand. "Unless you're having second thoughts about having the entire city watch me fuck you against that window."
Her breath catches audibly. For a long moment, she stares at my hand, and I can see the war playing out across her face—fear versus desire, should versus want, sense versus need.
Then she takes it.
Her hand is small in mine, trembling slightly. I pull her to her feet and lead her through the bedroom door, down the short hallway to the living room. The windows stretch floor to ceiling here, Chicago glittering below us in a sprawl of lights.
"Here." I position her in front of the glass, like her drawing. Every detail matches. "Hands on the window."
She obeys, trembling harder now. The shirt—my shirt—falls to mid-thigh, barely covering her. I push it up slowly, deliberately, bunching it around her waist. She's not wearing anything underneath. Not even the cotton panties I know she owns.
Of course, she isn't. She knew what tonight would be.
"Everyone can see," I tell her, pressing against her back so she can feel how hard I am through my pants. "Anyone looking up right now would see you. See what's about to happen to you."
"Ivan—"
"That's what you drew. That's what you fantasized about while your fingers worked that charcoal, while you got yourself wet thinking about it." My hand wraps around her throat, gentle but unmistakably possessive. "Being claimed where the whole world can watch."
"I didn't think you'd actually?—"
"You thought exactly this. You didn't think I'd have the balls to actually do it." I grip her hip with my free hand and position myself between her legs. "That's the difference between your fantasy and me, little dove. I make your dirty thoughts real."
I free my cock with one hand, and she gasps at it against her. Already wet. Already ready. Her body announcing how much she wants this despite her hesitation.
"Look at them," I growl against her ear, entering her in one deep, claiming thrust. She cries out, the sound echoing off the glass and marble. "All those people down there living their boring fucking lives. Going to bed early. Following rules. Being normal. None of them get this. None of them get you."
She moans, pushing back against me despite herself. Her hands leave prints on the glass—charcoal smudges from drawing all day, now smeared across the window like evidence of her crimes.
"That's it. Show me what you want. What you've been drawing for me while your pussy got wet."
I set a brutal rhythm that has her gasping, that makes her nails scrape uselessly against the slick glass, trying to find purchase. The windows are cold against her overheated skin, her breath fogging the surface with each pant. Below us, the city continues its oblivious dance. Cars moving. People walking. Lives being lived.
And up here, we're gods.
