I turn fully then and pin her with a look I don’t bother softening and lean in, letting the closeness do half the work, and drop my voice low, just for her. The way the streetlights slash across her cheekbones makes her look sharp and fearless, but I can see the quick pulse in her throat betraying something softer.
“You crave a man who doesn’t care what your family thinks or needs your father’s approval,” I murmur, letting the words hang between us like a dare. "Someone who doesn't need to be let in, because he already knows the way, and more importantly, the way out without being seen or spotted." My hand comes up, slow, deliberate, not quite touching her—waiting for that fractional lean, a giving over of permission. She doesn't flinch. My palm finds the angle of her jaw, fingers ghosting over clean skin, then drawing her chin up so we are face to face, so I can see her eyes flicker and shift as she calculates what game we're playing.
"Your kink," I say, "is being out of control. You want to see what happens when someone else writes the script." My thumb caresses the tender spot just below her ear, and she tilts her head back—fractional, but it's there.
She laughs, but it's thinner than before, almost breathless. "You read a lot into an elevator ride."
"Did I?" I let my knuckle pass down the curve of her throat, just enough pressure to count as a touch. "You want my hands doing things you're not supposed to ask for in the daylight. You want to feel me teasing you until you're reckless, until you don't care who hears your cries."
Her lips part, but it's not to say anything. For a second, I'm sure she's going to move—step back, regain control, break the spell with some casual insult and walk away. She doesn't. If anything, she leans closer, so close I can feel her breath on my mouth, warm and trembling.
"Not a chance," she whispers.
I reach for her coat, fingers slipping beneath the expensive wool, and pretend to unfasten buttons one by one, brushing her shoulder as I "slide" it off.
"Picture it," I say. "I back you up against the nearest hard surface, right here on the sidewalk. No one would know the filthy player had gotten under your skirt. I pin you with my body, use my weight to keep you still and hidden. My mouth is at your neck, then your mouth, then lower. Too slow for your impatience, because you've been thinking about this since you first smirked at me across a crowded pub."
I let a hand hover at her waist, not quite touching.
"I'd explore every inch," I continue, my voice a little rough now. "I'd make you beg for it. You like the idea of being taken apart piece by piece, don't you? You want bruises in the shape of my hands. Teeth marks in places only you and I will ever see."
Sofie's breathing hitch is audible, but her confidence returns in a flash of teeth. "You’re wrong.”
"You want to see if I would break, but I don't break," I say, letting the words land heavy. "But I will bend you until you're begging me to stop."
She looks at me, measuring. Then, finally, her lips brush my ear as she leans in and says, "Bullshit."
I catch her wrist and pin it lightly against my chest, right over my heart. She shudders, involuntarily. With my other hand, I follow the imagined route down her neck, across her collarbone, tracing the outline of her breast without quite touching. She arches minutely toward me, and when I reach the line of her sternum, her breath becomes ragged and wanting.
"I'd undress you slowly," I whisper, echoing the earlier fantasy. "Make you wait for it. See how much you can stand before you beg."
Her response is a mix of annoyance and amusement, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, she inches closer, challenging my resolve. “You want my tongue to trail across your lips and down your neck to your chest, nipping gently on your rock-hard nipples before I devour them with bites. My fingers finding that perfect place deep inside that would make your pristine little pussy drip for me. You’d want me on my knees eating you until you came grinding on me, crying out my name. Then I’d turn you and press you to the wall and lick that tight little asshole you’d later beg me to fuck.
Her face is etched with desire and disgust. It’s fucking perfect.
“You’d say no when I told you I was going to fuck you there and then beg for it within seconds.”
“You’re disgusting,” she huffs, but her nipples are hard, and her face is flushed. “Filthy.”
"You wouldn't like the real me," I say coldly, stepping back. "I'm not editable."
The door opens behind us. Faulker clears his throat, knowing he’s stepping into live fire.
“Cars pulling up, you ready?” he asks.
I nod, already turning away.
Faulker didn’t ask, and I sure as hell didn’t tell.
As soon as we walked into the Puck Pad, I told him I was going to shower and headed straight for the shower in my room. The water is barely warm, but I crank it anyway, hoping for a scald to knock the edge off, knowing nothing will. I’m already picturing her collarbone, the hollow at the base of her throat, the way she’d leaned into my hand like she was daring me to bruise her where it wouldn’t show. I strip, flick on the exhaust fan, and let the steam fill the tiny bathroom until the mirror goes opaque. I brace my forearms on cold tile, head down, and close my eyes. Her laugh, sharp and electric, ricochets around my skull. The things I told her on the street, the things I didn’t, all the ways I’d press her open.
I spit in my palm and wrap it around my cock, squeezing slow, thumb gliding over the head until it pulses. I’m so hard it’s embarrassing. I can’t tell if it’s from wanting her or from the look on her face when she realized I meant every word.
I replay the fantasy, word for word: Sofie in the stairwell, lips swollen from biting back insults, her dress bunched at her hips as I push her against the concrete wall, my hands bracing her thighs wide. I imagine the sound she makes when I take my time, when I tease her until she nearly claws me bloody, the ragged little gasp when I finally push inside. I see her hair falling over her face, her fingers mashing into my back, laughter turning to moans. I want to mark her as mine, even if it’s just for a night, even if she never lets me get that close.
I tighten my grip, shift my stance, let the rhythm go quick and punishing, just shy of pain. I see her in my head, every detail—her voice, her eyes, the sweat beading on her chest asshe comes. My hand is slick and hot, every nerve ending wired straight to the image of Sofie, all attitude and hunger, begging me for more.
I swipe my thumb over my throbbing tip, shudder at the way it lights up every nerve down my spine. A bead of pre-cum wells and slicks my palm—sticky, obscene. I smear it over the head, press into the sensitive slit, and think of her: Sofie Fairfax, all venom and silk, the way her mouth curled when she called me filthy, how her laugh burned through me when I told her what I’d do if she let me. In the mirror’s fog I see nothing but my own warped outline, but I imagine her there instead, perched on the edge of the tub, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, watching me jerk off for her pleasure and her fucking amusement. She’d taunt me for it, I know. She’d say I was pathetic, that no one ever made her come as hard as her own hands. I’d prove her wrong with every stroke, every desperate grunt.
