My hand finds the heat between her legs, and she tries to twist away. I clamp a palm to her lower back and pin her, fingers working between folds already slick with want.
She bites her lip so hard I worry she’ll draw blood. The sound she makes is not pain, but surrender.
“You think you’re so fucking special,” she spits.
I curl my fingers inside her, knuckles deep. She shudders, knees buckling.
“Youare special,” I say, “But not because of your name.”
She claws at the counter, breath coming in ragged bursts.
I work her, slow at first, then brutal. She tries to hold back, but I know the signs—the way her thighs tense, the way her back bows. She’s close, and hating herself for it.
My eyes are glued to her reflection, both of us watching her unravel in the mirror.
“Tell me what you want,” I command.
She’s silent, shaking.
I slow my hand. “Beg for it.”
Her eyes are glassy. “No.”
I stop completely. The threat of denial makes her whimper, a sound so pure I almost pity her.
“Say it.”
She sobs once, then: “Please.”
I fuck her with my fingers, relentless, until she screams. The sound echoes off marble and crystal, a shattering that I will remember forever.
She comes, hard, pulsing around me as she squirts, soaking the front of my pants. Liquid runs down her thighs, wetting the floor. She sags, nearly collapsing.
I pull my fingers free and hold them up to the light, admiring the slick. I lick them clean, slow, never breaking eye contact.
She watches, humiliated and hungry.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” she whispers.
I kiss the back of her neck. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She stands, trembling. Her dress is bunched at her waist, her lipstick smeared from biting her lip. She reaches to fix her hair, but her hands are shaking too badly.
“Let me,” I say.
She turns, submitting. I smooth her hair, wipe her cheeks, right her dress.
When I finish, I cradle her jaw in my hand.
“You belong to me,” I tell her.
She looks up, eyes full of tears and something darker.
“I know,” she says.
I unlock the door and leave her in the echo of her wreckage. My pants are wet and I don’t give a fuck. I may never wash them.
At the table, my mother asks if everything is all right.
