Stand up. Take her home. Demand answers. Remind her exactly whose world she just decided to test.
But I don’t.
Because the second I do, I lose her.
Not in some dramatic, storming-out way. In the quiet way that matters more. The way where trust fractures. Where she stops choosing me.
So I stay seated.
I watch.
I let the fire she lit crawl closer to the dynamite and tell myself it’s control when really—it’s fear.
A minute passes. Then another.
Her breathing changes first. Shallow. Faster. Her attention drifts downward, eyes locking onto the bodies moving below us like gravity just shifted.
“You good?” I ask, voice low, even. The same tone I use when everything is already in motion.
Her eyes are glassy but still sharp. Still Violet. “Honestly? I think I’m out of my depth.”
There it is.
The truth, wrapped in dry humor and a half-smile like armor.
I study her the way I would a live wire—how she braces herself against the seat, like she’s ready to bolt and burn all at once.
“You’re not,” I say quietly. “You’re just deeper in than you expected. That’s not the same thing.”
She lets out a short laugh, almost bitter. “Is that your professional opinion?”
I lean closer, just enough that my breath brushes the shell of her ear. Just enough that she feels me there. “No,” I whisper. “That’s the man who hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night.”
Her lips part.
For a second, I think she might say something real.
Then the drug takes hold. I see it in the way her spine straightens, in the way her pupils bloom like ink in water.
She watches a couple on the floor, moving together in sync, a woman bent over a glass table as her partner licks a line up her spine. Another pair moaning into each other on a velvet couch.
She stares fascinated and turned on.
“You like watching, don’t you, Kitten?” I whisper against her ear, letting my lips graze her skin.
She shudders. Her thighs clench. She nods, so faintly it might be my imagination. But I know it’s not.
I shift, wrapping my arm tighter around her waist and tugging her into my lap. She doesn’t resist. She just breathes out this soft little sigh like this is where she’s meant to be as she leans back against me.
From this angle she can see the floor below but they can't really see us. We are secluded, hidden—but it feels exposed at the same time. As she leans against me, I feel her start to move a little, shifting her legs. She needs friction, relief, and something to ease the ache building inside her—and I can feel how desperate she is for it. It makes me impossibly eager to help her out, to be the one who gives her exactly what she needs.
I keep one hand on her hip and let the other slip beneath her dress. Her skin is hot—fevered—and her thighs part just enough to welcome my touch. I palm the inside of her thigh, feel the tension there, the barely contained need that radiates off her in waves.
She exhales shakily, her head tipping to the side as I trail my fingers higher. When my thumb brushes the edge of her panties, she gasps, and her whole body jerks like she wasn’t expecting it.
I keep my mouth at her ear, lips brushing the shell of it, every word meant only for her. "You always this responsive, Kitten? Or is it just me?"
She doesn't answer—not with words. But the way her hips press forward, the way her fingers clutch at my thigh, and tells me everything I need to know. I push the fabric aside slowly, deliberately, letting my fingers slide through her folds.
