I can hear his breathing. It’s shallower now, a little rougher around the edges. I’ve broken through his calm.
My hands go to the waistband of my panties, the last piece of fabric between us. The second I’m about to hook my thumbs and push them down, his hand shoots out.
He moves so fast I flinch. His hand flattens on my chest, hot and heavy, in ownership. His thumb sweeps over my left nipple, once. It’s rough and a shock of pure, white-hot lightning tears down my spine. My breath hitches, a sharp, stolen sound in the quiet.
He does it again, slower this time, a deliberate circle that drags the peak into a tighter, aching point. He doesn't just brush it; he pinches, just slightly, enough to make me gasp. My back arches, a completely involuntary response.
His eyes never leave mine. He’s watching the flush climb up my throat. He’s watching me come undone, and I swear I see a flicker of satisfaction in their depths, a dark, possessive approval.
Then his other hand goes down. It moves with agonizing slowness, a deliberate torture. His palm ghosts over my ribs, my stomach, his heat scorching my skin even before he touches. My stomach clenches, my muscles quivering in anticipation.
He covers me, pressing flat against the thin, damp cotton of my panties. He rubs, once, a slow, circular motion that makes my knees want to buckle.
They do. They unlock, and I’m about to fall but his other hand is still braced on my chest, holding me up, pinning me in place.
"Don't," I whisper, but it's pathetic. He just presses harder.
Artyom doesn't stop. He keeps the pressure, slow, steady, maddening, grinding the heel of his palm against me, and I’m so wet, so fast, that the friction is immediate. A whine builds in my throat.
His thumb on my nipple becomes merciless, rolling, pinching, a perfect, agonizing counterpart to the rhythm his other hand is setting. He’s orchestrating this, pushing me right to the edge. I push my hips up, just a fraction, needing... more. Needing release. Hating myself for it.
His voice is a low, thick rasp. “You’re so wet.” He says it like an accusation. “Good girl.”
A sound tears from my throat, half-sob, half-moan. I hate it. I hate him. I lean into his hand, just a bit, my hips tilting, chasing the pressure. He slips a finger inside the elastic, not asking, just taking. His other hand comes up to my neck. He doesn't squeeze, just holds me, his thumb pressing against the frantic pulse there.
The heat pools between my legs, heavy and desperate. He finds my clit, rubbing, and my head tilts back on a groan. I press up, needy, desperate for the friction, ready to shatter.
And he stops.
Cold.
His hands are gone. The air rushes back into the space he occupied, feeling arctic. I blink, disoriented, my body screaming, a live wire cut in half.
He takes one step back.
“You should get dressed,” he says, his voice perfectly even. A faint, dark smirk curves his mouth. It’s not a smile. It’s a victory. “We’re late.”
He lifts the hand that was between my legs, lifts the single finger that was inside my panties, and licks it. Slowly. His eyes on mine.
The disappointment hits me all at once, so sharp it’s like a physical blow. Humiliation burns in my throat. I need more. But I will not let him see me break.
I pull myself together, forcing my trembling limbs to obey. I turn my back to him, deliberately. I bend over at the waist, right over the bed, making a show of it, knowing he can see everything. My hands grab the black dress, the silk feeling cold against my still-burning skin. I slip it on, the fabric sliding over my body, a punishment and a promise all in one.
I straighten slowly, smoothing the fabric down my sides, every movement deliberate. My pulse is still a mess, but I don’t let it show. When I turn back around, he’s still there, leaning against the wall.
His eyes drag over me once, slow and unapologetic. I can’t read his expression, but something flickers there, something he’s trying hard to bury.
“Happy now?” I ask, my voice quiet but steady.
He doesn’t answer right away. “We’re late,” he says finally. His tone is smooth again, distant, like nothing ever happened.
I grab my heels from the floor, slip them on one by one, refusing to break eye contact. “Then let’s not waste more time.”
He opens the door but doesn’t step aside. For a second, I think he’s going to say something else,but instead, he just looks at me, long enough for it to hurt.
Then he turns and walks out. I follow, but not before catching my reflection in the mirror. The dress looks perfect. My face doesn’t. My lips are still swollen, my skin still flushed. I look like someone who almost let herself fall.
I tell myself it won’t happen again. And I don’t believe a word of it.
