It’s all a badly rehearsed and overdone act, as if she’s performing for an audience that’s not even there.
I grab her hair and pull, tilting her face so she looks at me. “You don’t have to pretend.”
She blinks. “I’m not—”
“Yeah, you are.”
I pull out halfway, then slam back in.
Her mouth opens, probably to say something, but I’m already gone. I’m already flipping the switch in my head that shuts everything off.
The pressure ramps up quickly once I focus only on my own body. I tune into the rhythm. The heat. The inevitablerelease climbing up my spine. My fingers dig into her hips with enough force to leave marks. I fuck without mercy. Her breath stammers, catches on something that almost sounds like a sob.
Real or fake, I don’t give a shit.
My cock pulses and I come hard, filling the condom as the release crashes through me all at once. For a split second, it’s heaven—white-hot and blinding. Everything narrows to that brutal rush, and nothing else exists.
Then it vanishes.
The high drops out from under me. The silence that follows feels heavy and ugly. That’s how it always goes. A few seconds of fucking pleasure, then nothing but the quiet, hollow shit that comes afterward.
I pull out my cock before she can fake her orgasm.
She stumbles forward, catching herself on the wall with a shaky hand, knees wobbling.
I don’t reach for her or steady her when she sways. I don’t even look in her direction. Whatever she does with herself after this isn’t my problem.That isn’t my job. She can fucking catch herself.
I peel off the condom and toss it in the trash. Then I tuck my cock back into my jeans and zip up. Automatic. Muscle memory.
Maya stands in front of the cracked mirror, fixing her hair and smearing her mascara back into a manageable look. She opens her mouth again, hope already gathering behind her words.
“That was—”
“Don’t,” I say. “You got what you came for.”
Her expression briefly crumples before she reins it in, lips pressing together as she smooths down her skirt. Pride patched back on, cracks and all.
I pick my bag up off the floor, the strap sliding over my shoulder, and turn away. I unlock the door, push it open, and walk out, without looking back.
The door slams shut as I walk into the hallway, the sound echoing through the empty corridor. My boots slap against the floor as I move because I’ve got nothing but time and zero fucks to give.
I flex my hands. They still smell like Maya’s cheap perfume. It clings to my skin as if she’s trying to leave a mark, and it pisses me off more than it should. I rub my palms against my jeans as I walk, trying to wipe it away, as if friction alone can erase the last five minutes.
I round the corner and see her there. Ms. Mallory, standing dead center in the hallway with a stack of papers held tight to her chest, posture straight, spine stiff—every inch of her shouting control.
Black pencil skirt. High heels click loudly as she shifts her weight. Dark hair twisted into a neat little knot that probably took longer to perfect than it should have. She looks polished. The kind of woman who doesn’t spill, stammer, or lose her grip on anything.
She’s fucking hot. I’ve thought about that tight body beneath her good girl exterior more times than I should admit. The way she keeps herself so carefully, with every inch wrapped in restraint and rules.
I often wonder how she fucks. Whether she’s quiet or vicious about it. If she keeps control or finally lets it snap. You just know there’s something filthy buried beneath all that discipline. Something she never reveals.
Her eyes lock onto mine, and my brain short-circuits for half a second.
Not because I’m scared—I don’t do fear—but because she’s looking at me like she knows exactly where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing.
For a brief moment, I wonder if she heard Maya’s moans echoing through the pipes.
She steps forward and blocks my path, heels clicking against the floor.
