“Stop,” she said, voice tight.
He smirked against her ear—that cold, knowing curve of his mouth that said he found her resistance entertaining rather than meaningful. “No.”
He slipped his hand between her thighs, fingers tracing the edge of her panties. The touch was light at first, almost exploratory, but there was nothing exploratory in the intent behind it. He was claiming territory.
“You’re already wet,” he observed, voice low and satisfied. His fingers pressed against the damp fabric, rubbing slowly over her clit through the thin material. “Even while you’re telling me to stop. Your body knows who it belongs to.”
Lyra’s breath hitched sharply. Heat flooded her face—shame, fury, and the unwanted spark of pleasure that shot through her at the deliberate pressure. She tried to close her thighs, but his knee was already there, pressing between them, holding them apart.
“Stay open,” he said, the command quiet, absolute. His fingers continued their slow, circling rub, pressing the soaked fabric against her swollen clit. “Let me feel how much your cunt already understands what your mind is still fighting.”
The wordcuntlanded like a slap—crude, possessive, delivered with the same cold elegance he used for everything else. She jerked in his hold, but he only pressed her harder against the table, his body a wall she could not move.
He slipped two fingers beneath the edge of her panties, pushing the fabric aside. The first direct touch of his fingertips against her bare, slick folds made her gasp. He was warm. Deliberate.He traced her slit once, slowly, gathering the wetness there before returning to her clit and rubbing firm, steady circles.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. “Soaking my fingers already. You’re dripping for me, Lyra. Even after you let him kiss you. Even after you tried to pretend you could belong to someone else.”
She bit back a sound—half protest, half moan—as the pleasure built against her will, sharp and humiliating. Her hips twitched once, involuntary, pressing into his hand before she could stop herself.
Caelum laughed softly against her ear, the sound low and cruel, full of ego and dark delight. “There it is. Your body betrays you so easily. It always has.”
He increased the pressure, rubbing her clit with ruthless precision, two fingers sliding down to tease at her entrance without pushing inside—circling, pressing, withdrawing again, keeping her on the edge of something she did not want to want.
“You’re going to stay right here,” he said, voice velvet and ice. “You’re going to let me play with this pretty little cunt until I’m satisfied. And you’re going to remember who it belongs to every time you feel it throb.”
Lyra’s hands came up, pressing against his chest, but there was no strength in the push. The table at her back and his body at her front left her trapped, pinned between unyielding surfaces and the relentless rhythm of his fingers.
She had no escape.
Caelum smirked against her ear, the expression slow and satisfied, as if he could feel the exact moment she realized it.
“Good girl,” he whispered.
In one smooth motion he pulled her away from the table, turning her body with effortless strength. She stumbled, but his arm was already around her waist, guiding—controlling—the movement. Theroom blurred for a moment as he walked her backward toward the bed that occupied the far corner, half-hidden in shadow until now. The sheets were dark, crisp, untouched. Everything in this space felt chosen, arranged, prepared.
“No—” she started, but the word dissolved as he pushed her down onto the mattress.
The bed dipped under her weight. He followed immediately, knees bracketing her hips, caging her without fully pinning her yet. His hands moved to the front of her blouse. One by one, with deliberate care that somehow made it worse, he finished unbuttoning what he had started earlier. The fabric parted like wrapping paper, revealing the pale curves of her breasts, the tight peaks of her nipples already flushed and sensitive from earlier teasing.
Caelum’s gray eyes darkened as he looked at her. Not with loss of control—never that—but with the quiet satisfaction of a collector examining a long-anticipated piece.
“Beautiful,” he said softly, almost to himself. Then he lowered his head.
His mouth found the upper swell of her left breast. Teeth grazed, then sank in—not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to bruise. He sucked, drawing the blood to the surface with ruthless patience. Lyra gasped, back arching involuntarily. Another hickey bloomed, dark and possessive, just above her nipple. He moved lower, repeating the process on the soft underside, then across to the right breast, marking her systematically, carefully. Each pull of his mouth sent sparks of pain and unwanted pleasure shooting straight to her core.
Stop. Please stop. I hate this. I hate how good it feels.
Tears pricked harder at the corners of her eyes. She blinked them back, but two more escaped, sliding down her temples into the dark red strands of her hair.
Caelum lifted his head. His tongue traced the path of one tear, licking it away with slow, deliberate strokes. The gesture was almost tender. Almost.
“Shh,” he whispered against her skin. “This will be good for both of us. Trust me.”
The words landed like a command wrapped in silk. She shuddered.
He continued downward, mouth mapping her stomach with the same methodical possession. A hickey just below her ribs. Another beside her navel. Lower still, until he reached the waistband of her skirt. He pushed the fabric up and off with efficient movements, then hooked his fingers into her panties and drew them down her legs, leaving her completely bare beneath him.
Lyra’s breath came in shallow pants. She tried to close her legs again. He caught her knees, spreading them wide with careful strength, exposing her glistening pussy to the cool air of the room and to his unrelenting gaze.
