My thumb finds her clit. She gasps. I curl my fingers inside her, and her whole body locks, every muscle tensing simultaneously.
“Rolan.”
My name. Not Mr. Belov.
She comes. Hard. Clenching around my fingers, her body shuddering, her hands sliding on the metal, her forehead pressed against the surface.
I’m hard — painfully, impossibly hard — straining against the fabric of my trousers, and her body is right there, bent and open and still trembling from the aftershocks.
While I’m still holding her, I pull my cock out and let her feel what she does to me. She lets out a gasp.
One motion. That’s all it would take. One motion and I’d be inside her, and the noises she’d make — I’m sure I know how it would sound. I’ve imagined it a thousand times.
I hold myself back.
“Next time something like this happens,” I say, and my voice is steady again, the control reassembled, the mask back in place, “the consequences will be significantly worse. Do you understand?”
When she doesn’t respond, I press harder, inserting the head of my cock in her entrance.
“Yes.” A breath. Not even a word but an exhale.
I pull my hand away and step back.
She stays bent over the hood for a moment, her body still twitching with aftershocks. Slowly, her fingers unclench, and her shoulder blades draw together as she pushes herself upright.
She pulls her jeans up. Her hands are shaking. She fumbleswith the button — once, twice — and I watch her struggle without helping.
I open the passenger door.
“Get in.”
She obeys without a word.
I round the car, settle behind the wheel, and pull out of the parking lot. The two sedans fall in behind us at the gate. Nobody speaks.
Three minutes of silence. Four.
“What did he want?”
She’s looking straight ahead. Her hands are folded in her lap. “I don’t know.”
“I already told you to stop lying, Elizabeth.”
She exhales slowly. “He sent a message. Said he wanted to talk.” A pause. “I genuinely don’t know what about.”
“But you went anyway.”
“I went to tell him I couldn’t meet.” She turns to look at me. “That’s all I was going to do.”
I say nothing. The road unfolds ahead of us.
“How do you know him?” Her voice shifts to the careful tone again, but sharper. Genuinely curious and genuinely unsettled by the curiosity. “You said you knew who he was. Was that a bluff?”
I consider how much to give her.
“Do you think,” I say, “that I don’t know the history of everyone I allow inside my house?”
The silence that follows has weight.
