blake

One eyebrow lifts, her eyes cutting to yours with that calm, terrifying patience she brings into every room. Your mom laughs like it’s cute. Emily doesn’t laugh at all.

At first, you only do it because you want to make her uncomfortable. Emily married your mom, moved into the family like she had a right to be there, started touching things that used to feel unchanged and safe. Her coat on the hook by the door.

Her coffee mug beside your mom’s. Her ring glinting whenever she reaches for your mother’s hand. Calling her “mom” feels like a small, petty weapon, something sharp enough to remind her that this whole arrangement is strange whether anyone wants to admit it or not.

But the problem is that Emily never flinches the way you want her to. She absorbs it, watches you, lets the word hang between you like smoke. Then one night, when you say it too softly, too close to her ear while passing behind her in the kitchen, you realize the word doesn’t just make her uncomfortable. It makes you wet.

You hate that realization for about five seconds before your body gives up pretending. The taboo of it starts crawling under your skin after that, ugly and addictive. Emily isn’t your mother, not really, not in any way that matters except the ring on her finger and the place she holds beside your mom at dinner.

That should make it easier to ignore. Instead, it makes everything worse. You start noticing her in ways you can’t take back, the low rasp of her voice in the mornings, the way she takes her glasses off when she’s tired, the grey in her hair making her look sharper and colder and even more untouchable.

You start thinking about the word when you’re alone. Mom. Not because she is, but because she isn’t, because calling her that turns every glance into something filthy.

The first time you touch yourself thinking about her, you try to blame it on wine. Your mom and Emily had hosted people downstairs, all quiet laughter and expensive conversation, and you’d gone to bed early because sitting across from Emily had made your skin feel too tight.

You’d heard her voice through the floorboards, low and controlled, the kind of voice that always sounds like she knows more than she’s saying. You’d buried your face into your pillow, leggings shoved down your thighs, fingers slipping between your legs before you could talk yourself out of it.

You pictured her wedding ring first, because apparently your body was that predictable. Her hand around her glass. Her hand on your mom’s lower back. Her hand around your throat instead, ring cold against your pulse while she told you how wrong you were for wanting her.

After that, the fantasy got worse. It wasn’t gentle, never gentle, not in your head. You imagined Emily finding you like that, door cracked open, your fingers wet and your face burning because you’d been stupid enough to whisper her name.

You imagined her standing in the doorway in one of those dark blouses, grey hair loose around her face, expression unreadable except for the hunger in her eyes. You imagined her saying, “Is this what you do when your mother’s downstairs?” and the thought alone made you come so hard you had to bite your pillow to stay quiet.

The shame didn’t stop you. It never did. If anything, it made you reach for the fantasy again the next night, and the next, until Emily became the thing you thought about whenever your hand slipped beneath your waistband.

Tonight, you walk downstairs in your oversized hoodie like you haven’t been ruined by thoughts of her for weeks. Your mom is plating food, humming softly, completely unaware of the way Emily’s eyes lift the second you enter the room.

Emily is leaning against the counter, wineglass in hand, wearing a charcoal button-up with the sleeves rolled to her forearms. Her hair is darker near the ends, silver at the roots and temples, and it makes her look almost severe in the soft kitchen light. The wedding ring is there, of course. It always is.

You look at it before you look at her face, and Emily’s mouth curves like she caught you doing exactly what she expected. “Hey, mom,” you say, too sweet, too casual, pretending your pulse isn’t already climbing.

Your actual mom turns around with a warm smile. “You’re in a mood.” You shrug, sliding into your chair like the leggings don’t feel too tight against your skin already. “I’m always in a mood.” Emily sets her glass down with a soft click.

“That’s true.” Her voice is mild, but her eyes are on you, steady and dark, and you feel the words settle low in your stomach. Your mom tells Emily not to encourage you, and Emily looks away first, smiling faintly like she’s innocent. She’s not.

You know she’s not because when she passes behind your chair to get the salad bowl, her fingers brush the back of your hoodie. It’s nothing, barely a touch, but it makes your thighs press together under the table.

Dinner feels normal enough to be cruel. Your mom talks about work, Emily answers with that polished warmth she gives people when she wants them comfortable, and you sit there trying not to stare at her hands. The ring keeps catching the light.

Every time she lifts her fork, every time she reaches for her wine, every time her knuckles flex around the glass, you feel it like pressure against your throat. You wonder if your mom notices how quiet you’ve gotten.

You wonder if Emily notices the way your breathing changes. Of course she does. Emily Prentiss has built an entire life out of noticing what people try to hide. When your eyes drop to her ring again, she lets them stay there for a second before softly saying your name.

It hits you harder than it should. Your name in her mouth sounds too intimate in front of your mother, too knowing, too close to the things you imagine when you’re alone.

“Yeah?” you ask, forcing yourself to look up. Emily tilts her head slightly, grey hair shifting against her cheek. “You’re quiet tonight.” Your mom smiles, oblivious. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

You laugh because you’re supposed to, but Emily doesn’t laugh. She watches you over her glass, and her thumb slowly turns the wedding ring around her finger. It’s deliberate. It has to be deliberate. Heat spreads low and sharp between your thighs.

After dinner, your mom leaves the room to take a call, still talking over her shoulder about dessert like she trusts both of you completely. The second she’s gone, the kitchen feels smaller. Emily stays at the counter, rinsing plates with her sleeves still rolled up, her ring flashing under the running water.

You should leave. You don’t. You lean against the doorway in your hoodie and leggings, watching her hands like they’re doing something obscene instead of washing dishes. “You’re doing it again,” Emily says without looking at you.

Your stomach drops. “Doing what?” She shuts the tap off, slowly dries her hands, then turns around with a look that makes your mouth go dry. “Looking at my ring like it’s something you want in your mouth.”

The words are so sudden and filthy that you forget how to breathe. Emily doesn’t move closer yet. She just stands there, calm and elegant and devastating, your mom’s wife with grey in her hair and your name sitting like a secret behind her teeth.

“That’s not true,” you say, but your voice betrays you immediately. Emily’s eyes drop to your thighs when you shift. “No?” she asks. “Then why do you keep squeezing your legs together every time I touch it?” Your face burns, but the embarrassment only makes your body hotter.

She notices that too. Her smile fades into something darker. “You started calling me mom to be cruel,” she says quietly. “Now you say it because you like what it does to you.”

You swallow hard, fingers curling into your hoodie sleeves. “You don’t know that.” Emily steps closer. “I know exactly that.” Her voice drops, smooth and certain, and suddenly there’s nowhere to put your hands, nowhere to look except her face, her mouth, her ring.

“You like pretending it’s spite,” she says. “You like acting like you’re only trying to get under my skin.” She stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell wine and soap and her perfume. “But you and I both know better.” Her left hand lifts, and the ring glints right before her fingers touch your jaw. “Don’t we?”

You could still walk away. That’s the last sane thought you have before Emily’s thumb drags over your lower lip. Instead, you tilt your face into her hand like you’ve been waiting for permission. Her eyes darken, and for one second, her control visibly shifts. Not gone, never gone, but strained.

“Say it,” she murmurs. Your throat tightens. “Emily.” Her fingers slide from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing yet, just resting there with that wedding ring cold against your skin. Her mouth hovers close to yours. “That’s not what you called me earlier.”

Your whole body jolts with want so sharp it almost hurts. “Don’t,” you whisper, but it doesn’t sound like a refusal. It sounds like begging. Emily’s hand tightens slightly around your throat, careful and firm, and the ring presses against your pulse.

“Don’t what?” she asks. “Don’t make you admit it?” Her other hand finds your waist through the oversized hoodie, fingers pressing in like she wants to feel how badly you’re shaking.

“Don’t make you say you’ve been thinking about your mother’s wife with your hand between your legs?” The sound you make is broken and humiliating. Emily’s eyes flare. “Oh, sweetheart.”

The kiss happens fast after that, but it doesn’t feel impulsive. It feels inevitable. Emily’s mouth takes yours with a restraint that lasts maybe three seconds before it turns rougher, deeper, angrier. You grab at her shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric, and she backs you into the wall hard enough to make you gasp.

Her hand stays at your throat, ring cold, palm warm, thumb stroking once like she knows exactly how much that contrast ruins you. “You’re trouble,” she breathes against your mouth.

“You’ve been trouble since the wedding.” You whimper when her knee presses between your thighs. Emily’s laugh is quiet and cruel. “There it is.”

“You’re married to my mom,” you whisper, because the words feel necessary, because the ugliness of them makes you ache. Emily freezes for half a second. Then her mouth brushes your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips.

“I know.” Her fingers tighten on your waist. “That should’ve made me stop looking.” Your eyes flutter shut when her knee presses harder between your thighs. “It didn’t.”

She kisses you again, slower this time, like she wants you to feel every bad choice. “And now you’re standing here wet through your leggings because I put my hand around your throat.”

You hate how right she is. Your hips move before you can stop them, grinding down against her thigh with one needy little roll that makes Emily inhale sharply. The sound almost makes you proud until her hand closes a little firmer around your throat.

“Careful,” she warns. “You’re getting bold.” You look at her through your lashes, breath shaking, and say the one word you know will ruin her composure. “Mom.”

Emily’s face goes still. For a second, there’s only the distant sound of your mother’s voice upstairs and the thunder of your own pulse. Then Emily says, very softly, “Say it like that again and I’ll make sure you can’t sit through dessert.”

Your legs nearly give out. Emily catches you easily, her mouth curving as if the weakness pleases her. “That’s what I thought,” she murmurs. Her hand slides lower, pushing beneath the hem of your oversized hoodie, finding bare skin above your leggings. The touch is warm, controlled, possessive.

You arch into it without meaning to. Emily watches your face the whole time, like every reaction tells her something she already knew. “All casual for dinner,” she says,

fingertips slipping under your waistband just enough to make you stop breathing. “Leggings, hoodie, acting innocent.” Her ring presses against your throat again. “Nothing innocent about you, is there?”

Your answer is a shaky little no. Emily smiles. “Good.” Then her fingers dip lower, sliding beneath the tight fabric of your leggings, and the first touch against your wetness makes both of you go still. Your face burns hot, but Emily’s expression shifts into something hungrier, rougher, almost disbelieving.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “You really have been sitting at that table like this.” You grip her wrist, not stopping her, just holding on as her fingers drag slowly through you.

She looks down between your bodies even though she can’t see much with your leggings still in the way. “All that because of my ring?” Her thumb presses lightly against your clit, and your knees buckle. “Or because you like calling me something you shouldn’t?”

“Emily,” you gasp. She doesn’t let you get away with it. Her hand at your throat tightens just enough to make your eyes snap back to hers. “Try again.”

You know what she wants. Worse, you know you want to give it to her. Your lips part, and the word comes out soft, ruined, soaked in shame and lust. “Mom.”

Emily’s eyes darken so sharply it feels like being touched all over. Her fingers circle your clit with slow, cruel precision. “Filthy girl,” she murmurs. “You’re gonna look me in the eye while I make you cum for your mom.”

Emily’s fingers are still moving when you hear it, the soft creak of the upstairs floorboard that makes both of you freeze. Your whole body locks against the wall, breath caught halfway out of your throat, pussy still pulsing around nothing because she’s pulled you so close to the edge you can barely think.

Emily’s eyes lift from your face toward the ceiling, sharp and alert in a way that reminds you exactly who she is beneath all that hunger. The sound comes again, footsteps crossing the landing, then your mom’s voice faintly drifting down the stairs as she finishes her call.

Emily’s hand stills inside your leggings, fingers slick and warm against you, and for one sick, thrilling second neither of you moves. Your eyes go wide, panic and arousal twisting together so tightly your knees almost buckle. Emily looks back at you, calm enough to be cruel, and whispers, “Not a sound.”

You nod too fast, lips parted, chest rising hard under the oversized hoodie. Emily’s fingers slide once more through your wetness, slow and deliberate, like she can’t resist reminding you what she was doing before she stops.

Your hips twitch into her hand before you can help it, and her mouth curves faintly, dark amusement flickering across her face. “Greedy,” she murmurs, barely loud enough for you to hear.

Then she removes her hand from your leggings, and the loss makes you whimper so softly you barely recognize yourself.

Emily’s gaze snaps to your mouth, warning and satisfaction mixed together. “Careful,” she breathes, “unless you want her to ask why you’re shaking.”

Your mom’s steps get closer, each one landing like a countdown. Emily doesn’t rush, which is somehow worse than if she did. She eases your hoodie back down over your waist, smooths the fabric like she’s just fixing your clothes, like she hasn’t had her fingers buried against your slick heat seconds ago.

Her wedding ring catches the kitchen light from down the hall, still sitting pretty on the same hand that just made you forget how to breathe. You stare at it, dazed, wanting, furious with yourself for wanting.

Emily notices because Emily always notices. She lifts that hand between you, fingers wet with you, and taps your cheek twice with them, light and humiliatingly intimate. “Fix your face,” she says softly.

The touch leaves warmth and slick on your skin, a filthy little secret pressed right there where anyone could look and not understand. You inhale sharply, and Emily’s eyes darken as if the sound almost tempts her into ruining both of you.

“Emily,” you whisper, but it comes out broken, too needy to be useful. She tilts her head, grey-streaked hair brushing her cheek, expression composed again except for the heat still sitting low in her eyes. “No,” she says.

“You don’t get to sound like that when she’s ten feet away.” Your thighs press together on instinct, and her gaze drops for half a second. “God,” she mutters under her breath, “you’re impossible.”

Then she steps away from you like nothing happened. One second she’s close enough that you can feel her breath, her perfume, the heat of her body, and the next she’s across the kitchen doorway, picking up a dish towel with infuriating ease.

You’re left against the wall, legs unsteady, leggings damp, cheek still marked by the slick from her fingers. Your pulse hammers so hard you’re sure your mom will hear it before she even reaches the bottom step. Emily dries her hands with the towel, slow and casual, but you know she didn’t wash them.

The knowledge makes your stomach twist and your pussy clench again, because she’s walking back into the role of your mom’s wife while still wearing you on her skin. She glances at you once, quick and sharp, and mouths, “Breathe.”

You try. It doesn’t work very well. Your mom appears in the doorway a second later, phone still in hand, smiling like she hasn’t just walked into the aftershock of something that could destroy the entire house.

“Sorry,” she says, looking between you and Emily without suspicion. “That took longer than I thought.” Emily turns toward her with that smooth, practiced warmth, dish towel draped over one hand.

“Everything okay?” she asks, voice perfectly level, perfectly wife-like, perfectly obscene after what she just did to you.

Your mom nods and crosses the room to kiss her cheek. You look away too late, catching the sight of Emily accepting it calmly while her eyes flick to you over your mom’s shoulder.

That glance nearly ruins you. It’s brief, private, and filthy, a reminder that she knows exactly how wet you still are under your leggings while your mom stands right there.

“You okay?” your mom asks, turning toward you with a little frown. “You look flushed.” Your mouth goes dry so fast it almost hurts. Emily’s brow lifts slightly behind her, not helping at all.

“Yeah,” you say, voice rougher than it should be, “just warm.” Your mom hums sympathetically, completely convinced. Emily sets the towel down and says, “She did say she was in a mood.”

You want to hate her for how easily she says it. You want to hate the calm little smile she gives your mom, the controlled way she moves around the kitchen, the ring still glinting as she reaches for the dessert plates.

Instead, all you can think about is her fingers sliding under your waistband and her voice telling you to look her in the eye. Your cheek still tingles where she tapped you, and the thought makes your stomach dip with shameful heat.

Your mom asks if you want dessert, and for a second you can’t answer because Emily is standing behind her, looking at you like she knows exactly what you still want in your mouth.

“Sure,” you manage finally, gripping the counter behind you. Emily smiles faintly, slow and cruel around the edges. “Good girl,” she says, soft enough that only you understand what it means.

The three of you move back to the table like nothing happened. That’s the worst part, really, how normal it all looks from the outside. Your mom sets down bowls of warm brownies and melting vanilla ice cream, smiling like this is just another quiet dinner at home.

Emily pulls your chair out for you like she always does, one hand brushing your shoulder in a way that looks completely innocent if no one knows where that hand had just been. You sit down with your legs pressed tight together, oversized hoodie bunched around your hips, leggings still damp and clinging between your thighs.

Your mom starts talking about the call she took upstairs, something about work, something normal and dull, but the words blur before they can settle.

All you can feel is the leftover ache between your legs. All you can see is Emily sitting across from you, perfectly composed, wedding ring glinting while your slick is still drying on your cheek where she tapped you.

She eats like nothing’s wrong. That’s what makes it unbearable. One hand rests on the table, elegant and steady, wedding ring catching the warm kitchen light every time she lifts her spoon. The other stays low, relaxed near her lap, like she isn’t aware of the way your eyes keep dropping to her fingers.

Your mom nudges Emily’s ankle under the table while telling a story, laughing softly, and Emily smiles at her with that polished wife warmth that makes your stomach twist. Then her gaze flicks to you.

Just for a second. Long enough to make your breath catch and your pussy clench helplessly under your leggings. You look down at your brownie and ice cream like that’ll save you from wanting your mom’s wife at the dinner table.

You don’t notice her foot at first. It starts subtle, almost innocent, the edge of Emily’s shoe brushing your ankle beneath the table. You freeze with your spoon halfway to your mouth, heart stuttering hard enough that you’re sure your mom must hear it.

Emily doesn’t look at you. She keeps her attention on your mom, nodding along, answering calmly, completely present in the conversation above the table. Under it, her foot moves again.

This time, it slides slowly up your calf, dragging over the thin fabric of your leggings in a deliberate line. Your stomach drops. Your thighs tense because you already know she isn’t going to stop there.

The toe of her shoe reaches the inside of your knee, and you almost choke on your next breath. Emily’s face stays calm, but her eyes flick to yours for one sharp second when your legs part without permission. It’s barely anything, just a small shift, but it’s enough to let her in.

Her foot slips higher, slow and controlled, pressing between your thighs with a precision that makes your fingers tighten around your spoon. The first real brush against your pussy is light, just the toe of her shoe rubbing over the damp seam of your leggings.

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound. Your body reacts instantly, hips twitching toward the pressure like you’ve forgotten where you are. Emily’s mouth curves faintly as she takes another bite of dessert.

“Everything okay?” your mom asks, glancing at you when you go too still. You nod too quickly, forcing your shoulders to relax. “Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “Just hot.” Your mom hums, unconcerned, and scoops up another spoonful of ice cream.

Emily’s foot presses harder between your thighs, the sole of her shoe grinding slowly against your clothed cunt. The pressure catches right over your clit through the leggings, dull but firm,

filthy because she’s doing it while your mom sits inches away. Your breath stutters, and Emily glances at you over her spoon like she’s daring you to embarrass yourself.

She starts rubbing you in slow, shallow strokes. Up, then down, pressing the toe of her shoe against the wet fabric until it drags right where you’re most sensitive. Your leggings are thin enough that you feel every shift, every point of pressure, every cruel little adjustment she makes under the table.

The fabric sticks to you now, damp with arousal, and the friction turns slicker every time she rubs against you. You squeeze your thighs around her foot before you can stop yourself, trapping her there.

Emily’s eyes darken, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she presses harder, making you feel the shape of her foot grinding against your swollen pussy through your leggings.

“You’re quiet tonight,” your mom says, smiling like she’s teasing. “Usually I can’t get you to shut up.” You force a laugh, but it comes out weak, almost breathless, because Emily chooses that exact second to drag her foot up against your clit again.

The pressure makes your hips jerk forward, small but unmistakable, and your hand flies to your glass just to give yourself something to hold. “Just tired,” you manage. Emily hums softly, like she believes you.

“Long day?” she asks, voice smooth and innocent. Her foot rubs another slow circle over your pussy beneath the table. You stare at her, furious and turned on and already too close to falling apart.

The friction builds fast because you’re still sensitive from earlier. You’re wet enough that every press of her shoe against your leggings feels obscene, the fabric dragging over your clit in a steady rhythm that makes your thighs tremble.

Emily keeps one hand on the table, ring visible, wife visible, respectable and calm while her foot works between your legs. She’s not even pretending it’s accidental anymore. Her shoe nudges your thighs wider, then presses firmly into the centre of you, grinding upward until your breath catches in your throat.

Your mom keeps talking, completely unaware, spoon clinking softly against her bowl. The normal sound of it makes everything feel worse. You’re getting rubbed off at the family dinner table by the woman your mom married six months ago, and Emily looks like she could keep doing it all night.

You lower your gaze to your dessert, trying to ground yourself in the melting ice cream and warm brownie. It doesn’t help. The chocolate smears into the vanilla, soft and messy, and your mind flashes back to

Emily’s slick fingers, the wet sound they made when she pulled them from your leggings, the way she tapped your cheek like a warning. Her foot drags up again, pressing directly against your clit through the damp fabric, and your thighs clamp down around her ankle.

Emily’s brow lifts slightly. Your mom reaches for a napkin, still talking, still blind to the way your hips have started moving in tiny desperate shifts. You hate yourself for it. You’re grinding back against Emily’s shoe because the pressure feels too good to ignore.

“Pass me the napkins?” your mom asks suddenly. You jerk like you’ve been caught. Emily doesn’t move her foot. If anything, she presses more firmly into you, toe grinding right into the slick, swollen heat between your thighs while you reach across the table with shaking hands. You slide the napkins over, trying to keep your face normal.

“Thanks,” your mom says, already distracted again. Emily watches your hands tremble, then looks back at your face. Under the table, she starts rubbing you in a steady rhythm, dragging the sole of her shoe up and down over your pussy like she’s testing exactly how much you can take before you make a sound.

You’re embarrassingly close. Your body never really came down from the kitchen, and now every slow grind of Emily’s foot against your clit pushes you closer to the edge.

You try to keep eating, try to lift the spoon to your mouth, but your hand isn’t steady enough. Emily sees it and smiles into her next bite of brownie.

“You don’t like it?” she asks your mom, nodding toward your bowl. Your mom turns to you. “Is the brownie too rich?” You shake your head quickly, cheeks burning. “No, it’s good,” you say, and Emily’s foot presses so hard into your pussy on the word good that your voice nearly cracks.

Your mom accepts the answer and keeps eating. Emily doesn’t let up. She rubs you slower now, cruelly slow, the toe of her shoe circling against your clit through the wet fabric like she’s got all the time in the world.

The pressure isn’t enough to make you come yet, but it’s enough to keep you trembling. Enough to make your pussy throb. Enough to make your hips chase her foot whenever she eases back. You stare at her across the table, breathing shallowly,

and she looks at you like she knows exactly how ruined you are under that oversized hoodie. Her wedding ring flashes as she rests her chin lightly on her hand. “You’re fidgeting,” she says softly.

Your mom laughs. “She always does that.” Emily’s eyes stay on you. “I’ve noticed.” Her foot slides lower for a second, teasing away from where you need her, and the loss makes you nearly whine out loud. You catch it just in time, turning it into a shaky breath, but Emily hears the difference.

Her expression shifts, satisfaction settling into the corners of her mouth. Then she rubs back up, pressing against your clit again with enough force to make your eyes flutter. “You sure you’re okay?” your mom asks. Emily’s foot grinds harder before you can answer.

“Yeah,” you say quickly, too quickly. “I’m fine.” Emily’s shoe moves in tight, slow circles over your pussy, the friction dragging through your leggings and making the wet fabric stick to you even worse. Your body is hot all over now, sweat prickling under your hoodie, thighs tense around her foot.

You can feel yourself getting wetter, slick soaking through the crotch of your leggings, making every rub louder in your own head even if no one else can hear it.

Emily tilts her head, watching your face with terrifying focus. Your mom takes another bite of dessert, oblivious. You grip the edge of your chair beneath the table to stop yourself from rolling your hips too obviously.

“Eyes up,” Emily says softly. It’s quiet enough that your mom doesn’t register the command, but you do. Your gaze snaps from her ring to her face. Her foot presses harder, toe dragging right over your clit again, and your lips part around a silent gasp.

Emily’s eyes darken. “Good,” she murmurs. Your mom looks between you both, smiling faintly. “What?” she asks. Emily doesn’t miss a beat. “Just making sure she’s still awake.”

Your mom laughs, but you can barely hear it over the rush of blood in your ears. Emily’s foot keeps rubbing you, slow and methodical, every stroke pushing pleasure tighter in your lower stomach. You’re trying so hard not to move, but your hips keep making these tiny helpless rolls, chasing her shoe under the table.

She lets you do it. Worse, she adjusts her ankle to make it easier for you, pressing the firm ridge of her shoe exactly where your swollen clit needs it.

Your thighs shake so badly you have to plant both feet flat on the floor. The ice cream melts untouched in your bowl. Emily watches the spoon slip from your hand into the dish and smiles like she’s won.

You’re right on the edge again. It’s humiliating how fast it happens, how little she has to do, how just the pressure of her foot against your clothed pussy has you blinking back tears. Emily knows. You can see it in the way she slows down just as your breathing starts to break, dragging the pleasure out instead of giving you enough.

Your mom is still there, still talking, still completely unaware that you’re one careless movement away from coming at the table. Emily’s gaze holds yours, calm and cruel. Her foot presses up one more time, grinding slow and hard against your clit. “Careful,” she whispers, so softly only you hear it, “or dessert’s going to get very interesting.”

The pressure gets too much too fast, and you know you’re going to break if you sit there another minute. Emily’s foot is still pressed between your thighs, rubbing slow enough to be cruel, the toe of her shoe dragging over your clit through your damp leggings like she’s got every right to take you apart under the table.

Your mom is still talking, spoon clinking gently against her bowl, completely unaware of the way you’re gripping the edge of your chair so hard your fingers ache.

You force yourself to pick up your spoon again, hand trembling as you scoop up melting ice cream and brownie like the sweetness might distract you from the wet heat throbbing between your legs. It doesn’t.

Every swallow feels too thick, every breath feels too loud, every shift of Emily’s foot makes your pussy clench helplessly. Emily watches you across the table, calm and elegant, her wedding ring catching the light as she brings another bite to her mouth. She knows you’re trying to run.

You eat too quickly, barely tasting any of it, just desperate to have a reason to leave before she pushes you over the edge right there. Warm chocolate, cold vanilla, your own panic, it all turns blurry in your mouth while

Emily’s shoe grinds once more against the swollen seam of your leggings. Your breath catches, and you cover it with a cough, reaching for your water so fast your mom glances over. “You okay?” she asks, brows knitting softly.

Emily’s foot stills beneath the table, but she doesn’t pull away. That almost makes it worse, the firm pressure just sitting there against your pussy while your mom looks at you with honest concern. “Yeah,” you say, voice tight, “went down wrong.”

Your mom’s face softens. “Slow down, sweetheart. It’s not going anywhere.” Emily’s eyes flick up at that, something wicked moving behind them because of course she hears the irony.

You hate her for it. You hate the way her mouth barely curves, the way she can sit there with her foot between your legs while your mom fusses over you like nothing’s wrong.

“Maybe she’s just tired,” Emily says, voice smooth, helpful, perfectly composed. Her foot shifts slightly when she says it, the toe of her shoe nudging your clit in one last little rub that makes your thighs twitch. You nearly drop your spoon. Emily’s smile stays polite.

You shove the last bite of brownie into your mouth because it’s the only thing you can do without making a sound. Your body is screaming for relief, slick soaking into the fabric of your leggings, clit aching from every slow drag of Emily’s shoe.

You can still feel where her fingers had been earlier, the ghost of them under your waistband, the way she’d tapped your cheek with your own wetness before stepping away. It all stacks up inside you, too hot, too filthy, too close to spilling over.

Emily finally pulls her foot back beneath her own chair, and the sudden loss makes you almost whine. You clamp your mouth shut, swallowing hard around the dessert instead. Emily sees it, and her eyes darken like she’s filing that reaction away for later.

You set your spoon down too carefully. “I think I’m gonna head upstairs,” you say, trying to sound casual even though your voice comes out rough around the edges. Your mom looks up immediately.

“Already?” There’s no suspicion in her tone, only concern, and it makes guilt twist sharp through the arousal still burning under your skin. You nod, pushing your chair back slowly because standing too fast feels dangerous.

“Yeah, I’m just really tired.” Emily’s gaze drops to your legs as you stand, quick and private, and you know she’s thinking about the mess she left there. Your leggings cling between your thighs, damp and obscene under the oversized hoodie, and you pray your mom doesn’t notice anything except your flushed face.

Your mom sets her spoon down. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, softer this time. “You’ve been quiet all evening.” You force a small laugh, but it sounds thin even to you. “I’m fine, promise. Just warm and tired.”

She studies you for a second, maternal worry all over her face, and it nearly makes you crack. Emily leans back in her chair, calm as anything, one hand resting near her wineglass.

“She did say it’s hot in here,” Emily says, and the sound of her voice makes your pussy pulse all over again. Your mom nods slowly, still not fully convinced. “Do you want me to bring you some water?”

“No, I’ve got some upstairs.” The answer comes too fast, and you soften it with another weak smile. “Really, I’m okay.” Your mom reaches out as you pass her chair, catching your hand for a second. Her thumb brushes your knuckles, gentle and familiar, and it makes the whole thing feel uglier.

“Text me if you need anything, okay?” she says. You squeeze her hand, guilt burning under your ribs. “I will.” Across the table, Emily watches the exchange with an expression you can’t read, except for the tiny movement of her thumb turning her wedding ring around her finger.

You don’t look at Emily when you step away, because you know if you do, your face will give you away. You make it three steps before her voice stops you anyway.

“Goodnight,” she says. It sounds innocent. Your mom hears good manners. You hear a command wrapped in silk, hear the memory of her voice telling you to keep your eyes up while her shoe rubbed your pussy under the table.

You pause in the doorway, hand curling into the sleeve of your hoodie. “Night,” you say, still not looking at her. Emily waits half a beat, then adds, “Sleep well.”

The words slide under your skin. You know she knows you won’t. You know she knows exactly where your hand is going the second you get behind a locked door, knows you’re going to peel your damp leggings down with shaking fingers and think about her foot, her ring, her mouth saying good girl like a secret. Your mom smiles at you one last time, accepting your excuse.

Emily doesn’t smile at all now. She just watches you leave, grey-streaked hair soft around her face, wedding ring gleaming on the same hand that had been around your throat.

You climb the stairs carefully, legs unsteady, heat throbbing between your thighs with every step. By the time you reach the hallway, you can still feel the shape of Emily’s shoe against your cunt like she never stopped touching you.

You barely make it to your room before your body gives up on pretending it’s fine. The door shuts behind you with a quiet click, and the second the lock turns, you throw yourself onto the bed like your legs can’t hold you for another second.

Your face hits the pillow first, a breathless, shaky sigh spilling out of you before you can stop it. Everything still feels too hot. Your hoodie is too heavy. Your leggings are too tight.

The damp fabric between your thighs clings to you with every tiny movement, a humiliating reminder of exactly what Emily did under the table while your mom sat there eating dessert. You press your thighs together and immediately regret it, because the pressure sends a sharp little pulse through your pussy that makes you whimper into the sheets.

You can still feel her foot there. The slow drag of her shoe over your clit. The way she rubbed your pussy through your leggings like she had all the time in the world, calm and composed above the table while you were falling apart beneath it.

You can still see her face, too, that controlled little smile, that grey-streaked hair framing her cheek, that wedding ring catching the light every time she lifted her spoon.

The ring is what makes you roll onto your back with a broken groan, one hand dragging over your stomach. Your fingers catch on the hem of your hoodie, bunching it up without meaning to.

You think about her hand around your throat, the cold press of gold against your skin, and your hips lift off the mattress before you even touch yourself properly. “Fuck,” you whisper, staring at the ceiling like it might save you from yourself.

It doesn’t. Nothing does. Your hand slips beneath the waistband of your leggings, and the first brush of your fingers against yourself makes your mouth fall open.

You’re soaked, slick and swollen from being teased too long, your pussy sensitive from Emily’s fingers earlier and the cruel pressure of her foot under the dinner table. Your lips feel puffy and hot beneath your touch, folds slippery when your fingertips part them, arousal gathered wet and messy between them.

Your clit is swollen too, aching from the friction Emily gave you and then took away, so sensitive that even grazing it makes your thighs twitch. Your fingertips slide through the wetness, and your whole body jolts like you’ve been waiting for permission.

You think about Emily saying, “Eyes up,” while rubbing you right there in front of your mom. You think about the way she knew exactly how wet you were without even needing to see it. You think about her saying good girl so softly only you understood. Your fingers circle your clit, slow at first, and your breath breaks into a needy little sound.

“Mom,” you whisper, and the word makes your stomach twist. Not real, not like that, never like that, but filthy because she isn’t, because Emily is your mother’s wife and the title only exists to make everything feel worse. You say it again, quieter this time, almost testing how it feels in your mouth when you’re alone.

“Mom.” Your pussy clenches at the sound, your slick entrance fluttering around nothing, and shame rolls through you hot enough to make your fingers press harder. It’s a kink, a horrible little secret, a word you started using to spite her and somehow turned into the thing that makes you drip through your leggings at dinner.

You imagine Emily hearing you say it like this, breathy and desperate, with your fingers sliding over your swollen clit. You imagine her standing in your doorway with that unreadable look, grey hair loose, ring gleaming, asking if this is what you ran upstairs to do.

Your fingers move faster. You push your leggings lower with your free hand, impatient and clumsy, just enough to free the wet heat between your thighs. Cool air hits your pussy, and you shudder, knees falling apart on the bed like Emily’s watching even though she isn’t.

You glance down for half a second and immediately feel your face burn at the sight of yourself, open and glossy, lips spread by your own hand, slick catching in the low light from your bedside lamp. You’re visibly turned on, embarrassingly wet, your folds shiny and swollen from how long Emily kept you on edge.

You drag two fingers through yourself, spreading the slick up to your clit before rubbing tight, desperate circles. The relief is almost too much after being denied so long. Your back arches, hoodie riding up over your stomach, breath hitching in your throat.

All you can see is Emily across the table, perfectly calm while her foot rubbed your cunt through damp fabric. All you can hear is her voice, smooth and cruel, telling you to be careful or dessert would get interesting.

You bite your lip hard, trying to stay quiet, but the first moan slips out anyway. The house is too quiet around you now, every little sound feeling dangerous.

Your mom is still downstairs with Emily, probably cleaning up, probably laughing softly at something Emily says. The thought should cool you down. It doesn’t. It makes your fingers slip lower, teasing your entrance with a shaky little whimper because you’re imagining Emily doing it instead.

Your pussy looks ruined already, slick pooling at your entrance, lips swollen and parted, clit throbbing under the wet glide of your thumb. Her hand, her ring, her controlled voice, her body leaning into yours while she tells you how wrong you are for wanting her. You push two fingers inside yourself and gasp, hips rolling up to meet your own hand.

It isn’t enough because it isn’t her. That thought makes you whine, frustrated and needy, your fingers curling inside you as you try to mimic the way Emily had touched you in the kitchen. She’d been so precise, so calm, like she could take you apart without even trying.

You fuck yourself slowly at first, slick sounds filling the quiet room, thumb rubbing your clit while your fingers press deeper. The wetness is obscene, coating your fingers every time you pull back, your entrance clenching around them greedily as if your body is begging for Emily instead.

“Emily,” you breathe, then correct yourself on a shuddering exhale. “Mom.” The word hits harder this time. Your eyes squeeze shut, and your hips grind into your hand as if you can chase the fantasy into something real. You imagine her laughing softly, saying, “There it is,” like she knew you’d end up like this.

Your pillow muffles the next moan when you turn your face into it. Your body is already close, embarrassingly close, because Emily kept you right on the edge downstairs and sent you away shaking. Every circle of your thumb over your clit makes the pressure coil tighter.

Every curl of your fingers makes your thighs twitch wider, your pussy swallowing them with wet, needy little clenches. You think about her tapping your cheek with slick fingers and telling you to fix your face. You think about her watching your hands shake over dessert.

You think about her foot pressing harder between your legs while your mom asked if you were okay. The memory is so dirty, so impossible, that your whole body tightens around your fingers.

You start babbling into the pillow, barely words, barely sound. “Please, please, Emily, fuck.” Your fingers move faster, messy now, chasing what she refused to give you at the table. Your clit throbs under your thumb, oversensitive and slick, and the pleasure starts rushing up too fast to control.

“Mom,” you whimper again, your thighs shake, your hips buck into your hand, and your pussy squeezes tight around your fingers, hot and wet and desperate. Your mouth opens around a silent, desperate cry.

You come thinking about her ring. Not her mouth first, not even her fingers, but that gold band on her hand while she touched you like she had every right. Your orgasm hits hard, sharp enough to make your back arch off the bed, fingers buried inside yourself while your thumb keeps rubbing through it.

You bite the pillow to keep quiet, but a broken moan still slips out, muffled and pathetic. Pleasure rolls through you in hot waves, your pussy pulsing around your fingers while slick smears across your palm and inner thighs.

Your folds feel swollen beneath your hand, clit twitching with every aftershock, your whole cunt sensitive and messy from how badly you needed it.

You imagine Emily watching, calm and hungry, telling you to look at her while you fall apart. You imagine her calling you filthy. You imagine her saying, “Good girl,” and the aftershock makes you jerk all over again.

When it finally fades, you’re left sprawled on the bed, leggings shoved down your thighs, hoodie twisted around your waist, breathless and ruined. Your hand is still between your legs, fingers wet, body twitching with every tiny leftover pulse.

The room feels too warm. Too quiet. Too full of her. You glance down again, dazed, seeing the slick shine still clinging to your pussy, your lips parted and flushed, your thighs damp where you made a mess of yourself thinking about Emily.

Shame starts creeping in at the edges, but it doesn’t feel strong enough to beat the satisfaction. Not yet. Not when you can still feel the ghost of Emily’s foot against your pussy and the imagined weight of her ring at your throat.

Then there’s a soft sound downstairs. A laugh, maybe your mom’s, followed by Emily’s lower voice, too faint to make out but familiar enough to make your stomach flip. You freeze, fingers still slick against your thigh. The distance between you and them feels impossibly thin, like the whole house knows what you just did.

You pull your leggings back up slowly, wincing at the damp fabric dragging over your overstimulated clit, and roll onto your side with your heart still racing. Your phone lights up on the nightstand. For one second, you think it might be your mom checking on you. Then you see Emily’s name.

Still awake?

Emily stared at her phone for a long moment before sending the message, her thumb hovering over the screen like it had more sense than the rest of her. The kitchen was quiet now, softened by the low hum of the dishwasher and the faint clink of your mother stacking dessert plates by the sink.

Emily sat at the table with one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee she hadn’t taken a single sip from, because her attention had stayed fixed on the staircase since you’d gone up.

She could still see the flush on your face, the way your legs had looked unsteady when you excused yourself, the damp, ruined tension in your body that no oversized hoodie could hide from her.

Worse, she could still feel the ghost of you on her skin, the slick warmth of you on her fingers, the way you’d squeezed your thighs around her foot under the table.

It should’ve made her ashamed enough to stop. Instead, it had left a low, persistent ache between her own thighs, one she’d been ignoring with the same discipline she used for everything else. Finally, she exhaled through her nose and typed, Still awake?

Your reply didn’t come instantly, but the typing indicator did, appearing and disappearing twice before the message landed. you know i am. Emily’s jaw tightened at the casual arrogance of it, at the way she could hear your voice in every lowercase letter.

Of course you were awake. Of course you hadn’t gone upstairs to sleep, not after the way you’d looked at her across the table like she’d left you starving.

Emily glanced toward your mother, who was rinsing a spoon at the sink and humming softly, completely unaware of the tension coiled under her own roof. The guilt came, sharp and familiar, but it didn’t come alone.

Beneath it was heat, filthy and unwelcome, a memory of your breath catching when her shoe pressed right against your pussy through your leggings. Emily shifted in her chair, thighs pressing together once before she forced herself still, and typed, You said you were tired.

The three dots appeared again, vanished, then came back like you were deciding whether to behave or make it worse. Emily already knew which one you’d choose. i lied. A quiet, humourless laugh threatened to slip out of her, but she swallowed it down just as your mother looked over.

“What’s funny?” your mother asked, smiling at her like Emily was only reading some harmless message from work. Emily locked her face into something warm and easy before the lie even reached her tongue.

“Nothing,” she said smoothly, lifting the cold mug to her mouth so she had something to do with her hands. Your mother accepted it without hesitation and turned back to the sink. Emily looked down again, pulse kicking harder than it should, and wrote, I’m shocked. You’ve never lied to me before.

Your response came fast this time, sharp enough that Emily could almost feel the bratty tilt of your mouth. don’t start. Emily leaned back slowly, her ringed hand resting near the phone, the gold band catching the kitchen light as if it wanted to remind her exactly what she was risking.

She thought of you saying that word downstairs, soft and wrong and deliberate, calling her mom like it was a dare you’d learned how to load properly. It had started as spite, she knew that much, but it had stopped being only spite weeks ago.

Emily had watched the change happen in real time, watched your eyes linger longer, watched your voice drop around the word, watched your body answer before your pride could catch up. The knowledge made her mouth go dry. It made the ache between her legs pulse again,

slow and inconvenient, because she’d felt how wet you were while your actual mother sat across the table talking about dessert. Emily typed, Go to sleep.

For a few seconds, nothing happened, and Emily told herself that was good. Then the screen lit again. make me. Emily closed her eyes, and this time the breath she took was far less steady.

The words hit somewhere low, dragging a vivid image into her head before she could stop it, you sprawled upstairs on your bed, hoodie pushed up, leggings shoved down, still sensitive and wet from everything she’d done and hadn’t finished. She wondered if you’d touched yourself already.

The thought was a mistake, because her body reacted hard, a deep throb settling between her thighs while she sat there in your mother’s kitchen like a decent wife.

Emily’s hand flexed once against the table, ring tapping softly against the wood. She opened her eyes and typed with cruel restraint, You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.

Your next message arrived like you’d been waiting with your thumb over the screen. you keep texting back though. Emily stared at it for longer than she needed to, because unfortunately, you were right.

She should’ve stopped the second she sent the first message, should’ve left you upstairs to your restless little fantasy and gone to bed beside the woman she’d married six months ago.

Instead, she was sitting there, turned on and irritated and far too aware of how easily you’d gotten under her skin. Your mother walked over then, drying her hands on a towel before leaning down to press a kiss to Emily’s temple.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she said, gentle and trusting. Emily looked up at her, smiled like she hadn’t been imagining your slick thighs around her foot, and said,

“I won’t.” Your mother touched her shoulder once before heading for the stairs, and Emily waited until she was gone before looking back at the phone.

Another message was already waiting for her. she gone? Emily’s stomach tightened, and the arousal she’d been trying to smother turned hotter because you knew exactly what you were doing. You weren’t just asking if your mother had left the room, you were asking if Emily was alone enough to answer you badly.

She rubbed her thumb over the edge of her wedding ring, slow and distracted, trying not to think about that same ring pressed against your throat, your eyes wide, your voice breaking around the word mom. You should be asleep, she typed, because it was safer than the truth.

Your reply came with no hesitation. that’s not what i asked. Emily let out a slow breath, jaw tight, gaze flicking once toward the dark staircase. Somewhere above her, you were awake, needy, probably smiling at your phone like you’d already won. She typed, Goodnight.

For a moment, she thought that would be the end of it. Then your final message appeared. goodnight, mom. Emily’s thumb froze above the screen, and every disciplined thought in her head went quiet. There it was again, the word that had no right to make heat slide through her body the way it did, the word you’d sharpened into something obscene just by knowing how badly she’d react.

She stared at it until the letters blurred slightly, breathing slower than she felt, thighs pressed together beneath the table because ignoring her own arousal was getting harder by the second. She imagined going upstairs, imagined opening your door, imagined asking if you were proud of yourself for using that word while your mother slept down the hall.

The thought made her body clench with want so fierce she had to lock her phone immediately. Emily placed it face down on the table like that could undo the damage. Because if she replied to that one, she wasn’t sure she’d stay downstairs.

Emily didn’t pick her phone back up after that final message. She placed it face down on the kitchen table like the simple act of hiding the screen could make the words stop existing. It didn’t. Goodnight, mom stayed behind her eyes anyway, sharp and soft and wrong in exactly the way you knew would get under her skin.

She sat there for a long moment, listening to your mother move around upstairs, forcing herself to breathe slowly until the heat in her body became something she could at least pretend to ignore. Then she stood, went to the work bag she’d left by the hall table, and unzipped it with more force than necessary.

Case files came out first, then her notebook, then a stack of printed reports she’d meant to finish days ago. She carried them back to the kitchen table and spread them out like work could save her from herself. It had before, after all.

The familiar routine should’ve helped. Emily lined up the folders by priority, uncapped a pen, pulled the cold coffee closer, and forced her eyes onto the first report. Victimology, timeline, witness statements, geographical notes.

Solid things. Work things. Things that belonged to the life she understood, where wanting didn’t matter and facts did. She read the same paragraph three times before realizing she hadn’t absorbed a single word.

Her gaze kept sliding toward the staircase, then snapping back down to the page like she could catch herself before the thought finished forming. It was pathetic, and she knew it. Worse, it was dangerous.

She tried making notes. That usually sharpened her focus, gave her hands something useful to do, forced her mind into order. Instead, the pen hovered uselessly over the paper while her thumb rubbed once over her wedding ring.

The movement stopped her cold. She looked down at her own hand and remembered your eyes on it at dinner, remembered the way you’d stared like the gold band itself had been touching you.

She remembered your thighs tightening around her foot under the table, the little hitch in your breath when she’d pressed harder, the way your voice had thinned when your mother asked if you were okay.

Her body responded before she could stop it, a low, unwelcome pulse of arousal settling between her thighs. Emily leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. “Get it together,” she muttered to herself.

For a while, she almost managed it. She reviewed half a page of notes, corrected two dates, underlined something important enough to matter tomorrow. The dishwasher hummed through its cycle beside her, steady and domestic, while the rest of the house settled into quiet.

Your mother had gone upstairs a while ago, calling softly down for Emily not to stay up too late. Emily had answered that she wouldn’t, lying with the same ease she’d used all evening.

Hours passed in fragments, measured by the microwave clock and the cooling coffee she never drank. She should’ve felt tired by then. Instead, she felt wired, tense, too aware of the closed doors above her. Every small creak from the house made her look up.

The files became useless after midnight. Emily turned a page and realized she’d been holding the folder upside down for several seconds, which would’ve been funny if it hadn’t made her so angry with herself. She exhaled sharply, set the folder down, and rubbed both hands over her face.

The grey in her hair fell loose near her temples, and she smoothed it back with a frustrated motion that did nothing to settle her. Her phone remained face down beside her notebook. She hadn’t touched it again, but she kept feeling its presence like a dare.

Somewhere upstairs, you were behind your bedroom door, and she hated how vividly her mind filled in the rest. Your hoodie twisted up. Your leggings pulled down. Your hand between your thighs while that word sat in your mouth like a secret you’d learned how to weaponize.

Eventually, Emily closed the final folder. Not because she was finished, but because pretending had become more insulting than helpful. She stacked the case files carefully, aligning every corner with unnecessary precision, then slid them back into the leather work bag.

Her movements were controlled, almost too controlled, the kind of calm that came from forcing every impulse into a box and holding the lid down with both hands. The kitchen looked normal when she stood, which made the whole night feel even stranger.

Dessert bowls had been rinsed and stacked. The chairs were pushed in. The lamp above the counter threw a soft amber glow over everything, warm and harmless. Emily turned it off and stood in the dark for one second longer than she needed to.

She climbed the stairs quietly, one hand trailing along the banister. Each step felt louder than it should’ve in the sleeping house. At the top, she paused, listening.

No movement. No voices. Just the faint settling of old wood and the low hush of nighttime air through the vents. Her bedroom door stood slightly open, a narrow bar of darkness beyond it. Emily pushed it wider with careful fingers and looked inside.

Your mother was asleep, curled under the blankets, one arm tucked beneath her pillow, face peaceful in the dim light from the window. The sight landed in Emily’s chest like guilt, heavy and blunt.

She should’ve gone in. She should’ve changed, climbed into bed, let the night end there, and decided tomorrow that distance was the only sane option.

Instead, she stayed in the doorway, looking at the woman she’d married six months ago and feeling the full ugliness of what she’d allowed herself to want. Her wife trusted her. The house trusted her. Everyone trusted her to be controlled, responsible, safe.

Emily’s jaw tightened as she eased the door nearly shut again, leaving it open just enough not to make a sound. Then she looked down the hallway toward your room. The rational part of her mind gave her every reason to walk away. She ignored all of them before she even took the first step.

The hallway seemed longer than usual. Emily moved slowly, barefoot now, because at some point she’d slipped off her shoes without remembering doing it. Your door was closed, a thin line of darkness beneath it. She stopped outside it with her hand resting lightly against the frame, pulse far too loud in her ears.

She knew she shouldn’t be there. She knew coming this far already said too much. Still, she leaned closer, just enough to listen, just enough to see if there was any sound from the other side. Nothing at first.

Then maybe the soft shift of sheets, maybe a breath, maybe her own imagination punishing her. Emily closed her eyes for one second, opened them again, and stayed there in the dark, caught between the last good decision she could still make and the door she hadn’t yet opened.

You’re still awake when the door opens.

Not sleeping, not even close, just lying on your side with your phone clutched too tightly in one hand and your body still humming from everything you’d done to yourself. Your leggings are pulled back up, but they feel wrong now, damp and uncomfortable between your thighs, clinging to you in a way that makes you hyperaware of every twitch of your hips.

Your hoodie is still twisted around you, sleeves covering your hands, collar slipping off one shoulder from how much you’d moved. The room is dark except for the weak glow of your bedside lamp

and the pale stripe of hallway light that cuts across the floor when Emily pushes the door open. You freeze before you even see her properly. You know it’s her. Your body knows it before your brain catches up.

Emily stands in the doorway without speaking. The sight of her there, silent and grey-haired and still in that charcoal button-up, makes your stomach drop so hard it almost feels like fear. Not fear like you want her gone.

Fear like she actually came. Her face is shadowed, but you can still make out the line of her jaw, the loose strands of silver at her temples, the controlled stillness of her body as she looks at you on the bed.

One hand rests on the doorknob. The other hangs at her side, wedding ring catching the dim light like a confession neither of you can stop staring at. For a second, you don’t breathe. Then Emily steps inside and closes the door behind her with a soft click.

“You’re awake,” she says.

Her voice is quiet enough to make the room feel smaller. You shift under the covers, trying to sit up without looking like you’ve been caught doing exactly what you were doing. It doesn’t work.

Emily’s eyes move over you once, slow and precise, taking in the flushed skin, the messy hoodie, the way your thighs are pressed together under the blanket.

She doesn’t miss the phone in your hand either. She doesn’t miss anything. “Couldn’t sleep,” you say, and your voice sounds rough even to you. Emily’s mouth barely moves, but something in her expression says she expected that answer. “No,” she murmurs. “I didn’t think you could.”

You swallow hard. “Why are you here?”

That makes her pause. Her hand stays on the door for a moment longer before she lets go and steps farther into the room. “That’s a good question.” It should sound like a joke, but it doesn’t. It sounds like she’s angry with herself for not having a better answer.

She looks toward the floor, then back at you, and the weight of her gaze makes your thighs squeeze together again. Emily notices. Of course she notices. Her eyes drop briefly, and when they come back to your face, they’re darker than before. “Don’t do that,” she says quietly.

Your breath catches. “Do what?”

“Act like I didn’t see.”

Heat floods your face so fast it almost hurts. You sit up slowly, blanket slipping to your lap, hoodie bunching high on your thighs. Emily’s gaze flickers there, sharp as a blade, and you know she can see the way the leggings cling to you.

You tug the hoodie down instinctively, and her eyes lift back to yours. “Too late for modesty,” she says. The words hit low in your stomach. Your fingers curl into the blanket. “I didn’t know you were coming in.”

“No,” Emily says. “You just hoped I would.”

The silence after that feels electric. Your mouth opens, closes, then opens again around nothing. Emily takes another step closer, slow enough that you feel every inch of distance disappear.

She looks too composed for someone who shouldn’t be here, but you can see the tension under it now. The tightness in her jaw. The way her breathing isn’t quite even. The way her ringed hand flexes once at her side. “Did you touch yourself?” she asks.

Your whole body goes still.

Emily doesn’t soften the question. She doesn’t look embarrassed by it. She just watches you from the foot of your bed, her voice low and steady, like she’s asking something she already knows. Your pulse starts pounding.

“Emily,” you whisper, because saying anything else feels impossible. Her brows lift slightly. “That’s not an answer.” You look away, but only for a second before her voice cuts through the dark again. “Look at me.”

You do.

Her expression changes when she sees your face properly, sees the guilt and arousal tangled there so badly you can’t hide either one. “You did,” she says, and it isn’t a question anymore.

Your thighs press tighter under the blanket, the ache returning immediately, humiliating and hot. Emily’s eyes lower again, following the movement. “Was it enough?” she asks. The room feels too warm. Your answer is barely a breath. “No.”

Emily closes her eyes for half a second. When she opens them again, something has shifted. “You shouldn’t say things like that to me.” Her voice is rougher now, less controlled around the edges. “You know that, don’t you?”

You nod, though the motion feels weak and useless. “Then why do you keep doing it?” she asks. You don’t know if she means the texts, the staring, the word, the way you’re looking at her now. Maybe all of it. Maybe she wants you to admit every part.

“Because you keep coming back,” you whisper.

Emily’s jaw tightens.

For one second, neither of you moves. Then she laughs under her breath, not amused, not really, more like you’ve found the ugliest truth in the room and said it before she could stop you.

“You’re getting very brave for someone who couldn’t even sit through dessert.” She steps closer to the side of your bed, close enough now that you can see the faint flush at her throat, the loosened top button of her shirt, the silver in her hair catching the bedside light.

“Did you think about it?” she asks. “My foot between your legs while your mother asked if you were okay?” Your breath breaks. Emily watches the reaction with dark satisfaction. “Of course you did.”

You whisper, “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why?” Her hand reaches down, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket near your knee. “Because it makes you wet again?” She doesn’t touch you yet, not really, just lets her ringed fingers rest there, close enough to make your whole body strain toward her.

Your eyes drop to the ring before you can stop them. Emily sees it, and her mouth curves. “Still looking at it.” Her hand slides higher over the blanket, stopping just above your thigh. “Even after you came thinking about it.”

Your face burns. “How do you know?”

“Because I know you.” Her voice drops. “And because you’re not nearly as quiet as you think you are.”

The words punch the air out of your lungs. Your eyes go wide, and

Emily’s expression turns almost cruel in its restraint. “Relax,” she says softly. “She didn’t hear you.” You don’t know whether that’s a relief or a worse kind of humiliation. Your fingers tighten in the blanket, and your pulse pounds between your thighs.

Emily sits on the edge of the bed, close but not touching enough, her hip near your knee, her body angled toward you. The mattress dips under her weight, and that tiny shift makes your stomach twist. “But I did,” she says.

You can barely speak. “You heard?”

“Enough.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Emily’s eyes lower to your mouth, then back to your face. “My name,” she says. “Then the other one.” Her ringed hand lifts, and two fingers catch beneath your chin, tilting your face up.

“You said it so sweetly when you thought no one could hear.” Your breath shakes. Emily leans closer, her perfume filling your head. “Say it again.”

You shake your head automatically, but the denial is weak. “Emily…”

Her thumb strokes your chin. “That’s not what I asked.”

Your chest rises too quickly. The room feels airless. Your mother is asleep down the hall, Emily is sitting on your bed, and your own body is betraying you with every pulse of heat between your legs.

You stare at the ring on her hand, then at her mouth, then at the grey in her hair. The word sits on your tongue, wrong and wanted. Not real. Never real. Just a kink sharpened by how forbidden she is. You whisper, “Mom.”

Emily’s eyes go dark.

For a second, she doesn’t move. Then her hand slides from your chin to your throat, fingers wrapping there with careful pressure, wedding ring cool against your skin. Your eyes flutter, and she inhales through her nose like the reaction hits her somewhere low.

“That’s what I thought,” she murmurs. “You ran upstairs, touched this pretty pussy, and said that while you came?” Your hips jerk under the blanket at the phrase. Emily’s grip tightens just enough to make you still. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” you breathe.

Emily closes her eyes again, slower this time, like she’s trying to survive the answer. “You’re going to ruin me,” she says quietly. It doesn’t sound like an accusation. It sounds like a fact. Then her eyes open, and the control is back, darker now. “Show me.”

Your stomach flips. “What?” Her hand leaves your throat and moves to the blanket. She pulls it back slowly, exposing your thighs, your leggings, the damp, clinging fabric between them. Her gaze drops, and her voice turns rough. “Show me what you did.”

Emily doesn’t look away when you reach for the hem of your hoodie. That’s the first thing that ruins you. There’s no polite glance toward the wall, no shameful turn of her head, no last-second attempt to pretend this isn’t happening.

She stays right there on the edge of your bed, grey-streaked hair falling loose around her face, wedding ring glinting on the hand resting against her thigh. Her gaze is dark and steady, stripped of every careful lie she’d been wearing downstairs.

“Go on,” she says quietly. “Show me.” Your fingers shake around the fabric, and Emily’s eyes follow the movement like she’s already imagining what’s underneath.

You pull the hoodie up slowly, suddenly too aware of every inch of skin being revealed. It drags over your stomach first, then your ribs, then catches briefly at your chest before you tug it over your head and drop it beside you on the bed.

The cool air hits your bare skin and makes you shiver. Your nipples are already hard, tight little peaks from the nerves, the cold, and the way Emily is looking at you like she’s forgotten she’s supposed to feel guilty.

Her eyes lower to your chest, and the sharp breath she takes is so quiet you almost miss it. Almost. “Fuck,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you, and the sound makes your thighs squeeze together before you can stop it. Emily notices that too, and her mouth curves. “Don’t hide now.”

Your hands move to your leggings next. The fabric feels obscene against you now, damp and sticky between your thighs from how wet you are, clinging to the shape of your pussy like proof. You hook your thumbs under the waistband and pause, suddenly overwhelmed by the reality of Emily sitting there watching.

Her expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it gets hungrier. “You were brave enough to touch yourself thinking about me,” she says, voice low and smooth. “You can be brave enough to take those off.”

Your face burns, but your body obeys before your pride can argue. You push the leggings down your hips, thighs, knees, then kick them off the edge of the bed with a shaky breath.

Emily’s gaze drops between your legs the second you’re bare. The silence that follows feels louder than anything she could’ve said. You’re so wet it’s impossible to hide, slick shining against your folds, your lips swollen and parted from how long you’ve been teased, touched, denied, and left alone with the thought of her.

A thin smear of arousal glistens along your inner thighs, messy from where you’d rubbed yourself earlier and then dragged the damp leggings back up like that would erase it.

Your clit is still swollen, sensitive enough that just the air against you makes your hips twitch. Emily’s jaw tightens. Her ringed hand flexes once against her thigh. For the first time all night, she doesn’t look composed at all.

You expect her to say something cruel. Something controlled. Something that makes this feel like she’s still holding the reins. Instead, she just stares at you with open, shameless lust, eyes dragging from your hardened nipples to the wet, exposed heat between your thighs and back again.

There’s guilt somewhere in her face, but it’s buried deep under hunger now, too weak to win. “You’re beautiful,” she says, and the roughness in her voice almost makes you whimper.

Then her eyes darken further. “And soaked.” Your breath catches. Emily leans forward slightly, elbows near her knees, gaze fixed between your legs like she has no intention of pretending she isn’t looking. “All that from my foot under the table?”

You swallow hard, nodding because your voice doesn’t work yet. Emily’s eyebrow lifts. “Words.” The command hits you low, familiar and devastating. “Yes,” you whisper. Your thighs try to close again, but Emily’s hand shoots out and catches your knee before you can hide.

Her fingers are warm against your skin, her wedding ring cool where it presses near the inside of your thigh. “No,” she says softly. “You wanted me to see what I did to you.” She pushes your knee outward with steady pressure. “So let me see.”

Your whole body trembles as you climb back onto the bed properly. The mattress dips beneath you, sheets wrinkling under your palms as you move backward until you’re closer to the pillows. Emily doesn’t move from the edge, but her gaze follows every shift of your body with terrifying focus.

You sit back slowly, then spread your legs like she told you to without her having to say it again. The position makes you feel exposed in a way that burns through your chest and settles hot between your thighs.

Your pussy opens under her gaze, slick and swollen, folds glistening in the low light, your entrance wet enough that you feel yourself clench around nothing. Emily exhales slowly, like she’s trying to keep whatever control she has left. It doesn’t look like much.

“Jesus,” she says under her breath. The word sounds almost reverent. Her eyes lift to your face, then drop again, unable to stay away for long. You can see the exact moment she stops pretending to be ashamed of wanting you.

It’s subtle, but it’s there, in the way her shoulders loosen, the way her mouth parts, the way her thighs press together for one brief second before she catches herself. Your stomach flips when you notice it. Emily is turned on.

Not just tempted, not just watching because you pushed her too far, but aroused, visibly affected, drawn in by the sight of you spread open on your bed. The realization makes your pussy throb so hard you can’t stop the soft sound that slips out of you.

Emily hears it, and her mouth curves. “That sound,” she says, voice dropping into something darker. “You made that when you came earlier, didn’t you?” Your face goes hot, but you nod.

“I heard enough to know,” she continues, and her ringed hand slides slowly up your thigh. Not to your pussy yet, not even close enough, just a slow, deliberate touch along your skin that makes you tremble harder. “You said my name first.”

Her fingers pause higher, close enough that your hips tilt toward her on instinct. “Then you said the other one.” Your nipples tighten even more at the memory, and Emily’s eyes flick to your chest. “You like being looked at like this, don’t you?”

“By you,” you whisper before you can stop yourself. That gets her. You see it in her face, a flicker of something hot and possessive that burns right through whatever restraint she had left. Emily moves onto the bed then, slow and deliberate, one knee pressing into the mattress between your spread legs.

She doesn’t touch your pussy yet. She braces one hand beside your hip and uses the other to trace up your stomach, over your ribs, stopping just beneath your chest. Her ring brushes your skin with every movement, cold and sinful.

“You’re making it very hard to remember why I shouldn’t touch you,” she murmurs. Your breath breaks when her thumb grazes the underside of your breast. “Maybe I don’t want you to remember.”

Emily’s gaze snaps to yours. For a second, the room is too quiet, too intimate, too full of all the lines already crossed. Then her hand slides higher, cupping your breast with a slow, possessive pressure that makes your back arch.

Her thumb rolls over your hardened nipple, and you gasp, thighs spreading wider without conscious thought. Emily watches the reaction with shameless hunger, the last of her restraint thinning into something meaner.

“Look at you,” she whispers. “Spread out for me, wet enough to ruin the sheets, nipples hard because you like knowing I’m staring.” Her thumb pinches lightly, and your hips jerk. “Filthy girl.”

“Emily,” you gasp. Her eyes narrow. “Wrong name.” Your stomach twists, pleasure and shame and want all tangling together until you can barely breathe.

Her hand leaves your breast and slides down your stomach, slow enough to make you ache for every inch. She stops just above your pussy, fingers hovering over the slick shine of you while you shake beneath her.

“Say it,” she murmurs. You stare at her, at the grey in her hair, at the wedding ring on the hand about to touch you. Then you whisper, “Mom.” Emily closes her eyes for half a second, and when she opens them, they’re completely dark.

Your fingers hover for a second before they move, trembling slightly in the space between your thighs. Emily doesn’t touch you yet, doesn’t rush you, doesn’t give you any mercy, only sits there on your bed with one knee pressed into the mattress and watches like she’s waiting to see how badly you’ll embarrass yourself for her.

The low light catches in the grey threaded through her hair, softening nothing about her expression. Her eyes stay fixed on your hand, on the way your fingertips lower slowly toward your own wetness. Your breath comes out shaky before you’ve even made contact.

“Go on,” she murmurs, voice rough and quiet. “You wanted me to see.” Your pussy clenches at the sound of her voice, slick gathering hotter between your folds. Emily’s mouth curves when she notices. “So show me exactly how you touched yourself thinking about me.”

The first touch makes your whole body jerk. Your fingertips slide over your clit, swollen and oversensitive from everything she’s done to you already, and a thin, broken sound escapes before you can stop it. Emily’s gaze lifts to your face for half a second, taking in your parted lips and wide eyes, then drops right back down.

She watches your fingers move through the slick shine of your pussy, watches the way your folds part under your own touch, watches how wet you are before you even start properly.

There’s no shame on her face now. None. She looks hungry, absorbed, openly turned on by the sight of you spread out and touching yourself for her. “That’s it,” she says softly. “Slow.”

You try to obey, but your body wants more immediately. You circle your clit with two fingers, slick enough that the glide is easy, messy, almost too sensitive. Your hips lift into your hand, and Emily’s eyes narrow. “I said slow.”

Her voice doesn’t rise, but the command lands hard enough to make you freeze. Your hand stills against your pussy, fingertips wet and trembling.

Emily’s gaze drags up your body, over your stomach, your chest, your hardened nipples, then back to your face. “You’re not in charge just because it’s your hand.” Heat rushes through you so fast your thighs shake.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

Emily tilts her head. “Try again.”

Your throat works around the word before you can stop it. “Sorry, mom.”

Her expression changes. It’s small, just the faintest tightening in her jaw and the slow drag of her eyes back down between your thighs, but you feel it everywhere.

The word sits in the room like something lit from underneath, wrong and filthy and powerful only because both of you know it isn’t real. Emily’s wedding ring flashes as her hand settles beside your hip, close but not touching. “Better,” she murmurs. “Now keep going.”

You let out a shaky breath and start moving again, slower this time, rubbing your clit in careful circles while she watches every twitch of your body. The obedience makes you wetter, makes the slick sound of your fingers louder in the quiet room.

Emily’s breathing changes before her face does. It’s subtle, but you catch it, the way her chest rises a little faster, the way her lips part when your fingers dip lower and slide through your folds. Her thighs press together once where she sits, a brief, involuntary movement that makes something hot and proud bloom inside you.

She wants this. She wants you. She’s trying to control it, trying to keep herself still, but her eyes betray her every time your fingers brush your entrance. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” she says, though her voice is rougher than before. “You’re the one spread open for me.”

The words make you whimper, and your fingers slip inside yourself before you really decide to do it. Only one at first, slow and shallow, your body so wet it takes you easily. Emily’s gaze sharpens.

Her ringed hand flexes against the sheets, knuckles tightening like she’s fighting the urge to replace your hand with hers. You curl your finger inside yourself, trying to find the angle she’d found so easily earlier, but it isn’t the same.

It’s not deep enough, not firm enough, not her. Your frustration spills out as a needy little sound. Emily hears it and smiles, slow and cruel. “Not as good when it’s you, is it?”

You shake your head, cheeks burning. “No.”

“No what?”

You know she’s doing it on purpose. You know she wants the word again, wants you to make it worse because she likes how badly it affects both of you. Your finger moves inside you, slick and slow, thumb finding your clit again as your eyes flutter.

“No, mom,” you breathe. Emily inhales through her nose, gaze locked on the place where your hand disappears between your thighs. “God,” she mutters, almost too quietly. “You’re a problem.”

Your other hand drifts up to your chest, fingers brushing over your own nipple because you need more sensation, more pressure, more of anything while she keeps staring at you like that. The second you pinch it, your pussy clenches around your finger, and Emily’s eyes flick up to watch your face.

“Sensitive?” she asks. You nod, rubbing your clit faster despite trying to listen. “Words.” “Yes,” you gasp. “I’m sensitive.” Emily’s mouth curves. “I can see that.” Her gaze drops to your chest again, watching your nipple tighten between your fingers. “You get like this when you know I’m looking?”

You nod again before remembering her rule. “Yes, mom.”

The praise is quiet when it comes. “Good girl.” It wrecks you instantly. Your hips roll into your hand, finger sliding deeper, thumb pressing harder against your clit while your back arches off the mattress. Emily moves closer then, not enough to touch where you need her, but enough that her presence becomes overwhelming.

Her hand settles on your inner thigh, ring cool against your heated skin, holding you open when your legs try to close. “No hiding,” she says. “You don’t get to spread yourself out for me and then get shy when I actually watch.”

“I can’t,” you whimper, even though you keep going.

“You can.” Emily’s thumb strokes the inside of your thigh, dangerously close to your slick folds but still withholding. “You already did once tonight.” Her eyes meet yours, dark and knowing. “Tell me what you thought about.” Your hand falters.

“Emily…” Her fingers tighten lightly on your thigh. “Tell me.” Your breath shakes as your thumb circles your clit, pleasure winding tighter, hotter. “Your ring,” you admit, voice barely there. “Your hand. Your foot under the table.”

Emily’s gaze goes almost black. “And?”

You whine because you know what she wants. She knows you know. She waits, patient and ruthless, while your own fingers keep moving in wet, desperate little strokes. Your body is too far gone to lie well. “You hearing me,” you whisper.

“You coming upstairs.” Emily’s lips part, and for once, she doesn’t have a quick response ready. The sight makes your pussy clench hard around your finger. “You making me say it.”

Her hand slides higher on your thigh, stopping just short of touching your pussy. “Say it now.”

You shake your head, overwhelmed, but your body betrays you again, hips lifting toward her hand. Emily doesn’t give in. She just keeps you open, watching your own fingers stretch and rub and fail to satisfy you the way hers would. “Say it,” she repeats, softer. “The way you said it when you thought I couldn’t hear.”

Your eyes burn, your breath breaking into something pathetic. Your thumb circles faster, your finger curling inside yourself, and the word comes out on a whimper. “Mom.”

Emily’s expression cracks. Not fully, but enough. Enough that you see the want slam into her, see her swallow, see her ringed hand grip your thigh harder as if she needs to hold onto something that isn’t control. “Again,” she says.

“Mom,” you gasp, louder this time, and the sound pushes you closer to the edge so fast your whole body tightens.

Emily leans in, her mouth close to your ear now, her hair brushing your cheek. “That’s it,” she murmurs. “Make yourself cum like you did before.” Her voice drops lower, rough with her own arousal. “Let me watch what that word does to you.”

You add a second finger with a broken moan, stretching yourself, trying to take more because she’s looking at you like she wants to ruin you properly. It’s messy, slick, almost too much, your pussy swallowing your fingers while your thumb works your clit in frantic little circles.

Emily’s hand stays on your thigh, holding you open, her wedding ring cold against your skin. “Pretty,” she says, almost under her breath. “So fucking pretty like this.”

You’re shaking now, too close to be embarrassed by the sounds you’re making. Your fingers move faster, wet and clumsy, your thighs trembling around Emily’s hand as she watches without blinking.

The room feels airless, every little noise too loud, the slick movement of your hand, your broken breathing, Emily’s rough inhale when you moan that word again. “Please,” you whimper, though you don’t know what you’re asking for.

Emily’s thumb presses into your thigh. “Don’t ask me for permission if you’re going to use your own hand.” Her mouth hovers near your jaw. “Earn it.”

That sends you over the edge. Your orgasm builds from deep in your stomach and snaps through you hard, your back arching, fingers buried inside yourself, thumb rubbing desperately over your clit as you come. You say the word again when it hits, broken and breathless and filthy, your pussy clenching around your fingers in wet pulses.

Emily watches the whole thing with open hunger, her hand tightening on your thigh, her breath catching against your cheek. “There you go,” she murmurs, voice rough enough to make you shake harder. “That’s it.”

Your hips keep twitching, pleasure rolling through you in hot waves while slick smears over your fingers and inner thighs. Emily’s eyes stay fixed between your legs until the last aftershock leaves you trembling.

When you finally go limp against the pillows, your hand still rests between your thighs, fingers wet and useless. Emily doesn’t move for a long second.

She just looks at you, chest rising unevenly, grey hair falling forward, expression dark with want she’s stopped pretending not to feel. Then her gaze lifts to your face. “You’re impossible,” she says quietly.

You laugh once, breathless and shaky. “You came in.” Emily’s mouth tightens, but she doesn’t deny it. Her ringed fingers slide slowly from your thigh to your wrist, lifting your slick hand between you. “And you’re going to clean up the mess you made before I decide what happens next.”

Emily’s fingers close around your wrist before you can lower your hand. For one second, you think she’s going to guide it to your own mouth, make you taste yourself while she watches with that dark, unreadable patience. Instead, she lifts your slick fingers to her lips. Your breath catches so hard it almost hurts.

Emily doesn’t look away from you as her mouth closes around them, warm and deliberate, her eyes staying fixed on yours while she sucks them clean. The sight steals whatever air you had left. Her wedding ring presses against your wrist, cool and polished, while her tongue moves slowly over your skin like she’s making a point of every second.

You go still beneath her. Too still, maybe, except for the trembling you can’t quite control. Emily hums softly around your fingers, and the sound slides through your body like another touch, low and obscene and far too pleased. She takes her time, dragging her mouth off them slowly, lips wet, gaze heavy.

Your own taste is on her tongue now. Your own mess is on her mouth. She looks composed and ruined at the same time, grey hair loose around her face, blouse slightly rumpled, cheeks faintly flushed from watching you fall apart for her. “There,” she murmurs, voice rough. “Clean.”

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe you do. Maybe you lean up because you can’t stand the distance anymore, or maybe Emily decides she’s denied herself enough for one night. Either way, her mouth is on yours a second later, deep and hard and devastatingly controlled. You taste yourself on her immediately, slick and intimate, and a broken noise escapes into the kiss.

Emily swallows it. Her hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you there, thumb pressing just beneath your jaw. The kiss turns slower after the first hungry rush, but not softer. It feels like a warning. Like a promise she has no intention of keeping tonight but every intention of remembering.

You reach for her without thinking, hands catching in the front of her shirt, trying to pull her closer onto the bed. Emily lets you for half a second. Just long enough for your body to mistake it for permission. Then she pulls back, breathing unevenly, her mouth hovering close enough that you chase it with a needy little sound.

Her eyes flick down to your lips, then back up. There’s lust there, unmistakable now, shameless in a way she hadn’t allowed herself before. But there’s control too. Brutal, deliberate control. “But not tonight,” she says.

The words land like denial and command at once. Your face crumples before you can stop it, lips parting around a whine you’re too exhausted and turned on to swallow.

“Mom,” you whisper, still clutching at her shirt. Her expression tightens at the sound of her name, but she doesn’t give in. Her hand closes over yours and carefully peels your fingers from the fabric.

“No,” she says softly. “Not tonight.” She sits back from you slowly, and the absence of her heat feels cruel after everything. Your thighs twitch together, your body still wanting, still aching, still stupid enough to hope.

Emily notices that too. Of course she does. Her gaze drops between your legs, lingering on the slick shine still visible against your skin, the flushed softness of your thighs, the mess you made of yourself because of her. Her jaw flexes once.

For a second, you think she might break anyway. You think she might crawl back over you, put her mouth where her eyes are fixed, make you come again until you forget how to speak. Instead, she exhales and stands. The bed shifts when her weight leaves it, and you hate how empty the mattress feels.

“I need to get back to my wife,” she says.

It’s cruel because it’s true. Crueller because she says it while looking at you like she wants to crawl back into bed with you and ruin every careful line she just drew. You stare at her, chest rising too fast, your body bare and open and still trembling under the covers she hasn’t bothered to pull over you.

Emily smooths her shirt with one hand, then pushes her grey-streaked hair back from her face. Her wedding ring catches the bedside light as she does it, and your eyes follow the movement immediately. She sees. Her mouth curves. “Still?” she asks softly.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Emily steps closer again, just enough to make your breath hitch, then reaches down and pulls the blanket over your hips with a tenderness so sharp it almost hurts. Her fingertips brush your thigh before she lets go.

“Sleep,” she says. The word should be simple. It isn’t. Not in her voice. Not with her mouth still damp from your fingers and her eyes still black with everything she’s refusing to do. You swallow hard, staring up at her from the bed. “Are you really leaving?”

Emily’s smirk returns slowly, meaner this time, threaded with something almost fond. “Yes.” She leans down, close enough that her perfume fills your head again.

Her hand settles briefly at your throat, thumb brushing the place where her ring had pressed earlier. “Because if I stay,” she murmurs, “you won’t sleep at all.” Your eyes flutter at the touch, and she laughs quietly under her breath. “And neither will I.”

She straightens before you can reach for her again. At the door, she pauses with one hand on the knob, looking back at you sprawled beneath the blanket, flushed and dazed and still breathing like she’s touching you.

For a moment, all the sharpness leaves her face. Then she puts it back on like a mask. The wife. The profiler. The woman who can walk out of your room and into another bed without showing the war under her skin. Her thumb turns her wedding ring once. Twice. Then she smiles.

“Sweet dreams,” Emily says, voice low enough to make your stomach twist.

She opens the door just a crack, letting the hallway darkness spill in around her. Before she steps out, she glances back one last time, eyes dragging over your face, your swollen mouth, the hand still curled in the sheets where she’d sucked your fingers clean. Her smirk sharpens.

“Daughter.”

Then she’s gone, closing the door softly behind her, leaving you alone in the dark with your body still shaking and that word burning worse than any touch.

She’s drinking from a short glass, something amber and sharp, ice clicking softly every time she moves her wrist. That’s where your eyes keep going, not to the drink, not even to her mouth at first, but to her hand curled around the glass.

Her fingers are thick, scarred, steady, the kind of hands that look like they know exactly how to hold someone down without even trying. Every time she flexes them, your stomach tightens like she’s touching you from across the room.

You try to focus on anything else, the flicker of the lamp, the mess of blankets on the couch, the shirt slipping down one shoulder, but it’s useless. Your thighs press together before you realise you’re doing it, seeking pressure, seeking relief, because the sight of her hand alone has made your pussy ache.

It’s humiliating how fast it happens, that warm, wet pull low in your belly, your body reacting like Sevika has already dragged those fingers over you.

She doesn’t notice at first, or at least she lets you believe she doesn’t. Sevika takes another slow sip, eyes half-lidded, watching the glass instead of you like she isn’t the reason you can barely stand still.

The fan pushes a strand of your hair against your cheek, and you brush it away too quickly, too restless, shifting your weight from one bare foot to the other. Her gaze flicks up then, brief and dark, catching the movement before dropping back to her hand.

She rolls the glass between her fingers, slow and deliberate, and your breath catches so quietly you hope she doesn’t hear it. Of course she hears it, because Sevika hears everything when it matters. The corner of her mouth twitches, barely there, and that tiny almost-smirk makes your pussy throb harder than before.

You pretend to busy yourself with the counter, turning away like there’s anything left to clean in the kitchen. There isn’t, and you both know it, but you need somewhere to put your hands before they give you away.

The shirt rides up when you reach for a cup you don’t even want, cool air brushing the backs of your thighs and reminding you exactly how little you’re wearing. Behind you, Sevika’s silence changes shape, growing heavier, more aware, the kind of quiet that settles over your shoulders like a hand.

You hear the glass touch the coffee table, soft but final. Then comes the slow creak of the couch as she leans forward, and your heart kicks hard against your ribs. You don’t turn around, because turning around means admitting you know she caught you.

“Come here,” Sevika says, and it isn’t loud, but it lands like an order. Your body listens before your pride does, your feet carrying you toward her while your face burns and your thighs feel unsteady.

She stays seated, looking up at you with that lazy, dangerous patience, her elbows resting on her knees and her hands hanging loose between them.

You try not to look again, but your eyes betray you immediately, dropping to her fingers like you’re starving. Sevika catches it, of course she does, and this time her smirk shows properly.

“That what’s got you acting stupid?” she asks, lifting one hand just enough for you to see the slow curl of her fingers. The question makes heat rush through you so sharply that your pussy clenches around nothing, slick and needy beneath the stolen shirt.

You open your mouth, but nothing useful comes out, only a breath that sounds too close to a whine. Sevika reaches for you then, her hand closing around your wrist with firm, easy control, and the contact sends a shiver straight through you.

She pulls you down onto her lap like you weigh nothing, settling you over one of her thighs, her bare skin hot against yours. The shirt bunches high around your hips, and you feel the rough drag of her boxers beneath you, feel how exposed you are even before she looks.

Her hand slides to your waist, holding you still, while the other cups your chin and tilts your face toward hers. “Couldn’t stop staring,” she says, voice low enough to make your whole body go soft. “If you want my fingers that badly, sweetheart, you’re gonna earn them first.”

Sevika doesn’t move right away, and somehow that’s worse than if she’d touched you immediately. She just holds you there, settled on her lap with your thighs spread around one of hers, watching the way your breathing turns shallow.

Her hand stays on your waist, heavy and possessive, thumb dragging lazy circles through the thin fabric of her shirt. You can feel yourself getting wetter from the pressure alone, your pussy pressed against the firm muscle of her thigh with only the rough cotton of her boxers between you.

Every tiny shift makes your hips twitch, makes your body betray you, and Sevika notices every single time. Her eyes drop to where you’re trembling over her, dark and smug, like she’s already won. “Needy little thing,” she says, soft enough to sound almost fond, mean enough to make you ache.

You try to hide your face against her shoulder, but Sevika catches your jaw before you can. Her fingers press into your cheeks, not hard enough to hurt, just firm enough to remind you who’s in charge. “No,” she tells you, voice rough and low. “You wanted to stare, so now you’re gonna look at me.”

Your lashes flutter, and your hands find her shoulders, fingers curling against warm skin while you force yourself to hold her gaze. Her bare chest brushes yours every time you breathe, her boobs soft against the front of the oversized shirt, and the intimacy of it makes you feel even more exposed. Sevika’s smirk widens when your hips give another helpless little grind against her thigh.

“That’s it,” she murmurs, her hand sliding from your waist to your hip. She doesn’t guide you yet, doesn’t give you enough to really chase, just lets her palm rest there while you suffer with wanting. You swallow hard, your body hot all over, your pussy slick and throbbing from the barely-there friction.

The shirt has ridden up so high that she can see everything now, and the way her eyes sharpen makes your stomach flip. “Look at you,” she says, gaze dragging down between your thighs. “All that from watching my hands?” You whimper before you can stop yourself, and Sevika’s fingers flex against your hip like the sound pleases her.

She finally grips you properly then, both hands settling on your hips with that steady strength you couldn’t stop staring at. The first pull is slow, dragging you forward over her thigh until your breath breaks in your throat.

Pleasure sparks low and sharp, your clit catching against the fabric, your wetness smearing warm between you and her. Sevika watches your face the entire time, jaw set, eyes heavy, like she wants to memorize exactly how ruined you look from so little.

Then she pulls you back just as slowly, making you feel every inch of pressure. Your nails dig into her shoulders, and she huffs a quiet laugh. “Earn it,” she says again, rougher this time. “Use my thigh first.”

You try to move on your own, but your rhythm falls apart almost immediately. You’re too worked up, too embarrassed, too sensitive from being watched so closely, and Sevika doesn’t let you hide from any of it.

Her hands tighten, taking over without warning, forcing your hips into a slow, cruel grind that makes your mouth fall open. The pressure is perfect, too much and not enough all at once, making your pussy clench and drip while your thighs shake around hers.

“There she is,” Sevika says, voice thick with satisfaction. “Knew you could be good when you wanted something.” The praise hits you almost as hard as her grip does, making heat bloom under your skin until you’re clinging to her like you might fall apart.

You can feel the flex of her fingers every time she drags you down harder, and the thought that this is what started all of it makes you dizzy.

“Sevika,” you gasp, her name breaking into something desperate halfway out of your mouth. She leans in, not kissing you yet, just letting her mouth hover near yours while you struggle to keep your eyes open.

“What?” she asks, like she doesn’t already know. You whine, hips chasing the grind even when her hands pause just to make you suffer. Sevika clicks her tongue, amused and cruel, then brushes her thumb over your lower lip.

“Use your words.” Your whole body burns, your pussy aching so badly you can barely think past the empty need curling inside you. “Please,” you breathe, and Sevika’s smile turns sharp.

“Please what?” Her thumb slips into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, and you suck around it without being told. Sevika’s eyes go darker at that, her throat working as she watches you turn obedient so quickly.

Her other hand slides lower, fingertips tracing along your inner thigh, close enough to make you tremble but still not where you need her. You try to spread wider for her, but she stops you with a single look.

“Greedy,” she says, though her voice has gone rough in a way that tells you she likes it. Her thumb pulls from your mouth, wet and shining, and she drags it down your chin before gripping you again. “Say you earned it.”

You don’t answer fast enough, not with words, because the second her thumb leaves your lip, your body leans after it like you can’t help yourself. Sevika notices immediately, of course she does, her eyes narrowing with that slow, entertained cruelty that makes your stomach fold in on itself.

You catch her wrist with both hands before you even think better of it, fingers wrapping around her much stronger forearm as you try to pull her thumb back toward your mouth. The movement is needy, shameless, so obvious that heat rushes up your neck the moment you realize what you’ve done.

Sevika lets you get close, lets your lips brush the pad of her thumb, then stops just short of giving it to you. “Look at that,” she says, voice low and rough, her thigh flexing under you just enough to make your hips stutter. “Didn’t even ask.”

Your lips part anyway, breath hot against her skin, tongue peeking out to taste the damp trail you left there before. Sevika’s gaze drops to your mouth, and for one second her expression slips, something hungry cutting through all that patience.

Then her fingers tighten around your jaw, holding you still, making you feel the full weight of being caught wanting. “You that desperate for something in your mouth?” she asks, and the way she says it makes your pussy clench hard against her thigh.

You try to nod, but her grip keeps you in place, forcing a small, broken sound out of you instead. The noise seems to please her, because her thumb finally presses against your lower lip again, slow and firm. “Open.”

You do, immediately, too quickly to pretend you have any pride left. Sevika’s thumb slides onto your tongue, and you close your lips around it with a soft, grateful little whine that makes her breathe out through her nose.

Her thumb is thick and warm in your mouth, still faintly tasting of you, and the thought alone makes your hips roll down harder. She watches the way your cheeks hollow slightly when you suck, watches your lashes flutter, watches your hands cling to her wrist like she might take it away again.

“There you go,” she murmurs, almost approving, though her other hand grips your hip hard enough to keep you grinding exactly how she wants. The praise melts through you, syrupy and hot, until your whole body feels too soft to hold itself up. You keep your mouth around her thumb like it’s the only thing keeping you from begging.

Sevika starts moving you again, guiding your hips in a slow, punishing rhythm over her thigh. The friction catches your clit through the damp mess you’ve made on her boxers, each drag sending pleasure up your spine until your breathing turns ragged around her thumb.

Your spit gathers at the corner of your mouth, messy and humiliating, but Sevika only looks more satisfied. She presses her thumb down against your tongue, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you feel owned by the shape of her hand.

“Good girl,” she says, and the words make you shake so badly she has to hold you tighter. Your pussy is wet enough that every grind sounds obscene in the quiet apartment, slick heat dragging against fabric and skin while you tremble in her lap. Sevika hears it too, her eyes flicking down with a low, pleased hum.

You try to chase more, rocking faster, but Sevika’s hand clamps down on your hip and stops you instantly. The sudden stillness tears a whine out of you, muffled around her thumb, your brows pinching in desperate frustration.

“No,” she says, calm as anything, like your thighs aren’t shaking around hers. “You don’t get greedy unless I tell you to.” You whimper again, softer this time, and she tilts her head like she’s considering whether you’ve earned any mercy at all. Her thumb slips from your mouth with a wet little sound, dragging over your lip before she cups your face. “Tell me what you want.”

Your answer comes out shaky and ruined, barely more than a breath. “Your fingers.” Sevika’s expression sharpens, her grip on your face turning almost tender for one dangerous second.

“Yeah?” she asks, thumb brushing over your spit-slick lip while her other hand slides under the shirt and finds your bare hip.

You nod fast, too fast, your hands moving to her shoulders as your body aches around the empty need between your thighs. “Please, Sevika,” you say, voice breaking on her name. “I earned them.”

For a moment, she just looks at you, all dark eyes and bare skin and that smug, devastating mouth. Then her hand leaves your face and trails slowly down your throat, over the front of the shirt, lower and lower until your breath catches.

She pushes the hem up with almost insulting patience, exposing you fully in her lap while her gaze drops between your thighs. “Fuck,” she mutters, quieter than before, the first crack in her control all night.

Her fingers skim through the slick heat of your pussy, barely touching, but it’s enough to make your whole body jerk. Sevika smiles when you gasp. “All this because of my hands?” she asks, dragging two fingers through your wetness again, slow and deliberate. “Sweetheart, you’re worse than I thought.”

Sevika’s eyes stay locked between your thighs for one long second, watching the mess you’ve made of yourself like it’s something she earned by patience alone. Her fingers are still slick with you, shining under the low light of the apartment, and when she lifts them, your stomach twists at the sight.

She doesn’t put them in your mouth this time, doesn’t let you chase them, just holds them up between you like a reminder of how badly you’ve already given yourself away. “Shirt off,” she orders, voice rougher now, stripped of some of that lazy control.

“Want to see all of you when I make you beg.” Your hands shake as you grab the hem, pulling it up over your head, and Sevika’s gaze drags over every inch of newly exposed skin like she’s deciding where to ruin you first.

The second the shirt hits the floor, her breath changes. It’s small, almost hidden, but you’re close enough to hear it, that low inhale caught somewhere behind her teeth when she sees your bare chest.

Her hand settles on your waist again, fingers digging in just enough to make you arch without meaning to. “Look at you,” she mutters, eyes dark and heavy as they lift to your face.

“Walking around my apartment with nothing under my shirt, staring at my hands like you weren’t asking for this.” Her slick fingers trail up your stomach, leaving a warm, wet path over your skin. “Dirty thing,” she says, almost fondly. “You wanted me to notice.”

You don’t get the chance to answer before those wet fingers find your nipple. Sevika pinches it between her thumb and forefinger, slow at first, watching your mouth fall open as the slick touch turns the sensation sharper, filthier. She rolls it between her fingers, firm and deliberate, and the pleasure shoots straight down to your pussy, making your hips jolt against her thigh.

“There it is,” she says, her voice dropping when she feels you grind down without permission. “Can’t even handle me touching your tits without soaking yourself more.”

Her other hand cups your boob, rough palm warm against the soft weight of it, squeezing until you gasp. “You’re gonna sit there and take it, yeah? Gonna be good for me now?”

You nod so fast it’s embarrassing, but Sevika only clicks her tongue. “Words,” she says, pinching harder just to make you whimper. “I want to hear that pretty mouth when you’re not begging for my thumb.” Your breath shudders out of you, your hands clutching at her shoulders as your nipples tighten under her touch.

“I’ll be good,” you manage, voice thin and shaky. Sevika hums, pleased but not satisfied, rolling your nipple again with those wet fingers until your back arches into her hand. “Yeah, you will,” she murmurs. “Because you know I’ll make you wait all night if you start acting spoiled.”

Then her mouth is on you, hot and sudden, and every thought in your head blanks out. Sevika drags her tongue over your nipple first, slow and dirty, tasting the slick she smeared there before closing her lips around it.

The suck is hard enough to make you cry out, your hips bucking helplessly, and she laughs against your skin like the sound is exactly what she wanted. Her teeth graze next, sharp and careful, then bite down just enough to make pleasure spark bright and mean through your chest.

“Fuck, you sound pretty like that,” she says, mouth still brushing your boob as she talks. “Should’ve had you on my lap sooner.” She sucks again, rougher this time, and your fingers slide into her hair because you need something to hold on to.

Sevika groans when you tug, the sound low and hungry, vibrating against your chest. That’s when you feel it, the way her thigh tenses under you, the way her hips shift beneath your weight like she’s not as unaffected as she’s pretending to be.

Her eyes are darker when she looks up at you, lips wet, breath warm against your spit-slick nipple. “Don’t think I’m not worked up too,” she says, voice gravelly now.

“Been sitting here watching you squirm in my shirt, pretending you weren’t dripping all over yourself because of my hand.” Her palm slides down your spine, dragging you closer until your bare chest presses against her mouth again. “You make it real fucking hard to be patient.”

She switches to your other boob without warning, squeezing one while her mouth latches onto the other. Her slick fingers return to your nipple, pinching and rolling while her tongue circles the opposite one, making your body split between sensations until you’re shaking over her. Every suck, every bite, every dirty little hum from her mouth makes your pussy pulse against her thigh.

“That’s it,” Sevika says, pulling back just enough to talk while her thumb flicks over your nipple. “Grind on me while I play with these pretty tits.” Her gaze drops to the way your hips move, slow and desperate, smearing wetness over her boxers. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re making a mess of me.”

You try to apologize, but it comes out broken, barely a word at all. Sevika laughs, not kind, not cruel, just dark and pleased, then bites the soft curve of your boob hard enough to leave a mark. “Don’t apologize,” she says, licking over the bite after.

“I like seeing what I do to you.” Her fingers slide down your stomach for one teasing second, dipping low enough to make your whole body go tense, then stopping before she gives you what you want.

“You want my fingers inside you?” she asks, mouth finding your nipple again between words. “Then keep moving on my thigh, keep getting these pretty tits wet for me, and maybe I’ll decide you’ve earned them.”

You do exactly what Sevika tells you because by now your body has stopped pretending it belongs to anyone else. Your hips drag over her thigh in slow, desperate rolls, each one wetter than the last, your slick soaking through the fabric of her boxers until the glide turns messy and obscene.

Sevika’s mouth stays on your chest, switching between rough sucks and sharp little bites, her tongue soothing over every mark like she’s rewarding you and punishing you at the same time. Her hands stay planted on your hips, guiding every motion, refusing to let you speed up unless she wants it.

“That’s it,” she says against your skin, voice thick and ruined around the edges. “Make a mess on me. Show me how bad you wanted my hands.”

You whine and grind down harder, chasing the pressure with no shame left in you. The pleasure builds fast, too fast, your clit catching perfectly against her thigh until your stomach starts to tighten and your thighs shake around her.

Sevika feels it before you say anything, feels the way your rhythm goes frantic, feels your nails dig into her shoulders, feels your breath turn uneven against her hair.

She pulls back from your boob with her mouth wet, lips swollen, eyes dark enough to make you clench around nothing. “Already?” she asks, smirking like she’s not the one who dragged you there. “All I did was let you ride my thigh, sweetheart. You’re that easy for me?”

“Sevika,” you gasp, voice breaking as your hips stutter. You’re right there, right on the edge, your whole body wound tight and trembling, your pussy pulsing helplessly against her. She lets you have two more slow grinds, just enough to make your eyes go glossy, just enough to make hope spark hot in your chest.

Then, right as your orgasm starts to crest, Sevika stands. She lifts you with her like you weigh nothing, one arm locked beneath your thighs, the other bracing your back, and the loss of pressure rips a broken sound out of you. “Baby,” you whimper, high and needy, clinging to her shoulders like she’s done something cruel enough to break your heart.

Sevika smirks at your reaction, smug and gorgeous and completely unbothered by the way you’re falling apart in her arms. “Listen to you,” she says, carrying you away from the couch while your thighs tremble around her waist.

“Poor thing was about to cum, huh?” You nod against her neck, too desperate to be embarrassed, your breath hot and shaky over her skin. Her metal arm shifts beneath you, the hard surface pressing against the back of your thigh and the curve of your ass, cool at first against your overheated skin.

The contrast makes you jolt, makes your pussy clench again, makes another wet, miserable little sound leave your mouth. Sevika laughs low in your ear, her grip tightening when you squirm. “Careful,” she murmurs. “Keep moving like that and I’ll think you like being denied.”

The metal of her arm feels unforgiving against you, firm and smooth and colder than the rest of her, while her bare chest is hot against yours. Every step she takes makes your nipples brush against her, swollen and aching from her mouth, and every shift of her grip makes slick smear between your thighs.

You can feel how worked up she is too, in the roughness of her breathing, in the way her jaw keeps flexing, in the way her fingers dig into you like she’s holding herself back by force. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” she mutters, almost like she’s angry about it.

“Sitting on me half naked, dripping on my thigh, making those pretty sounds.” Her mouth finds your jaw, teeth scraping there before she bites lightly. “You make me want to ruin my own rules.”

She doesn’t take you to the bedroom. She stops with your back against the wall, pinning you there with her body, her metal arm braced beneath you to keep you lifted. The cool pressure of it spreads under your thighs while her other hand slides between your bodies, fingers still wet from you and rough with impatience now.

You barely have time to suck in a breath before she pushes two fingers inside you in one sudden, deep thrust. The stretch punches a cry out of you, your head falling back against the wall as your pussy clenches hard around her. Sevika groans like she feels it in her own body, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Fuck,” she breathes. “That’s it. Take them.”

Your legs tighten around her waist, your hands flying to her back, nails dragging over warm skin. She gives you a second, just one, watching your face carefully enough that the cruelty of it feels safe, practiced, wanted.

When you don’t tell her to stop, when you only whimper and rock down onto her fingers, her control snaps into something darker. She starts moving, slow but deep, curling her fingers inside you with every thrust until your body jerks against the wall.

The sound of how wet you are fills the space between you, obscene and impossible to hide. Sevika’s mouth brushes your ear, her voice low and filthy. “You hear that? Hear how bad this pussy wanted me?”

“Please,” you sob, though you don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore. More, mercy, her mouth, her fingers, the orgasm she stole from you, all of it tangles together until all you can do is cling to her.

Sevika’s metal arm holds you steady while her fingers fuck into you harder, her thumb finding your clit with mean, perfect pressure. Your whole body jolts, pleasure slamming through you so sharply that your vision blurs.

“There she is,” Sevika says, sounding breathless now, sounding hungry. “Knew you’d get sweet once I filled you up.” She kisses you hard before you can answer, swallowing the broken moan that spills out of you.

You grind into her hand because you can’t help it, because the orgasm she stole is still sitting hot and furious under your skin. Sevika lets you chase it this time, her fingers working you open, her thumb rubbing tight circles that make your thighs shake around her. Her metal arm presses colder into your skin the hotter you get, grounding you and ruining you all at once.

“Come on,” she growls against your mouth. “You wanted my fingers so bad, so cum on them.” Your pussy clamps down around her, slick and desperate, and Sevika curses under her breath like the feeling nearly takes her with you. “That’s my girl,” she says, voice rough with want. “Make a mess for me, baby.”

You’re right there again, right on the edge Sevika stole from you once already, your whole body tightening around the promise of release. Your thighs lock around her waist, your nails bite into her back, and your mouth falls open against her shoulder as the first wave starts to rise.

Sevika feels it instantly, feels the way your pussy clamps down around her fingers, wet and desperate, trying to drag her deeper. Her thumb keeps circling your clit for one cruel, perfect second, just long enough to make your eyes roll back. Then she slows.

The change is so sudden and so devastating that your eyes snap wide open. Her fingers stay buried inside you, but the hard rhythm turns lazy, shallow, almost gentle, and it ruins everything in one brutal second.

The orgasm that had been building so hot and bright inside you breaks apart before it can crest, leaving you shaking against the wall, empty of relief and full of need. Your breath catches on a wounded little sound, your hips jerking down helplessly, trying to force her to keep going.

Sevika watches your face as it happens, watches confusion melt into frustration, then into that pretty, pathetic desperation she clearly loves too much. “Oh,” she says, dragging the word out with a dark little laugh. “You really thought I was gonna let you cum that easy?”

“Sevika,” you whine, her name cracking in your throat like a plea. You sound wrecked already, breathless and spoiled and close to tears, and her smile only sharpens.

“Baby, please,” you beg, voice trembling as your hips try to grind against her hand. “Please, please, don’t stop, I was so close.” Sevika laughs again, low and rough against your neck, and the sound makes your pussy flutter around her fingers despite everything.

“I know you were,” she murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw like she’s comforting you. “That’s why I stopped.”

A broken sob slips out of you, humiliatingly soft and needy. Sevika hums like it’s the sweetest sound she’s heard all night, her metal arm holding you steady while your body trembles uselessly in her grip.

Her fingers move inside you at that same slow, maddening pace, sliding deep enough to keep you aching but not fast enough to give you what you need.

“Look at you,” she says, her voice thick with amusement. “Begging like I didn’t warn you that you had to earn it.” Her thumb brushes your clit once, barely there, and your whole body jolts. “So fucking greedy for me.”

“I earned it,” you babble, barely coherent now, your forehead dropping against hers. “I did, I did, please, I was good, I was so good for you.” Sevika’s eyes darken at that, her jaw flexing like your desperation is getting to her more than she wants to admit.

Her breathing has gone rough again, her chest pressing hard to yours, her mouth wet and parted as she looks down at you. “Yeah?” she asks, her fingers curling slowly inside you. “You think you’ve been good enough to take more?” You nod frantically, lips parted, eyes glossy and wide. “Please.”

Sevika holds your stare as she pulls her fingers back just enough to make you whimper. Then she presses a third finger against your soaked entrance, slow and deliberate, giving you time to feel exactly what she’s about to do.

Your breath catches, your body going tense around the stretch before she even pushes in. “Relax,” she orders, voice low but softer at the edges. “You can take it. Pretty pussy’s been begging for more all night.”

She eases the third finger in slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch steals every thought from your head. Your mouth falls open on a deep, shaking moan, pleasure and pressure twisting together until your whole body goes weak in her arms.

It’s full, so full it makes your eyes flutter, your pussy clenching tight around the added thickness like it doesn’t know whether to run from it or pull her deeper.

Sevika groans when she feels you take her, her forehead dropping to yours for one hot, breathless second. “Fuck,” she mutters, voice rough with want. “There you go. Knew you could take my fingers like a good girl.”

You’re babbling before you realize it, words spilling out broken and messy. “Feels good, feels so good, Sevika, fuck, please, please don’t stop.” Your hips twitch against her hand, your body trying to adjust to the stretch while also chasing the pleasure she keeps dangling just out of reach.

Sevika’s smile turns wicked, but her hand stays careful for a moment, letting you feel the fullness before she starts moving again. “Listen to yourself,” she says, brushing her mouth over yours without kissing you properly.

“Can’t even talk right now.” Her fingers curl inside you, slow and deep, and your moan breaks into a helpless little cry. “That’s what I wanted,” she whispers. “Wanted you so full of me you forgot how to be anything but needy.”

Sevika lets you suffer with the fullness for a little longer, fingers buried deep, thumb barely brushing your clit each time your breath starts to catch. She watches every little crack in you, the way your eyes go glassy, the way your mouth can’t decide between begging and moaning, the way your hips keep trying to chase her hand even when you’re too weak to move properly.

“You want it that bad?” she asks, voice rough and low against your mouth. You nod so fast it’s pathetic, your hands fisting against her shoulders, your whole body trembling around the stretch of her fingers.

“Then ask right,” she says, curling them inside you until your back arches off the wall. You barely get the words out, just a broken little “please, baby, please let me cum,” before Sevika finally gives you what you’ve been begging for.

Her hand moves harder then, deeper, her thumb pressing tight, perfect circles against your clit while her metal arm keeps you pinned and helpless against her body. The orgasm hits so hard it steals the sound from you at first, your mouth open, eyes wide, body locking around her fingers as pleasure tears through you.

Then the noise comes, high and wrecked, your face buried against her neck while your pussy pulses around her in wet, desperate clenches. Sevika groans like she feels every one of them, like the way you fall apart around her is dragging something out of her too.

“There you go,” she rasps, not stopping until your thighs are shaking uncontrollably around her waist. “That’s my girl. Make a mess on my hand.”

By the time she pulls her fingers out of you, you’re loose and trembling, barely able to hold your head up. Sevika carries you back to the couch like it’s nothing, like she didn’t just ruin you against the wall and leave your body buzzing with aftershocks.

She sits down with you in her lap again, letting you slump against her chest for only a second before her wet fingers press against your lips. Your eyes flutter open, dazed and needy, and Sevika’s mouth curves into that mean little smirk. “Open,” she says. You do it without thinking, lips parting around her fingers as she slides them onto your tongue. “Clean up the mess you made.”

You suck them obediently, tasting yourself thick on her skin, your cheeks hollowing around her fingers while she watches you with dark, hungry eyes. Sevika pushes them deeper, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your throat tighten and your lashes flutter.

You gag softly around them, hands grabbing at her wrist, and she groans under her breath like the sound hits her straight between the thighs. “Fuck,” she mutters, eyes dropping to your mouth. “Look at you. So sweet after I finally let you cum.” She gives you one more slow press of her fingers against your tongue, making you gag again before pulling them free with a wet sound that makes your face burn.

You whine when she suddenly pushes you off her lap, your body still needy despite how badly you’re shaking. The sound barely leaves your mouth before Sevika looks at you, one brow lifting, warning clear in her expression. You shut up immediately, lips still wet, breath uneven, thighs pressed together on the floor in front of her.

Her smirk returns slowly, like she likes seeing how fast you remember your place. “Good,” she says, voice low and approving. “Stay right there.” Then her hands move to the waistband of her boxers, and your breath catches all over again.

Sevika lifts her hips just enough to drag the boxers down, slow and deliberate, like she wants you to watch every second of it. The fabric slides over her thighs and drops somewhere beside the couch, forgotten, because all you can look at is her.

She spreads her legs wide, shameless and commanding, giving you a clear view of how wet she is. Her pussy is slick and swollen, shining in the low apartment light, arousal gathered between her folds because of you.

Your mouth goes dry, then wet again, your whole body reacting before your mind can catch up. Sevika leans back against the couch, one hand resting on her thigh, the other dragging lazily over her stomach. “See what you did?” she says, voice rough with want. “You think I got this wet from nothing?”

You stare like you’ve forgotten how to breathe, your knees pressing into the floor, your ruined body waking up again at the sight of her spread open for you. Sevika’s fingers dip lower, parting herself just enough to make you whimper. She laughs, quiet and cruel, but there’s need in it now, real need, her chest rising faster than before.

“Don’t just sit there looking pretty,” she says, eyes locked on yours. “You wanted my hands all night.” Her thighs spread wider, and the invitation feels like an order. “Now come here and show me what that mouth can do.”

You move before she has to ask twice, crawling closer on unsteady knees, your body still trembling from what she did to you. Sevika watches you the whole time, thighs spread wide, one hand resting lazily against the inside of her leg while the other curls around the back of the couch.

She looks ruined and powerful at the same time, bare chest rising with heavier breaths, jaw tight like she’s been holding herself back for too long. Your eyes drop between her legs again, and the sight makes your mouth part without sound.

She’s so wet it glistens against her, slick gathered where she’s open and aching, and your stomach flips because you did that. You made Sevika lose patience. You made her sit there soaked and hungry while she made you earn every second.

“Look at you,” Sevika says, voice rough and amused. “Barely got your legs working and you’re still crawling over like you need it.” You swallow hard, hands settling on her knees, and the heat of her skin under your palms makes you dizzy.

She lets you touch her, lets you drag your hands slowly up her thighs, but her warning stare keeps you from moving too fast. “Don’t get greedy,” she murmurs.

“You know what happens when you get greedy.” Your eyes flick up to hers, still wide and soft from your orgasm, and Sevika’s mouth curls. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You lower yourself between her thighs, pressing a kiss to the inside of one before she can tell you where to start. Sevika’s breath catches, almost too quiet to notice, but you notice because you’re watching for every crack in her.

You kiss higher, slow and open-mouthed, tasting warm skin, salt, and the faint clean bite of her soap. Her fingers slide into your hair, not pulling yet, just settling there like a promise.

“Don’t tease me too much,” she warns, but her voice has gone lower, rougher, touched with need. That makes you brave enough to kiss the crease of her thigh, close enough that your breath ghosts over her pussy. Sevika’s grip tightens at the back of your head.

Your tongue touches her slowly at first, dragging through the wet heat of her, and Sevika’s whole body goes still. The sound she makes is low, almost swallowed, but it sends heat straight back through your already ruined body.

You look up while you do it, watching the way her brows pull together, the way her lips part, the way her hand flexes in your hair. “Fuck,” she mutters, head tipping back for half a second before she forces herself to look down at you again.

“That’s it. Open your mouth and make yourself useful.” The praise hidden inside the command makes you moan against her. Sevika feels it and curses again, thighs shifting wider around your shoulders.

You lick her like you’ve been starving for it, messy and eager, chasing every wet sound you pull out of her. Sevika tries to stay composed, tries to lean back like she’s still the one with all the control, but her breathing gives her away.

Every time your tongue circles her clit, her hips twitch toward your mouth before she catches herself. “Don’t stop,” she says, and it’s the first thing all night that sounds less like an order and more like need.

You whimper into her, hands sliding under her thighs to hold her open while you press closer. Her metal hand moves to your jaw, cool fingers guiding your face exactly where she wants you. “Right there,” she says, voice almost breaking. “Good girl, right fucking there.”

You obey immediately, sucking her clit between your lips until her thighs tense around your head. Sevika groans, rough and deep, the sound filling the apartment and making your own pussy throb again even though you’re still oversensitive.

She rocks against your mouth in small, controlled movements, but the control is thinner now, fraying at the edges every time you moan into her. “You like this, don’t you?” she says, breathless but still smug.

“Like being on your knees with your mouth full of me.” You nod as much as you can, and she laughs shakily, fingers tightening in your hair. “Greedy even after I made you cum. Pretty little thing can’t help herself.”

Her taste is all over your tongue, slick and warm and intoxicating, and you press closer until your nose brushes against her. Sevika’s hips jerk harder this time, a sharp little loss of control that makes her curse under her breath.

You feel her thighs tremble, feel the strength in her body turning restless beneath your hands, and it makes you want to ruin her composure the way she ruined yours. You flatten your tongue and drag it slow, then flick faster over her clit just to hear the way her breath punches out.

“Careful,” she growls, but there’s no real threat in it anymore. Her hand cups the back of your head, keeping you there. “Keep doing that and I’m gonna make you stay down there until I’m done shaking.”

You don’t stop. You give her exactly what she asked for, mouth wet and eager, tongue working her with the same desperation she dragged out of you earlier. Sevika’s dirty talk starts to fracture into curses, low groans, and your name said like she’s annoyed that she wants you this badly.

“Fuck, baby,” she breathes, and the pet name comes out rougher than before. “That mouth is dangerous.” You moan at that, gripping her thighs tighter as her hips lift into you again.

Sevika looks down at you, eyes heavy, chest flushed, one hand in your hair and the other squeezing her own thigh like she needs somewhere to put the force of wanting. “You’re gonna make me cum like this,” she says, voice dark and shaking. “And then I’m not done with you.”

That should scare you, probably, the promise in her voice, the threat of being kept there long after she breaks. Instead, it only makes you moan against her harder, your tongue pressing flatter, your mouth working her with a need that feels almost dizzying.

Sevika’s thighs tense around your head, strong and trembling, her fingers tightening in your hair like she’s trying not to pull too hard. “Fuck,” she spits, hips jerking up before she can stop them. “That’s it, baby. Don’t you dare get shy now.”

Her voice is rough, wrecked at the edges, and the sound of it makes you ache all over again. You want her ruined too, want her breathless and cursing, want proof that she’s just as weak for you as you are for her.

You suck her clit back into your mouth, softer at first, then firmer when her grip tightens. Sevika’s head falls back against the couch, her throat working around a broken groan, bare chest rising fast now. Her boobs shift with every shaky breath, nipples hard, skin flushed, and you can’t help dragging one hand up from her thigh to palm at her.

She looks down immediately, eyes dark and warning, but she doesn’t stop you. “Greedy little mouth and greedy little hands,” she says, voice low and breathless. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” Her hips roll into your mouth again, sharper this time, and her laugh breaks into a moan before she can finish pretending she’s above it.

You answer by licking her slower, dragging your tongue through all that slick heat until her stomach tightens beneath your hand. She tastes stronger now, wetter, her arousal coating your mouth and chin while she watches you with a look that makes your whole body feel owned.

“Look at me,” Sevika orders, and you force your eyes up even as your mouth stays busy. The sight of you between her thighs seems to hit her hard, because her lips part and her metal hand flexes against the couch hard enough to make the frame creak.

“Shit,” she mutters, almost to herself. “You look too fucking good down there.” Then her flesh hand tightens in your hair and guides you closer. “Keep your eyes on me when I cum.”

The command makes you shudder. You press in harder, tongue flicking over her clit before closing your lips around it again, sucking until Sevika’s thighs start to shake for real. She tries to keep still, tries to stay smug and composed, but the effort is falling apart in pieces.

Her hips lift, her hand pulls, her breath turns uneven and harsh. “Right there,” she growls, then says it again, rougher, less controlled. “Right there, baby, fuck, don’t stop.” You don’t. You give her everything, mouth messy and devoted, hands gripping her open like you were made to stay there.

Sevika’s orgasm builds loud, not in volume at first, but in the way her whole body changes. Her stomach tightens, her thighs clamp harder, her chest heaves, and her fingers twist in your hair like she needs an anchor.

“That’s it,” she pants, voice cracking around the words. “Make me cum. Make me cum on that pretty mouth.” The filth of it sends a pulse straight between your legs, your own body aching even though she hasn’t touched you again.

You moan into her, and that’s what does it. Sevika curses, sharp and broken, her hips grinding up against your tongue as she finally falls apart.

You keep your mouth on her through it, because she told you not to stop and because you couldn’t even if you wanted to. She comes hard, thighs shaking around your head, fingers holding you in place while you lick her through every wet, pulsing wave.

Her voice drops into a rough, helpless groan that you feel more than hear, vibrating low in her chest, filling the room with the sound of her losing control. “Fuck, baby,” she breathes, trembling under your hands. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

The praise makes you dizzy, makes you press your thighs together on instinct, but Sevika notices even in the middle of coming down. Of course she does.

Her grip loosens slowly, but she doesn’t let you pull away. Instead, she keeps you there with a hand at the back of your head, gentler now but still firm, making you clean her through the aftershocks.

“Don’t waste a drop,” she murmurs, voice hoarse. “You wanted to see how wet you made me, so clean it up.” You whimper against her, overwhelmed and turned on all over again, your tongue moving softer now, slower, tasting her until she shudders.

Sevika’s thighs twitch when you brush her clit, too sensitive, and she hisses through her teeth. “Careful,” she warns, but there’s a laugh under it. “Unless you want me to return the favour meaner.”

You finally lift your head when she lets you, lips swollen, chin wet, eyes dazed. Sevika looks down at you like she wants to devour you, one hand still in your hair, the other dragging lazily over her own stomach as she catches her breath.

For once, she’s visibly ruined, chest flushed, mouth parted, sweat shining lightly at her throat. The sight makes something warm and proud bloom in you, even as you’re still shaking on your knees.

Sevika sees that too, sees the little spark of satisfaction in your face, and her brows lift. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” she says, though her voice is too wrecked to be properly threatening. “I said I wasn’t done with you.”

You barely have time to answer before she reaches down and hooks her hands beneath your arms. She hauls you up from between her thighs, kisses you hard enough to steal the taste of herself from your mouth, then stands with you clinging to her.

“Bedroom,” she says against your lips, voice rough and absolute. You stumble when she sets you on your feet, but her metal arm wraps around your waist, cold against your overheated skin, keeping you steady.

She walks you backward down the hall, kissing you between steps, biting at your lower lip whenever you whine too much. The apartment feels smaller like this, every shadow hot, every breath loud, every touch dragging you closer to whatever she’s decided you’re going to take next.

The bedroom is dim when she pushes you inside, sheets messy from earlier that morning, the air warmer and darker than the living room. Sevika sits on the edge of the bed like a throne, legs spread, still naked and wet and watching you with that dangerous patience.

She nods toward the drawer beside the bed, and your stomach flips before she even says it. “Get it,” she orders. Your hands shake as you open the drawer, pulling out the harness and strap she likes using when she wants you completely gone beneath her.

When you turn back, she’s watching your face more than the toy, amused by the way your breathing has already changed. “Come here,” she says. “You’re putting it on me.”

The order makes your knees feel weak all over again. You step between her spread thighs, strap and harness in your hands, trying not to stare at how slick she still is. Sevika lets you kneel, lets you slide the harness up her strong thighs, lets your fingers fumble with the buckles while her hand rests in your hair like a warning.

“Nervous?” she asks, smirking down at you. You nod before you can stop yourself, and she laughs, low and mean and fond. “Good. You should be.” Her fingers tighten slightly. “Take your time, baby. I want it nice and tight before I make you ride it.”

Your face burns, but you obey, tugging the straps into place, fastening each buckle with trembling fingers. Sevika watches every movement, her breathing roughening when your knuckles brush her inner thighs, when your hands linger too close to where she’s still swollen and wet.

“That’s it,” she murmurs. “Pretty thing on your knees, getting me ready to fuck you.” Your pussy clenches at the words, empty and aching, and Sevika notices the tiny sound you try to swallow. “Already wet again?” she asks. “I haven’t even put you on it yet.”

When the harness is secure, Sevika grips your chin and makes you look up at her. Her eyes are dark, heavy with want, and the strap sits between you like a promise you can’t escape.

“Stand up,” she says, and you do, legs unsteady beneath you. She shifts back onto the bed, leaning against the headboard, thighs spread wide, the strap jutting from her hips. “Come here.”

Your body moves before your brain catches up, climbing onto the bed and settling over her lap, knees on either side of her hips. Sevika’s hands land on your waist, warm and firm, her metal fingers cool against one side of you.

“You’re gonna ride me now,” she says, dragging you closer until the tip presses slick against your pussy. “And you’re gonna look at me while you take it.”

Your hands clutch her shoulders as she lines you up with cruel patience. She doesn’t push you down right away, just lets the head of the strap tease against your entrance, slicking it with the mess she pulled out of you earlier.

You whimper, hips twitching, and Sevika’s mouth curls. “Don’t start,” she warns. “You begged for this.” You nod, breath shaky, and her grip tightens. “Words.” Your voice comes out thin and needy. “I want it.”

Sevika’s eyes flash with satisfaction. “Then sit.” She pulls you down slowly, inch by inch, letting the strap stretch you open while you tremble above her. The pressure makes your mouth fall open, pleasure and fullness winding tight through your belly as your pussy takes more of it.

Sevika watches your face the entire time, jaw clenched, breathing unsteady, like seeing you split open on her is testing every bit of control she has left. “Fuck,” she mutters when you sink lower. “That’s it. Take me like a good girl.” Your hips finally meet hers, the strap buried deep, and your moan breaks into something helpless.

For a second, neither of you moves. You’re too full, too sensitive, too aware of Sevika beneath you, her hands on your waist, her wet pussy pressed beneath the harness, her eyes burning into yours. She gives you that second, maybe two, then rolls her hips up just enough to make you gasp.

“Ride,” she says. Your thighs shake as you lift yourself and sink back down, slow and uneven at first, trying to adjust to the stretch. Sevika’s hands guide you, setting the rhythm, forcing you to take it deep every time. “That’s it, sweetheart,” she says, voice dark and shaking. “Work for it.”

You ride her the way she tells you to, messy and desperate, each drop of your hips dragging another broken sound out of your throat. Sevika watches the strap disappear inside you, watches your slick coat it, watches your body try to take everything she gives.

“Look at you,” she says, one hand sliding up to squeeze your boob while the other grips your hip. “All that whining and now you’re taking it so pretty.”

Her thumb rolls over your nipple, and your rhythm stutters. Sevika snaps her hips up once, sharp enough to make you cry out. “No. Keep going.”

You do, because the warning in her voice makes you melt and the fullness makes you stupid. Your hands slide into her hair, your chest pressing against hers as you grind down harder, chasing the angle that makes pleasure spark bright behind your eyes.

Sevika’s breath catches when you move against the harness just right, her own arousal smearing against the base with every grind. “Fuck,” she breathes, grip tightening on you.

“You feel that? Making me wet all over again while you ride me.” Her mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping there as she pushes your hips down. “That’s my girl. Take it like you’ve been aching for it all night.”

Your hands leave her hair and slide down over her shoulders, restless, greedy, needing more of her under your palms. Sevika’s skin is hot and damp beneath your touch, her chest rising hard as you keep riding her, every slow drop of your hips pulling another broken sound from your throat.

You grope at her boobs without thinking, fingers sinking into the soft weight of them, thumbs brushing over her nipples until her jaw tightens. Her eyes flash up to yours, dark and warning, but the sound she makes betrays her before she can say anything mean.

It’s low, rough, dragged from somewhere deep in her chest, and it makes your pussy clench hard around the strap. “Fuck,” she mutters, grip tightening on your waist. “You really are greedy tonight.”

You squeeze again, bolder this time, rolling her nipples between your fingers the way she did to yours earlier. Sevika’s hips jerk up beneath you, and the strap drives deeper, making your whole body jolt.

Your head falls forward, your forehead almost touching hers, while your hands keep working her chest with needy, clumsy desperation.

“That’s it,” she says, voice rough enough to scrape. “Use your hands while you ride me.” Her mouth brushes yours, not quite kissing, just letting you breathe against each other while you fall apart piece by piece. “You wanted to touch so bad, baby? Then touch.”

You do. You palm at her like you can’t get enough, thumbs teasing her hard nipples, fingers kneading the soft swell of her boobs while your hips move faster. The room fills with the wet, obscene sound of you taking the strap, slick coating every inch as you ride her harder and messier.

Sevika’s hands guide you through it, one warm against your hip, the metal one cooler at your lower back, forcing you down deep every time your thighs start to shake.

The base of the strap grinds against her clit with each roll of your hips, and you feel the exact moment it starts getting to her. Her breath punches out, sharp and uneven, and her head falls back against the headboard. “Shit,” she breathes, hips lifting into you. “Keep doing that.”

The command makes you whine, high and desperate, because you’re already close again. The stretch, the pressure, the sight of Sevika losing control beneath you, it all knots together in your belly until you can barely move right.

Your hands tighten on her boobs, and she curses, the base rubbing perfectly against her as your hips grind down. “That’s it,” she growls, dragging you harder into the rhythm.

“Make yourself cum on it.” Her eyes drop to where the strap disappears inside you, then back up to your face. “Want to see you fall apart while you’re holding onto me.”

Your mouth opens around a broken moan, but Sevika catches it with her hand. Her fingers wrap around your throat, firm and careful, just enough pressure to make you still, to make your eyes go wide and your whole body tighten around the strap.

She doesn’t cut off your breath, doesn’t lose control, just holds you there with that steady dominance that makes your brain go soft and blank. “Look at me,” she says, voice low and dangerous.

Your lashes flutter, but you obey, staring at her while your hips keep grinding down. Sevika’s thumb strokes once along the side of your throat, almost tender. “There you go. Pretty thing.”

That’s what pushes you over. The hand around your throat, the strap buried deep, the rough drag of her voice, the way her own hips are starting to stutter beneath you.

Your orgasm hits in a hard, shaking wave, your whole body locking as pleasure tears through you. You cum with a sob of her name, hands still clutching her boobs, pussy clenching helplessly around the strap as your hips twitch through it.

Sevika watches every second, eyes dark and fixed on your face, her grip on your throat steady while you unravel. “Fuck, baby,” she rasps, sounding wrecked now. “That’s it. Cum for me. Make a mess on my cock.”

The words make you shake harder, and the way you grind through your orgasm pushes the base against her clit again and again. Sevika’s control snaps right after yours, her mouth falling open as her hips jerk up beneath you.

Her hand slips from your throat to the back of your neck, pulling you close as she starts to cum too, rough and trembling, her body tightening under yours. “Don’t stop,” she groans, voice breaking around the order.

“Keep moving. Fuck, keep moving.” You can barely manage it, but you do, dragging your hips down in sloppy little rolls while she rides out her own orgasm against the harness. Her thighs shake beneath you, her chest pressed hard to yours, her breath hot and uneven against your mouth.

Sevika curses into your kiss, dirty and broken, her body tense beneath you as the base keeps rubbing her through every aftershock. Your hands soften on her chest, no longer groping so much as holding, thumbs brushing over her nipples while she trembles.

She kisses you harder, messier, swallowing your whimpers while your hips finally slow. The strap is still deep inside you, your body pulsing weakly around it, and every tiny movement makes you shiver.

Sevika’s hands slide down to your waist again, keeping you in place when your legs threaten to give out. “Good girl,” she murmurs against your mouth, voice hoarse and satisfied. “Took it so fucking pretty.”

You sag against her, boneless, your cheek pressed to her shoulder while both of you breathe like you’ve been fighting for it. Sevika doesn’t move you off right away. She holds you there, one arm wrapped around your back, metal hand cool against your overheated skin, her other hand stroking slowly along your spine.

The room feels quieter now, softer around the edges, though your body is still trembling from the force of it. Her lips brush your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “Still with me?” she asks, low enough that it feels private. You nod weakly against her, and Sevika huffs a tired little laugh. “Yeah. Thought so.”

For a while, neither of you moves. Sevika keeps you tucked against her chest, one arm around your back and the other resting heavy over your hip, her breathing slowly evening out beneath your cheek. The strap is gone eventually, set aside with a quiet kind of care that feels almost too tender after how rough her voice had been minutes ago.

You’re still warm all over, boneless and oversensitive, your skin sticking lightly to hers wherever your bodies touch. The bedroom smells like sweat, sex, and the faint smoky scent that always clings to Sevika no matter how often she showers.

Her fingers drag lazily up and down your spine, slow enough to make your eyes flutter. “Still here?” she asks, voice low and tired, but there’s something serious underneath it.

You nod against her shoulder, then hum when that doesn’t feel like enough of an answer. “Yeah,” you whisper. “M’ here.” Sevika’s hand stills for half a second before continuing, palm broad and warm as it smooths over your back.

“Throat okay?” she asks, quieter now, her thumb brushing gently near the side of your neck without pressing. You lift your head just enough to look at her, your eyes sleepy and soft. “It’s okay,” you tell her. “You were careful.”

Her jaw shifts like she’s trying not to show how much the answer matters to her. “Good,” she mutters. “You tell me if it’s not. Don’t get stubborn on me.”

That makes you smile faintly, even as your body feels too heavy to move. “You’re the stubborn one.” Sevika raises a brow at you, unimpressed, though the corner of her mouth twitches. “I’m not the one who tried to keep riding after her legs stopped working.”

Your face warms immediately, and you drop your head back against her chest with a small groan. “Don’t say it like that.” “Like what?” she asks, and now she sounds smug again, which is rude considering how sleepy she looks. “Like it’s true?”

You pinch her side weakly, barely enough to count as retaliation, and Sevika catches your wrist with an offended little huff. “Careful.”

“What are you gonna do?” you mumble. “We’re both half-dead.” Sevika looks down at you with the slowest, most dangerous smile she can manage while exhausted. “Don’t test me.”

It should sound threatening, but her voice is too rough with sleep, her hand already sliding back to stroke your waist instead of doing anything about it. You laugh softly into her skin, and she grumbles under her breath like she hates how much she likes the sound.

The bed is ruined enough that even your sleepy brain can’t ignore it forever. Sevika notices you shifting before you say anything, her eyes cutting toward the sheets with a resigned sigh. “Yeah,” she says, like she’s annoyed at the universe personally. “We gotta change those.”

You make a miserable sound and press closer to her. “Can’t we just sleep on the clean side?” “There is no clean side.” You peek over your shoulder at the tangled sheets, then immediately regret checking. “That’s your fault,” you say. Sevika snorts. “That’s very much your fault, sweetheart.”

Getting up feels like a group project neither of you signed up for. Sevika moves first, slow and stiff, stretching her shoulders before standing beside the bed and offering you her hand. You take it, wobbling when your feet touch the floor, and she steadies you instantly with a hand at your waist.

“See?” she says. “Legs don’t work.” “You’re so annoying,” you mutter, leaning into her anyway. “And yet,” she says, guiding you toward the linen cupboard, “you’re still holding onto me.”

You glance up at her, lips parted around a comeback that never really forms, because she looks too soft in the low bedroom light.

The two of you strip the bed with the clumsy patience of people who want to be asleep more than they want to be functional. Sevika yanks the fitted sheet off one corner too hard and nearly snaps it back into her own face, which makes you laugh so suddenly you have to sit on the edge of the mattress.

She freezes, sheet in hand, eyes narrowing. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it loud.” You cover your mouth, shoulders shaking, and Sevika points at you with the sheet like she’s about to scold you properly. “Keep laughing and you’re sleeping on the floor.” “You’d last ten minutes before dragging me back.” She pauses, then mutters, “Five.”

Fresh sheets come out smelling like detergent and the little lavender sachet you insisted on putting in the cupboard months ago. Sevika had complained about it then, saying it made the sheets smell like an old lady’s drawer, but now she presses the fabric briefly to her face when she thinks you aren’t looking.

You catch her anyway. “You like the lavender.” She lowers the sheet slowly, expression flat. “I tolerate it.” “You sniffed it.” “I was checking if it was clean.” “With your whole face?” Sevika throws a pillowcase at you, and it lands against your chest with a soft thump.

Making the bed takes longer than it should because you’re both sleepy, distracted, and moving around each other in that domestic little rhythm that feels almost more intimate than anything else. Sevika lifts the mattress corners for you when the fitted sheet won’t behave, and you smooth the fabric down with slow, careful hands.

When you bend too far, she places a palm at your lower back, steadying you before you can overbalance. “I’m fine,” you say automatically. “Mm,” she replies. “That’s why you’re swaying like a drunk.” You roll your eyes, but you let her keep her hand there. She lets you pretend you aren’t leaning into it.

By the time the clean duvet is spread out, both of you are quieter. Sevika stands at the foot of the bed, looking at the fresh sheets with a tired sort of satisfaction, hair messy, shoulders relaxed, the harshness gone from her face.

You come up beside her and slip your fingers into hers. She looks down at your joined hands, then at you. “Shower,” she says. “Quick one.” You groan. “Bed first.” “No.” “Sevika.” “Don’t whine at me. You’ll thank me when you’re not sticky and miserable in ten minutes.”

The shower is quick in theory, but everything takes longer when you keep leaning into her. Sevika turns the water warm, not too hot, testing it with her hand before nudging you under the spray. You sigh the second it hits your skin, eyes closing as the warmth rolls over your shoulders and down your back.

She stands behind you, close but not crowding, her hands careful as they smooth water over your arms. “Too hot?” she asks. “No,” you murmur. “Feels good.” Her mouth brushes the top of your shoulder, barely a kiss. “Good.”

She washes you with a gentleness that would embarrass her if you pointed it out. Her hands move slowly, soap sliding over your shoulders, your waist, your back, careful around any sore spots, careful around the places she held you hard.

When she reaches your neck, she pauses again, thumb grazing the skin with the lightest touch. “Still okay?” You open your eyes and look back at her through the steam.

“Still okay.” Her expression softens, just for a second, before she hides it by reaching for the shampoo. “Good,” she says again, because sometimes that’s the only word she trusts herself with.

You return the favour even though she insists she can do it herself. “I know you can,” you tell her, taking the soap from her hand. “Let me.” Sevika grumbles, but she turns around anyway, bracing one hand against the tile while you wash her back.

Her skin is warm beneath your palms, strong muscle softening under your touch as the water runs over both of you. There are old scars under your fingers, familiar ones, ones you don’t ask about tonight because the moment is too quiet for ghosts.

Instead, you press a kiss between her shoulder blades. Sevika goes still. “You getting sentimental on me?” she asks. “Maybe.” “Dangerous habit.”

You smile against her back. “You like it.” “I tolerate it,” she says again, but her voice is softer this time. You laugh quietly and rinse the soap from her shoulders, letting your hands trail down her arms before stepping back.

Sevika turns around and catches your face between her hands, metal cool on one cheek, flesh warm on the other. For a second, she just looks at you, water dripping from her hair, eyes dark but gentle now. “You did good,” she says. It isn’t teasing this time. It’s quiet, firm, and it lands right in the tenderest part of your chest.

Your throat tightens a little, so you lean up and kiss her instead of answering. Sevika kisses you back slowly, no teeth, no command, no urgency, just warmth and water and her thumbs brushing your cheeks. When you pull away, you whisper,

“You did too.” She huffs like praise makes her itchy. “Yeah, yeah.” But she kisses your forehead before turning off the shower, so you count that as a win.

The bathroom goes colder immediately without the water, and you make a pathetic noise that has her reaching for a towel fast. “Dramatic,” she mutters, wrapping it around your shoulders. “Cold,” you correct.

She dries you first, because of course she does, even while pretending it’s only because you’re too sleepy to manage properly. The towel drags soft over your arms and chest, then around your back, her hands brisk but careful. You stand there blinking at her, warm and dazed, while she rubs your hair just enough to make it messy.

“You look like a drowned kitten,” she says. “You look like a wet dog,” you shoot back. Sevika’s eyes narrow. “Watch it.” “Or what?” Her mouth twitches. “Or I’ll make you change the sheets next time by yourself.” You gasp softly. “Cruel.”

By the time you both make it back to the bedroom, the clean bed looks like heaven. Sevika pulls on a loose pair of boxers from the dresser, then tosses one of her shirts at you without asking. You catch it against your chest and look down at it, smiling despite yourself.

“This one?”

“You like stealing it anyway.”

“It smells like you.”

“That’s why you steal it.” You slip it on, and her gaze follows the movement with something warm and satisfied, like seeing you in her clothes settles something in her. “Come here,” she says, already pulling the duvet back.

You crawl into bed first, sighing the second your body hits the fresh sheets. They’re cool, soft, and clean beneath your skin, and you stretch out like you’ve been waiting your whole life for this exact mattress. Sevika gets in after you, pulling the duvet over both of you before reaching for the lamp.

The room falls into darkness, softened only by the thin wash of city light slipping through the curtains. For a few seconds, there’s just the sound of both of you breathing, the apartment quiet around you.

Then you feel her arm slide around your waist, pulling you back against her chest. Her metal hand rests carefully over your stomach, cool through the shirt.

You settle into her with a sleepy hum. “You’re cold.” “You’ll live.” “Mean.” Sevika presses her face into the back of your neck, lips brushing the skin there.

“You like me mean.” You smile into the dark, your fingers covering hers where they rest over your stomach. “Sometimes.” She gives your waist a light squeeze. “Liar.”

Silence settles again, heavier and softer this time. Your eyelids are already sinking, your body warm under the clean duvet, your hair still slightly damp against the pillow. Sevika’s breathing is slow behind you, but you can tell she’s not asleep yet.

She’s waiting, maybe making sure you drop first, maybe just enjoying the quiet without admitting it. “Sev?” you whisper.

“Mm?”

“Thank you.” Her arm tightens around you, and for a moment she doesn’t answer. Then she presses one slow kiss behind your ear. “Sleep, baby,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You shuffle through your apartment with all the grace of someone who has been awake for less than thirty seconds, passing the kitchen where a mug still sits in the drying rack and the living room where a blanket remains abandoned from the movie you'd fallen asleep watching the night before.

The closer you get to the door, the more your confusion grows because nobody had mentioned visiting and none of your friends were reckless enough to show up unannounced.

At least, that's what you think until you finally unlock the door and pull it open. The sight waiting on the other side instantly wakes you up more effectively than any coffee ever could.

Yolanda Garcia stands in the hallway looking as though she's stepped straight out of a magazine, perfectly put together despite the fact that it's barely nine in the morning. Her dark coat is neatly buttoned, her hair sits exactly where it's supposed to, and a pair of sunglasses rest on top of her head even though the cloudy Pittsburgh sky outside offers absolutely no reason for them.

She takes one look at your sleep-swollen eyes, your tangled hair, and your complete lack of dignity before the corner of her mouth twitches upward in amusement.

For a moment she doesn't say anything, simply looking you over as though confirming that you're still alive and functioning. Then she gives a small nod, entirely satisfied with whatever assessment she's just made. "Good," she says. "You're alive."

Before you can even begin asking why she's standing outside your apartment on her day off, Yolanda casually steps around you and walks straight inside as though your home belongs to her.

She kicks the door shut behind her with the heel of her boot, sets a takeaway coffee on the kitchen counter, and slowly surveys the apartment while you stand frozen near the entrance trying to process what's happening.

Her gaze moves across the books piled neatly beside the couch, the throw blanket draped over the cushions, the collection of plants occupying nearly every available windowsill, and the stack of unopened mail sitting beside your fruit bowl.

"You need to clean this place," she announces after several seconds, despite the fact that everything is actually fairly tidy. "Excuse me?" you ask, offended immediately because the woman currently criticizing your apartment invited herself inside less than ten seconds ago. Yolanda simply shrugs and reaches for a decorative candle on one of your shelves. "I'm just being honest."

"Yolanda," you say slowly, dragging a hand through your hair while trying to understand why any of this is happening, "what are you doing here?" She glances over her shoulder, completely unbothered by your confusion, before placing the candle back exactly where she found it.

"I need company," she replies, as though that explains everything. You stare at her for several seconds before blinking. "For what?" you finally ask. Yolanda looks genuinely surprised that you're still struggling to keep up. "Grocery shopping," she says, and the absolute seriousness in her voice somehow makes the answer even more ridiculous.

The silence that follows stretches long enough for both of you to fully appreciate how absurd the situation is. You stare at Yolanda while she calmly reaches for the coffee she'd brought with her, and Yolanda stares right back as though she's the reasonable one in this conversation.

"You came all the way here because you didn't want to buy groceries alone?" you ask eventually.

"Yes."

"You couldn't have texted me?"

Yolanda's smile grows slightly wider. "No."

"Why?"

She folds her arms across her chest and looks entirely pleased with herself. "Because if I'd texted you, you would've said no." The worst part is that she's completely right.

The grin on her face widens the moment she notices you realizing that fact, and suddenly she looks far too pleased for someone who has just admitted to ambushing you in your own apartment.

"Get dressed," she says.

"Yolanda."

"Put shoes on too."

"I haven't even had breakfast."

Without missing a beat, she grabs the coffee from the counter and presses it into your hands, her fingers briefly brushing yours before she steps back again. "We'll get breakfast while we're out," she says simply, and despite your best efforts to remain annoyed, something warm settles in your chest.

You stare down at the coffee warming your hands while Yolanda makes herself comfortable against your kitchen counter, looking entirely too satisfied with the outcome of her little surprise visit.

The thing is, this isn't unusual for the two of you. Not the showing up unannounced part, because even for Yolanda that's pushing it, but the way she always somehow finds herself woven into your days without asking permission first. Somewhere over the years the friendship had become something neither of you could properly define.

It was easy enough to call each other friends when people asked, but friends usually didn't get irritated when someone else flirted with you at hospital fundraisers, and friends definitely didn't spend entire evenings sulking after seeing the other leave with a date. Neither of you ever acknowledged it out loud. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to.

"Okay," you finally sigh, taking a sip of the coffee she'd brought. "I'll come."

Yolanda's smile appears immediately, bright and victorious. "Good."

You narrow your eyes at her. "Don't look so pleased with yourself."

"I'm not."

"You're literally smiling."

"Maybe I'm happy you said yes." The response is innocent enough, but something about the way she says it makes your stomach perform an annoying little flip.

You point toward the hallway. "I need to shower first." Yolanda groans dramatically, throwing her head back toward the ceiling. "You're already clean."

"I absolutely am not."

"You look fine."

"I look like I got dragged out of a grave."

"A slightly cute grave." The words leave her mouth before she can stop them. For one brief second both of you freeze.

The silence that follows is immediate and awkward in the way only the two of you can manage. Yolanda clears her throat and suddenly becomes very interested in straightening a stack of mail sitting on your counter.

You pretend not to notice the faint colour creeping into her cheeks because acknowledging it would only make things worse. Moments like this happen more often than either of you care to admit. A compliment that lasts slightly too long.

A look held a second too late. A flash of jealousy quickly disguised as concern. Every time it happens, both of you quietly step around it and continue pretending the line between friendship and something else isn't becoming increasingly impossible to ignore.

"Twenty minutes," you announce, already backing toward the hallway.

Yolanda immediately shakes her head. "Ten."

"Twenty."

"Fifteen."

"You're negotiating my shower?"

"I'm negotiating how long I have to sit here waiting for you." You laugh despite yourself. Yolanda watches the smile spread across your face, and something in her expression softens instantly. "Fifteen," you agree.

"Good," she says. This time her voice is quieter. Gentler. The kind of tone she reserves only for you. As you disappear down the hallway toward the bathroom, you glance back over your shoulder and find Yolanda already settling onto your couch like she belongs there, reaching for the book you'd left on the coffee table without even asking.

The sight makes something warm bloom in your chest. Because for all the confusion between you, for all the moments neither of you knew what to call this thing that existed between friendship and something more, one thing had always remained painfully simple. No matter where you were, no matter how bad your week had been, life always seemed a little better whenever Yolanda Garcia was in your apartment.

The shower helps more than you'd expected. By the time you step beneath the steady stream of hot water, the lingering exhaustion from the week has begun to loosen its grip on your shoulders, slowly disappearing alongside the steam that fills the small bathroom.

You spend longer in there than necessary, letting the heat soak into tired muscles while your mind drifts toward the woman currently occupying your living room without permission. The thought makes a smile tug at your lips. It happens before you can stop it.

Even now, after years of friendship and countless mornings spent together over coffee, Yolanda still has an irritating ability to improve your mood simply by existing nearby.

By the time you finally turn off the water, wrap a towel around yourself, and wipe the fog from the mirror, you already feel lighter than you had when the day started.

The apartment feels different when Yolanda is inside it. Even from the bedroom, you can hear the faint rustle of pages turning from the book she'd stolen off your coffee table, followed by the occasional quiet clink of ceramic against wood whenever she sets down her coffee mug.

Those tiny sounds settle comfortably into the silence. They make the place feel lived in. Your apartment has always reflected you perfectly, cozy rather than polished, clean without being pristine, filled with books stacked in uneven piles, blankets thrown over furniture, and small decorative touches collected over years of impulsive purchases. Nothing matches particularly well.

Somehow it all works anyway. And right now, with Yolanda occupying your couch and acting like she pays rent, it feels more like home than ever.

You finish getting dressed and move toward your closet, reaching automatically for a jacket before your attention catches on something hanging over the back of a chair tucked into the corner of the room.

Yolanda's jacket has been there for nearly three weeks. It had been abandoned after a movie night that stretched well past midnight, when she'd left your apartment half-asleep and somehow forgotten one of her favourite jackets despite checking three separate times that she had everything.

Since then, neither of you had made much effort to return it. Every time one of you remembered, the conversation somehow got side-tracked into something else. Looking at it now, you find yourself smiling as you lift it from the chair. The familiar weight settles across your shoulders the moment you slip your arms through the sleeves.

The jacket smells faintly like her. The scent is subtle now after weeks spent hanging in your apartment, but it's still there beneath the detergent, warm and familiar enough that you recognize it instantly.

The sleeves extend slightly beyond your wrists, while the shoulders sit just loose enough to make it feel comfortably oversized without drowning you completely. You catch yourself smoothing your hands down the front of it.

The gesture feels strangely affectionate. Standing in front of the mirror, you tilt your head slightly as you study your reflection, noticing how naturally the jacket seems to belong there. You already know Yolanda is going to say something the second she sees it.

When you finally leave the bedroom, Yolanda looks up immediately. The book resting in her lap is forgotten within seconds. Her eyes move over you slowly, taking in the fresh shower, the clean clothes, the damp hair still slightly messy from drying it in a hurry, before eventually landing on the jacket.

The change in her expression is immediate. Something soft and warm replaces the amused impatience she'd been wearing all morning. For several seconds she simply looks at you without speaking. The smile that gradually appears is one you've always secretly liked most.

"There it is," she says.

Her voice is quieter than before. Softer than before.

You glance down at yourself before looking back at her. "What?" you ask, even though you already know exactly what she's talking about. Yolanda gestures vaguely toward your chest. Her smile widens slightly. "My jacket."

You roll your eyes immediately. "You left it here."

"I know."

"You could've taken it home at any point."

"I know."

The exchange only seems to amuse her further. Setting the book aside, Yolanda pushes herself off the couch and takes a few slow steps closer until she's standing directly in front of you.

The distance between you shrinks noticeably. It always seems to. Her eyes drop briefly to the jacket again before returning to your face. The smile never leaves. If anything, it becomes more genuine.

"You know," she says after a moment, folding her arms loosely across her chest, "I think you actually look better in it than I do."

You stare at her.

For a second you're genuinely convinced she's joking. The compliment catches you completely off guard. Yolanda rarely hands them out so openly, which somehow makes them hit harder whenever she does. "You're lying," you tell her immediately. She laughs softly. The sound fills the room.

"I'm not."

"Yolanda."

"I'm serious."

Her gaze flicks over you one more time before settling back on your face. There's something almost fond in her expression now, something that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly.

The morning sunlight pouring through your apartment windows catches against the warm brown of her eyes, and suddenly it becomes very difficult to look away. Yolanda shakes her head with another quiet laugh.

"I hate how good you look in that jacket," she admits. The words are casual. The way she looks at you isn't. And for one brief moment, standing in the middle of your apartment wearing something that belongs to her while she smiles at you like that, the line between friendship and something else feels thinner than it's ever been.

The drive to the farmers market passes far too quickly. One moment you're teasing Yolanda about the fact that she practically kidnapped you for groceries, and the next you're stepping out into a crowded parking lot filled with cars, food trucks, and far more people than you had expected to encounter before noon on a Saturday.

The moment your feet hit the pavement, you're greeted by a mixture of conversation, laughter, live music, and the scent of fresh bread drifting through the cool Pittsburgh air.

Colourful tents stretch across the market in long rows, packed with flowers, vegetables, handmade crafts, baked goods, candles, and local artists displaying their work beneath fluttering banners. The entire place feels alive. It buzzes with the kind of energy that makes even ordinary errands feel like something worth remembering.

"See?" Yolanda says as she falls into step beside you. "Worth leaving the apartment."

You glance around at the crowds moving between stalls. Families weave through the aisles carrying baskets overflowing with produce, couples stand shoulder-to-shoulder examining bouquets of flowers, and children dart between adults while clutching pastries nearly as large as their heads.

Somewhere nearby, a musician plays an acoustic guitar while a small crowd gathers around to listen, the music drifting through the market like background noise in a movie scene. The market is beautiful. It is also unbelievably busy.

"You didn't mention there'd be this many people."

Yolanda looks entirely unapologetic. "I didn't think you'd come if I did."

"You're impossible."

"Yet here you are."

The smile she gives you is infuriatingly smug. It makes you roll your eyes. It also makes you smile back.

For a while the two of you wander through the market without much direction, stopping whenever something catches your attention. Yolanda examines produce with the seriousness of someone negotiating an international treaty, carefully inspecting tomatoes, peaches, herbs, and fresh bread while vendors immediately seem drawn to her easy confidence and warm personality.

You spend most of the time watching her rather than the stalls. The way she listens when people speak. The way she laughs. The way she always thanks every vendor before walking away. None of it should be particularly distracting. Somehow it always is.

As the morning progresses, the crowd seems to grow even thicker. The narrow walkways between stalls become increasingly congested until you're constantly brushing shoulders with strangers trying to move in every direction at once, squeezed between families, shoppers, and people carrying bags filled with purchases.

At one point a group carrying oversized bouquets cuts directly between you and Yolanda, temporarily separating you before you manage to work your way back beside her again. Another wave of people follows immediately afterward. The crowd shifts around you like a river. Without realizing it, you find yourself moving closer.

Then, entirely without thinking, you reach for her hand.

The gesture happens automatically. Naturally. Like something you've done a hundred times before.

Your fingers slide between hers just as another cluster of people squeezes through the walkway, and for several seconds your attention remains focused entirely on navigating the crowd. It isn't until moments later that you actually register what you've done. Warmth immediately floods your face. Your stomach flips. You start to pull away.

"Don't." The word leaves Yolanda's mouth before you can let go. You look at her immediately. Her hand tightens around yours. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to stop you from slipping away.

"Yolanda..."

"It's crowded."

The excuse is weak. Both of you know it.

Before you can respond, she gently tugs on your joined hands and pulls you slightly closer to her side, closing the space between you until your shoulders occasionally brush whenever you walk. Neither of you says anything afterward.

Neither of you acknowledges what just happened. Yet the silence that settles between you feels comfortable rather than awkward, filled with unspoken things that neither of you seem brave enough to address. The proximity feels natural. Maybe a little too natural.

Eventually you stop in front of a small handmade goods stall tucked between a flower vendor and a bakery. Wooden shelves display hand-painted pottery, knitted items, carved decorations, and dozens of unique pieces clearly made with care.

While Yolanda examines something on the opposite side of the display, your attention lands on a small handcrafted piece sitting near the register. The moment you see it, you think of her. Not because it looks particularly expensive or impressive. Simply because it feels like something she'd love.

You pick it up immediately. Yolanda notices almost at once. "No."

You glance at her. "What do you mean, no?"

"Put it back." Her answer arrives far too quickly.

You laugh. "I'm buying it."

"No, you're not."

"Yolanda."

She folds her arms. "You don't need to buy me anything."

The vendor watches the exchange with obvious amusement while the two of you continue arguing quietly in front of the display. Eventually you ignore every protest Yolanda offers and purchase it anyway. She shakes her head throughout the entire transaction. The smile threatening the corners of her mouth completely ruins her argument.

The second you're handed the small paper bag, Yolanda takes it from you.

"You don't listen."

"I learned from you."

That finally earns a laugh. A real one. Warm and bright and completely worth the purchase.

For a moment she simply looks at you, holding the bag against her chest while the crowd continues moving around you. Something soft settles across her expression. Something fond. Then, before you can fully process what's happening, Yolanda leans forward and presses a quick kiss against your cheek.

The gesture lasts barely a second. It still completely freezes your brain.

When she pulls back, her smile has returned. "Thank you," she says quietly. The warmth lingering on your cheek feels impossible to ignore. So does the way she's still holding your hand.

Neither of you mentions either thing as you continue through the market together, shoulders brushing, fingers intertwined, both pretending everything is perfectly normal while secretly enjoying every second of it.

The painting class is entirely your fault, and Yolanda makes sure you know it from the second you spot the sign. It sits near the edge of the market beneath a striped canopy, surrounded by colourful canvases painted by previous participants and handwritten chalkboards advertising beginner-friendly lessons for anyone willing to embarrass themselves publicly.

The moment your eyes land on it, your entire face brightens with excitement, and unfortunately for Yolanda, she's standing close enough to recognize exactly what that expression means. Her hand immediately tightens around yours before she even follows your gaze toward the sign.

"Absolutely not," she says, already shaking her head despite the fact that you haven't spoken a single word yet. The immediate refusal only makes you grin wider.

Within minutes you're practically dragging her toward the registration table while she complains the entire way, although the smile threatening the corners of her mouth makes it very clear she never intended to say no for long.

The class takes place beneath a large open tent positioned near the center of the market, where sunlight filters through the white fabric overhead and paints everything in a warm golden glow. Long wooden tables are covered with paint palettes, brushes, jars of water, and blank canvases waiting for participants to create something that vaguely resembles art.

The atmosphere is relaxed and cheerful, filled with laughter from strangers who seem just as inexperienced as you are, while a local musician performs somewhere nearby and the scent of fresh pastries drifts through the air.

Yolanda settles into the chair across from you with the same serious expression she usually reserves for hospital meetings, which immediately makes you laugh. She looks entirely too focused for a woman attending a beginner painting class at a farmers market.

When the instructor cheerfully announces that today's exercise involves painting portraits of the person sitting opposite you, Yolanda closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. You think you've never loved an activity more in your life.

Several minutes later the two of you are sitting across from one another with blank canvases resting on easels between jars of paint and scattered brushes. You try to focus on painting, but it quickly becomes obvious that Yolanda herself is a far greater distraction than anything happening on your canvas.

Every time you look up for reference, you find yourself noticing something new about her, from the way sunlight catches in her dark hair to the small crease that appears between her brows whenever she's concentrating.

She notices you staring almost immediately. "What?" she asks, lifting one eyebrow while holding her paintbrush midair. "Nothing," you answer far too quickly.

Yolanda narrows her eyes at you before smiling slowly, the kind of smile that always makes your stomach perform an irritating little flip. "You've been looking at me for thirty seconds," she says, and judging by the amusement in her voice, she's enjoying your suffering far more than she should.

"I need a reference," you argue, trying to sound innocent while dipping your brush into paint that definitely isn't the right colour. Yolanda's smile only widens. "You know what I look like." The response should be simple. Somehow it isn't.

"Not well enough," you reply before your brain can stop your mouth from speaking. The words hang between you immediately, and for the first time neither of you rushes to pretend they mean something else. Yolanda's brush pauses against her canvas while something softer settles into her expression.

"You flirt way more than people realize," she says quietly, and instead of denying it like you usually would, you simply lean back in your chair and smile. "Maybe you're just easier to flirt with," you answer, causing a warmth to appear in her eyes that neither of you bothers hiding.

The rest of the class becomes significantly more difficult after that conversation. Every glance across the table seems to linger slightly longer than it should, and every smile feels more intentional than the ones you've exchanged countless times before.

At one point you become so distracted watching her laugh that you accidentally drag a streak of blue paint directly across the middle of your canvas. Yolanda immediately notices. "That's unfortunate," she says, struggling and failing to hide her amusement.

You groan while looking at the accidental disaster you've just created. "Don't." Her laughter fills the tent, warm and bright and completely impossible not to love, while nearby participants glance over with curious smiles as though they're watching a romantic comedy unfold in real time.

When the instructor eventually announces that everyone should reveal their finished portraits, your stomach immediately drops. You turn your canvas around first and discover that, despite your best efforts, you've produced something that looks only vaguely human.

The proportions are questionable, the colours make no sense, and yet somehow the painting still looks unmistakably like Yolanda. She studies it carefully. Then she looks up at you. Then back down at the painting. "You made my eyes bigger," she says softly, noticing the detail immediately.

You shrug while trying very hard not to feel embarrassed. "They're my favourite part," you admit, and this time neither of you laughs afterward. When Yolanda finally turns her own canvas around, however, every coherent thought immediately abandons you.

Her painting is still beginner-level and imperfect in all the ways you'd expect from someone attending their first class, but the details she chose to include make your chest tighten unexpectedly.

She painted your smile exactly the way it appears when you're genuinely happy, the slight tilt of your head whenever you're teasing her, and most noticeably, the oversized jacket she'd left behind in your apartment weeks ago.

Even in paint, the jacket is unmistakably hers. "You painted the jacket," you say quietly, unable to stop staring at the canvas. Yolanda looks from the painting back to you. Her expression is soft now. Almost unbearably so. "Of course I did," she says.

"Why?" The smile she gives you in response is warm enough to make the entire busy market disappear. "Because I liked how happy you looked wearing it," she admits, and for the first time all day, neither of you pretends that what exists between you is only friendship.

By the time the two of you finally leave the farmers market, the afternoon sun has begun its slow descent across the Pittsburgh skyline, bathing the streets in warm golden light that reflects off shop windows and passing cars.

The backseat of Yolanda's car is crowded with grocery bags, fresh flowers, homemade goods, and several purchases that neither of you had technically planned on making when the day started. Your painting rests carefully between two bags to prevent it from getting damaged during the drive home.

Neither of you has mentioned the portraits since leaving the class. The memory of Yolanda's words still lingers too heavily between you. Every now and then you catch her glancing toward the backseat in the mirror, and every single time you know she's thinking about that painting too.

For the first few minutes, the drive is quiet in the comfortable way it always is with Yolanda. Traffic moves steadily around you while bridges stretch across the rivers in the distance, and familiar city streets carry you both back toward your apartment. The windows are cracked slightly, allowing cool air to drift through the vehicle and carry away the lingering warmth of the afternoon.

Yolanda drives with one hand resting casually on the steering wheel while the other taps absentmindedly against her thigh in time with whatever song happens to be playing. You watch the city pass by outside your window. Then you watch Yolanda instead. Somehow, despite spending nearly an entire day together, you still aren't tired of looking at her.

The song currently playing ends just as the car stops at a red light, and a moment later the unmistakable opening chords of Livin' on a Prayer begin pouring through the speakers. Your head immediately snaps toward the radio.

Yolanda's does too. For one brief second, both of you simply stare at each other. Then the grin spreading across her face mirrors your own perfectly. Neither of you says a word. Neither of you needs to.

The volume knob turns upward almost immediately. The music floods the car, filling every available space with guitar riffs and familiar lyrics that both of you somehow know by heart. By the time the first verse begins, you're already singing along from the passenger seat.

Yolanda joins in seconds later, pointing dramatically toward the windshield as though she's performing for a sold-out stadium rather than driving through downtown Pittsburgh. The sight is ridiculous. It is also one of your favourite things you've seen all day. Her laughter keeps interrupting the lyrics whenever she forgets the next line.

By the time the chorus arrives, neither of you is making any real attempt to sing properly anymore. The volume rises even higher while the two of you practically shout the words together, completely abandoning any concern for dignity.

Several people in nearby cars glance over while stopped at another red light. You don't care. Yolanda definitely doesn't care. She drums her fingers against the steering wheel while singing at the top of her lungs,

and the sound of her voice mixing with yours fills the car with the kind of happiness that feels almost impossible to manufacture. For those few minutes, nothing exists outside the music.

When the famous chorus hits again, both of you immediately point at each other. "WHOA-OH!" you yell. "WE'RE HALFWAY THERE!" Yolanda shouts back. Her laugh breaks through the lyrics halfway through the line. Yours does too.

The two of you completely lose whatever rhythm you had and dissolve into laughter before managing to recover enough to finish the song together. Neither performance is particularly impressive. Both of you are having far too much fun to care.

As the song finally begins to fade, the car settles back into a quieter atmosphere, though the lingering energy remains between you like static.

Yolanda is still smiling as she turns onto your street, and judging by the ache in your cheeks, you are too. The groceries shift softly in the backseat as the vehicle slows toward your building. For a moment neither of you speaks.

Then Yolanda glances sideways at you. "You know," she says, her voice warm with amusement, "that was probably the best grocery trip I've ever had." The smile that spreads across your face is immediate, because somehow, despite everything that had happened today, you feel exactly the same way.

The drive ends far sooner than either of you would have liked, and before long Yolanda is pulling into the parking lot outside your apartment building while the last traces of daylight settle across the city. Together, you carry grocery bags upstairs, laughing quietly whenever one of you nearly drops something because you'd both insisted on making the trip in a single journey.

By the time you reach your door, your arms ache slightly from the weight of the bags, and the hallway is filled with the soft rustle of paper and plastic shifting with every movement.

Once everything has been set down inside your apartment, you turn toward Yolanda with a smile already forming on your face. "You know you didn't have to walk me all the way up," you tell her gently. For a moment, she simply stands there looking at you.

The apartment feels strangely quiet after the noise of the market and the music from the drive home, the familiar space illuminated by the warm glow of the lamps you'd forgotten to turn off that morning. Yolanda's gaze moves across your face as though she's trying to decide something, her expression softer than you've seen it all day.

You wait for her usual sarcastic response or some teasing remark about your inability to carry groceries without supervision. Instead, she takes a slow step forward. Then another. The distance between you disappears almost completely before you fully realize what's happening. Still, she says nothing.

"Yolanda?" you ask quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes flick briefly toward the oversized jacket hanging from your shoulders before returning to your face again. Something warm flickers across her expression.

Then her hand lifts and closes gently around the front of the jacket, fingers curling into the fabric near your collar. The gesture sends a rush of nervous anticipation through your chest. "You look too good in my jacket," she murmurs, and before you can come up with a response, she leans in. The kiss lands softly against your lips.

For a second the entire world seems to stop moving. Every thought disappears. Every sound fades into the background. The only thing that remains is Yolanda standing impossibly close, her hand still holding onto the front of her jacket while she kisses you with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

You respond almost immediately, stepping forward until there's no space left between the two of you. Your hands find her shoulders first. Then they slide upward.

Your arms settle comfortably around her neck as you kiss her back, instinctively pulling her closer. Yolanda lets out the smallest breath against your lips, and her free hand moves to rest at your waist as though she's been wanting to do it for far longer than either of you has been willing to admit.

The kiss remains gentle, lingering and unhurried, filled with all the things neither of you had managed to say during years of carefully dancing around whatever this was.

The farmers market. The hand-holding. The painting class. The jacket. Every moment from the day seems to fold together into this one.

♱⠀⠀𝐍𝐎 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓⠀⠀౨ৎ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀baran finally snaps — months of control unravel into something rough, needy, and completely consuming, leaving you ruined beneath her hands and mouth. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀13k

it’s quick the first time, just a flicker, barely anything, the kind of glance she could probably deny if she really wanted to. then it happens again, slower, her eyes lingering near your chest before lifting back to your face like nothing happened.

by the third time, she isn’t as subtle as she thinks she is, and there’s something almost delicious about watching someone so composed get ruined by the shape of your boobs beneath fabric.

your shirt doesn’t hide enough, not really. it stretches softly across your chest, the fabric resting over the swell of your boobs and shifting whenever you breathe. you’re not sure whether it’s the cold kitchen air or emily’s attention that makes your nipples tighten, but either way, the reaction is obvious enough that her eyes catch on it instantly.

she sees the little peaks pressing against your shirt. she sees the way your chest rises a little harder when you notice her looking. she sees the way your body gives you away before you can decide whether you want to tease her for it.

and the longer she stares, the more aware you become of every inch of yourself, your boobs feeling warm and sensitive beneath the thin fabric, your pussy already starting to feel wet between your thighs.

you stop mid-sentence, letting the silence settle between you with purpose, and emily only realizes something is wrong when your voice cuts off completely. her eyes snap back up too fast, sharp and guilty despite the calm expression she tries to arrange over her face.

“what?” she asks, and it would almost be convincing if her voice didn’t come out lower than before, rougher at the edges, like she had been thinking about something entirely different from what you were saying.

you raise an eyebrow, staring at her while she holds your gaze with the stubbornness of a woman who refuses to confess without being cornered. the pause stretches.

her thumb strokes once along the stem of her wine glass, a tiny little tell that makes heat curl low in your stomach. then you ask, “were you even listening to me?”

emily’s mouth curves into that smooth, dangerous smile, the one she uses when she knows she’s been caught but hasn’t decided whether she wants to admit it yet.

“of course i was,” she says, far too easily. you stare at her. she stares back. then, like her body betrays her before her pride can stop it, her gaze drops again, dragging right back to your chest for one brief, shameless second.

when she looks up this time, there’s no saving it, and the faintest flush rises across her cheekbones. you laugh, quiet and disbelieving, and emily exhales through her nose like she’s irritated with herself more than with you.

“don’t start,” she says, but there’s no bite in it, no real warning, just that low velvet tone that makes your thighs press together.

“you’re staring,” you say, and the words come out softer than you meant them to. emily sets her wine glass down with a quiet click, slow and deliberate, like she’s making a choice. “i know,” she says. not defensive. not embarrassed. just honest enough to make your breath catch.

the simple admission changes the air between you completely, taking the conversation from playful to charged so fast it leaves you warm all over. she doesn’t move toward you yet, which somehow makes it worse. she just stands there, eyes darker now, letting herself look at you openly, and the weight of her attention feels almost physical, like her hands are already on your skin.

you step closer because you can’t help yourself, because there’s something addictive about watching emily’s composure fray in real time. her gaze dips again, slower now that the pretense is gone, and her lips part just slightly when your chest rises with your breath.

she notices everything. the way your boobs shift beneath your shirt, soft and full enough to pull her attention down again. the way your nipples are hard now, straining against the fabric like your body is begging for her mouth before you even say a word.

the way your thighs press together because your pussy feels slick already, warm and wet and aching from nothing more than being watched by her.

“you wore that on purpose,” she says quietly, and it sounds less like an accusation than a confession of weakness. you tell her you didn’t, but your voice is already thinner than it should be, already giving too much away. emily’s smile turns knowing, almost cruel in how soft it is.

“maybe not consciously,” she says, and her eyes drop again, taking in the way the shirt clings to the rounded weight of your boobs. her attention makes your skin prickle.

it makes your nipples tighten further, your stomach flutter, your pussy throb with that slow, needy pulse of arousal. the dampness between your thighs is impossible to ignore now, your underwear clinging wetly against you every time you shift.

her hand lifts slowly, giving you every chance to pull away even though both of you know you won’t. she touches your waist first, fingertips light through your shirt, dragging up your side in a patient line that makes your stomach tighten.

she’s watching your face now, because emily likes proof. she likes seeing the way your lips part, the way your breath catches, the way your eyes flutter when her thumb brushes just beneath the curve of your boob.

the contact is barely anything, just the edge of a touch, but it makes your whole body feel too warm. your boobs feel heavy and sensitive under her attention, your nipples aching for more pressure, and your pussy gives another wet little pulse like it knows exactly where this is going.

“emily,” you warn, but it comes out more like a plea. she hums, innocent and unbearable, letting her thumb skim a little higher until she’s brushing over you through the thin fabric.

the pressure makes your breath hitch, especially when her thumb grazes the hardened peak of your nipple. your body reacts instantly, your back arching just enough to press more of your chest into her hand.

emily sees it. of course she sees it. her eyes darken like the sight of you getting needy from one touch is almost enough to ruin her by itself.

“what?” she asks, like she didn’t just spend an entire conversation staring at you. you open your mouth to answer, but she kisses you before you can say a damn thing.

at first, it’s controlled, warm, almost teasing, her lips moving against yours with the kind of patience that makes you ache. then your fingers curl into the front of her blouse, pulling her closer, and something in her restraint gives.

the kiss turns deeper fast, her body pressing yours back against the counter until the edge digs into your lower back. her hands slide to your waist, then up, slow and deliberate, as if she’s giving herself permission inch by inch. when she finally cups your chest over your shirt, her palm warm and firm around your boob, you gasp against her mouth.

the sound does something to her. you feel it in the way she groans softly, in the way her fingers tighten, in the way her kiss gets rougher for one messy second before she reins herself in again. her hand fits over you like she’s been thinking about it for ages, squeezing gently at first, then with more confidence when your body melts into the touch.

your boob feels soft and full in her palm, your nipple hard against the fabric, every slow press of her fingers sending sparks down your stomach. your pussy feels wetter by the second, slick gathering between your folds, warm enough that you can feel it soaking into your underwear.

“i was trying to be respectful,” she says against your lips. you laugh breathlessly, tilting your head back as her mouth drags to your jaw. “you failed.”

“miserably,” she says, and then she kisses down your neck like she wants to prove it. her mouth is hot and slow, lips dragging over your pulse, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips push forward without thinking.

one hand stays on your chest, kneading through the fabric, while the other settles at your lower back and pulls you closer until there’s barely any space left between you.

she’s still composed in pieces, still careful, still attentive, but there’s hunger underneath it now, dark and obvious and impossible to ignore. every touch feels deliberate, like she’s been thinking about your boobs under her hands for longer than she wants to admit.

when her thumb rubs over your nipple through your shirt, your knees nearly weaken, and emily’s mouth curves against your skin.

“that sensitive?” she asks, voice low enough to make you shiver. you try to answer, but she does it again, firmer this time, rolling your nipple beneath her thumb until a soft, broken sound slips out of you.

the pleasure goes straight between your thighs, making your pussy clench around nothing. you can feel how wet you are now, how slick and swollen everything feels, how badly your body wants more pressure.

emily pulls back just enough to look at you, and the expression on her face is devastating. smug, affectionate, starving. like she wants to tease you for falling apart so quickly and kiss you for it at the same time.

“you have no idea how distracting you are,” she says, her eyes dropping again, shameless now. “standing there, talking to me like i’m supposed to focus, wearing this little thing like i’m not only human.” heat rushes through you so fast it leaves you dizzy.

you tell her she should have said something, but the words barely survive the way she’s touching you. emily’s fingers hook under the hem of your shirt, slow enough to make anticipation crawl over your skin.

“i was trying to behave,” she says, and there’s a smile in her voice now. “clearly, that was a mistake.” then she lifts your shirt, waiting just long enough for your nod before pulling it up and off you completely.

the fabric drops somewhere near your feet, forgotten immediately, because emily is staring again. only this time there’s nothing between her eyes and your bare skin, nothing to soften the way her composure cracks wide open.

your boobs are exposed to her completely now, warm and soft, rising with your uneven breaths. your nipples are hard from the cool air and from the way she’s looking at you, tight little peaks that make her eyes go darker the longer she stares.

the silence that follows feels filthy in itself. emily looks at your chest like she’s been handed something sacred and obscene, her eyes moving over the fullness of you slowly, taking in the curve, the softness, the way your body is already reacting for her.

her hands settle on you carefully at first, palms sliding over your ribs before she cups both of your boobs with a reverence that makes your throat tighten. then her thumbs brush over your nipples, and the soft moan that leaves you makes her inhale sharply.

your boobs feel almost too sensitive beneath her hands, heavy and warm and aching as she squeezes them with slow, possessive pressure. she watches the way they fit in her palms, the way your nipples stiffen under her thumbs, the way your whole body arches when she touches you just right.

“pretty,” she says, almost under her breath. then, rougher, like the word isn’t enough, “fuck, you’re so pretty.” and before you can even process the way her voice has changed, she lowers her mouth to you.

the first touch of her lips against your boob is slow enough to be cruel. she kisses around your nipple first, soft open-mouthed presses that leave damp warmth behind, while her hand kneads the other boob with steady, possessive pressure.

you can feel how badly she wants to rush, how much effort it takes for her to take her time, and somehow that makes it worse. when her tongue finally flicks over your nipple, your back arches off the counter, and emily makes a quiet sound like she’s pleased with herself.

she does it again, dragging her tongue over the sensitive peak before closing her lips around it. the suction is gentle at first, teasing, but when your fingers slide into her hair and pull, she groans against you and sucks harder.

your whole body reacts to her mouth. heat pools between your legs, slick and insistent, every slow pull of her lips sending another pulse of want through you.

your pussy feels soaked now, wet enough that your underwear clings uncomfortably to you, every shift making the damp fabric rub against your swollen clit. emily knows exactly what she’s doing, and worse, she’s paying attention to every single reaction. when you gasp,

she repeats the motion. when your hips twitch, her hand tightens at your waist. when your fingers tug at her hair, she looks up at you with your nipple still in her mouth, eyes dark and smug and completely ruinous.

the eye contact makes you throb. it makes you feel exposed in the best way, like she can tell exactly how wet you’re getting without needing to touch you there yet. your boobs rise and fall beneath her mouth, one wet from her tongue, the other held firmly in her hand while she rolls your nipple between her fingers.

you feel warm everywhere, flushed and sensitive, your pussy pulsing with every drag of her mouth. there’s a slick ache between your thighs now, needy and impossible to ignore, and the worst part is that emily can tell.

she can tell from your breathing. from the way your thighs keep squeezing together. from the way your hips keep shifting like your body is trying to find friction all on its own.

“this is why i wasn’t listening,” she says against your skin, lips brushing damply over your boob as she speaks. “you were talking, and all i could think about was this.” her hand slides down your stomach as she says it, fingers spreading over the soft, warm skin there before dipping lower.

she doesn’t rush, because emily is a menace when she knows you want something. she kisses across your chest, giving the other boob the same slow attention, tongue circling before she sucks your nipple into her mouth.

your thighs press together, desperate for friction, and she notices immediately. of course she notices. emily prentiss notices everything.

her hand slips between your thighs over your clothes, pressing just enough to make your breath break. “there it is,” she whispers, like she’s found the answer to a question she already knew. your hips roll into her touch, needy and automatic, and she smiles against your chest before kissing lower, then back up again.

she keeps one hand on your boob while the other rubs slow, firm pressure between your legs, not enough to give you what you need, just enough to make you ache for more. it’s maddening. it’s perfect.

you’re hot everywhere, trembling against the counter while emily takes you apart with her mouth, her hands, and that steady, devastating focus she usually saves for interrogations.

“you’re soaked, aren’t you?” she asks softly, and the way she says it makes your stomach flip. not mocking exactly, but pleased. deeply pleased. your pussy throbs at the words, wet and swollen beneath your underwear, and you hate that she can feel how hard you react through the layers between her hand and your body.

you try to glare at her, but it falls apart the second she presses her palm against you again, firmer this time. “all because i got caught staring?” she continues, her voice warm with amusement. “or because you wanted me to?” you say her name, half warning and half surrender, and emily’s smile turns downright wicked.

she kisses your nipple once more, slow and open-mouthed, then lifts her head to look at you properly. “tell me to stop,” she says, and the softness of it hits just as hard as the hunger.

because beneath all the teasing, beneath the dark eyes and the greedy hands, she’s still emily. still careful with you. still waiting for you to choose her back.

you shake your head, already breathless, already ruined enough that pride feels pointless. “don’t stop.” emily’s expression changes at that, something hot and tender flickering across her face before she kisses you again.

this time, there’s no pretending either of you are going back to the conversation. she kisses you like she’s done being patient, mouth deep and hungry while her hands move over you with more confidence. she palms your chest, thumbs circling your nipples until you’re making soft, helpless noises into her mouth.

every sound seems to pull her further under, making her touch rougher, her breathing heavier, her body press harder against yours. she slips one thigh between yours and lets you grind against her, just once, just enough to make you shudder.

the pressure against your soaked pussy makes you gasp into her mouth, your wet underwear dragging over your clit in a way that sends a sharp pulse of pleasure through you.

“good girl,” she whispers against your mouth, and the praise goes straight through you. she feels the way you react, feels the tiny jerk of your hips, and her smile is slow and knowing. “oh,” she says softly. “you liked that.”

you don’t answer, because answering would mean admitting how badly those two words affected you, and emily already knows anyway. she kisses down your throat again, her mouth returning to your chest like she can’t stay away from it now that she’s allowed to touch. her tongue traces over your nipple before she sucks it back into her mouth, her hand sliding lower to keep pressure between your legs.

the combination makes you dizzy. your boobs feel swollen and sensitive under her mouth and hands, your nipples slick from her tongue, your skin hot everywhere she touches.

your pussy feels even wetter now, slick spreading messily into your underwear, your clit aching from the pressure of her thigh and the teasing rub of her palm. every time you grind down, the damp fabric drags against you, and every time you make a sound, emily’s mouth gets greedier.

your fingers tighten in her hair, your head tipping back, your body trapped between the counter and the warm, relentless weight of her attention. emily looks completely gone now, composed mask finally cracked, replaced by something hungry and intimate and almost reverent.

and the worst part is, she still manages to sound controlled when she leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “next time you want my attention,” she whispers, her hand squeezing your boob again while her thigh presses between yours, “just wear this.”

your laugh breaks into a moan when she moves against you, slow and deliberate. “or don’t,” she adds, voice dipping darker. “i seem to get distracted either way.”

Your other hand slides to her thigh, firm as you guide her legs open, spreading her slowly until she’s fully exposed beneath you. She lets you, tense but compliant, her cock standing up against her stomach, already twitching in anticipation.

You position the cage carefully, guiding her cock down into it inch by inch, feeling the way she pulses as it’s forced into place, confined tightly. The metal presses close around her, and when you close it and click the lock shut, the sound is sharp, final, making her let out a low, frustrated breath as her cock strains uselessly inside.

You don’t stop there, your hands sliding back up her thighs, pushing them wider as you shift your body lower. You kneel properly between her legs, taking your time,

letting your hands rest on her thighs as you look at her for a moment before moving. Then you lean down, lowering yourself further until you’re on your stomach, your face level with her ass.

Cassie exhales sharply the second your breath hits her, her body tensing as she realizes exactly what you’re about to do. Her ass is soft but firm under your hands, the curve of it warm beneath your palms as you spread her slightly, exposing her more.

You press your mouth against her slowly, the first drag of your tongue deliberate, and she jolts immediately, a broken sound leaving her throat. Her hips twitch upward instinctively, cock pulsing hard inside the cage above while she tries to process the sudden, overwhelming sensation.

You take your time with her, licking slowly, deliberately, your tongue pressing in deeper while she reacts beneath you, her thighs tightening around your shoulders. “Fuck,” she breathes, voice uneven now, hands gripping at the sheets as her composure slips further.

Every movement of your mouth makes her body respond, hips jerking slightly, her breathing turning ragged as she tries to stay still for you. Her cock keeps twitching uselessly, leaking more against the cage, completely ignored while you focus on something else entirely.

You pull back just enough to reach for the lube, letting her feel the absence of your mouth before she can even recover. She watches you, chest rising and falling, lips parted as you slick your fingers, her body already anticipating what’s next. When you press the plug against her, she tenses immediately, a sharp inhale catching in her throat as you begin to push it inside her.

You ease it in slowly, inch by inch, feeling the way her body resists at first before gradually opening up for you, her hips jerking as the stretch settles deeper. Her head tips back, a strained groan slipping out as she adjusts, her entire body reacting to the fullness.

Once it’s fully inside, she goes quiet for a second, her breathing uneven as she tries to steady herself. Then you turn it on, low at first, just a soft hum that makes her entire body tense again instantly. Her thighs tighten, her cock twitching hard inside the cage, leaking more as the vibration settles deep inside her.

She tries to hold onto control, but it slips quickly, her hips starting to move on their own, chasing something she can’t properly reach. When you drag your fingers between her thighs, feeling how wet she’s gotten, she sucks in a sharp breath, her voice breaking slightly when she tries to tell you to stop.

But you don’t, and when you turn the vibration up, her entire body jolts beneath you, a raw, helpless sound tearing from her throat. Her cock pulses hard inside the cage, completely trapped, denied any real friction while her body is overwhelmed in every other way.

She grips the sheets tighter, hips jerking as the sensation builds too fast, too much, her breathing falling apart completely. “Please,” she manages, quieter now, desperate in a way she can’t hide anymore.

She presses back against you instinctively, chasing the feeling even though it’s not what she actually needs, her hips moving in slow, desperate motions. The vibration is still humming deep inside her, and it makes every movement feel sharper, more intense, but still wrong in the way that matters most.

Her cock twitches uselessly in the cage, leaking and aching, completely ignored while her body tries to find some kind of release. “Fuck—” she breathes, voice breaking as she shifts again, grinding back harder this time.

You can feel the way she’s starting to lose it completely, her control slipping with every uneven breath she takes. And instead of helping her, you stay right where you are, letting her chase something she can’t have.

She turns her head slightly, eyes unfocused but locked onto you, frustration and need mixing together in a way that makes her look almost wrecked already. Her hands reach for you, gripping at your hips, trying to pull you closer as she keeps grinding back against your body.

The cage presses awkwardly between you, her cock straining inside it with every movement, but it does nothing to give her the friction she’s desperate for. She lets out a low, strained sound, somewhere between a groan and a whine, when she realizes it’s not helping.

“Please,” she mutters again, softer this time, her grip tightening as her hips stutter. The plug buzzes steadily, pushing her further, making everything build too fast without any real release. She’s completely at your mercy now, and she knows it.

You shift then, finally moving, and for a second she thinks you’re going to give in, going to take the cage off and let her have what she needs. But instead, you push her back more firmly, guiding her down until she’s flat against the bed again.

You swing your leg over her hips and settle onto her lap, straddling her slowly, deliberately, watching the way her expression changes. Her cock is trapped between you, pressed up against your body through the cage, and the contact alone makes her inhale sharply.

She looks up at you, confused for half a second, before her hips instinctively try to move again. You don’t stop her, but you don’t help her either.

Instead, you start grinding down against her, slow at first, letting your weight press against the cage, letting her feel the pressure without giving her anything real. Her head tips back immediately, a broken sound leaving her throat as her hands grab at your thighs.

“Don’t—” she starts, but it falls apart halfway through, her hips jerking up into you anyway. The cage digs between you, her cock throbbing uselessly inside it, every movement just reminding her of what she can’t have.

You bounce slightly, slow, controlled, the friction working for you, not her, and she realizes it almost instantly. “That’s not—fuck—” she chokes out, her voice rough, frustrated, desperate.

You keep moving like that, grinding and bouncing on her lap, using her while she can’t do anything but take it. Her hands tighten on you, fingers digging into your skin as she tries to guide your movement, tries to get something out of it, but it’s pointless.

Her cock keeps twitching inside the cage, leaking more with every movement, but there’s no relief, no real friction where she needs it. The vibration inside her only makes it worse, her body reacting,

clenching, building again even though she hasn’t properly come down. “Please—take it off,” she manages, her voice shaking now, her composure completely gone.

But you don’t stop, and she breaks under it, her hips stuttering helplessly beneath you while you keep using her. Her breathing falls apart completely, chest rising and falling too fast, her head falling back against the bed.

She’s shaking again, caught between overstimulation and frustration, her cock still trapped, still aching, still wanting something she can’t reach.

Sometimes she’d stop herself halfway through touching your thigh absentmindedly, fingers flexing once against your skin before pulling away entirely like she’d crossed some invisible line inside her own head.

Other times you’d catch her staring openly at your mouth while you talked, only for her expression to tighten subtly when she realized you noticed. “Sorry,” she’d say softly after moments like that, voice carrying embarrassment beneath the calmness. “You distract me more than you realize.”

The restraint became unbearable after a while because you could physically feel how badly Baran wanted you underneath all that composure. Every kiss from her left you dizzy because she kissed like someone constantly holding themselves back from completely losing control.

You’d pull away from making out flushed and breathless while Baran sat there staring at you silently, chest rising unevenly beneath her shirt while her jaw stayed visibly tight afterward. Sometimes her fingers would twitch against your waist like she wanted to drag you directly into her lap but refused to let herself do it.

“Baran,” you whispered once after catching her staring at you like that across her couch, and she immediately looked away with a frustrated exhale. “Don’t look at me like that right now,” she muttered quietly. “I’m trying very hard to behave.”

That sentence stayed stuck in your head for weeks afterward. You kept thinking about what Baran would be like if she stopped behaving for once, if she finally gave into every look and every touch and every tense breath she’d been swallowing back around you for months.

You wanted rough hands instead of careful ones. You wanted her pinning you against walls and kissing you hard enough to leave your lips swollen afterward instead of always pulling herself away too soon.

You wanted to hear Baran lose that calm measured tone completely and say something filthy while she fucked you into her mattress. Most of all, you wanted proof that you affected her just as badly as she affected you because the tension between you both had become almost painful lately.

Tonight finally destroyed whatever control Baran had left.

The text she sent you earlier that afternoon looked completely harmless at first glance. “Dinner tonight?” she’d written simply, followed by another message ten minutes later asking if you wanted her to pick up your favourite takeout on the way home from the hospital.

Nothing about the conversation hinted toward what tonight would eventually become, which somehow only made the shift feel more intense later once everything spiraled.

You spent most of the evening completely unaware that Baran was apparently one bad moment away from finally snapping beneath all the restraint she’d been carrying around you for months. Looking back on it later, you realized she’d probably already been struggling before you even arrived at her apartment.

The second Baran opened the apartment door for you, something already felt off. Her composure looked thinner somehow, like she’d spent the entire day barely keeping herself together and finally ran out of energy to hide it properly by the time you showed up.

Dark curls fell messily around her face instead of sitting neatly styled the way they usually did after work, and the sleeves of her black button-up shirt had been rolled unevenly toward her elbows like she’d adjusted them distractedly halfway through a stressful shift.

Her dark eyes dragged slowly down your body the second she saw you standing there in her doorway, gaze lingering noticeably longer than usual before lifting back toward your face again.

“Hi,” you said softly after a second passed between you both. Baran stared at you silently for another heartbeat before finally stepping forward and kissing you hello.

The kiss lingered far too long to be considered normal anymore. Baran’s hand settled against the side of your neck first, warm fingers spreading carefully beneath your jaw while her mouth moved softly against yours in slow controlled kisses that almost convinced you she still had herself together.

Then you made one tiny sound into her mouth, barely more than a quiet breath catching in your throat, and Baran instantly lost part of her composure over it. Her fingers tightened sharply against your neck while the kiss deepened without warning, rougher and hungrier than anything she’d given you before tonight.

You physically felt the exact second she realized she’d slipped because Baran immediately pulled away afterward, chest rising harder while her eyes stayed locked somewhere near your mouth instead of properly meeting your gaze. “Sorry,” she murmured quietly, voice rough enough to make heat curl low in your stomach immediately.

“For what?” you asked softly while staring up at her.

Baran dragged one hand slowly back through her curls afterward like she was physically trying to gather herself together again. The movement exposed tension running visibly through her entire body now, tight shoulders and uneven breathing and fingers flexing slightly against her own thigh like she was fighting herself internally.

Her dark eyes lifted toward your face again before immediately dropping downward toward your lips once more. “Long day,” she muttered after another second passed, though her voice sounded strained now. Then she stepped aside finally and gestured for you to come inside. “Come in before I keep you standing out there all night.”

Dinner should’ve distracted both of you, but instead the tension somehow got worse. Baran barely touched her food once you both sat down together at the kitchen table, and you noticed it immediately because she usually paid attention to details like eating properly after long hospital shifts.

Tonight her focus stayed entirely on you instead, dark eyes drifting constantly toward your mouth every time you spoke or toward your hands whenever you reached across the table absentmindedly.

You started noticing tiny reactions too, like the way her throat moved every time you smiled at her too long or how her fingers tightened around her glass whenever your legs brushed beneath the table accidentally.

“You’re staring,” you teased quietly at one point while lifting an eyebrow toward her. Baran looked completely unashamed afterward. “I know,” she answered lowly without looking away once.

The response alone made your stomach tighten.

Once you realized how affected she was, you started pushing intentionally just to see how far Baran would let herself go before snapping completely.

Your foot brushed slowly against her ankle beneath the table once while you smiled softly at something she’d said earlier, and Baran immediately stopped speaking mid sentence afterward.

Her dark eyes lifted sharply toward your face while her breathing visibly changed almost instantly, slower and heavier now while tension pulled tighter across her expression.

You let your hand slide lightly across her wrist next while reaching for your drink, fingertips brushing warmly against her skin for only a second before pulling away again. Baran looked down at the spot where you touched her like the contact physically hurt. “You okay?” you asked softly afterward while trying not to smile too much at her reaction.

Baran laughed quietly beneath her breath then, though the sound carried pure frustration underneath it instead of amusement. Her jaw flexed visibly while she stared down at the table for another long moment before finally looking back toward you again.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” she muttered quietly, voice low enough to send heat rushing straight between your thighs immediately.

The confession hit you hard enough that your pulse started racing beneath your skin almost instantly afterward. Before you could properly answer her though, Baran abruptly stood from the table so quickly the movement startled you slightly.

She never moved abruptly. Everything about Baran usually stayed deliberate and controlled and carefully thought through before she acted on it.

“Baran?” you asked softly while watching her pace once toward the kitchen counter.

She dragged a frustrated hand slowly over her mouth afterward before turning toward you again, and the expression on her face nearly stole the air directly from your lungs.

Every ounce of restraint she usually carried had visibly started cracking apart now, leaving nothing except raw overwhelming desire written openly across her features while her dark eyes dragged slowly over your body again.

The intensity in that look made your thighs press together instinctively beneath the table because Baran suddenly looked less like the composed careful woman you’d been dating for months and more like someone actively losing a fight with herself in real time.

“You need to stop looking at me like that,” she said finally, voice low enough to send another pulse of heat through your stomach. “Like what?” you asked softly while standing slowly from your chair.

Baran stared at you silently for another long second before laughing beneath her breath again, this time sounding completely wrecked already.

“You know exactly what,” Baran muttered quietly after another long second passed between you both. Her voice had lost almost all of its usual composure now, rough and strained in a way that immediately made your stomach tighten harder.

She stayed standing near the kitchen counter while watching you rise slowly from your chair, dark eyes dragging over every movement you made like she physically couldn’t stop herself anymore.

The apartment suddenly felt too warm, too quiet, too small for the amount of tension sitting between you both right now. “You keep looking at me like you want something,”

Baran added lower afterward, fingers flexing once against the edge of the counter beside her. “And I’m trying very hard not to completely lose my mind over it.”

Heat flooded straight through your body at the confession.

You stepped closer toward her carefully after that, unable to stop yourself anymore now that Baran had finally started saying some of the things she’d been holding back for months. Her eyes tracked you immediately, gaze dropping toward your legs before slowly lifting back toward your face again while her breathing visibly deepened.

Every tiny bit of distance disappearing between you both seemed to affect her more and more, enough that tension started showing openly through the tightness in her jaw and shoulders now. “Maybe I do want something,” you answered softly while stopping directly in front of her.

Baran exhaled sharply through her nose afterward, dark lashes lowering briefly before she looked at you again with an expression that made your pulse jump violently.

“You shouldn’t say things like that right now,” she murmured quietly.

“Why not?”

The question came out softer than you intended, almost teasing beneath the warmth building in your chest now. Baran stared at you silently afterward like she was trying to decide something internally, dark eyes flicking between your face and your mouth before finally settling properly on your eyes again.

One of her hands lifted slightly from her side like she wanted to touch you before stopping halfway there. The hesitation somehow made the tension feel even worse because Baran looked genuinely torn between grabbing you and forcing herself to stay still. “Because,” she started slowly, voice lower now, “I don’t think I can keep being careful with you tonight.”

The sentence hit you so hard your thighs pressed together instinctively.

Baran noticed immediately.

Her eyes dropped downward at the movement before slowly lifting back toward your face again, expression visibly darkening after realizing exactly how much her words affected you.

“Fuck,” she muttered softly beneath her breath while dragging another frustrated hand back through her curls. The roughness in her voice made heat rush straight between your legs again because Baran sounded genuinely overwhelmed now, completely unlike the calm measured woman she usually forced herself to be around you.

“You don’t understand,” she continued quietly afterward while stepping closer until your bodies nearly touched. “I’ve spent months trying not to overwhelm you.”

“You don’t overwhelm me,” you whispered immediately.

Baran’s entire expression shifted after hearing that.

Something inside her visibly snapped a little further while dark eyes searched your face almost desperately now, like she needed to make sure you actually meant what you’d just said.

Her hand finally reached toward you then, fingers sliding slowly against your waist before gripping more firmly than usual once she pulled you closer against her body.

The sudden pressure immediately made your breath catch because Baran almost never touched you possessively like this. “You say that now,” she murmured lowly while staring directly into your eyes. “But you have no idea how difficult it’s been not touching you the way I really want to.”

Your entire body heated instantly.

“Then touch me how you want to.”

The words left your mouth before you could second guess them.

Baran went completely still afterward. Every bit of movement disappeared from her body for one long dangerous second while your sentence settled heavily between you both in the middle of the quiet apartment.

Her grip tightened hard enough against your waist to make you gasp softly while her eyes searched your face one more time like she was looking for hesitation anywhere. She didn’t find any.

“Say that again,” Baran said quietly, though the roughness in her voice immediately sent another pulse of heat through your stomach. Your pulse pounded wildly beneath your skin while you stared up at her completely unable to look away now.

“Touch me how you want to,” you repeated softly.

That destroyed the last bit of control she had left.

Baran kissed you instantly.

The force of it made you stumble backward against the edge of the kitchen counter while a startled sound escaped your mouth directly into hers. Gone were the slow careful kisses she usually gave you.

Gone were the measured touches and soft pauses and constant restraint she wrapped around herself every time you got too close. Baran kissed you like she’d been starving for months instead, rough mouth moving desperately against yours while one hand grabbed your jaw hard enough to tilt your head exactly where she wanted it. The noise she made when you moaned into the kiss sounded almost feral.

“Fuck,” Baran groaned roughly against your mouth while kissing you harder.

Your fingers tangled immediately into the front of her shirt while Baran crowded fully against your body now, all heat and muscle and overwhelming intensity pressing you directly into the counter behind you.

One of her thighs pushed between yours instinctively while her mouth dragged from your lips down toward your jaw next, rough kisses replacing the soft lingering ones she usually gave you. Every touch suddenly carried urgency behind it now, months worth of restraint finally collapsing all at once beneath her hands.

“Baran—” you gasped softly when her teeth scraped lightly against your neck afterward. She groaned immediately at hearing her name in that tone.

“There you are,” she muttered roughly against your throat while her hands slid greedily down your body. “That’s the sound I’ve been thinking about.”

Your stomach twisted violently at the confession.

Baran kissed lower against your throat again before biting gently at the sensitive skin beneath your jaw, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough that your entire body arched directly into hers with a broken moan.

The reaction instantly wrecked whatever composure she still had left because suddenly her hands were everywhere all at once. One gripped your waist hard enough to bruise while the other slid beneath your shirt desperately, warm fingers spreading across your stomach before dragging upward toward your chest.

“Do you know,” Baran started roughly while breathing hard against your neck, “how many times I’ve imagined this?” Her fingers squeezed your waist harder afterward while your pulse raced uncontrollably beneath her touch. “How many nights I’ve spent trying not to think about getting you exactly like this?”

The words nearly made your knees buckle.

“Baran, please,” you whispered shakily while your hands clutched tighter against her shoulders.

The plea absolutely ruined her.

A low sound left Baran’s throat immediately, rough and wrecked enough that your pussy clenched hard between your thighs beneath her body. She pulled back just enough to look directly at your face afterward, dark eyes blown wide now while her chest rose unevenly beneath your hands.

“You cannot say please to me like that right now,” she muttered quietly, though her voice shook slightly around the edges now from how badly she was losing control.

Your lips parted instinctively after hearing it while Baran’s gaze dropped immediately toward your mouth again. “Why?” you asked softly, barely above a whisper now. Baran stared at you for one long dangerous second before grabbing your jaw firmly again.

“Because I don’t think I’m capable of being gentle with you anymore tonight,” she admitted lowly.

The confession sent heat crashing violently through your body the second it left Baran’s mouth. Her hand stayed wrapped firmly around your jaw while dark eyes searched your face carefully, like some small part of her still expected hesitation from you even now despite the way your body already leaned toward hers instinctively.

You could physically feel the restraint barely hanging together beneath her touch, every muscle in her body tense with the effort of keeping herself under control for even another second longer.

Your pulse pounded hard enough to hurt while you stared up at her completely breathless beneath the intensity sitting openly across her face now. “Then don’t be gentle with me,” you whispered softly, voice shaking slightly from how badly you wanted her.

Baran froze immediately afterward.

The reaction hit her hard enough that you physically felt the shift run through her body where she pressed against you, sharp and sudden and dangerous in a way that instantly made your stomach tighten harder.

Her fingers tightened against your jaw while her breathing visibly deepened, dark lashes lowering briefly before she looked at you again with an expression that nearly made your knees give out beneath you.

“What did you just say?” she asked quietly, though the roughness in her voice betrayed exactly how much your words affected her. Heat rushed violently between your thighs while your fingers tightened against the front of her shirt, nails catching lightly against the fabric while you held her gaze. “I don’t want careful tonight,” you admitted shakily. “I want you to stop holding back with me.”

That destroyed the last thread of composure she still had left.

“Azizam,” Baran breathed roughly, the farsi pet name sounding completely wrecked coming from her now. Then her mouth crashed against yours hard enough to steal the breath directly from your lungs while both hands grabbed your hips all at once.

The force of the kiss made you gasp immediately into her mouth while your fingers slipped desperately into her curls, clinging tightly as Baran kissed you with absolutely none of the patience she usually forced herself to have around you.

Her tongue pushed against yours greedily while her hands dragged down your body like she physically couldn’t touch enough of you fast enough anymore.

Every movement carried urgency now, months worth of restraint finally pouring directly into her hands and mouth and the rough desperate noises leaving her throat every time you moaned for her.

“Oh my god,” you gasped breathlessly when Baran suddenly spun you around without warning.

Your stomach hit the edge of the kitchen table immediately afterward while Baran pressed fully against your back, one hand gripping your hip firmly enough to keep you bent exactly where she wanted you.

The sudden manhandling nearly made your brain short circuit because Baran had never handled you like this before, never moved you around so confidently and possessively like she already knew your body belonged beneath her hands.

Her chest pressed flush against your back while rough kisses dragged along the side of your neck, dark curls brushing softly against your skin every few seconds while she breathed hard against you.

“You asked for this,” Baran murmured lowly against your throat while one hand slid possessively up your stomach. “You begged me to stop being careful with you, joonam.” The second farsi pet name fell from her mouth in a rough breath and your pussy clenched immediately between your thighs.

Baran felt the reaction instantly.

A low groan left her throat while her fingers tightened harder against your waist, dark eyes watching your reflection carefully through the nearby kitchen window now.

You looked completely ruined already bent over her kitchen table, flushed skin and swollen lips and trembling thighs while Baran crowded tightly against your back. “There,” she muttered softly after seeing the way your body reacted to her voice. “That’s what I wanted to see.”

Her hand slid higher against your stomach afterward before dragging beneath the hem of your shirt impatiently, warm palms spreading over your bare skin while she slowly pushed the fabric upward. Every inch of skin she exposed seemed to make her breathing rougher behind you.

The shirt barely made it over your head before Baran kissed your shoulder again.

The kiss wasn’t soft this time.

Her mouth moved rough and open against your skin while both hands slid greedily over your bare stomach and ribs, fingertips digging slightly into your flesh like she’d spent months imagining exactly how your body would feel beneath her palms.

Cool air brushed instantly across your exposed chest while your bra still clung loosely to your skin, nipples already painfully sensitive beneath the thin fabric from how worked up you’d gotten.

Baran stared openly at your body through the reflection afterward, dark eyes dragging slowly over your chest while her jaw visibly tightened again. “Beautiful girl,” she murmured quietly against your neck. “Do you know how difficult you’ve made this for me?”

The rough honesty in her voice nearly made your legs give out.

Baran’s fingers hooked beneath your bra straps next before dragging them slowly down your shoulders, exposing more skin inch by inch while her mouth kissed along the side of your throat again.

The second your breasts finally spilled free from the fabric, Baran groaned softly behind you in a way that made heat pulse violently between your thighs again. One of her hands immediately closed around your chest afterward, squeezing firmly while her thumb dragged slowly across your nipple until it tightened painfully beneath her touch.

The sharp pleasure made your back arch directly against her while a broken moan escaped your mouth immediately. “There you are,” Baran muttered roughly after hearing the sound. “I’ve been thinking about touching you like this for months.”

Your thighs pressed together helplessly beneath her hands.

Baran noticed immediately.

Her palm slid downward slowly against your stomach after another second passed before gripping your hip firmly again, keeping your body bent over the edge of the table while she kissed lazily along your shoulder and neck.

Every touch from her felt completely different now, rougher and needier and so much more possessive than before. The careful distance she usually kept between you both had completely disappeared beneath the weight of her restraint finally collapsing tonight.

“You’re shaking,” Baran murmured softly against your ear afterward, voice lower than usual now while her fingers tightened against your hip. “Tell me if I’m overwhelming you.”

“It’s not enough,” you whispered immediately.

Baran groaned quietly behind you.

The sound came out low and wrecked enough that your stomach tightened violently beneath her body while heat flooded between your legs again. One of her hands suddenly slid directly between your thighs afterward, pressing firmly against your clothed pussy through your shorts while your breath caught sharply in your throat.

The pressure instantly made your hips jerk backward against her while a needy sound escaped your mouth before you could stop it. “Not enough?” Baran repeated quietly while rubbing slow pressure directly where you needed her most.

“Look at you, azizam. You’re already dripping through these.” Her fingers pressed harder against your soaked panties afterward, enough that you physically felt the wetness smear against the fabric.

“Oh god,” you gasped softly while your thighs trembled around her hand.

Baran’s breathing visibly deepened again after hearing you.

The roughness in her expression darkened immediately while she kept rubbing steady pressure against your pussy through the soaked fabric, eyes fixed completely on your reflection now while she watched your body react to her.

“Tell me what you want,” she murmured lowly against your ear afterward. “I want to hear you say it.” Your pussy throbbed painfully between your thighs while slick continued soaking through your panties beneath her hand, clit swollen and aching from how long she’d spent teasing you tonight already. “Please —”

That absolutely ruined her.

Baran cursed softly beneath her breath before suddenly dragging your shorts and underwear down your thighs together in one impatient rough movement.

Cool air brushed instantly against your soaked pussy while your face burned from how exposed you suddenly felt bent over her kitchen table like this. Your folds already glistened visibly with slick beneath the apartment lighting, wetness clinging thickly between swollen lips while your clit twitched slightly from the sudden exposure.

Baran went completely still behind you after finally seeing you properly for the first time tonight. Then her fingers tightened hard enough against your hips to make you gasp softly.

“You’re this wet for me?” she asked quietly.

The strain in her voice made your stomach twist violently.

Baran stared openly between your thighs now, dark eyes fixed directly on the slick coating your pussy while your legs trembled helplessly beneath her gaze. Wetness already dripped slowly down the inside of your thighs from how long she’d spent teasing you through your clothes beforehand,

your pussy swollen and aching and visibly pulsing every time Baran’s fingers brushed too close without properly touching you yet. “Look at you,” she muttered softly after another second passed, almost sounding disbelieving now.

“So pretty for me.” The praise immediately made your pussy clench around nothing hard enough to ache. “For you,” you admitted breathlessly while your forehead dropped against the table. “Only for you.”

Baran kissed your shoulder softly after hearing that.

The tenderness lasted maybe two seconds.

Then her hand slid directly between your thighs and rubbed firmly against your clit without warning. A loud cry escaped your mouth immediately while your entire body jolted hard against the table beneath her.

Baran groaned softly behind you at the reaction, fingers circling your swollen clit rough enough to make your legs shake almost instantly while slick coated her fingertips immediately.

“Joonam,” she muttered lowly while watching your body fall apart beneath her hand. “I have spent months thinking about touching this pretty pussy.”

Her fingers dragged slowly through your soaked folds afterward, collecting slick before circling back toward your clit again. “Months thinking about how sweet you’d sound for me once I finally stopped holding back.”

“Please,” you gasped again while your hips bucked desperately against her hand.

Baran’s fingers immediately pushed into your mouth.

The sudden movement made your eyes widen while she pressed two slick fingers gently against your tongue, dark eyes watching your reflection carefully in the kitchen window again while your lips closed instinctively around them.

“No more begging yet,” she murmured quietly behind you while her free hand spread your thighs wider apart. “I’m trying very hard not to completely lose my mind right now, azizam.”

The rough honesty in her voice nearly made your knees give out beneath you completely. Then her fingers slipped slowly from your mouth again while her hand immediately returned between your legs.

“Just let me touch you first,” Baran whispered against your neck before finally sliding two fingers deep inside your soaked pussy in one smooth rough thrust.

Your entire body jolted violently the second her fingers pushed into you. The sudden stretch made a broken sound rip from your throat while your back arched instinctively against her, slick immediately coating her knuckles from how wet you already were for her.

Baran didn’t ease you into it, didn’t give you time to adjust or breathe or think, she just drove her fingers deeper in one rough movement like she’d been imagining exactly how you’d feel around her for far too long.

The pressure hit perfectly, curling just enough that your thighs shook hard beneath her hands while your pussy clenched tight around her fingers without any control left. “That’s it,” Baran breathed low behind you, voice gone completely wrecked now. “Fuck, azizam, you’re already squeezing me like that.”

Her other hand slammed flat between your shoulder blades without warning.

The force pushed you face down into the table instantly, cheek pressed against the cool surface while your breath came out sharp and uneven against the wood.

Your chest flattened beneath you, breasts pressing heavily against the table while your nipples dragged slightly against the surface every time your body jerked from the way she was fingering you.

The position felt humiliating in the best way possible, completely exposed and pinned beneath her while Baran held you exactly where she wanted you.

You couldn’t move properly, couldn’t pull away, couldn’t do anything except take whatever she gave you while your body reacted uncontrollably beneath her.

“Stay,” Baran muttered roughly against your ear while her hand pressed harder between your shoulders. “Don’t move, joonam. Let me feel you.”

Her fingers started moving properly after that.

Not slow.

Not careful.

Baran fucked her fingers into you hard enough to make the table creak beneath your weight, each thrust dragging slick sounds out of your body while your pussy clenched desperately around her every single time.

You could feel how long her fingers were, how deep they reached, how easily they stretched you open while your body reacted like it had been waiting for this exact touch for months.

The curl of her fingers hit something deep inside you that made your legs shake violently, pleasure snapping through your stomach sharp enough to make your vision blur slightly.

“Oh god—” you cried out into the table, voice muffled and broken while your hips tried to push backward against her hand.

Baran groaned behind you at the movement.

The sound came out low and rough and completely unfiltered, like she wasn’t even trying to hold herself together anymore now that she had you like this beneath her. Her hand tightened hard against your back, keeping you pressed flat while her other hand fucked into you harder, faster, deeper.

“You feel that?” she muttered against your neck, voice thick with want. “Feel how easily I can push into you?” Her fingers curled again deliberately, pressing directly against that spot inside you that made your entire body jerk helplessly beneath her. “You’re so fucking wet for me,” she added lowly. “Look at this mess, sweetheart. You’ve been ready for me this whole time.”

Your pussy clenched violently at the words.

Slick dripped down your thighs now, pooling slightly against the table beneath you while every movement of her fingers spread it further, making everything feel wetter, louder, more intense.

Your breasts dragged helplessly against the surface with every thrust she gave you, nipples sensitive enough now that even the friction made small desperate sounds fall from your mouth.

You couldn’t stop yourself from grinding back against her hand, chasing the feeling she was giving you while your body completely gave up any sense of control. “Baran— please—” you gasped, voice shaking hard enough that the word barely came out properly.

“Please what?” she snapped immediately.

The sharpness in her tone made your stomach tighten hard.

Her fingers didn’t slow down for a second while she spoke, still driving into you relentlessly while your body shook beneath her. “You wanted this,” Baran continued roughly.

“You told me not to be gentle with you, remember?” Her hand slid from your back to grip your hip instead, pulling you harder against her hand while she fucked you faster. “Now take it,” she murmured low against your ear. “Take what you asked for.”

The filthy command made your brain feel like it was melting.

Your body reacted instantly, pussy clenching tighter around her fingers while your hips pushed back harder against her without you even thinking about it.

The sound of slick and skin filled the room, loud and obscene while your breathing turned completely uneven beneath her. You could feel yourself getting closer already, that tight coiling heat building fast in your stomach while every thrust from her fingers pushed you closer to the edge. “I’m—” you tried to speak but your voice broke completely, body shaking too hard now to form proper words.

Baran noticed immediately.

Her fingers slowed for one single second before thrusting back into you harder than before, curling deliberately while her thumb pressed down roughly against your clit. The double sensation hit so hard your entire body arched against the table despite her grip keeping you pinned down.

“You’re gonna cum like this?” she asked lowly, almost mocking, but her voice carried something else too. Something darker. Hungrier. “Gonna soak my fingers while I hold you down?”

Her thumb rubbed your clit harder, faster, perfectly in time with the way she was thrusting into you. “Go on then,” Baran muttered against your neck. “Cum for me. I want to feel it.”

That pushed you straight over the edge.

Your orgasm hit hard enough to make your legs nearly give out beneath you, a broken cry ripping from your throat while your entire body shook violently against the table. Your pussy clenched tight around her fingers while slick soaked her hand completely, thighs trembling uncontrollably while you rode it out helplessly beneath her.

“Fuck,” Baran groaned low behind you, voice almost strained now while she kept her fingers inside you through it. “There it is. Good girl. That’s what I wanted.” Her hand didn’t stop moving either, still thrusting slowly while your body twitched and shook from the intensity of it.

You could feel her watching you.

Feel the way her breathing changed.

Feel the way her control slipped even further seeing you like this.

“Look at you,” Baran murmured quietly, almost to herself now. “Completely fucked out already.” Her fingers dragged slowly inside you again, making your body jolt from how sensitive you were now. “And I’ve barely even started.”

Your body was still trembling when Baran finally slowed her hand inside you. Your thighs quivered around her wrist while your pussy kept pulsing weakly from the aftershocks, still tight and sensitive and soaked enough that you could feel slick sliding between your folds every time she shifted slightly.

You stayed bent over the table for a second longer, cheek pressed to the surface, breath uneven while your brain struggled to catch up with how hard she’d just made you cum.

The feeling of her fingers still buried inside you made your stomach twist all over again, overstimulation already creeping in while your hips twitched helplessly backward. Then something in you shifted, slower this time but deeper, and you pushed yourself up enough to turn toward her.

Baran barely had time to react before you grabbed her wrist firmly. You didn’t give her space to pull away or think, your fingers tightening around her as you guided her hand toward your mouth without hesitation.

Your lips closed around her fingers immediately, still slick from you, still warm, and the taste hit you all at once in a way that made a low sound slip from your throat.

Your tongue dragged along them slowly, deliberately, licking every bit of your own wetness from her skin while your eyes stayed locked on hers the entire time.

“Fuck,” Baran breathed, her voice dropping lower and rougher than before, something in her expression cracking open again as she watched you take her fingers deeper into your mouth.

You didn’t rush it, not even slightly. Your lips tightened around her fingers while your tongue slid along them, sucking them clean with slow, deliberate movements that made her breathing change in real time.

You could feel the shift in her body, the way tension pulled tighter through her shoulders, the way her chest rose heavier, the way her gaze darkened the longer you kept going.

Your pussy clenched again just from watching her watch you, from knowing exactly what you were doing to her now. When you finally pulled her fingers from your mouth, your lips were still wet, parted slightly,

breath shaky while you looked up at her like you needed something else immediately. “Please,” you whispered softly, voice weaker now, needier, like the word barely held together.

Baran’s entire expression shifted at the sound of it. Her head tilted slightly while she looked down at you, something darker settling behind her eyes again, something possessive and almost hungry now.

“What do you want?” she asked quietly, though her voice had gone thick, strained in a way that told you she already knew. Your hands moved without hesitation, grabbing the front of her shirt and pulling her closer until her body brushed against yours again, heat and tension snapping between you instantly.

Your pussy throbbed again between your legs, still sensitive, still slick, still aching from everything she’d just done to you. “Take your clothes off,” you begged softly. “I need to feel you too. I need to see you.”

Baran exhaled slowly, and it sounded heavier now, like she was holding herself together by a thread. Her eyes dragged over your face for a second, searching, checking, even now, even like this, that last bit of her restraint still trying to exist.

“You’re sure?” she asked quietly, voice lower, rougher, almost dangerous now. Your hands tightened against her shirt, pulling her closer, your body pressing fully into hers without hesitation. “I’ve never been more sure,” you whispered. “Please, baby. I want all of you.”

That was it.

Baran moved first, faster than before, rougher than before. Her hands grabbed the hem of her shirt and yanked it over her head in one sharp movement, tossing it somewhere behind her without even looking.

Your eyes dropped immediately, taking in the way her chest rose unevenly now, the way her skin flushed slightly from heat and arousal.

You didn’t hesitate, your hands already moving over her, palms sliding over her stomach, her ribs, the firm lines of her body while your fingers spread like you needed to touch everywhere at once.

She felt warm, solid, real under your hands, and the difference from all those careful touches before made your head spin. “Careful,” Baran muttered lowly, but there was no real warning in it, just tension, just restraint slipping.

You shook your head.

“Not tonight.”

Her breath hitched slightly at that, just enough for you to notice. Your hands slid higher, pushing her bra straps down slowly, watching the way her chest rose harder, the way her nipples tightened under the fabric before it slipped away completely.

The moment she was exposed, you stared, not even trying to hide it, your eyes dragging over her chest while your fingers finally closed around her. The sound she made was quiet, but it was there, sharp enough to make your pussy clench again.

“You’re staring,” she said softly, though her voice had gone thinner now, less controlled. “You’re beautiful,” you whispered back, thumbs brushing slowly over her nipples while you squeezed her harder.

Your touch wasn’t gentle anymore. You squeezed and dragged your hands over her chest like you needed to feel everything at once, watching the way her body reacted in real time. Baran let you, barely moving except for the way her fingers flexed at her sides, like she was trying not to take control again too quickly.

But you could see it, the way her breathing stayed uneven, the way her eyes kept dropping lower, the way her thighs shifted slightly. “Take the rest off,” you murmured softly. “I want to see how wet you are. I want to feel you too.”

Baran didn’t argue.

Her hands moved to her waistband, pushing her trousers down slowly this time, her eyes never leaving yours while you helped her, fingers brushing her hips, her thighs, every inch of skin you could reach.

The fabric slid lower, then lower, until she stepped out of them completely, leaving nothing between you both but her underwear. You could already see the dampness there, the way the fabric clung slightly, the faint outline of her arousal showing through it.

Your breath caught, your body reacting instantly, your pussy pulsing again just from the sight. “Look at you,” you whispered softly. “You’re soaked.”

Baran’s jaw tightened at that, but she didn’t deny it.

“Take them off,” you said, softer now, more desperate. “Please.”

She did.

Her fingers hooked into the fabric and pulled it down slowly, and when it finally fell away, you saw her properly for the first time. Slick already glistened between her folds, her pussy wet and open and flushed, her clit visible and sensitive from how worked up she’d gotten watching you.

The sight hit you hard enough that your thighs pressed together instinctively, your breath catching while your eyes dragged over her slowly. She was already dripping, arousal gathering and slipping lower while her body reacted just from you looking at her like that. “Happy?” Baran asked quietly, though her voice sounded rougher now.

You shook your head slowly.

“Not even close.”

Baran’s eyes darkened the second the words left your mouth, something sharp and possessive flickering across her expression before it settled into something far more dangerous.

The shift happened instantly, like whatever restraint she had left finally snapped clean through, leaving nothing but want sitting openly on her face while she stepped closer into your space.

Her hand came up to your jaw again, not gentle this time, fingers curling firmly as she tilted your face upward so you had no choice but to look at her.

“Not even close?” she repeated lowly, voice rough and edged with something that made your stomach twist hard. You could feel it, the way she was already losing control again, the way her grip tightened just enough to make your breath hitch.

You didn’t pull away.

Your hands slid lower instead, dragging slowly over her stomach and down to her hips, fingers pressing into her skin while your eyes dropped deliberately between her legs again.

Her pussy was still wet, still glistening, slick gathered thickly between her folds while her clit sat swollen and sensitive, already worked up from everything she’d watched you do.

The sight made your own throb immediately, your pussy still aching from your orgasm, still sensitive enough that every movement sent small pulses through your body.

You stepped closer until your thigh brushed hers, heat pressing between you while your breath came out uneven. “I want more,” you whispered, softer now, your voice carrying that same desperate edge. “I want to feel you like you made me feel.”

Baran exhaled sharply, her grip tightening slightly before her gaze dropped down your body again, tracking the way you leaned into her, the way your hands stayed on her like you weren’t afraid anymore. Something in her expression shifted again, something darker, something that made your pulse jump hard in your chest.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” she murmured, though her voice had dropped lower, rougher, less controlled with every second. Her thumb dragged slowly across your bottom lip, pressing just enough to make your mouth part. “I’ve been holding back for a reason.”

“I don’t want you to hold back,” you said immediately.

Your voice shook this time, not from hesitation, but from how badly you meant it. Your hands slid behind her hips, pulling her closer until her body pressed flush against yours, heat and slick and tension snapping between you instantly.

You could feel her arousal now, the damp heat between her thighs, the way her body reacted just from being this close to you. “Please,” you added, softer now, almost pleading, your breath brushing her skin. “I want all of you. I want you like this.”

Baran didn’t kiss you this time.

Instead, her grip on your jaw loosened only to tangle suddenly into your hair, fingers wrapping tight at the roots before she pulled you forward roughly. The motion made you stumble slightly, a sharp breath leaving your mouth as she dragged you with her toward the table again.

“Then get down,” she said lowly, voice firm now, leaving no room for hesitation. Your knees hit the floor first, the impact sending a small jolt through your body while your hands braced instinctively against the table above you. Baran followed immediately, not giving you space, not giving you time to think.

Then she climbed over you.

The shift was immediate, overwhelming, her thighs settling on either side of your shoulders while her body hovered above yours, one hand still gripping your hair tightly.

You barely had time to react before she pulled your face forward, pressing you directly between her thighs, her pussy right there, warm and slick and close enough that you could feel her heat against your mouth.

“Open,” she murmured lowly, her voice rough with need, her grip tightening slightly when you hesitated for half a second. You obeyed instantly, your lips parting while your breath hitched hard in your throat.

The first contact made both of you react.

Your tongue dragged slowly through her folds, gathering the slick already coating her while a low sound left her mouth above you. Baran’s grip tightened immediately, fingers digging slightly into your hair while she pulled you closer, pressing your face harder into her.

“That’s it,” she breathed, her voice dropping lower, almost shaking now. “Fuck, joonam— just like that.” You moaned softly against her, the sound muffled while your tongue moved again, slower, more deliberate, tasting her properly this time.

Your own body reacted instantly.

Your hand slid between your thighs without thinking, fingers finding your clit immediately, still sensitive, still swollen from earlier. The first touch made you gasp softly against her, your hips shifting slightly while you started rubbing slow circles over yourself.

The combination hit hard, your tongue moving against her while your fingers worked your own clit, your body caught between giving and needing at the same time.

Slick coated your fingers again almost instantly, your pussy clenching as your breath came out uneven against her skin. Baran felt it, heard it, her thighs tightening around your head while she let out another rough sound.

“Are you touching yourself?” she asked lowly, her voice thick with something darker now.

You didn’t stop.

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice muffled against her while your fingers pressed harder against your clit, your hips shifting slightly with every movement.

Your tongue dragged higher, circling her clit while your hand moved faster between your own thighs, your body reacting almost too quickly.

Baran’s head tipped back slightly, her grip tightening in your hair while she guided your movements, pressing you exactly where she wanted you. “Good girl,” she murmured, the praise rough and breathless. “Touch yourself while you eat me. I want to feel it.”

The words made your pussy clench hard.

Your fingers sped up without thinking, your body already close again, sensitivity making every movement feel sharper, stronger, almost overwhelming. Your tongue moved faster against her, licking and pressing while her thighs held you there, keeping you exactly where she wanted you.

Baran’s breathing grew heavier above you, uneven, her hips shifting slightly against your mouth while she lost more control. “Don’t stop,” she muttered lowly, her voice strained now, her grip tightening again. “I want you to make me cum like this.”

You didn’t hesitate.

Your tongue pressed harder, your mouth working against her while your fingers rubbed your clit faster, your own body already trembling again beneath the intensity of it.

The table creaked softly above you, the sound mixing with her breathing, your breathing, everything blurring together while tension built fast in your stomach again.

Baran’s thighs tightened suddenly, her body reacting sharply while a low, broken sound left her mouth. “Fuck—” she breathed, her voice completely wrecked now. “Just like that, don’t stop—”

Baran’s thighs tightened around your head just as your tongue pressed harder against her, your movements growing more desperate, more focused, more intent on dragging her closer to the edge.

You could feel it in the way her body reacted, the subtle tremor running through her legs, the way her breathing had turned uneven and sharp above you.

Your fingers kept moving between your own thighs at the same time, circling your swollen clit while slick coated your hand again, your body already sensitive and overstimulated but unable to stop.

Every flick of your tongue against her made her hips shift, pressing down harder into your mouth, chasing the feeling you were giving her. “Don’t stop,” she breathed, her voice strained now, right on the edge, her grip in your hair tightening again.

Then suddenly, she pulled you back.

The motion was sharp, deliberate, her fingers twisting in your hair as she yanked your face away from between her thighs before you could react.

Your breath hitched hard, lips still parted, your mouth still wet from her, your eyes snapping up to meet hers while your chest rose unevenly.

Baran hovered above you, her body tense, her chest rising and falling while her gaze locked onto yours with something darker sitting behind it now.

One hand stayed tight in your hair, keeping your head tilted back, your mouth open exactly the way she wanted it. “Look at me,” she said lowly, her voice rough and controlled in a way that made your stomach twist.

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Baran’s gaze dragged slowly over your face, taking in your parted lips, the way your breathing had gone uneven, the way you were already completely wrecked beneath her. Then she did something that made your pulse jump hard in your chest.

She tilted her head slightly, gathering spit slowly in her mouth while maintaining eye contact with you the entire time. The moment stretched, thick with tension, her grip in your hair tightening slightly as she leaned closer. “Open,” she murmured, even though your mouth was already parted.

You obeyed anyway.

Baran spat directly into your mouth.

The act hit you hard, your body reacting instantly, a soft sound leaving your throat while your lips closed around it automatically. Your cheeks burned, heat rushing through your body while your eyes stayed locked on hers, something about the intimacy of it making your pussy throb again between your legs.

Baran watched you swallow, her gaze darkening further when she saw the way you reacted. “Good,” she said quietly, her voice softer now but still edged with that same roughness. Then her grip shifted, pushing you forward again, guiding your face back between her thighs.

“Use it,” she murmured lowly.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your tongue slid back against her immediately, wetter now, slicker, the taste of her mixed with what she’d just given you while your mouth moved against her again. The sensation seemed to hit her harder this time, her body jolting slightly while a sharp breath left her mouth.

Your hands gripped her thighs, holding her there while your tongue worked against her, pressing and circling and dragging through her folds while she reacted above you. Your own body kept moving too, your fingers still rubbing your clit while your hips shifted against your hand, your breathing uneven and shaky.

Baran lost control fast after that.

Her grip in your hair tightened sharply while her hips pressed down harder against your mouth, chasing the feeling you were giving her. The sounds she made turned rougher, less controlled, breaking through her composure completely while her body tensed above you.

“Fuck—” she breathed, her voice wrecked now, her head tipping back slightly while her thighs tightened around your head. You didn’t stop, your tongue moving faster, more focused, pushing her closer while your own body shook beneath you. “That’s it,” she gasped, her voice breaking slightly. “Don’t stop—”

Then she came.

Her entire body tensed above you, a sharp sound leaving her mouth while her hips pressed down hard against your face. You felt it, the way she reacted, the way her body pulsed while your tongue stayed against her, the way her thighs held you there while she rode it out.

Her breathing turned ragged, uneven, her grip in your hair tightening before loosening slightly as the intensity passed. She didn’t pull away immediately, her body still hovering above you while your mouth stayed against her, still tasting her, still feeling the aftermath of it.

“Fuck,” Baran breathed quietly.

Her voice sounded different now, softer, but still rough around the edges while her chest rose and fell unevenly. She looked down at you, her gaze lingering on your face, your lips, the way you were still positioned beneath her.

One hand slid from your hair to your jaw, tilting your face up toward her again while her thumb brushed lightly across your lower lip. “Look at you,” she murmured softly. “So good for me.”

Baran stayed above you for a moment longer, her breathing still uneven while her gaze lingered on your face like she was trying to take in every detail of you like this. The tension hadn’t disappeared, it had only shifted, settling heavier now between you both, thicker and more dangerous than before.

Then she moved, slower this time, her body lowering as she slipped off you and dropped down in front of you instead. The change in position felt just as intense, her presence still overwhelming, still close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from her skin.

One of her hands slid immediately to your waist, pulling you toward her while her other hand came up to your jaw again, guiding you into her space.

Her mouth found yours without hesitation.

The kiss wasn’t as explosive as before, but it wasn’t gentle either, it carried weight behind it, something deep and hungry and lingering while her lips moved against yours with slow, deliberate pressure.

You moaned softly into her mouth, your hands moving instinctively over her body, sliding across her shoulders and down her back while you pulled her closer. Baran responded immediately, her grip tightening at your waist while her tongue pushed into your mouth again, slower this time but just as possessive.

Her fingers dug slightly into your skin as she groped you, one hand sliding down to your hip while the other moved up to your chest, squeezing firmly. The contact made your body react instantly, your back arching slightly into her touch while your breath hitched against her lips.

“Still want more?” she murmured lowly against your mouth.

“Yes,” you whispered back immediately.

Baran’s lips curved slightly at that, something darker settling in her expression again before she leaned in and kissed you deeper, harder. Her hands moved over you without hesitation, gripping, pulling, learning your body properly now that she wasn’t holding herself back anymore.

You could feel the difference in every touch, the way she handled you like she knew exactly what she wanted, like she’d spent too long imagining this to waste a second now that she finally had it. Your own hands moved just as greedily, sliding over her chest, her stomach, her hips, touching her everywhere you could reach.

The tension between you kept building again, fast and sharp, your bodies pressing together while your breathing turned uneven all over again.

Then Baran broke the kiss.

Not fully.

Her mouth dragged down from your lips to your jaw instead, slower now, more deliberate, her breath warm against your skin while she pressed small, open-mouthed kisses along the line of your jaw.

You tilted your head instinctively, giving her more space, your hands tightening against her shoulders while your body reacted to every little movement she made.

Baran took advantage of it immediately, her lips trailing down your neck now, kissing and pressing and lingering just enough to make your stomach twist. Then she bit you, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath catch sharply.

The mark bloomed instantly.

Your body reacted just as fast, a soft sound leaving your mouth while your fingers curled against her skin. Baran hummed softly at the reaction, clearly pleased, her mouth returning to the same spot to bite again, slightly firmer this time.

Her hand slid down your back while she did it, pulling you closer into her, your bodies pressing tighter together while she marked you slowly.

“You’re going to wear these,” she murmured quietly against your neck, her voice low and rough while her lips brushed your skin. “I want to see them tomorrow and remember exactly how you sounded for me.”

Your pussy clenched hard at that.

Your hands tightened in her hair, pulling slightly while your breathing grew uneven again. Baran continued kissing along your neck, leaving another mark, then another, her mouth moving lower while your body leaned into her without thinking.

The mix of sensation, her hands on you, her mouth on your skin, the way she was speaking to you now, it all built together again too quickly. “Baran—” you started, your voice shaky, your body already reacting all over again.

She pulled back just enough to look at you.

Her hand came up to your jaw again, thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip while her eyes searched your face. The look she gave you was different now, darker, more certain, like she’d made a decision somewhere in the middle of all this.

“We’re not done,” she said quietly, her voice steady now but still carrying that same rough edge. “Not even close.”

Your breath caught.

“Bedroom,” she added, softer this time, but no less certain.

She stood first, her hand sliding down to yours, fingers curling around them before pulling you up with her. Your legs felt slightly unsteady, your body still sensitive, still buzzing from everything that had already happened, but you didn’t hesitate.

You let her lead you, your hand tightening in hers while she guided you out of the kitchen. The apartment felt different now, heavier, every step filled with tension while your eyes stayed locked on her back, on the way she moved, on the way her body still held that same energy.

When you reached her bedroom, she didn’t slow down.

Baran pulled you inside and shut the door behind you in one smooth movement before turning back toward you immediately. The second her eyes found yours again, that same hunger returned, stronger now, deeper, more certain.

She stepped forward, closing the distance again, her hands already moving back to your body like she couldn’t stop touching you. “Come here,” she murmured, her voice low while she pulled you toward the bed.

Baran didn’t give you time to think. Her hands tightened at your waist, guiding—no, pushing—you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and the next second you were falling onto the mattress with a soft breath knocked from your lungs.

The sheets were cool against your skin, your body still overheated and sensitive while your chest rose unevenly, eyes fixed on her as she stood at the foot of the bed looking down at you.

Something about the way she watched you like that made your stomach twist all over again, your thighs pressing together instinctively even though you were already completely exposed.

Baran stepped closer slowly, deliberate, her gaze dragging over your body like she was taking her time memorizing exactly what she’d done to you so far. “Stay there,” she murmured, voice low and steady, like she already knew you wouldn’t move.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Your body felt too aware, too keyed into her, every nerve still buzzing from everything she’d already done while you watched her move away from you instead of climbing on top of you immediately.

There was a moment of confusion, your brows pulling together slightly while you propped yourself up on your elbows just enough to see what she was doing.

Baran turned toward her bedside table, her movements calm again in a way that almost felt more dangerous than before, like she had a plan now.

She opened the drawer without looking away from you for more than a second, her eyes flicking back to you like she needed to keep you exactly where you were. Then she reached inside.

And pulled something out.

Your breath caught.

For a second, your brain didn’t fully process what you were seeing. Then it did, and heat rushed through your body all over again, sharper this time, mixed with surprise that hit you just as hard as the arousal. A double-sided dildo sat in her hand, sleek and dark and unmistakable, and you stared at it like it might disappear if you blinked too fast.

“You’re full of surprises,” you breathed, your voice quieter than you meant it to be while your pulse started racing again. Baran’s lips curved slightly at that, something almost smug flickering across her expression.

“You didn’t think I was the type?” she asked softly.

There was something in her tone, something that made your stomach tighten again, your thighs shifting slightly against the sheets while your pussy throbbed between your legs.

“I didn’t know,” you admitted, your voice a little breathless now, your gaze flicking between her face and the toy in her hand. “You always seemed so… controlled.”

The word felt almost laughable now, considering everything that had happened in the last half hour alone. Baran hummed quietly at that, her eyes darkening again while she stepped closer to the bed, the toy still in her hand.

“I am,” she said calmly.

Then she tilted her head slightly, her gaze locking onto yours again while she climbed onto the bed slowly, one knee pressing into the mattress as she moved over you. “Until I decide not to be.”

Your breath hitched hard at that.

Baran settled between your legs again, her body hovering above yours, the weight of her presence making your chest rise faster while your hands instinctively moved to her hips.

The toy rested against her thigh for a moment while one of her hands slid down your stomach, fingers brushing slowly over your skin like she was reminding herself what you felt like beneath her.

Your body reacted immediately, your hips shifting slightly while your breath came out uneven, your pussy still sensitive enough that even the anticipation made it clench. Baran watched every reaction, her gaze focused and sharp, like she wasn’t going to miss a single thing.

“Look at you,” she murmured softly.

Her fingers slid lower, brushing lightly between your thighs, not touching where you needed her yet, just enough to make you feel how close she was.

“Still this wet for me?” she added, her voice dropping lower, her thumb dragging slowly along the inside of your thigh where slick had already spread.

You shivered at the contact, your legs opening slightly without you meaning to, your body already responding to her like it didn’t have a choice. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice soft but honest, your fingers tightening at her hips.

Baran’s gaze flicked down between your legs.

Then back up to your face.

“Good,” she said quietly.

She shifted slightly, reaching for the lube without taking her eyes off you, her movements smooth, practiced, like she’d done this before even if she’d never shown you this side of herself.

You watched her hands, the way she prepared the toy, the way her focus stayed sharp even while tension hung heavy between you both.

Your stomach twisted again, anticipation building fast, your body already aching for whatever she was going to do next. “You trust me?” she asked suddenly, her voice softer now, but still steady, still certain.

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Baran held your gaze for a second longer, searching, confirming, then nodded once.

“Good,” she repeated.

Baran’s gaze didn’t leave your face as she shifted closer between your legs, the toy resting warm against her palm while the other hand slid slowly back down your body. Her fingers moved deliberately, spreading your thighs wider apart while your heels dragged slightly against the sheets beneath you.

You could feel how exposed you were again, your pussy already slick and swollen, folds parting easily under the pressure of her hand. Her thumb brushed through the wetness once, slow and testing, dragging along your slit before pressing lightly against your clit just enough to make your hips jolt upward.

“Still sensitive,” she murmured quietly, almost to herself, watching the way your body reacted.

Your breath came out uneven while your fingers tightened at her hips.

Baran shifted her hand lower, using two fingers to spread you open properly this time, pulling your folds apart while she looked down between your legs with focused intensity. The air hit you differently like that, your clit exposed, your entrance already wet and soft and visibly pulsing from how worked up you were.

Her fingers dragged through you once more, gathering slick, before she lined the tip of the toy up against you. You could feel it immediately, the pressure at your entrance, the contrast between your heat and the cool, smooth surface pressing there.

Your body tensed slightly, anticipation hitting hard enough that your breath caught in your throat.

“Relax,” Baran said lowly.

Her voice softened just enough to ground you while her hand slid up your stomach briefly, thumb brushing slow circles like she was steadying you.

You nodded faintly, your body trying to follow her lead, even while your pulse raced and your thighs trembled slightly around her. Baran waited a second longer, watching your face carefully, making sure you were with her. Then she pushed.

The stretch hit immediately.

Your mouth fell open with a soft sound, your back arching slightly off the bed while the toy slid into you slowly, steadily, your body opening around it inch by inch. It felt different, fuller, smoother, the pressure building in a way that made your toes curl against the sheets.

You could feel how wet you were, how easily it moved with the slick already coating you, but it still made your body react, your pussy clenching instinctively around it.

Baran didn’t rush, her movements controlled now, deliberate, watching every single reaction cross your face while she pressed deeper. “That’s it,” she murmured softly, her voice low and steady. “Take it.”

You breathed through it, your hands gripping her tighter while your body adjusted, the fullness settling inside you in a way that made your stomach twist again.

Baran pushed a little deeper, then a little more, until you were fully stretched around it, your thighs trembling slightly while your body reacted all over again.

She paused there for a moment, letting you feel it, letting your body catch up while her thumb brushed lightly over your hip. Your breathing stayed uneven, your chest rising and falling while your pussy clenched around the toy, still sensitive, still reactive.

“Good girl,” she murmured quietly.

Then she moved again.

Baran shifted her position, her hand steadying the toy while she adjusted herself above you, her thighs pressing against yours again. You watched her this time, your gaze dropping between your bodies while she lined the other end of the toy up with herself.

She was still wet, still glistening, her arousal visible, the slick gathered between her folds catching the light. The sight alone made your body react again, your pussy clenching around the toy while your breath hitched. Baran noticed, her lips parting slightly while her gaze flicked up to yours again.

“Feel that?” she asked softly.

You nodded faintly, your voice not quite working yet.

Baran’s hand slid briefly to your thigh, squeezing once before she shifted her hips forward. The pressure built again as she guided the other end of the toy against herself, her body tensing slightly as it pressed in.

Her breath caught just a little, her lips parting while she pushed down slowly, taking it inch by inch the same way you had. You could see it, the way her body reacted, the way her muscles tightened, the way her breathing changed as she adjusted to the feeling.

Then she settled. Both of you connected now.

Baran exhaled slowly, her eyes lifting to meet yours again, something deeper settling in her expression now. Her hands moved back to your hips, gripping firmly while her body hovered just above yours.

You could feel everything, the connection between you, the subtle shifts, the way even the smallest movement sent sensation through both of you. Your breathing stayed uneven, your body already reacting again, your thighs tightening slightly around her.

“Stay with me,” she murmured softly.

Baran didn’t rush it at first. She just stayed there for a second, both of you connected, her hands gripping your hips while her chest rose unevenly, breath warm against your skin. You could feel everything, the stretch, the fullness, the way even the tiniest shift of her hips dragged through you and made your pussy twitch around it.

Your thighs tightened around her without thinking, your body still too sensitive, too worked up, still buzzing from everything she’d already done to you.

“Look at me,” she murmured, voice low and rough, and you did, your eyes lifting to hers while your breathing stayed shaky and uneven. There was something in her expression, dark and focused and completely locked on you, like she was about to ruin you all over again.

Then she moved.

The first thrust wasn’t gentle, just slower, her hips rolling forward and dragging the toy deep inside you in one steady push that made a broken sound fall from your mouth instantly. It felt so fucking good it almost hurt, the stretch hitting deep while your pussy clenched tight around it, slick making every movement louder, messier.

Baran’s breath caught too, her head dipping slightly while she adjusted, feeling it just as much as you were. “Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, voice strained now, her grip tightening on your thighs. You could feel how into it she was, the way her body reacted, the way she didn’t stop, just moved again, a little faster, a little harder.

It didn’t stay slow for long.

Her rhythm picked up quickly, her hips rocking into you harder, faster, dragging through your soaked pussy in a way that made your back arch off the bed. Your legs were pushed wide open for her now, her hands gripping your thighs and holding them there, keeping you exactly where she wanted you.

The position made everything feel deeper, rougher, every thrust hitting in a way that made your stomach twist tight. Wet sounds filled the room, your slick coating everything, making it impossible to ignore how turned on you still were. “That’s it,” Baran groaned, voice low and wrecked, her eyes locked on your face. “You feel how fucking good this is?”

“Yes— fuck—” you gasped, your voice breaking completely.

You were both sweating now, skin sticking where your bodies pressed together, the air heavy with heat and the sound of your breathing.

Baran’s hair was slightly damp at her temples, her chest rising faster while she kept fucking into you, losing that last bit of control again the longer it went on. Your body was shaking under her, legs trembling while your hands grabbed at her arms, her shoulders, anything you could hold onto.

Every thrust dragged through you perfectly, your pussy clenching around it again and again while the pressure in your stomach built way too fast. You could feel yourself getting close again already, your breath catching every time she hit just right.

Baran noticed immediately.

One of her hands left your thigh and slid up your body, fingers dragging over your stomach before grabbing your boob hard, squeezing while her thumb brushed over your nipple.

You cried out instantly, your back arching harder into her while your hips jerked up to meet her. She didn’t go easy either, her hand working over your chest, squeezing, rubbing, playing with you while her hips kept that same rough rhythm.

“Fuck, you’re sensitive everywhere,” she muttered, her voice lower now, almost breathless. Her fingers pinched your nipple just enough to make your pussy clench tighter around the toy again, your body reacting everywhere at once.

“Baran— I—” you tried, but your voice fell apart.

“Say it,” she said, her tone dropping, her eyes locking onto yours again.

She didn’t slow down, if anything she went harder, her hips snapping into you while her hand stayed on your chest, your body caught between both sensations. Your legs were shaking badly now, your breathing broken, every nerve in your body screaming while the pressure built too fast to handle.

“I’m gonna cum,” you managed, barely holding the words together, your fingers digging into her arms. Baran’s expression changed instantly at that, something darker flashing in her eyes.

“Yeah?” she breathed, voice rough, almost desperate now.

Her hand slid down from your chest to your clit again, fingers pressing and rubbing hard while she kept thrusting into you. The extra touch sent you straight over the edge, your body jolting violently while a loud, broken moan ripped out of you. “Cum,” she muttered, almost like a command, her thumb pressing harder, faster. “Cum on it, I wanna feel you.”

That was it.

Your orgasm hit hard, way harder than before, your body arching up while your thighs tightened around her and everything inside you clenched at once.

You couldn’t stop the sounds coming out of you, your pussy gripping tight around the toy while your whole body shook under her. Baran felt it instantly, her breath catching hard while her hips stuttered for a second before pushing back into you harder.

“Fuck—” she groaned, her voice breaking now, her grip tightening on your thighs again.

She came right after you.

Her body tensed above you, her movements turning rough and messy while she chased it, your orgasm pulling her right over with you. You could feel it in the way she moved, the way her breathing fell apart, the way she pressed down harder against you while everything snapped at once.

Her hands dug into your thighs, her head dropping slightly while she rode it out, her whole body shaking for a second. The connection between you made it feel even stronger, like everything hit deeper, sharper, more intense all at once.

Then everything slowed down.

Baran stayed there, still pressed against you, both of you breathing hard, skin damp, bodies twitching slightly from the aftershocks. Her hands loosened on your thighs, sliding over your skin more slowly now, grounding again.

You were still sensitive, still aching, your pussy throbbing while your chest rose and fell too fast. She looked down at you, her expression softer now, but still dark around the edges, still not done with you.

“Fuck,” she muttered quietly.

Baran stayed there for a few seconds longer, still pressed close, both of you breathing hard while the intensity slowly melted into something softer and heavier. Your body felt loose and sensitive all over, every nerve still humming while your pussy throbbed faintly around the toy.

She shifted slightly above you, her movements slower now, more careful again, like that edge had finally settled back into something she could control. Her hand slid down to your hip, steadying you while she leaned in just enough to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “Hey,” she murmured quietly, her voice still rough but gentler now. “Stay with me for a second, yeah?”

You nodded faintly, your body still catching up.

Then she reached down between you.

Her hand wrapped around the toy carefully, her touch slower now, controlled again, nothing like the roughness from before. You felt it immediately when she started to pull it out, the slow drag making your body twitch slightly, your breath catching as the fullness eased out of you inch by inch.

Your pussy clenched weakly around it on instinct, still sensitive, still reacting even now. Baran went slow, watching your face, her thumb brushing lightly over your hip like she was grounding you through it. “Easy,” she murmured softly. “I’ve got you, joonam.”

The last of it slipped free, and you let out a soft breath.

Baran shifted again right after, pulling it from herself just as slowly, her own breath catching a little before she let it go completely. She set it aside without much thought, her focus already back on you, her hand immediately returning to your body.

The moment the space between you was empty again, she moved closer instead, closing that distance in a different way. Your body felt heavier now, pleasantly tired, your limbs loose while your chest rose and fell more slowly. You could still feel her warmth, her skin slightly damp, her breathing uneven but already starting to calm.

Baran didn’t stay above you.

She dropped down beside you instead, her body sinking into the mattress while she reached for you immediately, pulling you into her arms without hesitation. You went easily, your body curling into her side, your head settling against her chest while her arm wrapped securely around you.

Her hand slid up your back slowly, fingers brushing in gentle strokes that felt grounding, soft, steady, completely different from earlier. You could hear her heartbeat now, feel it under your cheek, steadying you without even trying. “You okay?” she asked quietly, her voice softer now, careful again but warm.

You nodded against her.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice sleepy, a little wrecked but calm now. Your fingers curled lightly against her side, not gripping anymore, just resting there, tracing small shapes without thinking.

There was a pause, your breathing evening out while your body sank deeper into the warmth of her. “You were… really good,” you murmured after a second, words a little slow, a little soft like they were slipping out without effort. “I liked that side of you.”

Baran went still for half a heartbeat.

Then her arm tightened around you slightly.

“Yeah?” she asked quietly, something softer in her voice now.

You nodded again, pressing your cheek a little closer into her chest. “You didn’t hold back,” you said, voice barely above a whisper now.

“You were… rough, and you just took what you wanted. I didn’t know you could be like that.” A small, tired smile pulled at your lips even though she couldn’t fully see it. “I really liked it.”

Baran exhaled slowly.

Her hand kept moving along your back, but softer now, almost thoughtful.

“You asked for it,” she murmured, though her voice had lost that earlier edge, replaced with something quieter. Her fingers brushed gently through your hair now, pushing it back from your face.

“And you handled it pretty well,” she added, a faint warmth in her tone that felt like quiet praise. Then she leaned down, pressing another soft kiss into your hair, lingering there for a second longer.

The room felt quieter now.

Your body relaxed fully for the first time since everything started, your muscles loosening while your breathing evened out completely. Baran shifted slightly beneath you, adjusting just enough to make you more comfortable without letting you go.

Her arm stayed wrapped around you, holding you close, her hand still tracing slow, absent patterns along your back. You could feel the heat of her skin, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the way everything between you had settled into something calm and warm.

“We’ll shower later,” she said quietly after a moment.

Her voice sounded softer now, a little tired.

“But not right now,” she added, her hand still moving lazily over your skin. “Right now we’re just staying here.” You nodded faintly again, already drifting, your body sinking deeper into her. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice soft and slow, almost gone. Baran hummed quietly at that, her arm tightening slightly around you again.

“Get some sleep,” she murmured gently.

And you did.

♱⠀⠀𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐂𝐓⠀⠀౨ৎ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀late night fantasies about sevika turn painfully real when she walks in on you soaked, desperate, and spread across her bed — and decides to make every filthy thought come true herself. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀9.4k