hello, call me betty

He cleared his throat and approached the opposite end of the counter, wanting to close whatever gap was between them. She looked up at him, her face remaining impassive. Almost brooding. He thought she looked ethereal, even standing in the ordinary backdrop of his shop.

"How can I help you?" he asked, proud that his voice was even.

"I'm here for my portrait."

"Ah. And your name?" he asked just as he reached for his pad of paper and glanced down seriously, despite knowing that there was only one name that his assistant, Seth, had scribbled down for him today.

"Eira."

He smiled, before repeating her name back to her. "Eira. What a pretty name."

She narrowed her eyes slightly up at him, no doubt sussing or testing something out, but he only offered his best smile. She said nothing, and he expected nothing less.

"Right this way, Eira." He said her name again and liked how well it fit on his tongue.

-

She sat on the bench and took off her coat revealing beautiful, albeit revealing plum-hued dress with intricate lacing. It had a low neckline, which gave him a tasteful view of her chest, and a ribbon bow that cinched the laced waist. The slit of the skirt ran up the length of her thigh, and revealed long, pale legs.

He straightened himself and cleared his throat before searching for his paintbrushes.

She moved without his prompting, finding a pose that seemed to suit her. She eventually landed on crossing her legs at the knee, one hand resting on the bench, and her eyes practically piercing through her. When his gaze finally met hers, he found her smirking at him, a tug of a quirked brow. He cleared his throat again, snapping his jaw shut and focusing his attention at his blank canvas.

"Comfortable?" he asked, just as he wiped the last bits of water from his brush, his easel with the canvas just off to the side.

She nodded. Truly, a woman of few words. He couldn't help but shake his head, a small huff of amusement escaping him.

"Something the matter?"

"None at all," he began. "You ever pose before?"

She tilted her head, pouted her lips slightly, and he wondered briefly if it would be irresponsible of him to start painting those lips-if only to capture them how they are at this moment. "Yes."

The corner of his lips twitched, amused beyond words, despite wanting so much more of what she was unwilling to give.

"Alright, Eira. Let's get started."

-

The portraiture took a little over three hours (by far the fastest portraiture he'd ever done, a feverish desire to capture her overtaking him), and she sat on that bench with patience beyond measure. He offered her breaks at least every half hour, but she declined them all, save for one about halfway through where she stepped out for ten minutes. He resisted the urge to post himself by the window of his shop and watch where she went, but knew that was a step too far. So he stayed where he was and only offered her his best smile when the ring above his door rang and alerted him to her return.

When he finished the portrait, he took a deep breath. "Take a look."

She stood a respectable distance from him, but he could smell her perfume-something warm, cozy.

"What do you think?"

"Well done, Mr. Summer."

"Feel free to call me, Izzet. Mr. Summer is my father." He offered her a lopsided grin, and though she did not return the smile, her eyes warmed. He happily settled for that.

-

She did not stay very long after, shrugging her coat back and told him that she would come to collect the portrait in a few days.

Just as she reached the door, she turned her head slightly and looked over her shoulder. "Thank you for your work, Izzet."

He nodded at her, having lost his ability to speak, and helplessly stared all the while as she retreated to the door and walked out of his studio.

-

Much to his disappointment, she never returned. The portrait was paid for in full, and someone else seemed to have collected the portrait on the one afternoon he stepped out. He'd bothered Seth to confirm that the woman who picked up the painting was not, in fact, the woman he painted.

He spent the following days sullen which greatly annoyed his assistant, but he continued his work. Time passed and his memories and thoughts of her were pushed to the side. His business grew, and he was able to move to a larger studio. But every now and again, after long days of work, he'd tend to a spare canvas where he would paint her from memory until all he had of her was a poor man's copy of her beauty. Once he completed her portrait, he wasn't sure what to do with himself, having chipped away at it over time. Since he knew he was never going to see her again, he decided to hang it in his studio. Sometimes, a patron would appear and ask if it was for sale, but he always shook his head, told them that it was a personal piece.

-

He heard the bell ring above his studio door and bellowed out from the back closet, as he finalized the last count of his inventory. "I'll be with you in a moment."

"How much for the portrait on the far wall," she heard a woman ask. He shook his head, a small amused smile on his face. That was the third patron this month. He stepped out of the closet, eyes still cast down on his pad of inventory notes.

"Sorry. It's not for sa-" His voice died in his throat when his gaze fell on the woman--the woman of his memories, the woman he never thought he'd ever see again. "Eira."

~~~

You notice her immediately. There, across the room, on center stage. She's the newest talent in the club, or so you're told. You never listen to the owners when they brag. You know better than to trust these smarmy men at their word.

Yet here she is, in front of you swaying her hips, hands sensually roaming her body as she dances to the beat. She's looking over her shoulder. It's a performance, you know, you're aware. Yet the way she gazes at you cannot be coincidence. There are others in the room, but the way she settles her gaze on you makes them all irrelevant.

"Leave," you say with a dismissive flick of your hand to the two dancers who had been just a hair shy of grinding against your thighs. They leave, following you at your every word, barely hiding their shared frowns. You don't care, they get paid all the same.

You sit up, pushing yourself to the edge of your seat.

To say you've been mesmerized is an understatement. But you chalk it up to her newness, how shiny she appears under the spotlight. Soon, she will go the way of so many other women before her. But not without you having your fun with her first.

You snap at the club lackey that stands by the entrance of your private booth and ask for her. He scrambles to do your bidding, weaving his way around the tables to reach the side of the stage where you see her. You watch as she slowly twists her body around, graceful as she had been on the stage, and searches for you. 

You watch her watching you.

You raise your glass of whiskey at her. She doesn't react, only turns to the lackey you'd sent before heading backstage without so much as a backwards glance at you.

Interesting, you think.

That's the first time in quite a while that someone hadn't immediately walked up to you, eager and anticipating, like an overzealous lapdog in need of your precious attention.

You lean back, crossing your legs at the knee before taking a swig of your drink, letting the heat of the alcohol fill you. 

You're patient for every second of the fifteen minutes she makes you wait. The lackey is antsy, but you brush him off and tell him he’s done for the night. You don't care about waiting, you’ll always outlast anyone. Besides, what's the point of the hunt if every prey is served to you on a silver platter?

When the woman does show up, you take a step back in appreciation. Your gaze starts at the white stilettos on her feet before reaching smooth, toned legs that connect up to a rose-hued corset bodice that perfectly hugs the curves she swayed expertly on stage. Her emerald tresses are down and brushed over one shoulder, the buzzed side of her head on full display. 

You notice that she doesn’t sit immediately beside you.

You smirk, pleased. 

"Please, join me." You stand to your feet and offer her your hand. She glances at your hand before placing her own in it. Her hand is warm, dainty, but her grip is strong. Immediately, you wonder how well it’ll grip your shoulders, but you don’t want to get ahead of yourself.

“Thank you, Miss Novikov.” 

"Laszlow, please.” 

She ducks her head just as she slowly pulls her hand back. “Laszlow it is.”

You tilt your head, raise a brow. “And who am I spending my evening with?” 

You know her name. Of course you do. You knew it before she’d even finished dancing. But you wait for her to open up to you, to get closer. 

“Phaedra.” She almost sings her name through dulcet tones, and you can’t wait to hear that sound moaning your name. 

“Well, Phaedra. It’s very lovely to meet you. I think we’ll have a lot of fun together.” 

She cocks her head to the side in observation, and you let her see what she wants to see. 

~~~

Since that first night, she visits you in your private booth after her performances. Despite how well-sought out she is by others in the club, her circuitous trip around the floor to thank her fans and her admirers always ends at your private booth. It’s become almost a ritual at this point. She is as talented as the club owners have claimed, but you don’t give those dimwits the satisfaction. They haven’t earned a thing. 

Instead, you express your appreciation towards her and her alone. 

You lean in closer as you dole out your compliments. She barely blinks an eye on the ones about her beauty, and you can’t fault her for knowing how she looks, how she’s perceived. But you pick up on the way she preens when you compliment her performance, her choices on the stage. And you exploit that to your advantage as you receive her in your arms when she leans closer into you on the sofa, your lips grazing the skin of her cheek.

You ask her if she wants to leave with you tonight, as you’ve done every night you see her, and it almost surprises you that she says yes, after turning you down for weeks. 

“Oh?” you prod, your voice a low amused whisper when you look into her darkened irises. 

“Should I not?” 

“Let’s not be hasty, darling. I was just making sure. You’ve turned me down up to this point, that’s all.” Your hand lands on her thigh, your thumb gently caressing the softness of her inner thigh—teasing. She doesn’t squirm or shy away, and you are encouraged by it. “I can’t help but be curious.” 

She leans back, her fingers soothingly scratching your forearm, a saccharine smile on her lips, but there’s an edge to how she peers up at you through those dark lashes. “You’ve waited long enough, no?” 

A wicked smile splits your face. 

~~~

"Go again?" you ask, smirking up from between her legs, watching as her naked chest deliciously heaves up and down—as if she's the one who's coming up for air.  

"You're insatiable," she says to you with a gentle brush of her hand through your fringes, as if you don't already know, as if you don't live to devour whatever you want.

"Only for beautiful women like you."

"A charmer too, it seems."

You roll your eyes, but you push up until you're crawling over her, your hands landing on either side of her head, your thigh tucking between her legs. You feel the heat of her core, the wetness on her thighs against your skin. "I asked a question."

She seems to watch you intently, and you're about to say you don't like repeating yourself, when she suddenly brings her hand up to your mouth and swipes at her wetness on your face. Her thumb stops right at the seam of your lips and raises a brow at you. A dare, a challenge.

You don't back down, so you take her thumb into your mouth and you suck, tasting her all over again.

"Go again, baby. Let's see what else you've got."

You drop down to an elbow, your other hand grabbing hold of her perky breast and squeezing, loving the way she arches up at you. Your hand roams down her body not unlike you'd seen her do on the stage before you feel her slickness on your fingers. It's your turn to arch a brow; you're issuing your own dare, your own challenge.

She nods at you, biting her bottom lip. 

Without preamble, you thrust two fingers in. You collect every moan in your mouth. You can't wait until she reaches her peak. You've always thought a woman was at her most beautiful at the precipice of coming undone, of falling apart.

And she—

She is simply sublime. 

~~~

It starts with meeting up after a show here and there. 

You put her in rotation with the other women you entertain—that entertain you. But soon enough, they don’t hold your attention. They give you everything you want, and you find that you don’t like that anymore. 

Instead, you prefer the way Phaedra plays with you in return. Previously, if you’d commanded someone to jump, their response was to ask how high. Yet Phaedra only saunters over, drapes her lithe body over yours and nestles her head against the crook of your neck and asks you, “now, why would I do a thing like that?” 

There’s a smugness that courses through you when you place an arm around her shoulders as she’s tucked into you when you exit the club and all eyes are trained on the pair of you walking out. There has always been a rule for clients to not mix business with pleasure among the talent, but you know you’re above that—a benefactor to this house of sins. So you dare them, and they stand down as they always do. 

There are women who sneer at you for abandoning them, and glare at her for occupying their space, your time. But all playthings run their course, lose their gloss. 

You don’t care. They should’ve done better if they wanted to keep you. And you’ve never been a kept woman. 

Phaedra’s orbit is one you willingly fall into. You allow her the illusion of control because it’s exciting when she’s tempting you, teasing you, seeing how far to the edge she can take you.  

You allow it because you always know who’s in charge (and it’s not the pretty little thing who just so happens to love riding your face). 

~~~

“I’ll be out of town next week,” you tell her as she nuzzles into your neck, her arm draped over your abdomen, her fingers playfully scratching against your ribs. 

“Business or pleasure?” she asks, her warm breath ghosting over your skin. 

“Both,” you offer; you know no other way of living. 

She nods and kisses you on the cheek, as if she knows something you don't. You can’t help the frown on your face, but you don’t say anything more, instead allowing this woman to burrow herself further into you. 

If you’re being honest with yourself, you hate her a little for it—the way her eyes seem to bore into you, but she tastes so good and feels so good against you that you can't help yourself.

~~~

You return from your trip. You exit out of your car and head straight to your penthouse, pushing your luggage to the side as you undress and head to the shower. You let the hot water cascade down your body thinking about the past week. 

You’d visited your old haunts and entertained the women who’d been eager to see you. Except you looked past them, going back to your hotel alone every night. They’d pouted at you, their eyes shimmering with want and desire—inviting you to take what was yours. Yet you’d kissed them on the cheek, promised them the future before leaving empty-handed.

Instead, you’d scrolled through the library of Phaedra’s images and videos she’d sent of herself over the course of your time together and you came on your fingers before you could even gasp out her name. 

At least you didn’t succumb to calling her, to showing every bit of your hand to her. And you wonder, belatedly, if she’d known all along. 

Your hatred grows, spurs, and bleeds, because she’s weakening you, softening you to someone you barely recognize. 

Yet after you come out of the shower, shrugging your silk robe around your shoulders, you quickly send her a simple text: come over. 

And she does, of course she does. Because you still have power over her. 

What you don’t know, and won’t know until it’s too late, is that you’d given up that power the moment you took her hand that first night. 

When she arrives at your doorstep, she’s in a floral sundress that you’ve taken off of her before. You see her smile up at you, deceivingly innocent and unassuming, but you know better. 

You don’t bother with formalities, but you do wait until she steps inside before brushing a kiss on the corner of your lips. “Welcome back, sweetheart.” 

You let the door slam behind the two of you as you lift her up around the waist, her arms wrapping around your neck and crash your lips together in a sweet reunion that you can’t fully admit you’ve been craving. 

But she seems to already know, her fingers lightly scratching your scalp, expressing tenderness you don’t want. 

You drop her on the bed without much grace, and she sprawls out. Inviting. Teasing.

There is no foreplay; you want what you want, and you want it all from her. You ignore how she seems to know this already, opening her arms for you before wrapping you up. 

You demand her attention, you mark her for yourself, you let her unravel around you. You place your hand around her neck, and she quickly grabs hold of your wrist. You think she wants out, a boundary you’ve finally found, but she surprises you when she scratches at your hand in assent. She stares at you—dark universes in those eyes as she nods, licking her lips in pure want. 

She doesn’t look away when you tighten your grip, her pulse against your pulse. You can snap her like a twig, you can bring her to her demise, if you so chose.

But you don't, because you can't get enough of how your fingers slip inside her cunt without resistance, and she arches up into you. 

Her whimpered breaths are against your ear. Her nails are etching red, swollen echoes of your ribs on your back. 

You hiss when her nails make contact; she marks you as you mark her. 

Here and now, you accept that she is an addictive thing. 

You surrender to the addiction. You love it, in fact. And you’ll be damned to let it go. 

~~~

There are no names or labels to what you two are. 

So despite your laser-focused attention on her, she is not yours, and you are not hers. 

So it shouldn’t mean a thing when you see her at a birthday party of some hag or another that you’ve worked with in the past. She’s dressed in a petal pink mini dress, her hair brushed over a shoulder, leaving the other exposed for you to mark. She’s sitting by the bar, unaware of you. But you stay in the shadows for now, like a predator marking her prey. And you only have one in mind.

You see her talking to some man in an ill-fitted suit and something else flares up inside of you.

You can't place it.

You hate him.

You cut in, and if she's surprised, she doesn't let on.

“Hi, baby,” you say to her before looking over to the frowning man. “Have you been waiting long?” 

“No,” she plays along. “Just got here and have been chatting up with—” 

“Albert,” he supplies. 

“With Albert in the meantime.” 

Your face betrays nothing as her hand has somehow made its way to your waist, her fingers softly scratching at the sliver of exposed skin of your back. 

“Thank you for your time, Albert. But we won’t be needing you any longer.” 

He attempts to say something, but you glare at him, and he predictably shrinks back, muttering how much of a bitch you are before skulking away. You don’t care, not when her hand is now fully resting on your back, her touch blazing. 

“You scared him off.” 

“Because he’s not worth your time, love.” 

She arches a brow up at you. “And you are?” 

Your face tugs into an amused smirk and you lean closer. “Aren’t I?” 

Phaedra tilts her head back with mirth dancing in her eyes, and a grin splayed on her face. She shrugs, expectant. You give her what she’s after, your nose brushing against hers before you kiss her deeply. Her hand clutches at you, almost as if she’s afraid of letting go. 

But you know better. You are after the same thing. 

“Wanna get out of here?” she asks. Her eyes are still closed, but her smile is wide. 

“Heh...that’s my girl,” you say when you pull back. You bring a hand up and you hold her by the chin between your thumb and forefinger, like a gem, like a precious stone. 

~~~

You are a wildfire, you raze everything in your path and leave nothing but ash in your wake. That is who you are, that is what you've done.

Yet she—

She is a tempest on a fixed path to your ruin. 

He quickly wipes away the toothpaste suds dripping from his chin and rinses his mouth, barely wiping his wet hands on his sleep shorts. He beelines after her as she seems to make her way to the kitchen.

He finds her in front of the fridge, bent over so that the sheer fabric wraps around her toned ass. He stands right behind her, caging her as he places one hand on the nearby wall and the other on top of her hand as it lingers on the fridge door handle.

He nuzzles against her nape, smelling the crushed floral scent in her hair. "What do you think you're doing?" he asks, pressing against her body more fully. She only seems to respond by bending over further until her ass rubs against his crotch.

"Finding a snack, what else?"

"I can think of a snack I'd like to have." Then he nips at her ear lobe just as he shuts the fridge door closed.

"You're so lame."

"But you love me, don't you?"

"That remains to be seen."

He smirks against the skin behind her ear and kisses tenderly there just as his hands settle on her arms to pull her closer to him. Then, his hands travel towards her front feeling the glide of the sheer fabric on his fingertips before his hands settle on the warmth of her bosom.

"You don't mean that, Lady Eira," he says, punctuating each syllable with a squeeze of her breasts, excited at the feel of her nipples beading under his touch.

She whimpers against his touch, pushing further into him as she rests her hands on the fridge. Her sounds spur him on as he gently sucks the exposed skin of her neck. His deft fingers move past the sheer fabric as he brushes it out of the way so that his skin makes contact with the heat of her breasts. He catches her left nipple between his index finger and thumb, rolling and pinching it just so. He's obsessed with how she sounds under his touch. "You look so good in this robe, baby."

"Less talking."

"As you wish," he husks out, his fingers continuing their ministrations just as his other hand squeezes her other breast until they spill past his fingers. He's making his way down her neck and shoulders until he decides that despite how sexy she looks in this robe, he wants it off. So he releases her pebbled nipple to deftly unbutton the top until it cascades down alabaster shoulders. It hangs around her arms like a shawl, revealing soft skin.

As ordered, he says nothing as he returns to his tasks. One hand resumes squeezing and massaging her breast while the other gently glides further down to the heat of her core, cupping her through the silk fabric of her panties, already damp. Her reluctant whine is addicting, doubling his efforts until she bucks against his hand. His strength allows him to pull her even closer to him as he continues to mark her white skin with his lips, tongue, teeth. Her head draws back and rests on his shoulder even as her body contorts to mold against his, under his.

"Mmmmpff," she swallows her moan just as he reaches down past her panties and into her wet center, delighted at just how much she's gotten slick in just mere moments. Still, he continues squeezing her breast before reaching across to fondle the other one. It's no mistake that his forearm grazes her nipple just so when his muscles tense as he massages her. He grinds against her, their hips undulating in tandem as his fingers reach deeper. Without warning, his finger slips knuckle deep and she thrusts against it, wanting more. So he gives her another, and she's keening in his arms. The sound of her, the feel of her, has him hard against her and he wants his own release, but not until she's satisfied.

It's a little depraved and not at all sexy to do this in front of the fridge in the middle of the kitchen, yet despite the way the fridge shakes from side to side as she pushes into it just as she juts her hips out toward him, he has no complaints.

She turns her head seeking him out so their lips connect, slotting in place as he works her up until she's tensing in his arms, one hand grabbing hold of the fridge while the other clasps on top of his as his hand practically molds around her tit.

She's breathtaking like this, unencumbered with responsibilities, and his for the taking.

He releases her when she taps him on the forearm. She turns around, legs a little unsteady, and fixes her robe. He only smirks when he brings his wet fingers into his mouth and tastes her, her face reddening beyond exertion.

"So I take it you like the robe?" she asks with a quirk of a sharp brow.

When Eira first saw him, she’d just finished shopping for her weekly supplies at the village square markets and was headed back home. She’d spotted him immediately; he was standing by the fountain in the village center, children surrounding his foreignness, his newness. 

His hair stood out like the waning sunset amidst the midnight hues of the villagers. Eira hadn’t stayed very long knowing that he was a spectacle to the village, and she’d always learned never to stare, but she hadn’t anticipated locking eyes with him from across the way. 

His smile was bright and earnest, like the open sky, and Eira thought that just as seasons come and go, so would he. 

As the days passed, her best attempts to keep to herself and mind her business were for naught, least of all when nosy neighbors spoke loudly about the newest village gossip. 

She discovered—rather unsurprisingly—that he was a traveler, only passing by. His stay in the village was temporary, like a summer breeze. And that told her enough to keep her head down, focus on planting the new crops for the upcoming fall, and mind her business.

It shocked her in her place when a week later, she opened her door to find the traveler standing a few feet away, shouldering his bag, and flashing that earnest smile on his face—a little crooked, a little beautiful.  

“Hello, miss. I’d heard from the folks at the markets that you were in need of some help.”  

She met his gaze, and raised a daring brow, but she made no move, said no words. He seemed to cotton on to what she’d been doing because he stood a bit taller, pulling at the leather strap of his bag, and kept his eyes on her.

Finally, “I’m not in *need* of a single thing.” 

He opened his mouth just slightly, enough for a fly to slip through. Then he scanned the land, looked past her house where she knew the barn stood. His smile returned—a little crooked, a lot beautiful. 

“Forgive me, miss. I didn’t mean to assume. But if you could use it, I’d like to offer my help in exchange for just one meal a day and a roof over my head.” 

She held them both in silence as a few tense moments passed. “I’m not much of a cook,” she said finally, not fully certain where her acquiescence came from. But she knew, logically, that any help tending to the acreage of crops would be of immense help.  

“I can’t imagine you being less than capable.” 

Eira let out a wry laugh as he let slip the sly talker in him, no doubt egged on by the women from the square. “You don’t know me.” 

“For now.” 

She pushed forward from her door and stood at the edge of her porch, forcing him to stare up at her, his eyes squinting and his hair practically glowing in the sunlight. “What’s your name?” 

He stepped forward, though he kept his eyes on her, staring up, as if in reverence. “Izzet. And yours?” 

“You can call me Eira.” 

He nodded, his smile never once faltering. Still crooked, still beautiful. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Eira.”

She's losing her grip—on reality, on her sanity, on the sheets that she's clung onto this whole time—when Mal starts doubling her efforts, her hips slamming down on Phaedra’s reddening ass cheeks. Phaedra loves this part the best, when Mal becomes a much more selfish lover, and takes and takes and takes anything she wants from Phaedra. 

“Let me hear you, baby,” Mal grunts above her, gripping Phaedra by the hair and tugging her head up just as she continues to pull the dildo out until it's just the tip before slamming forward until she's base deep. Phaedra easily complies, the volume of her whines and whimpers increases with every smack of Mal’s hips to her ass. It makes Phaedra red and hot all over knowing that her neighbors definitely know what she's doing on a weeknight, but she can’t really care about running into Mr. Stevenson down the hall right now. 

Warm breath tickles against Phaedra’s ear, before she feels Mal’s hot mouth sucking and licking just below her ear, no doubt leaving a mark. Phaedra shrieks and writhes underneath Mal when she finally comes, her hand reaching behind her to pull Mal further into her, the feel of the strap inside of her so delectable she knows she'll be deliciously sore for a couple of days. 

Mal continues to thrust in and out to prolong Phaedra’s orgasm, only slowing down when Phaedra—boneless and out of breath—taps her on the forearm. Mal carefully pulls out and Phaedra squeezes at nothing, already missing the way Mal had so easily filled her. 

Phaedra turns over on her back and yanks a kneeling Mal by the harness until the tip is right by her mouth before leaning forward and sucking her essence off the cock. She moans in satisfaction when Mal clutches at her head, her sure hands scratching at the shaved part of Phaedra’s head all while slowly pumping in and out. “You look so good just like that. Wish I could really feel you sucking me off.” 

Aiming to please, Phaedra sneaks her fingers past the harness and delights in Mal’s slickness, just as she curls her other hand around the dildo. She practically comes again when she looks up to find Mal watching her intently, so handsome with that one lock of hair that stubbornly comes undone regardless of how often Mal pushes it away. But it’s the darkness in those blue eyes that hooks Phaedra, pulling her further and further in. To what, Phaedra can’t know for sure, but she thinks she’d follow her best friend anywhere. 

The dildo comes out of her mouth with a pop and focuses her the way her fingers slide between Mal’s wet folds. She knows she’s hitting it just right when she watches the hard lines of Mal’s abs highlighted so beautifully by her sweat flex as she tries to control her breathing, one hand in Phaedra’s hair and the other holding onto the top of the headboard. 

“I’m close,” Mal whispers, her voice hoarse. So Phaedra doubles her efforts, sucking the strap like it's the real thing, making a real show of it, which seems to greatly affect Mal. Then she presses down on Mal’s wetness with her thumb and she knows Mal’s reached her peak by the way she fists Phaedra's hair just enough to pull at the roots. It hurts, but Phaedra’s never one to shy away from pain. 

Phaedra knows Mal is hot, but she can't help but find the kneeling woman above her so beautiful when she comes undone. 

As Mal’s orgasm tapers off, Phaedra drops her head on the pillow, pulling her hand away, and just watches as Mal catches her breath, resting on her haunches. Then, Mal slowly rises from the bed and releases the harness from her hips until it falls with a soft thud on the floor. “I’ll clean up later.” 

But Phaedra doesn’t care. Not when she’d just been dicked down so good six ways to Sunday and watched as the woman in front of her got off from Phaedra blowing her. 

She makes room for Mal when the other woman lays beside her, the two of them facing one another. 

“Hey, you’re still free next Friday, right?” Mal asks when she stretches beside her before a sure hand rests on Phaedra’s thigh, her finger thumb grazing the sweat-licked skin. It’s these moments that Phaedra tucks away in the shadows of her heart, bad of a habit it may be. 

“I—why?” 

“There’s this charity gala at work, and I was wondering if you’d like to be my plus one.” 

“Like a date?” she asks, her eyes widening in a bit of disbelief. 

Mal stares at her for a second, and Phaedra can’t help shake off the feeling that she’d somehow said the wrong thing. But Mal is shaking her head and not quite meeting her eyes, so Phaedra lets it go. “No, I—just need someone else to be there with me. It’s recommended we don’t go alone.” 

“Oh.” She bites down on her bottom lip, trying to push the bile of disappointment down. “Yeah, sure. Just let me know what I need to wear.” 

“Sounds good,” Mal says, but she’s already turned around and pulling her bra back on. On instinct, Phaedra pulls her pillow and pulse it to her abdomen. Mal turns back to look at her and leans forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks, Phae.” 

She nods. “Sure, anytime.” 

-

Phaedra spritzes a bit of perfume by her pulse points - something warm and cozy, sweet—and checks herself over in her rosy-colored cocktail dress with the low neckline. She carefully cards through her hair, appreciating the classic white bow on the top. She turns her face left as she observes the freshly buzzed side of her head in the mirror. She runs her fingers over her shaved scalp and feels the pleasing, velvet texture of her short hairs. She closes her eyes and imagines someone else's hand caressing her head before it digs into her soft locks and pulls. 

If she lets out a little whimper and her heart spikes just a little at the fantasy, well. 

She gathers herself back up, inspecting herself in the mirror once more before standing and heading to her closet. She retrieves a pair of white stiletto heels knowing how her legs and ass look in them while still looking classy. 

She's just about to leave her apartment when she hears the buzz of her phone. 

See you soon, princess. 

Phaedra lets the thrill of seeing Mal tonight excite her, but she doesn't dare forget that her invitation and acceptance to attending this charity gala is just a favor for a friend. 

-

When she arrives at the front of the museum, she stands to the side and checks her phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media. She spots people glancing her way, but she pays them no mind. Mostly, it's wretched men leering right in front of their wives and mistresses. She wonders if these women know, if they care. 

Though she thinks, what right does she have to judge? Not when Mal only sees her as a friend and sometimes bed companion. 

Her insecurities are momentarily washed aside when she looks up and spots Mal in a plum three-piece suit, as handsome and dashing as ever. 

Mal greets her with a smile and holds out a hand for Phaedra to take. She does so, loving the way her hand fits in Mal’s, the feel of strong fingers curling against her own. Her smaller frame gets pulled easily towards the sturdiness of Mal’s body and she readily accepts the kiss that Mal places on her cheek, bold in the way it sits just shy of her lips. 

“You look very beautiful tonight, Phae.”  

“You’re not so bad yourself, handsome,” she comments back, loving the way the suit accentuates those broad shoulders and slender waist. 

“You smell good too,” Mal offers when she dips her head closer. “Thanks again for being my plus one.” 

“Of course, Mal. Friends help each other, right?” she responds with a soft smile. A flash of something unreadable crosses Mal’s face before it transforms into a matching smile of her own so Phaedra simply chalks it up to a trick of the light. 

“Right. Shall we?” 

They make their way towards the entrance, Phaedra looping arms with Mal and letting her hands rest on Mal’s bicep. 

In another life, this is a date. In another life, they’re together. In another life, she doesn’t have to pretend. 

-

When they enter the exhibition area, Mal directs them to a high table before excusing herself to pick up drinks for the both of them leaving Phaedra alone to clutch at her hands on top of the table. 

She idly scans the room, her gaze landing on different men and women chattering and schmoozing with each other. It’s a life she’s not familiar with, and wonders if these are the types of people that Mal would rather associate with. Though before she can spiral through her insecurities, she hears a voice. 

“Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be left all by her lonesome.” 

She turns to the source of the voice and finds a beautiful woman with angular features and a devilish grin. The woman cocks her head to the side, her blue hair moving like a slow wave, her eyes alight, seemingly ready to devour Phaedra alive. 

“Name’s Laszlow. What’s yours, sweet cheeks?” 

Before Phaedra can respond, Mal reappears with two glasses of champagne and a stern face. “Novikov.” 

“Well, well. Mal Weiss. A pleasure to see you again.” 

Phaedra's eyes turn towards Mal’s whose stern features harden into a glare. “Can’t say the same for you, I’m afraid.” 

Laszlow laughs a little, and rests her elbow  weight against the table. 

“Now, now. Don’t be afraid, I’m harmless,” she says, though her attention is back on Phaedra. “Say, Weiss. You didn’t tell me about your girlfriend here.” 

“She’s not–” 

“We’re not–” 

Phaedra can’t help but shiver when she witnesses the way this Laszlow woman’s face split into a Cheshire cat grin, red eyes piercing intensely into her that Phaedra can’t help but take a step closer to Mal. 

“Is that so? Seems like you’re a free agent, sweet cheeks.” 

“Quit that,” Mal warns, standing more directly in front of her, safely putting the glasses of champagne on the table. If Phaedra didn’t know any better, she might think that Mal was jealous with the way she postures and places herself in the middle. Mal asserts herself with her towering posture. But Laszlow, for her part, doesn’t back away, cocking her head as if studying, observing. Then she turns her attention towards Phaedra. 

“If you’re up for better company, sweet cheeks, I’m happy to oblige.” 

With an impressive sleight of hand, Phaedra watches Laszlow flick her hand out to show a business card, the simple design of the letters L and N laying atop each other. She accepts the card, staring down at the ten digits before her eyes are drawn back to the woman watching her intently. She misses how Mal’s hands tighten into fists. 

The attention is…nice. It’s not uncommon that people try to flirt with her or introduce themselves to her. She knows she draws attention with the way she looks, dresses. She’s never paid many of them any mind, especially because she knows she’s maintained her focus on Mal. But it’s the first time in a while that someone's commanded her attention and it makes her feel warm; a coiling in her belly taking shape. 

“Um, thanks.” 

The woman throws a wink at Phaedra before slowly turning her attention back to Mal. “Always good to run into you, Weiss.” 

Mal doesn’t say anything and the pair of them watch as Laszlow saunters to another table, unaware that she’s just wreaked havoc in their arrangement. 

-

“Sorry about her,” Mal offers, when they huddle close back to the table. Phaedra feels the warmth of her hand on the small of her exposed back. 

Phaedra can’t help but observe how Mal’s chin juts out, her jaw tensing. “How do you know her?”

“Law school. Then she just never disappeared, unfortunately.” 

“I–she’s something, isn’t she?” 

“An annoyance, more like,” Mal mutters. 

Phaedra fiddles with the stem of her glass and turns her attention back at the card that sits on the table between them, the gold embossing of the L and N glaring up at them. “I don’t know. You have to admit she has a…certain charm about her.” 

When she lifts eyes, she’s surprised to find disbelief all over Mal’s features. “You can’t be serious. She is such a playboy.”

She frowns, suddenly defensive of the other woman. “Maybe, but she seems to know what she wants. Women find that attractive.” 

“You’re not seriously gonna call her, are you?” 

“No—I, no,” she says, finally. But would it be so bad if she did? She’s not anything to Mal, but it’s not like she wants to antagonize her friend, either. “I’m just saying. She’s interesting, that’s all.” 

“Do you like her?” 

Phaedra stares up at darkened blue eyes, and reads the accusation underneath. “Are you jealous?” 

She frowns when she hears Mal scoff, Phaedra’s insides burning at the quick dismissal, rejection.

“What? Me? Why would I be jealous?” she huffs out, pushing the way that her, a scowl plastered on her face. “There’s nothing about Novikov to be jealous of.” 

Just as she thinks about responding, she’s interrupted by someone approaching their table—a coworker of Mal’s. 

“And who’s this lovely woman beside you, Mal?” the man asks as he stands beside his wife. 

Phaedra looks up at Mal who beams down at her. “This is Phaedra Song, my best friend.” 

Outwardly, she plasters on a polite smile and accepts the offered hand. Yet inside, her heart sinks into the pit of her stomach, and Phaedra realizes then and there that she’s only been fooling herself. That Mal is never going to look at her the way that she wants.

After pleasantries are exchanged with Mal’s coworkers and they’re left alone again, Phaedra slides her half-empty glass forward before tucking Laszlow’s card into her clutch. Mal tilts her head with a questioning glance her way, her strong hand holding onto Phaedra’s elbow. 

“You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. I just—bathroom,” she responds softly, before pushing on her tiptoes and placing a chaste kiss on Mal’s cheek. She almost misses the way Mal’s hand gravitates to her waist to steady her. 

“Okay. Hurry back.” 

“Of course.” 

She turns on her heels and walks towards the museum doors without another glance back.

She carries on silently watching as Mal plucks her socks off the ground and slides them back on her feet.

She's still in her corset lingerie, though she knows that it's beyond repair, surprising even herself that it's somehow still clinging onto her. The last two hours felt almost like a fever dream, the way her body writhed under Mal's touch, her tongue, her fingers. Or how her hands ran the length of Mal's back, her long manicured nails scoring angry red streaks against pale skin before clutching onto short hair. She'd received a sound like no other - a mix between a growl and a groan - so highly intoxicating that Phaedra's only mission was to hear it again.

Instead of responding, Phaedra takes a centering breath before she dons a playful smirk on her features and slinks forward onto her knees. She crawls the short distance between them before she drapes herself across Mal's strong and muscled back. Her hands roam freely - the only time she allows herself the luxury - placing one across Mal's broad chest and the other on her muscled thigh (her cheeks almost bloom a rosy hue when she remembers how that same thigh expertly pushed against her core as she rode the other woman).

She practically preens when she hears Mal grunt in approval, turning her cheek so that Phaedra is ready to place a wet and hungry kiss on that sharp jaw before settling for an all too soft and tender kiss on her cheek.

"Mm," Mal says before placing her large hands atop Phaedra's, turning her head just enough so that the tip of her nose nuzzles against hers. Phaedra, in all of her recklessness, wants nothing more than for that gesture to mean more than what it is. "You feel so good, baby."

It's a cruel thing to hear from the same lips that ate her out so good into three consecutive orgasms just an hour ago.

She catches a glimpse her lipstick stains all over Mal's collar and she feels a sense of triumph, however temporary, because it was another undeniable mark from her.

Mal follows her gaze and smirks. "You've ruined my shirt."

If these are the only ways she can mark the woman in front of her - then that's what she'll settle for. She's already gone this far and hit the point of no return the first time she orgasmed (and every orgasm since) from Mal's deft fingers (then her tongue), she may as well keep going.

What's a little destructive sex among friends anyway?

"I'm not sorry!" she says, leaning in again and capturing Mal's lips with hers.

Mal is slow to untangle herself from Phaedra's hold and finishes getting dressed. Phaedra sits on her legs with her hands resting idly on her thighs, her eyes following Mal's every move around her room. Then, Mal walks over to her and leans forward, her shadow looming above her. All Phaedra wants is to pull the other woman back down and to be engulfed by her, the traipsing of comfort and suffocation of being underneath the other woman pressed against her.

But she does none of that, only stares up as Mal holds her chin between her thumb and finger. "Thanks, Phae. I really needed that."

If Phaedra's not careful, she can do something dangerous like delude herself into thinking that Mal might just want her, too. Even still, as long as Mal needs her, Phaedra will answer. Because having Mal this way, however much it whittles away at her own heart, is still better than not having Mal at all.