Flung out of space

She looks breathtaking tonight. The pale champagne silk of her dress gathers at the waist, falling in a soft line that brushes her calves, the neckline modest but shaped to flatter her tall frame. A string of pearls lies elegantly at her throat, with matching drops at her ears. Her hair, coiffed in its usual perfect waves, seems to catch every bit of light the chandeliers offer. It’s no wonder heads turn as she passes, her height and composure filling the room as though the evening were meant for her alone.

Inside, the room is mellow and warm. Candles burn in little clusters down the length of the long tables; a piano plays something old and familiar in the corner; the clink and murmur of other people’s lives makes for a soft, comforting background. The place has personality without being fussy, like the two of you—thoughtful, considered, quietly luxurious. Larissa chose it, of course. You wouldn’t expect anything less.

Heads turn as you walk through the dining area. Waiters pause mid-step, diners glance over their menus, a few couples whisper softly. Murmurs rise, but she doesn’t glance at a single one of them. Her gaze is fully on you, soft and warm, focused and familiar. She leans slightly closer, brushing your hand lightly. “You look gorgeous,” she murmurs, thumb tracing lazy circles over your knuckles. Her lips press a delicate kiss to the back of your hand, a small, intimate claim in a room full of strangers.

You grin, cheeks warming. “And you,” you reply, your voice soft, “look like you walked straight out of a painting.”

A laugh escapes her, soft and private, and her thumb brushes your hand again. “You always know exactly what to say,” she murmurs, leaning just a fraction closer, eyes glimmering.

The hostess greets you. “Good evening. Reservation?”

“Mrs. Weems,” Larissa replies, calm and smooth, with just the faintest curve to her lips. Fingers intertwined, she guides you through the dining area with a gentle, practiced ease, brushing lightly against your elbow. People look, whispers follow—but she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t glance once at anyone else. Her focus is entirely on you.

Once seated, menus in hand, your eyes flick to the wine list. You hesitate, scanning the page, but before you can ask, Larissa leans over naturally, scanning it as well. Without pause, she selects a bottle, almost instinctively. “This one,” she says simply, nodding, her hand still resting near yours on the table, thumb brushing lightly. “It’ll go perfectly with what we’re having.”

You laugh softly, watching her. “You always pick exactly what I’d like.”

She smiles at you, that private, knowing smile reserved only for you. “Because I know you,” she says quietly. “I know what you like, and you trust me… so I just take care of it.” Her hand covers yours briefly, thumb stroking a light, affectionate rhythm across your knuckles. It’s natural, effortless, intimate.

The table feels cocooned in its own little glow, the candle between you flickering warmly, reflecting in Larissa’s eyes. The bustle of the restaurant fades to a distant hum; here, in your little corner, it feels as if the evening was created only for the two of you.

She watches you with that soft, steady gaze that never fails to undo you. Even as you fuss with the menu, scanning options with an indecisive frown, her eyes are entirely on you, a small smile tugging at her lips. She reaches across the table, brushing her fingers over your wrist until your eyes meet hers.

“Don’t overthink it,” she says, voice velvet-smooth, affectionate. “Whatever you choose, it will be lovely. And if it isn’t, you can always share mine.”

You roll your eyes lightly, though the warmth of her hand against yours makes your chest flutter. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true,” she replies, unhurried, sure. Her thumb strokes the back of your hand in a rhythm that’s almost absentminded, but her gaze remains locked on you. Every gesture is deliberate, grounding. Even the way she lifts her wine glass and takes a slow sip feels like an extension of her attention toward you, a ritual shared.

The wine she picked is smooth, warm as it slides down, exactly right—as she always manages. You tell her so, and she only smiles in that small, knowing way, as if she takes quiet pleasure in being right but doesn’t need to say it.

For a while, you simply sit together, conversation easy, her hand never straying far from yours. She leans in occasionally, close enough that her perfume—soft, floral, uniquely hers—wraps around you, a quiet luxury you’ve come to crave. Every now and then, she tips her head just so, regarding you like you’re the only thing in the room worth watching.

And then—

A shadow falls across the table, and you glance up. A young waitress stands there, pad in hand, her smile a little too bright, her eyes flicking almost immediately to Larissa.

“Good evening,” she says, voice pitched just a bit higher than necessary. “Are you ready to order?”

Her gaze lingers on Larissa a moment too long, the kind of lingering that prickles heat in your chest. Larissa, poised as ever, doesn’t shift her attention from you—at least, not yet.

The waitress’s smile lingers as her gaze fixes on Larissa, just a touch too bold. “That dress is gorgeous,” she says brightly, tilting her head. “Not many people could pull that off.”

Her eyes sweep over Larissa—slow enough to make your stomach tighten—before flicking back up.

Larissa, ever composed, doesn’t falter. Her long fingers remain steady over yours, thumb brushing a calm rhythm into your skin. “Thank you,” she replies, her tone smooth but dismissive, clipped just enough to end the exchange. She doesn’t so much as glance at the girl. Her gaze is anchored on you, her expression softened by that quiet affection only you ever see.

But the waitress doesn’t take the hint. She lingers, pad poised, lips curving as she tries again. “And your hair—I swear, it’s perfect. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

You feel the words land like tiny sparks on your skin, unwanted and irritating, and you shift in your seat without meaning to. It’s small—a glance downward, the faint tightening of your jaw, the way your grip on Larissa’s hand tenses ever so slightly. To anyone else, it would go unnoticed. But not to her.

Never to her.

Larissa feels everything. The subtle flex of your fingers beneath hers. The breath you take, just a shade too sharp. The way your eyes flick toward the girl, then away again, as though refusing to dignify her boldness with more than a glance.

Her thumb pauses its soothing motion against your hand, then resumes, slower now. A deliberate sweep, steady, coaxing. She tilts her head just a fraction, her eyes on you with a softness that makes your pulse quicken. And then you see it—the faint curl of her lips, the smallest spark of amusement dancing behind her eyes.

She knows.

And she likes it.

Not the clumsy attempt of the waitress—Larissa has no use for that. What delights her is you. The little flare of protectiveness you can’t quite disguise, the storm of possessiveness that simmers under your skin. She savors it quietly, like a rare indulgence.

Her gaze lingers on you a beat longer, drinking in every subtle tell. The slight furrow in your brow. The way you inch unconsciously closer, as though your body wants to stake a claim it doesn’t need to make. The energy rolling off you, quiet but unmistakable.

Her lips part just barely, as though she might let a laugh slip—but she doesn’t. Not here, not yet. Instead, she leans in just slightly, lowering her voice so only you can hear, intimate enough that the world around you ceases to matter.

You don’t say anything—but you don’t need to. Larissa feels it in the curve of your fingers, the quiet press of your knee against hers beneath the table.

And oh, how she enjoys it.

Her thumb moves in slow circles against your knuckles, not to calm you, but to savor you. Every little tell of your possessiveness makes her chest glow with delight. She can feel your quiet bristle, that soft cling of need that makes you seek her touch just a little more insistently.

She adores you like this.

Not upset—never truly upset—but unwilling to share even a flicker of her attention with anyone else. It’s intoxicating, knowing she inspires that in you. That someone like her, who once lived behind careful walls and calculated distance, is now loved so fiercely that even the brush of a stranger’s smile makes you stake your claim.

Her gaze lingers on your face, openly, hungrily, as though she could drink down the sight of you leaning into her. She barely remembers the waitress is even there. To Larissa, the world has narrowed to the way you clutch her hand, the way your lips press together in quiet protest, the way your eyes flicker with that soft possessiveness you try to disguise.

The waitress clears her throat softly, notepad poised. “Have you decided what you’ll be having this evening?” she asks, her eyes still sliding toward Larissa more than the menu.

Larissa leans back slightly in her seat, eyes scanning the menu with her usual calm deliberation. She tilts her head, lips curling faintly, fingers brushing against yours as she traces the edge of the table. “Hmm… the duck looks excellent tonight,” she murmurs softly. “But the halibut is tempting too—light, delicate. What are you in the mood for?”

The waitress leans closer, a little too eagerly, notepad in hand. “The duck is wonderful,” she says brightly, eyes lingering on Larissa. “Rich, bold… it really suits someone who knows exactly what she wants.”

You feel a flare of heat rise in your chest. Her gaze is far too fixed.

Larissa hums, tilting the menu toward you, thumb brushing light circles over your hand. “The halibut is lovely too, darling. Perhaps a lighter choice tonight?”

The waitress tilts her head, voice low and overly sweet. “But the duck—it’s bold, confident, unforgettable. Perfect for someone like you.”

Your fingers tighten around Larissa’s. You can’t help it—you lean a fraction closer, voice firmer than usual. “I’ll have the halibut,” you say, eyes flicking to Larissa. “And my wife will have the duck. And, darling, we can share our plates, as we always do.”

Larissa’s lips twitch, a quiet smile playing at the corners, her eyes glimmering with amusement. She doesn’t comment—doesn’t even glance at the waitress—but her hand squeezes yours gently, thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles.

The waitress clears her throat, glances between you both, and finally steps back with a polite, tight-lipped smile. “Very well… I’ll place that order.”

Once she’s gone, Larissa leans back slightly, eyes softening on you, amusement dancing in her gaze. “Mmm,” she murmurs, voice low and teasing, “you’re positively adorable when you’re a little possessive.” She presses a light kiss to the back of your hand, still brushing her thumb over yours. “I might just enjoy that a little too much.”

You press your fingers over Larissa’s hand, cheeks warming as your eyes flick toward the waitress who had lingered just a second too long. “I… I didn’t like the way she was looking at you,” you mutter, pout forming on your lips.

Larissa tilts her head, a slow, mischievous smile spreading across her face. “Oh?” she says lightly, brushing her thumb over yours. “So… no one’s allowed to look at me now? Is that it?”

You huff softly, cheeks flaring. “Not… not just look. Not like they want to… you know… like they want you.” You squeeze her hand gently. “Because… you’re mine.”

Larissa laughs softly, that velvety, indulgent sound that makes your chest flutter. “Mine, huh? I see,” she murmurs, leaning back slightly in her chair, eyes glinting. “So you’re telling me this little waitress was… unacceptable? Dangerous even?”

You groan, shifting in your seat, pout deepening. “I… I don’t want her thinking she can just… I don’t know… charm you or something,” you admit, voice low. “It’s… irritating.”

Larissa leans forward, resting her chin lightly on her hand, a teasing glimmer in her eyes. “Oh, I see,” she says, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment. “You’re jealous… over nothing, because I didn’t even notice her? How… dramatic of you.” She brushes her lips over the back of your hand, slow and teasing, watching the flush rise in your cheeks. “And yet… I can’t help thinking it’s incredibly cute.”

You groan again, hiding your face lightly in your free hand, trying to act exasperated while secretly enjoying the attention. “Larissa… stop teasing me,” you murmur, voice soft but pleading.

She tilts her head, letting her gaze linger on you, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Stop teasing you?” she repeats, voice smooth and playful. “Darling… you’re giving me far too much fun to resist. Watching you flare up a little… little pouts, little flares of indignation… it’s irresistible.”

You glance at her, lips still pressed into that pout, and Larissa leans back, letting her thumb brush over your hand again. “But don’t worry,” she murmurs, voice low and teasing, “I’m all yours. That little waitress? She’s harmless. You, on the other hand…” Her lips brush lightly over your knuckles once more, lingering just long enough to make your chest flutter. “…you’re too precious to ignore.”

The waitress sets the plates down gently, duck in front of Larissa and halibut before you. “Enjoy your meal,” she says with a little extra brightness directed at Larissa, her smile lingering longer than necessary before she glides away.

You don’t miss it. Your eyes narrow, following her retreating figure with a glare sharp enough to cut through the soft candlelight. The muscles in your jaw tighten as you reach for your napkin a little too firmly.

Across from you, Larissa’s lips curve slowly, not toward the waitress but toward you. “Darling…” she drawls softly, reaching for her wine glass, her pale eyes sparkling. “That look could wither roses. I almost pity the poor girl.”

You huff and stab at your fish with a little too much force. “She was staring,” you murmur.

“And you were glowering,” Larissa counters smoothly, utterly unbothered, sipping her wine. She sets the glass down with a graceful hand and tilts her head, regarding you with quiet delight. “Do you know how charming you are when you’re protective?”

Your cheeks heat immediately, though you refuse to look up, cutting into your halibut with exaggerated care. “I wasn’t being protective. I was—”

“—jealous,” Larissa finishes for you, her voice lilting, velvet-wrapped amusement. She leans in just a fraction, her tone dropping lower. “And I must say, watching you glare at anyone who dares to look my way? I find it… irresistibly sweet.”

You glance up at her then, wide-eyed, caught between embarrassment and indignation. “You’re enjoying this,” you accuse, lips forming into the beginnings of a pout.

“Very much so,” she replies without hesitation, reaching across to brush her fingers over yours in a slow, reassuring stroke. “I have half a mind to encourage it.”

Your fork hovers above the halibut, and you narrow your eyes at her, cheeks warm. “Don’t you dare,” you warn, the words hushed but edged with heat.

Larissa’s smile deepens, slow and deliberate, as if she’s savoring your little outburst. She tilts her head, her gaze steady and unyielding. “Or what?” she asks softly, voice dripping with velvet challenge.

Your mouth opens, closes, then you manage, “Or I’ll… make you regret it later.” It comes out shaky, not nearly as fierce as you’d hoped, especially under the weight of her eyes.

Larissa hums low in her throat, clearly entertained. She leans in, her tall frame casting a shadow over the table, her pale gaze fixed squarely on you. “Is that so?” she murmurs. “My darling, you can barely keep from blushing just looking at me. And yet you threaten me?”

You squirm, your cheeks burning hotter. “I mean it,” you insist, though your voice softens, more plea than command.

Her lips curve into something richer, hungrier, and she reaches across to trail her knuckles down your arm until she takes your hand. “You’re delicious when you’re like this,” she whispers, lifting your fingers to her mouth and brushing a kiss over your knuckles. “Jealous. Protective. Trying so hard to sound stern.”

You whimper softly, caught between flustered and desperate, and Larissa doesn’t let go of your hand. Instead, she strokes her thumb along your skin, her eyes never leaving yours. “Don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what that does to me,” she adds, voice low, commanding in its calmness.

You shift in your seat, heat crawling down your spine. “You shouldn’t enjoy it so much,” you protest weakly.

“But I do,” Larissa answers, without hesitation, her eyes fixed on you with that familiar blend of adoration and amusement. “Every pout, every little glare—it only reminds me that I’m entirely yours.”

*

By the time dessert plates are cleared and the last sip of wine lingers on your tongue, the candle between you has burned low. Larissa dabs her lips delicately with her napkin before setting it down, every movement unhurried, controlled.

Just as Larissa reaches for her purse, the waitress reappears, check in hand and that same bright smile. “I trust everything was perfect,” she says, setting the slip down with a little flourish. Her eyes linger on Larissa a moment too long before she straightens.

Before Larissa can even move, you snap the folder off the table and slide your card inside. “Perfect,” you echo, your tone clipped, your pout impossible to hide. The waitress blinks, falters, and then retreats with far less confidence than she arrived.

The moment she’s gone, Larissa’s soft laugh curls across the table. “Darling…” she drawls, her eyes glittering with amusement. “Really now.”

You cross your arms, chin tipping up in defiance. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Her smirk deepens, indulgent and entirely unfooled. She leans forward, resting her chin elegantly on one hand, eyes drinking you in like wine. “Of course you don’t,” she murmurs, velvet threaded with mirth. “Though I must admit, I’m enjoying this little performance of yours very much.”

You stubbornly glance away, your cheeks betraying you with their warmth, and she chuckles again, slow and rich.

The waitress returns quickly this time, placing the receipt down without so much as a glance before hurrying off. Larissa rises then, gathering herself with her usual unhurried grace, and extends her hand toward you. The faintest curl of her lips tells you she hasn’t let the moment go.

“Come, my jealous little darling,” she purrs, low and affectionate, her hand steady as she helps you up. “Before you frighten the entire staff away.”

*

The night air is cool against your cheeks as Larissa guides you outside, her hand warm at the small of your back. A black car pulls up to the curb almost immediately—of course, everything bends to her timing. She opens the door with effortless grace and waits for you to slip inside before following, skirts rustling softly as she settles next to you.

The door clicks shut, and the city hums faintly beyond the windows. Inside, though, it’s quiet—except for the distinct weight of your pout. Arms folded, eyes fixed firmly out the window, you exude every ounce of grumpy stubbornness you can muster.

Larissa, naturally, is delighted. She shifts just enough that her thigh brushes yours, her perfume wrapping around you like a trap. “You’ve gone very quiet,” she muses, voice low and teasing, her accent curling around the syllables. “Am I to assume this is sulking, or merely deep thought?”

You don’t look at her. “Neither.”

“Mmm.” Her smile is audible. She reaches out, long fingers tipping your chin gently toward her, refusing your attempt to hide. “It’s rather adorable, whatever it is,” she says, her pale eyes sparkling in the dim light.

You swat lightly at her hand, cheeks burning hotter. “Larissa…”

“Yes, darling?” she purrs, utterly unbothered, leaning back in her seat with the ease of someone who knows she’s already won. Her hand finds yours again, long fingers curling firmly around your smaller ones, grounding you even as her smirk lingers. “You’ll forgive me eventually. But until then…” She leans in, lips brushing your temple with maddening softness. “…I think I quite like you grumpy.”

You huff, leaning into her anyway despite your best effort to stay cross, and she chuckles low in her throat, stroking her thumb slowly across your knuckles.

*

The sleek black car glided to a stop at the curb outside your home, its polished surface catching the faint glow of the streetlamps. The driver didn’t wait for directions—just eased smoothly away once Larissa opened the door and stepped out, tall and elegant, the hem of her pale dress brushing against the pavement.

She turned back, one gloved hand braced lightly on the roof of the car as she leaned down. “Darling,” she murmured, offering her other hand toward you, “don’t keep me waiting.”

You slipped your hand into hers, still sulking, though the warmth of her grip and the gentle tug she gave you made your pulse stutter. She drew you close the moment you stood beside her, her arm naturally sliding around your waist as if she couldn’t imagine walking without you pressed there.

The night air was cool, carrying the faintest scent of lilac from the garden, but Larissa’s body was all warmth and soft perfume. She guided you up the path with an ease that made your grumpy silence feel childish, though that only made you cling to it more fiercely.

Inside, the house greeted you with quiet familiarity. Larissa closed the door firmly behind you, the lock turning with a click that echoed in the hush. She set her clutch aside with care, then turned, her eyes immediately finding you where you hovered near the entry.

Arms crossed, lips in a tight line, you refused to meet her gaze.

Larissa’s smirk was audible in her voice. “My, my. Still sulking, darling?”

“I’m not sulking,” you muttered, though your pout betrayed you.

She moved closer, heels clicking softly against the floor, her height making the room feel suddenly smaller. “No?” she drawled, tilting her head. “Then what do you call this little storm cloud hovering over my beautiful evening?”

When you didn’t answer, her hand found your chin, coaxing it up until you were forced to look at her. Her thumb traced along your jaw, her eyes glinting with the kind of playful command that always made your knees a little weaker.

Her hand stayed lightly on your chin, tilting your face toward her with a careful patience that made your chest ache. Her eyes softened, glimmering with warmth, and she smiled like she could spend forever watching you. “Baby…” she murmured, her voice gentle, like a lullaby, “I’m sorry. I was just teasing. I didn’t mean to upset you at all.”

You blinked, cheeks warming, trying to look anywhere but her. She chuckled softly at the attempt, tilting your face just enough so you couldn’t avoid her gaze.

“I just…” she continued, brushing her thumb along your jaw in slow, deliberate circles, “…I just love seeing you and love how you feel for me.”

Your lips parted slightly, and you whispered, “Hmm… I don’t know whether I can forgive you.”

Larissa’s smile widened, gentle and indulgent, as she leaned closer, resting her forehead softly against yours. “Oh, my love,” she murmured,

Larissa’s smile widened, gentle and indulgent, as she leaned closer, resting her forehead softly against yours. “Oh, my love,” she murmured, “then I’ll just have to spend the rest of the evening convincing you.”

Her thumb brushed over your cheek, featherlight, and she tilted her head, pressing the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then another, just below your ear, lingering there with a warmth that made your chest flutter. “One kiss… for being my light,” she whispered against your skin. A third followed, at the hollow of your cheek, sweeter still. “Another… for being so patient with me.” She drew back just enough to look into your eyes again, pupils wide, voice lowering to something fragile and raw. “And a thousand more, until you believe how much I adore you.”

You swallowed, trying to keep the line of your mouth stern, but it betrayed you, twitching at the edges. She noticed, of course — she always noticed — and her lips curved into that soft smile, the one she only ever wore for you.

Her forehead rested gently against yours, and she whispered, “If forgiveness means I get to hold you a little tighter, kiss you a little longer… then I’ll beg for it all night.”

Your pout wavered, but you held your ground, huffing softly, “Hmm… I’ll have to think about it.”

Larissa’s lips lingered on yours until you were dizzy from the slow, unhurried pull of her mouth. When she finally drew back, her gaze was heavy-lidded but so achingly soft it made your chest squeeze.

Without a word, her hands slid down your sides, finding yours, her long fingers weaving between them like they were meant to stay there forever. She pressed one last kiss to your forehead, then gently tugged you with her.

Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she led you toward the bedroom, each step measured but unhurried, as though she wanted you to feel every ounce of her presence. You followed, your smaller hand swallowed in hers, the brush of her thumb over your knuckles steady and reassuring.

When she pushed open the door, the dim lamplight painted the walls in a warm golden glow, the familiar shape of your shared bed inviting, intimate. Larissa turned to you there in the doorway, her height casting you in her shadow, her eyes drinking you in like you were all that existed.

She guided you backward until the backs of your knees brushed the edge of the mattress. Her touch was unyielding in its certainty, but gentle in its delivery, like silk wrapped around steel. Her long fingers framed your waist, anchoring you to her, before she coaxed you to sit.

“Sit for me, darling,” she murmured, and you obeyed, the sheer velvet weight of her voice undoing any thought of resistance. From this angle, looking up at her, the fall of her white blouse slightly open at her throat, her figure outlined in the lamplight, she looked every inch the goddess you secretly thought she was.

Larissa’s lips curved when she caught the way your eyes lingered. Slowly — deliberately — she tugged loose the tie at her collar, letting the ribbon fall with a whisper of silk. She slipped one button free, then another, the pale line of her throat and the edge of lace peeking through making your breath stutter. Her eyes never left yours.

“Still not sure if you’ll forgive me?” she asked, soft and sweet, though there was the faintest purr of mischief beneath it. She leaned forward, bracing one hand on the mattress beside your hip. “Then I suppose I’ll have to earn it.”

You barely managed to murmur her name before she kissed you — slow, coaxing, a kiss that poured warmth straight through your chest. By the time she pulled back, your lips parted in protest, she was already easing you backward against the pillows, her height and her body caging you in without a shred of threat, only safety.

“Look at you,” she whispered, brushing a knuckle along your cheekbone, her expression open and impossibly tender. “My beautiful girl… my heart. You pout at me one moment and then undo me the next just by looking at me.”

She kissed you again, deeper this time, claiming and soft all at once, her tongue sliding against yours until you were breathless beneath her. Her hand trailed downward, fingertips grazing the hem of your clothes, teasing but patient, as though she were savoring the privilege of touching you.

“Let me show you how sorry I am,” she breathed against your lips, her voice hushed and reverent. She shifted, the mattress dipping under her weight as she climbed onto it fully, straddling you with effortless grace. The scent of her perfume — jasmine, powdery and warm — filled your senses as she pressed closer, her body flush against yours.

“Let me worship you,” she whispered, her mouth brushing your jaw, then the sensitive hollow of your throat. Her kisses trailed lower, slow, lingering, each one more deliberate than the last. “Until you can’t even remember why you were cross with me in the first place.”

You shifted beneath her, trying to ignore the way her kisses set your skin aflame. “You can’t just kiss me and expect me to forget everything,” you murmured, though your voice lacked its bite.

Larissa drew back just enough to meet your gaze, her thumb tracing over your cheek with unbearable tenderness. “No?” she asked, her tone lilting, amused but endlessly fond. “Then tell me what I can do, darling. Name it, and it’s yours.”

You swallowed, trying to hold your pout. “Maybe… maybe I want you to spoil me until I feel better.”

Her eyes softened even further, as if that were possible, her lips curving into a smile that made your chest ache. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to your nose, “spoiling you is my favorite pastime.”

Her hand slipped higher beneath your shirt, warm against your bare skin, but her touch was still achingly tender. “If it takes a hundred kisses… a thousand touches… I’ll give them to you gladly.”

You huffed lightly, still trying to keep up the game, though your pout had already weakened under her gaze. “Hmm… I don’t know if I should give in so easily.”

“Oh, my love,” Larissa murmured, her lips brushing the shell of your ear as her hand splayed fully against your side, “you don’t have to give in. I’ll simply keep loving you until you forget there was ever anything to forgive.”

Her lips curved into that knowing smile, the one that made your stomach flip, and she kissed you again — this time harder, fuller, until your breath caught in your throat. Her hand slid beneath your shirt with a surer touch, warm palm gliding over your bare skin.

“Let me spoil you,” she whispered against your mouth, her voice a husky promise. She tugged at the hem of your clothes, easing the fabric upward, giving you every chance to stop her but never pausing in her kisses. When you raised your arms for her, she slipped the garment over your head in one smooth motion, discarding it with little ceremony before her lips found your collarbone.

“Perfect,” she murmured against your skin, her mouth hot as it trailed lower, teeth grazing lightly just to hear your breath hitch. Her hands framed your waist, sliding up your ribs with slow reverence, as if every inch of you was to be admired, claimed, adored.

You shivered under her touch, and she drew back just far enough to look at you, her eyes dark but still impossibly soft. “Do you feel how much I want you, sweetheart?” she asked, her voice thick with need.

Your answer was swallowed by her mouth crashing back onto yours, deeper this time, her tongue teasing against yours as her body pressed more fully over you, pinning you in the gentlest cage. Her thigh slipped between yours, the friction making you gasp, and she smiled against your lips, savoring the sound.

Larissa’s kisses trailed lower, down the center of your chest, her hands guiding you gently back until you were reclined fully against the pillows. With a grace that was uniquely hers, she slipped down the length of your body, her hair still perfectly pinned despite the heat of her mouth marking a path over your skin.

When she reached the waistband of your skirt, she looked up at you, her blue eyes heavy with devotion and desire. “May I, darling?” she asked softly, her fingers already brushing over the fabric but not moving further until you nodded.

The skirt slid down with her slow, deliberate touch, her fingertips grazing the backs of your thighs as she eased it away. She pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, then another a little higher, savoring the way you shivered beneath her.

And then Larissa — tall, elegant, always so commanding in every other space — sank gracefully to her knees before you at the side of the bed. Her hands parted your thighs with gentle insistence, her thumbs stroking circles into your skin as though reassuring you even now.

“Look at you,” she murmured reverently, her voice a caress, “the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

She lowered herself without hesitation, her lips finding the soft heat between your thighs. The first stroke of her tongue had you gasping, your fingers instinctively tangling in her hair. Larissa hummed against you, savoring the sound, her hands anchoring your hips firmly as she devoured you with the patience of someone who had all night.

Her tongue worked you open in languid strokes, steady and consuming, the kind of rhythm that made your thighs tremble against her shoulders. She hummed as she licked deeper, the vibration sparking through you, and when your hips bucked, she held you down with that steady, unshakable strength.

She drew back just enough to press a kiss directly to your swollen clit, her lips glistening, her eyes never leaving yours. “My wife,” she whispered reverently, the words breaking apart on a sigh. “My beautiful wife.”

The sound of it — the possessive warmth, the way it fell from her lips like a prayer — tore a moan from your throat before you could stop yourself. Your head tipped back against the pillows, a desperate sound spilling free as your fingers tightened in her hair.

Larissa’s smile curved against you, wicked and tender all at once. She gave you a slow lick from base to tip, then sealed her mouth around you, sucking until your moan turned into a whimper.

“That’s it,” she purred, voice thick with affection, “sing for me, sweetheart. Let me hear how much you love being mine.”

Your body arched helplessly, caught between the steady drag of her tongue and the unbearable heat building low in your belly. Her hands kept you open, kept you still, her every movement a mixture of control and devotion.

The patience in Larissa’s tongue snapped like a thread pulled too tight. Her hum deepened, vibrating through you as she latched onto your clit with sudden hunger, sucking and licking with a rhythm that left no space to breathe. You gasped, a broken cry spilling out as your thighs threatened to close around her head, but her strong hands kept you spread open, anchored to her mouth.

“Larissa—!” you moaned, your hips grinding against her face in helpless desperation. She only growled softly in response, the sound thrumming against you, and dove back in harder, her tongue circling, teasing, then plunging deep with greedy precision. Every movement was a declaration: she wasn’t going to stop until you shattered.

The sight of her — elegant, composed Larissa, hair still perfectly pinned, utterly devoted between your thighs — was enough to undo you. Your fingers tugged at her hair, and she glanced up through heavy-lidded eyes, gaze molten as her mouth worked you harder.

“My wife,” she gasped against you before devouring you again, the words muffled by the slick heat of your body. The name sent another moan tumbling from your lips, your chest arching up off the bed.

“Please,” you whined, your voice breaking as the pressure coiled too tightly inside you. “Please—fingers. I need your fingers.”

Larissa groaned low in her throat, the sound raw with want, and without lifting her mouth from you, one hand slid lower, her long fingers tracing over your entrance with teasing circles. “Anything for you,” she murmured, her voice husky and reverent, before pressing one finger inside — deep, deliberate, curling just right.

Her finger pumped into you in steady, deep strokes, curling just right as if she’d memorized every secret place inside you. Her tongue never faltered at your clit, quick and insistent, lapping at you like she was starved.

“God—Larissa!” you cried, your hips canting up against her hand, against her mouth, the pleasure ricocheting through you so sharply it was almost unbearable. She hummed in answer, the vibration sending sparks through your core, and slid a second finger into you — stretching, filling, pushing deeper.

You clenched tight around her, the pressure blurring your thoughts, your moans turning into desperate little sobs as she worked you open. She angled her fingers just right, brushing that spot inside that made your vision go white at the edges.

“Look at you,” she purred against your slick heat, not stopping for even a heartbeat, “falling apart for me, my love. My beautiful wife.”

The word broke something loose inside you. Your back arched off the sheets, a ragged cry tearing from your throat as release slammed into you. Your thighs shook violently against her shoulders, your body pulsing around her fingers as wave after wave of pleasure dragged you under.

Larissa didn’t let go. She kept moving her fingers, her mouth relentless, riding you through the aftershocks until your cries softened into whimpers and your body went pliant beneath her.

Her lips left a final, lingering kiss against your inner thigh before she straightened, slow and graceful, every inch of her body sliding up yours like she had all the time in the world. She pressed a trail of featherlight kisses over your stomach, the dip of your ribs, your collarbone—pausing at the hollow of your throat where she nipped gently, then soothed it with her tongue.

“Am I forgiven now, my love?”

Her forehead rested gently against yours, her whole presence wrapped around you like a cocoon—her perfume, her warmth, the velvet lilt of her voice. It was a moment suspended in stillness, every inch of her leaning into you with such devotion it made your chest ache. You felt her heart pressed against your own, steady and patient, waiting for your answer.

You let the silence stretch, savoring the rare sight of Larissa so openly tender, so beautifully unguarded. Then, with a sly curve of your lips, you tilted your head just enough to murmur back, “Hmm… I don’t know… I might need a little more convincing.”

Her laugh came out low and breathless, full of adoration, and she leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. “Anything for you, my love,” she whispered, her voice tender and husky at once. “Anything you want, you’ll have.”

You straighten another line of lipstick tubes on the crowded vanity, aware that your hands are already too precise to be casual. The dressing room smells of powder and hairspray and the faint, sharp tang of nerves. You’ve been here long enough that the usual chaos backstage has a rhythm, a predictable tide. Costumes half-zipped, jokes thrown across the room, someone swearing about a missing stocking.

Tonight, though, there’s a softness underneath the noise. A waiting.

You hear when she arrives before you see her, the hum dipping and rising, voices shifting into something almost reverent. Footsteps move down the corridor, the stage manager’s tone pitched just a little higher than usual, as if he’s trying too hard not to sound impressed.

The door opens.

She is taller than any of the pictures let on, tall enough that the doorway seems too small for a moment, the frame cutting a clean line across her shoulders as if the room has to make space for her. The overhead light catches in her hair—platinum turned to white fire—and somewhere beneath the sleek coat and the high collar you can see the suggestion of sequins, a shimmer every time she takes a breath.

“Good evening,” she says, and the room exhales.

Her voice is lower than you expected, smooth but not soft, each word placed with the same care you’d use to set a rhinestone. She looks around once, taking in the dressing tables, the racks of costumes, the cluster of half-dressed performers trying not to stare. Her gaze slides past you at first, and your shoulders loosen without permission. You’re not ready to be seen yet.

The stage manager clears his throat. “Nightshade, this is—”

You don’t hear what he calls you, not really. You’re focused on the way she shrugs out of her coat, the easy roll of her shoulders, the way the fabric slips down her arms and reveals the first glimpse of the gown beneath. It’s not the one she’ll wear on stage—not yet—but it’s still too much. Midnight blue, cut close at the waist, the line of it making a quiet promise of everything it doesn’t show.

Her eyes find you then. Blue, yes, but sharper than any photograph, thoughtful rather than cold. She considers you for a beat that stretches longer than it should.

“So,” she says, “this is my assistant for the evening?”

You manage to nod. “Yes. I—if you need anything, I’ll…” You trail off, annoyed with yourself, because that’s not a sentence and you know it.

One corner of her mouth lifts, just enough to say she noticed but isn’t going to be unkind about it. “Anything,” she repeats, taste-testing the word. “That’s generous.”

The stage manager gives you a look that’s meant to be encouraging and only succeeds in making you more aware of your own posture. You straighten instinctively.

“You can hang that up,” she says, slipping the coat from her shoulders completely now and offering it without looking.

You take it carefully, the wool still warm where it touched her. You hang it on the stand by the door because it’s something to do that doesn’t involve staring at the long, clean line of her neck or the way the blue silk moulds to her back when she leans forward.

She turns toward the mirror, lowering herself into the chair with a grace that feels rehearsed and yet somehow entirely natural.

“Do you prefer Nightshade?” you ask, after a moment. Your voice comes out quieter than you intend, swallowed by the soft buzz of the bulbs.

She meets your gaze in the mirror. “You may call me Larissa.”

It sounds like a concession, like something she doesn’t offer often. You tuck it away, unsure what to do with it yet.

Her makeup case is already open on the vanity, a compact little universe of colour and shadow. You move to her side, hands hovering for a second above the array of brushes. You know this part, you do this for the regular dancers, the girls who come in late and leave earlier than they should. But somehow, under this gaze, with this name in your mouth, the simple act of reaching for a mascara wand feels like stepping onto a tightrope.

“What do you usually go for?” you ask.

She tilts her head, considering her reflection. “Classic. Glamour with restraint. I leave spectacle to the costume.” Her lips curve slightly. “And to the way I take it off.”

The comment could be crass in someone else’s mouth. From her, it’s almost academic, a statement of method. Still, you feel heat rise to your face and are grateful she’s watching herself instead of you.

You work slowly, because that is the only way you know how to be steady. Foundation smoothed along the high planes of her cheekbones, the faintest deepening of contour beneath. You blend until there are no edges, only the illusion of shadow where you want it to be.

“Your hands don’t shake,” she observes.

“I do this a lot,” you say.

“Do you?”

You’re close enough now that you can see the tiny flecks of darker blue in her irises, the way her lashes are naturally long even before your brush touches them. You focus on the work: the sweep of liner, the precise angle of a wing that elongates her gaze into something feline, predatory.

When you move to do her lips, she watches you more directly.

“Red, I assume?” you ask.

“Anything else would be dishonest.”

You choose the shade without thinking, the one you’ve seen in print ads and still photos, that perfect knife’s edge between scarlet and wine. You steady her chin with your fingers, thumb resting very lightly at the hinge of her jaw. The contact is minimal, professional. It feels like standing too close to a candle anyway.

She parts her lips just enough to let you trace the bow, the careful curves. She holds utterly still.

“You’re very focused,” she murmurs, when you’re almost done.

“So are you,” you reply, before you can stop yourself.

That earns you a quiet, low laugh. “Touché.”

You finish, step back, and for a moment the two of you simply look at the image in the mirror. Larissa Weems, Nightshade, all polished poise and crimson mouth, every line of her composed. It feels strangely intimate to know you had a hand in this final version, that the woman they’ll see on stage will be wearing your precision.

“Hair?” you offer.

She inclines her head. “Please.”

Her hair is heavier than it looks when you unpin it, the pale strands sliding over your knuckles like water. You comb through gently, careful not to tug, dividing and smoothing, coaxing it into soft, controlled waves. She closes her eyes once, briefly, and you have to force yourself not to let your fingers linger too long at the nape of her neck, where the skin is warm and bare.

“You’re trying very hard not to look,” she says eventually, eyes still closed.

You freeze. “Look at what?”

Her lashes lift, and there is amusement there now, unhurried and certain. “Me.”

You swallow. “I’m looking right at you.”

“Mmm.” Her gaze dips, travels slowly from your eyes to your mouth and back again. “That’s one way to put it.”

Heat crawls up your throat, but you hold her stare because you refuse to flinch in front of her. “I’m working.”

“I know.” She smiles, small and knowing. “You’re doing it very well.”

It shouldn’t sound like a caress, but it does.

The stage manager’s voice filters through the thin door, announcing the first act call. The usual lineup will warm them up before Nightshade takes the stage, but everyone knows who they’re here for. The noise from the club drifts in—low jazz, the swell of conversation, glasses clinking, the occasional rough laugh. Beneath it all is something else, a hum of anticipation you can feel even back here.

“Costume, then,” Larissa says, rising. The gown she wore in crashes and blues is replaced by something far more deliberate when you unzip the garment bag: a corseted bodice heavy with black sequins, the light catching on each tiny facet. A split skirt overlay, sheer and dark, falling over stockings attached to suspender clips that gleam faintly in the lamplight.

You help her into it piece by piece. The lacing at the back of the corset is intricate, a pattern of pulled silk running down her spine. You stand close behind her, threading the ribbon through the eyelets, tugging gently to bring the boning snug against her curves.

“Tell me if it’s too tight,” you murmur.

“I’ll tell you if it’s not tight enough,” she counters.

You feel the laugh more than hear it, the faint shake of her shoulders under your hands. You pull a little firmer, the muscles in your forearms flexing with the effort. Her waist narrows as the fabric draws in, the shape of her body becoming even more defined. It’s an almost obscene privilege to be the one doing this, watching the transformation from backstage reality to onstage myth.

You’re aware the whole time of where your fingers are. Grazing the smooth, bared skin at the base of her spine, brushing the sides of her ribs, briefly steadying at her hip when she shifts her weight. Each contact is fleeting, excusable, and yet you can feel the imprint of them lingering in your own body.

“You’re holding your breath,” she observes quietly.

You exhale, surprised. “Am I?”

“Yes.” She looks at you over her shoulder, eyes half-lidded. “It’s unnecessary. I’m not going to break.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” you say, mostly under your breath.

Her smile turns slow. “Aren’t you.”

You finish with the laces, tying them off neatly at the base, the bow resting just above the swell of her backside. You step back, letting your gaze travel up, because you’re allowed to check your own work. That’s all this is. You tell yourself that twice, maybe three times.

The stockings come next, though she does most of that herself, sitting on the edge of the vanity chair with one leg extended. The line of her calf, the curve of her thigh as she rolls the sheer fabric up, the snap of the suspender clip fastening against the stocking top—it’s all measured, efficient, nothing like the slow, performance-ready tease you know she’ll give the audience. And still your throat dries watching it.

“You’ll be in the wings?” she asks, as she slips her feet into heels that seem almost architectural.

“If you want me there.”

“I do.” She stands, testing the balance, one hand resting on your shoulder momentarily. The weight of her is brief but undeniable, grounding and dizzying at once. “I like knowing where my constants are.”

You echo the phrase silently—my constants—as if it might mean more than it should.

When she leaves the dressing room, the backstage corridor feels smaller behind her, the space she occupied still humming with her presence. You follow a minute later, after you’ve remembered how to move, slipping along the familiar path to the side of the stage.

The club is dim beyond the curtain, the main room lit in pools: warm amber on the bar, soft gold across the tables, the stage a brighter, expectant glow. The audience is restless in the way of people who think they’re sophisticated but are still susceptible to wonder. Laughing too loudly, clapping too early, craning their necks whenever there’s a flicker of motion near the stage.

From your vantage point in the wings, you can see everything and be seen by no one. You hold onto that anonymity like a talisman as the house lights dip further and the band slides into a languid, sultry number.

Her introduction is almost unnecessary—they already know—but the emcee gives it anyway, voice booming. “Gentlemen, ladies, and all creatures of the night… be sure your hearts are in working order. Please welcome to the stage… Nightshade.”

The applause hits you before the light does, a wave of sound that seems to push the curtain inward for a second. And then she steps through.

Larissa doesn’t burst onto the stage, she arrives. There is a difference. She takes her time, each step a statement, the line from her throat to her toes an unbroken command of attention. The sequins on her corset catch the spotlight, sending a scatter of reflections into the dark like a private constellation.

She doesn’t move much at first, just stands and lets them look. She knows precisely how long they can stand it before the need for motion becomes palpable. When she finally lifts one gloved hand, the small shift feels monumental.

The act is classic burlesque, but she inhabits it with a sort of quiet intelligence. The gloves come off first, of course. She toys with the edge of one as the band leans into a bluesy run, tracing the seam with a fingertip that suggests more than it reveals. When she finally peels it away from her wrist, inch by inch, the fabric clinging before yielding, the crowd’s noise tightens, condensing into whistles, low appreciative murmurs, the occasional shouted endearment.

She uses them, those sounds. Plays them like another instrument.

When she turns in profile, you see the curve of her waist against the cinched corset, the flare of her hip under the sheer overskirt. She drags the glove slowly up her own arm before flicking it out into the darkness, a single long strip of satin that disappears into eager hands.

Her gaze sweeps the room, collecting faces one by one, and then, deliberately, she lets it drift to the wings. To you.

Even from here, you can feel the weight of it. She doesn’t smile immediately, there’s a beat where she just look at you, as if taking inventory, as if reassuring herself that yes, you are where she left you. Then the faintest curve of lips, a small, private acknowledgement no one else would notice over the roar of attention.

Your breath catches on that moment and doesn’t quite right itself.

She moves more now, the choreography a seamless blend of slow hip rolls, graceful turns, teasing dips. The overskirt loosens under her fingers, unfastened with an absent-minded precision that belies the deliberate nature of each reveal. She drops it like a curtain, the sheer fabric pooling at her feet, leaving her in high-cut panties and stockings that gleam faintly under the lights.

The crowd surges again, applause and cheers crashing against the stage like a storm. You think about the way you saw those same stockings rolled up in the quiet yellow light of the dressing room, the way her shoulder felt under your hand when you steadied her. It feels… illicit somehow, to be remembering the backstage softness while she gives them this sharpened, elevated version of herself.

Her hands travel down her own sides, over the boning of the corset, pausing suggestively at the busk. The choreography asks for the idea of unhooking it, the slow, almost-but-not-quite reveal. She obliges, letting her fingers linger on the catches without actually undoing them. She’s not here to strip, she’s here to tease, and you have never understood that word so clearly until now.

When the act hits its peak—the band swelling, her body arched in a pose that offers the illusion of vulnerability without surrender—the room seems to hold its breath. She lets the silence stretch, suspended on the edge of something that will not come, because this is her story, and she decides how far it goes.

Then she releases it, the tension, the pose, the air itself, letting it all dissolve into a sly bow, a slow sweep of her arm that sends another cascade of applause rolling over her.

You don’t realize your hands are clenched until they ache.

She exits cleanly, stepping through the curtain with the same unhurried grace, the persona peeling away in infinitesimally small layers as she crosses the threshold back into the realm of backstage hum. There’s a flush high on her cheekbones now that makeup didn’t put there, a fine sheen of sweat at her temple.

You’re there, already moving, the glass of water in your hand an excuse more than a necessity. She takes it, fingers brushing yours, and this time the touch lingers, her thumb grazing the side of your index finger as if by accident.

“You watched,” she says, as though there was any chance you wouldn’t have.

“You told me to.”

“I did.” She studies you over the rim of the glass as she finally drinks, her throat working with each swallow. When she lowers it, there’s a hint of a smirk. “You were very intent.”

You think of all the ways you could deny that, dismiss it, laugh it off. None of them feel honest, and dishonesty would sound ugly in this room, with her eyes on you like that.

“You’re… difficult not to watch,” you admit, forcing the words out slowly, measured.

Her gaze warms, just a fraction. “Is that so?”

“You know it is.”

“Yes,” she agrees softly. “I do.”

She sets the glass down, close enough that you smell the faint tang of citrus from the water, layered over the jasmine of her perfume and the salt of her skin.

“You were trying so desperately not to stare earlier,” she continues, drawing out the words, “and yet onstage, you looked at me like you’d forgotten anyone else existed.”

Your mouth goes dry. “I was concentrating. On the performance.”

“Mmm.” She steps closer, until you have to tilt your chin up just slightly to keep her in focus. “On the performance.” Her hand lifts, fingers ghosting over the front of your blouse, not quite touching, tracing the line of a button. “And which part held your attention the most, I wonder?”

You don’t answer. She doesn’t seem to expect you to.

“Don’t worry,” she says instead, voice dipping into something that feels like a secret. “I like it.”

“Like what?”

“Being watched. Properly.” Her smile turns thoughtful. “There’s a difference between being seen as an object and being witnessed as a person performing an object. You understand that, I think.”

You do, though you’re not entirely sure how she’s pulled that admission out of you without you having said a word.

She reaches up, then, and very gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The contact is light enough to dismiss and careful enough that you know she doesn’t intend for you to. Her fingers linger a heartbeat longer than they need to, her knuckles brushing the curve where your jaw meets your neck.

“You’re flushed,” she notes quietly.

“So are you,” you answer, because you refuse to be the only one laid bare here.

Her lips part, surprised amusement flickering across her face. “You’re bolder than you pretend.”

“Not bold,” you say. “Just… present.”

“Present,” she repeats thoughtfully. “I could use more of that.”

There’s a commotion further down the corridor—another act hurrying to change, someone complaining about a missing prop—and the spell thins a little, though it doesn’t break. Larissa glances past you, then back, recalibrating.

“You’ll be here tomorrow as well?” she asks.

You hadn’t thought that far ahead. She’s only booked for two nights at your club, on her way through to the next city, the next stage, the next set of hands lacing her into some other costume. Your schedule flashes through your head—yes, you’re on the roster, but that could change, it often does—yet the word that comes out is simple.

“Yes.”

“Good.” She reaches for a silk robe hanging nearby, sliding it over her shoulders, the deep plum fabric obscuring some of the sparkle without dulling her presence. “I like consistency on tour. Familiar faces. Hands that already know how tight my corset should be, how I prefer my liner drawn.”

She ties the robe loosely, fingers deft. Then, almost as an afterthought, she looks back at you, expression unreadable.

“If I ever decide to take on a constant assistant,” she says, voice still level, almost casual, “someone to travel with me rather than a new face at each club… I’ll think of you.”

The words land with more weight than their tone suggests. You feel them slot into place somewhere low in your chest, like a promise and a temptation and a challenge all folded together.

You search her face for any hint of a joke, some sign she’s teasing you past your limit, but there’s only that same composed amusement, that same thoughtful curiosity.

“You barely know me,” you manage, because it’s the only protest you can find that doesn’t sound like begging.

Her gaze drifts over your features, lingering just briefly at your mouth before returning to your eyes. “I know enough for now,” she says. “The rest… can be learned.”

She moves past you then, the hem of her robe whispering against your leg as she goes. As she reaches the door, she pauses, looking back over her shoulder.

“Oh,” she adds, as if the thought has only just occurred to her, “and next time, don’t fight it so hard.”

“Fight what?”

“The urge to look.” Her smile is small and devastating. “After all, I’ll be looking for you.”

The door swings shut behind her with a soft click, leaving you alone with the warm impression of her touch on your skin and the echo of that almost-offhand promise. Out in the club, the band starts up again and the audience’s chatter swells, hungry for whatever comes next.

You stand still in the dressing room, surrounded by powder and perfume and the faint glint of sequins on the floor, and realize that for the first time since you started working here, the rest of the night feels like an intermission.

————————————————————————

And just when the clock ticked and marked her finish hour she immediately got up from her desk with a sigh and shut down her laptop. Her heels clicking the marble floor she walked towards the office door, grabbing her coat and handbag from the coat rack by the door, her mind still on you as she threw it on, how you probably were laying on your couch watching one of your sitcoms she always found ridiculous as you waited for her.

She exited her office with a soft click of the door, walking down the already empty, dark hallways towards the main entrance. She bid her goodbyes to a few coworkers that still were chatting at the packing lot and went to her car, letting out a soft, relieved huff as she did.

Meanwhile back at home there you were, laid down as you, barely, watched the tv, your eyes going to the wall clock from time to time, waiting for your wife to finally come home. And just then you heard the faint sound of her key unlocking the door, you instantly sat up and looked over the back of the couch, smiling gently when you saw your tall, beautiful wife walk in.

When Larissa’s eyes fell on you the corner of her lips lifted up in the first genuine smile of the day “my love… hi” her voice sounded exhausted, overwhelmed even.

That’s when your brows frowned down slightly “hi Riss” your soft voice immediately calmed Larissa down, and before you go to stand up her voice stopped you.

“Oh no, stay there, darling” she said while she carried her feet to the couch, stepping out of her heels as she did so, hanging her coat on the armchair nearby and finally, she plopped down the couch next to you with, which left the hundredth sigh of the day.

“Rough day?” You murmured softly to her as you shifted closer, your knees touching the fabric of the skirt of her dress. Your hand went up to cup her cheek, your thumb gently caressing her cheekbone, smiling softly as you saw her eyes close and lean into your touch.

“Hmm… you have no idea” she muttered out while she wrapped her arms around your frame and pulled you even closer, almost landing on her lap “but suddenly I’m feeling much better” she opened her eyes again, those big blue eyes looking at you like you were the most precious thing in the world making your heart flutter, a thing she always managed to do even without her knowing.

“Oh, I wonder why that might be” you chuckle softly and lean in, your lips pressing against hers in a gentle lingering kiss before you pull away and see her eyes soften even more “are you hungry? I made pasta if you want-“ your own squeal interrupted you, as you were getting up to prepare her the dinner she immediately pulled you back down and looked you with a soft scold.

“No, you’re staying here” Larissa scolded you before she gently pulled you down onto the couch and laid on top of you “right now all I need is my favourite cuddle bear” she mutter softly as she rested her head on your collarbone, her body almost crushing you down, not that you minded one bit tho.

You let out a slight chuckle at her actions and slid your hand into her up do, scratching her scalp gently “yes ma’am…”

Larissa let out a soft hum, her eyes closing as she felt your fingers through her hair, her lips twitching up when you started too slowly undo her bun, just like she daydreamed earlier at work. Her body relaxed into yours, like an ice cube melting under the sunlight.

You were her sunlight.

After a while of just laying there in each other’s arms, your chin rested on her head as your fingers still played with her, now, undone hair. Larissa’s ear pressed on your chest, your heartbeat like a lullaby to her, her racing mind now totally calmed down. Her hand slowly slid into the hem of your silk sleeping shirt, her soft skin brushing against yours as she made her way up, stopping just below your chest, her thumb caressing your under breast.

You shifted slightly under her touch, your eye opening before you look down at her. You know exactly what she was trying to do, your eyebrow raised as she lifted her head and looked back at you with those blue eyes, now with a hint of mischief in them, her hand slowly sliding further up, covering your breast as she slowly pinched your nipple between her fingers “Riss-“ your voice got caught by the feel of her hand pressing harder “not so exhausted anymore, I see”

Her lips twitched up in a little smirk at that “no… not anymore” she almost purred before she shifted, pulling herself between your legs, her free hand resting next to your head on the couch “I do am feeling a little hungry now”

“Hungry you say? Well, there’s still the pasta right on the-“

“Not for food, love” she interrupted with a mutter while she lowered her, still painted, lips on you jaw, leaving a trail of kisses down to your neck.

You chuckled softly and tilted, almost unconsciously, your head sideways for her “oh I know… I was just trying to mess with you” you hum softly with a smile and let your hands travel down to her cheeks, lifting her head to make her look at you “but I guess you’re a little bit needy tonight”

“Me? Needy? Oh please, love…” she chuckled huskily, the sound making you shiver “let’s see who’s the one needy in a few minutes, huh?” Her voice lowered as she brushed her lips against yours, subconsciously making you part your lips slightly for her, your eyes closing when she finally pressed her lips against yours.

You let out a low hum as Larissa pushed her tongue into your mouth, letting her lead the kiss as she deepened it, her lipstick smearing all over your lips while you felt her hand travelled down your waist to your hip, gripping it slightly, almost possessive.

Meanwhile your hands slide down to her back, pulling down the zip of her dress slowly, letting the sleeves fall down her arms “I hate this dress… take it off” you breath out against her lips and look up at her.

“Oh? So this is how it is now?” The older woman chuckled and lowered her head, biting at you neck softly, but you know it was a warning “you tell me what to do, love?”

“It was only a suggestion” you mutter and roll your eyes playfully.

“Mhm, sure it was” she chuckled against your skin before she sat up on her knees, looking down at you before she pulled her dress up her head, throwing it away somewhere in the living room.

You practically melted at the sight of her in just her red lingerie, matching her lips, always so perfect, so beautiful.

“My eyes are up here, my love” her voice pulled you out of your mind, making you look up at her and seeing her smug smirk at your staring.

“What? Can’t I look at my wife in peace now?” You roll your eyes again, trying to defend yourself but you instantly pulled your attitude aside when Larissa grabbed your ankles and pulled you flat down on the couch, making you squeal in surprise.

“Quit rolling those eyes, sweetheart. Don’t be a brat” she scolded you with a raised eyebrow and you blushed immediately, she definitely wasn’t playing games tonight…

“Sorry” you say with a low voice, the sight of your face making her soften, letting out a sigh she lowered back down on top of you, pulling you into a slow kiss.

Her hands went to the hem of your sleeping shorts, patting your hip gently as she pushed them down, you immediately understood and lifted your hips, letting her take your shorts and underwear off.

“Don’t apologise sweetheart, just… don’t be a brat tonight” she whispered against your lips before she went down to kiss your neck.

You smiled instantly and nodded, biting your lip as she kissed down to your chest “I’ll try” you breath out softly and heard her chuckle, nipping at your collarbone before she pulled your shirt up to your chest, letting you take it off completely.

She stopped for a moment, looking down at you, her eyes filled with desire as she took you in “so beautiful” she breathed out softly, her fingers running down your sides, making you shiver before she leaned down, her lips wrapping around your harden nipple.

You let out a surprised, low moan, your back arching into her “Larissa…” you let out in a breathy gasp and look down at her, her eyes already on you as she slid her hand down your torso to your core, distracting you while she moved to your other nipple, her teeth sinking in “god-“ you hissed softly in pain and pleasure, you head falling back into the couch.

“What? Can’t handle a little biting, love?” She hummed softly with a smirk on her face, biting the skin of your ribs, her fingers, very slowly, sliding past your clit to your core, making you huff softly and grab the cushion behind you.

“You’re evil” you mutter lowly while you look down at her, gulping down a moan as you feel her fingers spread your wetness to your clit, her fingers lightly circling it, knowing it would drive you crazy “Larissa” you repeat her name in soft whine.

“Now now… guess you’re a little needy tonight” oh… so she’s taking revenge for calling her needy.

Great.

You huff softly and throw your head back in defeat, feeling her laugh against your hip, kissing softly before she laid between your legs “no come back, love?” She said in a playful tone and planted a kiss just over your clit.

“No” you just mutter and look down at her again, rolling your hips slightly but she quickly pushed them down to keep you still “Riss” you whine again at her.

“If you want it you know how to ask for it, my love…” she hums softly and resumes her teasing, her breath hitting your core, making your skin break into goosebumps. She knew exactly what she was doing to you…

And you loved it.

“Larissa” you sighed, your voice almost desperate as you slowly slid your fingers into her hair, trying to pull her head into you but she quickly swatted your hand away, making you groan.

“What did I say?” She raised her eyebrow at you “or do I have to punish you? And it won’t be a pleasurable one, sweetheart… I can assure you that”

And by her tone you knew she was being very serious… and you never said no to a punishment, but right now? You just needed her.

So you just gave in to her, like you always ended up doing “… please, Larissa, I need you” you whispered, the desperation obvious now. Earning a satisfied hum from the blonde woman you felt her mouth on you in a breath.

Throwing your head back you moaned softly, feeling her mouth suck on your clit expertly, knowing exactly how to drive you crazy, how to make your mind cloud completely.

And then her fingers started to tease your entrance, making you grip her hair and roll your hips towards her in need “fuck… Larissa, please-" your plead died down with a gasp, feeling her fingers easily slide into your core.

"What was that? Care to repeat it, honey?" Larissa said teasingly, feeling her smirk against your skin you let out a huffed laugh that turned into a soft moan as she thrusted her fingers into you.

"I don’t even know why I keep putting up with you" you whisper breathlessly already and bite down your lip, your brows furrowing down in pleasure as she hits just the right spot.

"Because… you love me, and… I give you the best orgasms of your life, baby" her silky voice hums out and before you can bite back she flats she tongue on your clit and curl her fingers inside of you, making you tilt your head back with a moan.

Larissa just chuckles against you at your lack of response "so fucked up already you can’t even answer me. Or… you know how right I am… hm?"

She looks up at you, her free hand sliding up your abdomen to your breast again, pinching your nipple when the only response she get is a soft groan "answer me" she says softly but firmly.

"Y-yes, fuck… yes, Riss" you manage to breath out as she pinches your nipple again. With a satisfied smile she dives back into your clit, making you choke out a moan as she licks and suck on it, her fingers not easing her thrusts, slow but deep, knowing exactly what you needed.

But just in a second she pulled out, making you whimper at the loss and look down at her with a frown, your chest heaving "what you doing?" You ask her in confusion as you watch her crawl up your body.

"Shh, love…" she just hushed you with a kiss before she grabs your waist and suddenly turns you over, earning a surprised sound "just a change of plans…" she breathes against your ear while she slips a cushion under your hips.

You gulp down softly at the sudden change and feel your cheeks flush when she covers your body with hers, her bra now gone so you feel her harden nipples against your back, her hand slowly slipping between your body and cushion back between your legs.

"Just… needed to feel you squirm under me" she whispers into your ear, making you shiver before she slides back into you smoothly, instantly setting a deep, faster pace. You moan into the couch, your hands gripping whatever they could.

‘Tch, tch. None of that" you hear the blonde woman say before she grips your hair and tugs it back "I want to hear you" she nips at your earlobe as she starts to go faster.

You gasp at her tug, your walls clenching around her fingers as you moan out, no words being able to come out of your mouth as she curls up her fingers, her palm pressing against your clit while she sneaks her arm around your neck, choking you slightly.

"Riss- fuck" you whimper out as you grip her arm, your nails digging in as you squirm under her, feeling your release build up rapidly. Your legs tremble under her, hips twitching against the cushion almost desperately as you feel her ragged breath into your ear.

"Come on, love… come for me" Larissa breathes out as she keeps her pace, her arm tightening just slightly around your neck, just to make your eyes roll back and nails dig further into her skin, leaving marks behind.

And that is all it takes for your body to snap, tensing against her as your orgasm hits you like a truck, letting out a soft cry as you spasm around her fingers.

After Larissa rides you out of your high, whispering soft praises against your ear, slowly retreats her hand from you, chuckling as she hears a small disappointed sound from your throat and slips the cushion from under your hips, gently turning you back around.

She smiles at your flushed, heaving state. Your breath coming out in soft pants, your cheeks faintly redden from your orgasm. You slowly open your eyes as her fingers gently tuck your, now messy, hair behind your ear, smiling hazily at her.

“Such a good girl" Larissa hums before she leans down to kiss your lips, her tongue lazily invading your mouth as her hand draws soft circles on your hip, her fingers still wet against your skin as you cup her cheeks in your own hands "I love you"

Her soft whisper makes you smile again against her lips and you look up at her, you eyes full of love "I love you too" you whisper and kiss her again.

Larissa ends the kiss after a long moment before she lays down on your chest. The two of you just enjoying the after bliss, holding each other and listening to the faint sound of rain starting to fall outside of the house.

"Pasta, you said? I could use some now" Larissa suddenly mutters after a while, making you giggle softly before you kiss her forehead and slowly get up from the couch, almost making the other woman groan at the loss of your warmth.

You dressed back on in your sleep shirt and panties as you walked to the kitchen and prepared your wife her plate, not long after you feel her long arms sneak around your waist from behind, making you smile softly as she leaves a kiss on your shoulder.

"You know, you could have stayed naked for this… we’re far from done anyways, just giving you a break" she murmurs against your skin and squeezes your sides slightly, making you chuckle with a faint blush.

"Well, sorry I don’t want to freeze to death" You playfully say before you turn around in her arms with her plate "eat, Misses… funny business later" you give her a wink and peck her pouting lips before the woman sits at the island at eats her dinner.

After Larissa finishes her paste she gets up and sets her plate in the sink before she turns to you, already with a smirk "now…" she hums softly before she grabs your waist, making you chuckle and rest your hands in her arms, biting your lip as you see the playful glint in her eyes "time for round two"

And just like that she guides you upstairs to your bedroom, the, now dark, house filling with soft laugh as you almost trip on the stairs, her hands tightening around your waist in protection, her soft breath tingling your ear "got you"