Sophia
I’m shaking all over. At first, I thought I was scared, but as I was leaning against the door, wondering if he could smash his way through it, I realized it wasn’t fear I felt. It was thrill.
Heat pools low in my stomach, and moves lower still as my panties become wet. I clench my thighs together when his voice travels through the door.
At first, I don’t register what he is doing. I hear his belt clatter, I hear the breathy change in his voice, the way he grunts out his words in clipped sentences. That’s when I slowly and quietly pull the key from the lock and sink to my knees.
He is right there, about a foot away from the door, holding himself in his hand and pumping hard. His words are wrapping around me, making me want to open the door. My center has never ached like this in my twenty-two years on earth. Now I feel like it’s aching just for him. For what I can see.
He works his thick length furiously and I press my hand between my thighs, trying to relieve the pressure that has built there.
Then he groans. The sounds he makes are low, and vibrate straight through me.
I can just make out the white spurts, then watch as it drips from him.
His hand has stopped moving now. His breath is ragged.
He lets go of his penis and it hangs thick and heavy, I lean back on my haunches, then move forward again, but as I line my eye up with the keyhole, he is gone.
I stay on my knees for a long while, clenching my thighs together and willing the buzz in my veins to subside.
The silence outside my door feels louder than anything that came before it. My pulse still beats against my skin like it’s trying to escape, and the air tastes strange. Heavy, metallic, alive.
I don’t know how to name what’s happening to me. I’m shaking from the ache that hasn’t left since he touched me. Every part of me feels too alert. I press my palms against the wood, as if I can feel the warmth of him still there. But the surface is cool.
What just happened wasn’t supposed to happen. He said I belonged to him, that he would take what he wanted when he decided. But the way he looked at me, the way he stopped, it wasn’t about control. It was restraint.
And somehow, that makes everything worse.
I sink back onto the floor, and try to slow my breathing. My body doesn’t understand the difference between danger and desire. It wants both. Maybe it’s the same thing when it comes to him.
He called me angelu. His angel. But I don’t feel like an angel right now. I feel dirty. Alive. Thirsty for something I’ve never had and shouldn’t want.
I want to be angry at him. I want to hate him. But when I close my eyes, I see the way his hands trembled when he told me to go. I see the muscle in his jaw tightening like it took everything in him not to cross the line.
No one’s ever wanted me like that. Not enough to lose control. Not enough to fight himself over me.
The thought alone makes my stomach twist. Heat lingers between my legs, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to chase the feeling away. It doesn’t help. It only sharpens it.
“Stop,” I whisper to myself, pressing my palms over my face. “Just stop.”
I wish I could cry, but nothing comes. My body hums with something else entirely. A need I don’t understand, a tension that doesn’t belong in a locked room. I picture him standing in front of me, a man made of heat and ruin and restraint.
What does it mean that I’m not scared enough of him?
The thought won’t leave me. It circles like smoke refusing to clear.
The floor creaks outside my door. Heavy steps. Slow. Measured.
“Angelu,” he says quietly. “It’s okay to come out now.”
I don’t answer.
His voice is calm again. Controlled. “I won’t touch you. Not unless you ask me to.”
My heart stutters. He waits, then the floorboards shift as he turns away.
I stay where I am, listening until the sound of his footstep’s fades.
My pulse refuses to settle. My skin still remembers him. My mind can’t decide whether I should be more afraid of what he might do, or what I’m beginning to want him to do.