1. Lillian #3
Lillian’s answer was a gasp that broke into a whimper.
Her fingers curled in the lapel of R’s blazer and then opened again, useless—the only thing she could hold on to was the rhythm R gave her.
The wall at her back felt cool and distant; the only real thing in the world was the steady, ruthless kindness of R’s hand.
She pressed Lillian harder against the plaster with her body, pinning her there without bruising, owning the space around her while the pads of her fingers moved with clinical accuracy, the kind of practiced control that made surrender feel not only inevitable, but safe.
“Please,” Lillian managed, not sure whether she was asking for more or for mercy.
R’s mouth curved against her skin. “Then take it,” she said, and changed the angle by a fraction, a tiny shift that stole the rest of Lillian’s breath.
The pleasure built not like a sprint but like a tide, each pass of R’s fingers drawing it higher, each drag of her thumb keeping it from breaking until Lillian’s body ached with it.
She could feel herself coming open in stages—hips loosening, breath stuttering, jaw slack—until the world narrowed to the point where R touched her and the precise circle she drew there, patient and remorseless.
The smell of her own arousal rose warm and heady; R’s low murmur of approval vibrated against Lillian’s throat and made her toes curl in her heels.
“Eyes on me,” R said, and Lillian managed it, dragging her gaze up from the angle of their bodies to meet eyes that were dark, intent, hungry.
There was nothing careless in R’s face, nothing distracted; she looked at Lillian the way a command is given—calmly, completely—and Lillian felt herself fall into that look like stepping off a ledge she’d been standing on for years.
Her body arched hard enough to lift her off the wall and R’s free hand came up to cradle the back of her head, not to restrain but to hold, to keep her from spinning away as the pressure crested.
Lillian tried to breathe and made a sound instead, a thin, desperate thing that dissolved into a broken yes as R circled faster, then slower, then pressed just a fraction harder, guiding her up, keeping her there, refusing to let her slip under until she could only shake and beg.
“Let go,” R murmured, and it was less an instruction than a permission Lillian hadn’t known she’d been waiting for.
She shattered on the next stroke. It wasn’t a neat unraveling but a detonation that lit every nerve at once, electricity sparking through her limbs and bursting behind her eyes, her thighs clamping and then flying open under the careful insistence of R’s hand.
She cried out, unguarded, and the sound bounced off the hallway like a confession before the city swallowed it; R swallowed the rest, mouth on hers, catching the tremor of her breath as the wave rolled and rolled and would not stop.
R stayed with her through it, holding her up with hip and shoulder and a palm splayed firm at her lower back while the other hand gentled, coaxing pleasure down from unbearable to exquisite, from exquisite to soft pulses that left Lillian shaking.
The world came back in sounds and textures—the rasp of wool against her bare thigh, the cool seam of the wall at her spine, the faint trace of R’s perfume, cedar and clean skin—and then Lillian realized her hands were in R’s hair, that she was kissing her like she’d always known how, slow and grateful and adoring.
When the shuddering finally eased, R eased with it, slowing to a stroke that felt like the kindness at the end of a difficult day.
She withdrew her hand only when Lillian sagged, boneless, and then she was simply there, pressing small, unhurried kisses to the damp hinge of Lillian’s jaw, to the corner of her mouth, to that spot below her ear that made her sigh.
Lillian blinked herself back into her body.
Her chest rose and fell in quick, shaky pulls; her legs felt like they belonged to someone else.
When she finally managed to focus, she found R’s dark eyes on her—steady, unreadable, a flame banked rather than extinguished—and in them something she hadn’t let herself name even when she’d felt it: hunger, yes, but also an unspoken need that mirrored her own, the same ache to be met and matched and seen.
“Your turn,” Lillian whispered, surprised by how rough her voice sounded, surprised by how sure she felt offering it, asking for it.
R’s smile unfurled slow and dangerous, the kind that promised heat without hurry.
“I know,” she said, as if Lillian had confirmed a result she’d already measured, and then she leaned in to kiss her again.
This time it was softer, almost reverent, the kind of kiss that stitches something back together after breaking it open, and Lillian felt herself answer without thought, mouth parting, hands sliding to R’s waist, tugging her closer.
The pace shifted—still hot, still hungry, but layered now with intimacy that robbed the moment of any pretense they could walk away unchanged.
R’s palm smoothed up Lillian’s ribcage to cup her breast through the loosened fabric, thumb dragging over a peaked nipple until Lillian gasped into her mouth; the other hand framed her jaw, thumb feathering along her lip as if memorising it.
R was no longer simply taking; she was drawing them both into a shared, dangerous middle where surrender felt like power and wanting felt like truth.
Even now, with the ache in her thighs and the taste of her pussy between their mouths, Lillian knew the night was far from done, that every boundary had shifted a fraction to make room for whatever this was becoming.
The lift chimed again somewhere down the hall, and the city turned over another hour.