Chapter 15
The door closes behind us, and the click of it travels through my entire body.
The apartment thrums with unspoken need, lamp light painting Daphne’s silk gown in shades of gold and shadow.
Her bare shoulders still carry the heat of three hundred watching eyes from downstairs, but now there’s only mine, and the hunger in them could burn this whole building down.
My palm finds her lower back, skin to skin contact that makes my cock throb painfully against my suit pants. Eight feet to the bed where I've imagined her writhing beneath me every night for three weeks, where discipline says I should take her—controlled, careful, safe in the darkness.
But fuck discipline. It died the moment she looked at me without flinching.
I guide her forward, each step measured torture as her hip brushes mine, as her scent fills my lungs. Vanilla and arousal. Three steps past the kitchen where I pressed her against the wall. Five more toward the bed where I've jerked myself raw thinking about her.
The south wall stops me cold. The dance mirror, full-length on its stand, the one I installed for her weeks ago. The reflective surface catches everything: both of us moving together, the apartment behind us, what's about to happen.
My body moves on instinct, ahead of thought. I pull away from her, shrug off my suit jacket in one motion, cross to the mirror in three strides. The jacket goes over the top frame, covering the upper portion of the glass. The movement is automatic. Old habits die hard.
I turn back to Daphne. She's stopped exactly where I left her, watching what I just did. She doesn't speak. She crosses to the mirror with that dancer's grace, reaches up, pulls my jacket off the top. It drops to the floor with a soft thud.
The mirror is uncovered.
She turns to face it. Golden silk catches the lamp light, her hair still in that loose chignon, evening makeup making her eyes darker. She studies her reflection for three seconds, then speaks without turning.
"Undress me. Here, in front of the mirror."
So direct.
I don't answer. I cross to her.
I stop behind her, my chest three inches from her back. We're both visible in the mirror now. Daphne in her golden gown facing the glass directly, me half-visible behind her in my dress shirt and pants. My hands come to her shoulders, pause for half a heartbeat, then begin.
The shoes first. I kneel, slide one gold heel off her foot, then the other. She steps out of them, three inches shorter now but still elegant. I stand, move back behind her.
My fingers find the pins in her hair. One by one, I pull them free, watch in the mirror as dark strands fall loose around her shoulders. The chignon unravels slowly until her hair flows down her back, catching the lamp light.
The dress next. My hands find the hidden zipper at her spine, draw it down tooth by tooth. The gold silk parts, revealing skin underneath. I push the fabric off her shoulders, let it fall. It pools at her feet. She steps out of it.
My breath catches in my throat as I examine her reflection. She is an angel. A fucking angel. No artifice, no sultry pose, no heels, just a perfect fucking woman standing straight-on to the mirror, looking right back at my face.
Her bra and panties are black lace, and my cock throbs against my pants.
Her dancer's body is visible now: strong legs, lean torso, the elegant line of her shoulders.
I'm watching her reflection while my hands work.
The double-sight makes my blood burn. My hands on her actual body, my eyes on the mirror.
The bra clasp opens under my fingers. I slide the straps down her arms, let it fall. Her breasts are perfect, small and high, pink nipples already pebbled in the cool air. The mirror shows everything, and fuck, she's gorgeous. My cock goes fully hard, straining against my zipper.
My hands hook into her underwear, slide them down her hips, her thighs. She steps out of them.
She's completely naked now. Her skin glows gold in the lamplight.
The vanilla scent of her is stronger without the barrier of clothes.
I can see her pussy in the mirror, the neat strip of dark hair, already glistening with wetness.
I'm still fully dressed behind her. The contrast makes my cock leak precum into my boxers.
I step back half a pace. Just look. Here I am, staring at Daphne naked in a mirror while she stands perfectly still. She doesn't cover herself. Doesn't flinch. Just stands there letting me see her, letting us both see her. My cock is so hard it hurts, pressing painfully against my pants.
"Your turn." Her voice is steady, but I hear the slight breathlessness. "Face the mirror."
"Face the bed," I counter, stepping backward. "Time to lie down."
I beckon her with my hand, but she just levels a flat look at me.
"No."
I stare at her a full five seconds, unable to find the words to convince her. My brain screams to stay away from the mirror that will show everything, to bring her to bed in the relative dark instead.
"Either you let me undress you in front of the mirror, or I'll go and take care of myself in the bathroom. Alone. Then I'll sleep in the bed, you'll sleep on the bedroll, and we'll go back to business as usual."
I run it through for another few seconds and come to the only possible conclusion. That's not going to happen.
"Fine. You win."
I cross back to the mirror and stand beside her, so our profiles face the glass. The glass reflects both of us. Me in my dress clothes with an obvious bulge in my pants, her completely naked.
She reaches for my shirt. Her fingers work the buttons slowly, deliberately, brushing against my chest with each one. The shirt comes off, drops to the floor. The mirror shows my chest, every detail the lamp light catches, though I never look too closely. The body of someone built for destruction.
Her hands go to my belt. The buckle comes loose with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. She unbuttons my pants, slides them down and helps me step out of them, along with my shoes. The pants join the growing pile of clothes.
My cock strains against my boxers, the arousal impossible to hide. The mirror shows exactly how hard I am, how much I want her. The fabric tented obscenely. A dark wet spot where precum has soaked through.
She hooks her fingers in my boxers, pulls them down. My cock springs free, thick and hard, the head glistening with precum. I step out of them.
Fully naked now. Both of us. The mirror shows everything. My height dominates the frame. The lattice of scars across my torso. The full sleeves of ink. My cock standing proud and heavy, curved slightly upward. Every imperfection the world has carved into me on display.
But I'm not looking at myself. I'm looking at her face in the reflection.
What I see changes everything.
Her eyes move across my body. Chest, tattoos, cock, scars, face. She's taking in every detail, lingering on my erection. But her expression isn't what I've been bracing against for my whole life. No fear. No disgust. No flinching.
Hunger. Pure, undisguised want. Her eyes are dark, almost black. Her lips parted slightly. Fuck, I can see her tongue dart out to wet them. Her breathing has changed, gone shallow. Her nipples are hard, her thighs pressed together. She looks like a woman seeing exactly what she wants to devour.
"God, you're perfect," she breathes, and something breaks open in my chest.
She's looking at me like I'm not the monster they branded me. Like I'm just a man she wants.
My cock jumps. Being seen accurately doesn't make me go soft. It makes me want to fuck her until she can't walk. Makes me want to claim her, mark her, ruin her for anyone else.
I turn from the mirror to face her directly. No more reflections. Just us.
I step to her, hands finding her face first, then shoulders, then pulling her against me. Our mouths meet for the second time. Brief but urgent. Her naked body pressed against mine makes my cock twitch between us, leaving wet streaks on her soft stomach. I break the kiss, need to taste more of her.
I guide her back to the mirror, turn her sideways. She understands without words. One hand on the small dresser beside it for balance, one leg slightly forward. The mirror shows us both in profile now. Her standing, me about to kneel.
I drop to my knees in front of her.
My hands grip her hips as I lean in, press my mouth to her pussy.
She's dripping wet. Her arousal coats her inner thighs.
The taste of her makes me groan against her cunt.
Sweet and musky, purely her. I've been starving for this for weeks.
My tongue finds her entrance first, fucking into her, gathering her wetness before dragging up to her clit.
"Fuck," she gasps, her hips bucking against my face.
I work her with my tongue. My tongue circles her clit, then flicks over it rapidly, builds a rhythm while she gasps above me. I slide two fingers inside her, curling them to find that spot that makes her whole body jerk.
Her hand comes to the back of my head. Fingers fist in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt perfectly.
At the corner of my eye, I catch our reflection.
My face buried between her thighs. Her hand holding me there.
Her back arching. Her mouth open in pleasure.
The visual sends heat straight to my cock, makes it leak steadily onto the floor.
"Your mouth," she moans. "God, your fucking mouth."
I suck her clit between my lips, flick my tongue against it while my fingers fuck into her. She's so wet my fingers make obscene squelching sounds with each thrust. Her pussy clenches around them, trying to pull them deeper.
I keep working, pacing by her responses. Her breathing gets ragged. Her hips start moving against my mouth, grinding her cunt against my tongue with an urgency that makes my cock throb. She's fucking my face now, using me for her pleasure, and Christ, I love it.