Chapter 7
chapter
seven
Luka caught me in the full-length mirror by his front door.
One second I was fixing my hair, the next, he was behind me—silent, sudden. His tall silhouette filled the glass. He planted one hand at my waist and pressed the other flat against my sternum. He lowered his chin to my shoulder, his breath stirring the hollow of my neck.
He didn’t kiss me. Didn’t speak. Just held me there, the two of us caught in the reflection.
He shifted his hand to my throat—firm enough to anchor, not to choke. When I tried to drop my gaze, the pressure redirected it back to the glass.
“Look at you.” With his other hand, he eased my thighs apart. “Starved.”
Buttons surrendered under his fingers. Silk slipped from my shoulders and fell in a blue pool at my feet. The mirror showed everything: my parted mouth, the pale line of an old tan at my shoulders, color rising under his stare. My knees faltered, but his grip held me upright.
“Don’t watch me,” he murmured, his mouth at my ear. “Eyes on you.”
He didn’t bother with patience after that.
Luka dropped his hands to my waistband. One sharp motion, and my wool slacks were gone, peeled away along with my shoes, leaving me standing in nothing but lace.
My panties followed with a quick snap and shove.
Then he rose behind me, tall and close, and reached for my back.
The unclasp of my bra was precise. The straps slid down my arms. The cups fell. He tossed it aside.
I started to fold my arms over my chest, but he caught my wrists and forced them down at my sides.
“Don’t,” he said, flat and final. “Not yours to cover.”
His palms mapped me as if to prove it—spanning my ribs, cupping my breasts, gripping my hips hard enough to ground me.
“Perfect,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on the glass. He flattened his palm over my abdomen, then slid down, parting my thighs. “All mine.”
The words cut and soothed in the same breath. In the glass, my skin was flushed, my chest rising too fast, my knees unsteady—held upright only by his hands.
Heat pooled low and heavy inside me. My head spun. Not from alcohol. From him.
With his knees, he wedged my legs further apart, planting my feet wide on the hardwood.
He pressed in behind me, chest solid against my back, one arm locked around my waist. His right hand skated low, anchoring my hips.
In the mirror, his face hovered at my shoulder—hard lines, dark shadow.
My own face—open-mouthed, glassy-eyed—was nothing I recognized.
Luka didn’t slow. His fingers bit into my inner thigh, pushing my stance wider until my balance tipped and his grip was the only thing holding me upright.
He spread me open, shameless, until the mirror framed everything: the flush of my pussy, the tremor in my thighs, the wet shine under the lights.
“Look at that,” he murmured. “You see?” He tilted my jaw, the pressure firm and steady. “Soaked. And I haven’t even touched you.”
Heat rolled off me in waves. My head tipped back against his chest, breath breaking as exposure and hunger tangled tight in my gut.
Luka grazed his finger over my clit.
Every muscle locked. My legs trembled, fighting to hold me up.
He circled—slow and relentless—building pressure until the edges of my vision thinned. When I tried to turn away from the mirror, he caught my hair and pulled, arching my neck until my eyes snapped back to the glass.
“Eyes.” The command pressed into my ear.
I focused on his hand in the reflection.
His touch turned merciless—circling, pressing, stroking until my hips jerked against his hand. When I tried to fold into the sensation, he locked his arm tighter around my waist, making me watch everything—the quiver of my thighs, the wet glisten between them, the way I begged without words.
“Watch yourself,” he said, voice like gravel. “Watch me finger this cunt.”
He pressed hard against my clit, dragged down, then slapped, the sound cracking against the glass. My legs faltered. His grip tightened, unyielding.
Then he drove a finger inside me. No warning. No easing. Deep, deliberate.
The sound that left me was wet and helpless.
“That’s it,” Luka growled, eyes on the mirror. “You like seeing what I do to you, don’t you? Filthy girl.”
He thrust again, deeper, curling his finger until my back arched and my breath hitched hard in my throat. He cinched my waist so tight I could barely breathe, holding me steady as my body tightened around his hand.
“Greedy little cunt,” he murmured, almost tender, as my hips chased the movement.
He palmed my breast with his other hand, squeezing hard enough to sting, rolling the nipple between his fingers while he worked me open below. The pain bloomed, sharp, then sweet.
“Fucking beautiful.”
The pressure climbed fast—too fast—tightening, cresting—
And then he pulled out.
The loss hit like a stone in water. I stared at the mirror, shaking, hollowed out by the sudden absence.
He caught my chin, angling my face in the glass. “You don’t get to come yet,” he said, voice calm and absolute. “Earn it, mila.”
Luka gripped the back of my neck—firm, proprietary—and turned me away from the mirror.
He walked me, step for step, into the living room, my bare feet striking the hardwood, the air cooling the sweat on my skin.
The flat was spare and severe: black leather, hard lines, nothing soft enough to suggest comfort.
He settled me on the edge of the couch. The leather was cold against my thighs. I braced my hands beside me while he crossed to a bar cart in the corner. He moved without hurry, pouring two fingers of clear liquor into a pair of plain lowball glasses. When he came back, he handed me one.
“Drink.”
I hesitated, palm slick around the glass. The silence stretched. Then he took the glass from my hand, gripped my jaw, and tipped it into my mouth.
“Swallow. All of it.”
The vodka hit sharp and clean, nothing to blunt the burn. I coughed when it was gone, eyes watering, breath catching.
Luka only watched.
He drained his own glass without a flinch, set it aside, and sat in the low-slung chair opposite me, his gaze fixed and intent.
“You need a lesson in following directions.” He nodded toward my legs. “Spread.”
My thighs parted. Not far.
“Wider. Edge of the cushion. Show me that dripping pussy.”
Heat climbed fast and hot under his stare, but I slid forward until I perched on the very edge of the leather, knees open wide, the cool air kissing bare skin. My heels dug into the rug, toes curling for balance.
He smiled, slow and feral. “That’s it. Now touch yourself.”
I hesitated. The vodka, the exposure, the nerves—my hands vibrated as I searched his face for any softening. There was none.
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
The words landed, low and uncompromising.
I dragged my fingers up my bare thighs, slowly at first. Then lower. When I touched myself, the sensation felt distant, mechanical—something done because he’d told me to.
But after a few strokes, my body remembered. My hips tilted. My breath hitched.
I imagined how I must look—spread open under the bright, unforgiving light—and that awareness burned hotter than friction.
He sat forward, elbows on his knees, watching. When my gaze dropped, he rapped the side of his glass against the table.
“Eyes on me,” he said. “Keep going.” A beat. “Faster.”
I obeyed.
I picked up tempo, my fingers circling slick and blunt over the swollen ache of my clit. The friction was sharp, the relentless pressure building. Every instinct screamed to close my legs, to hide. But I kept them spread, kept moving, because he’d told me to.
Because he was watching.
Because I wanted him to.
My thighs trembled. My hips rolled into my hand, chasing the release.
And his approval.
“Two fingers,” Luka said. “I want to see you fuck yourself. Deep.”
It was so clinical, that word: “see.” But my body didn’t care.
I slid two fingers down, parted myself, and pushed them inside. The wet sound made my face burn, but I kept my eyes locked to his, refusing to look away as my body tightened around the movement.
“God, look at you,” he said. “So greedy. Keep going. Harder.”
He leaned in, hands folded between his knees, his gaze fixed between my thighs. The room felt too quiet. Too bright. Like being on stage.
My breath came faster. My chest rose and fell. Still, I kept the rhythm, faster now, deeper. If this was a test, I refused to fail.
“Now your other hand,” Luka said, voice low and smooth as river rock. “Rub your clit while you fuck yourself. Hard. I want to see you lose those corporate manners.”
Fire climbed up my throat. I slid my free hand down and circled my clit while I kept the other driving into me. My thighs locked open, every muscle strung tight, as the sensation built too fast, too sharp, the edge between pain and pleasure blurred to nothing.
“Don’t you dare come,” he said with terrifying calm. “Fuck yourself raw, but hold it in.”
I obeyed, fighting the edge, every moment dragging me closer to breaking. My breath came in ragged pulls, my body tightening against the pressure I was supposed to hold back.
“Good girl.”
The words were a match dropped in gasoline.
He must have known. No one could hold out that long.
My body took over. The control snapped. A sound tore out of me as the orgasm hit hard and sudden, my vision flashing white.
My legs clamped shut, trapping my hand as the aftershocks rolled through me, hips jerking helplessly against my own fingers.
Then stillness.
I folded forward, thighs quaking, breath hitching in little moans I tried to swallow down. My skin prickled with the awareness of what I’d just done: ruined myself on command, then failed to stop when I was told.
Across from me, Luka didn’t move. He watched. A slow click of his tongue cut through the silence.
“Naughty, filthy girl.”
He tilted his head, disappointment written into the shape of his mouth, though the hunger in his eyes hadn’t dimmed.
“You love disobeying me. Almost like you want me to punish you.”
I dropped my gaze, only to catch my reflection in the coffee table glass: hair mussed, pupils wide, skin flushed.
“On your hands and knees,” Luka said. “Now.”
The grit in his voice moved me before I could think. I slid off the couch, palms flat on the cold hardwood. Knees down, hips lifted.
“Crawl to me.”
I hesitated only a second. Then I inched forward, hands and knees scraping across the floor. My hair fell forward, hiding my face as I closed the distance between us.
He didn’t speak. Just watched.
By the time I reached him, I was kneeling between his boots. His legs were spread, his black jeans straining tight across the crotch. Waiting.
I stilled, hands on my thighs, not touching him, not moving.
He let the moment soak into my skin.
“Look at me.”
I lifted my chin. He cupped the back of my head, fingers tangling in the sweat-soaked nest of my hair, and held me there. He didn’t blink.
“You disobeyed,” he said quietly. “You came without my permission.” A beat. “Greedy cunt. Couldn’t help yourself.”
I tried to speak, but only a rough sound came out. My thighs were still slick. I couldn’t stop shaking beneath his hand.
“Say it,” he said, voice like vodka over ice. “Say you’re a filthy whore who can’t be trusted to follow basic instructions.”
My throat tightened. He gripped my hair and tipped my head back.
“I’m…”
“You what?”
“I’m a filthy whore,” I choked, pulse clawing at my chest. “I can’t be trusted to listen.”
He smiled.
“Good girl.”
The praise slithered through me, dark and wrong and wanted.
He kept his hand on the back of my head, thumb brushing slowly through the damp strands.
“Apologize.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurted, the words scraping raw.
“Do you want a chance to make it up to me?”
“Yes.” The answer came before I could think.
He released my hair, unzipped his jeans, and pulled himself free—long, thick, and already hard. My mouth went dry.
“You want this?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Prove it.”
I leaned in, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. I gripped his thighs, nails biting into the denim, hovering there, waiting.
“Please,” I said, voice rough. “Let me suck your cock.”
“That’s not begging,” he said, voice flat as a blade. He stroked himself slowly, thumb dragging over the blunt, glistening tip as he stared down at me. The sight of it, so close to my mouth, made my pulse jump.
I swallowed. “I want it,” I tried again. “I need it. I want you to use my mouth. Please.”
He smiled. “Please what, Alex? You can do better.”
My face burned. “Please…” My knees slid wider on the floor. “Please choke me with your cock.” The words were filthier than anything I’d ever heard myself say.
“Open.” He tapped the head against my lips, smearing heat and wetness across the seam.
I opened wider than I thought possible, tongue straining for the first taste. He fed his length in, past my teeth, past the edge of comfort, until the head nudged the back of my throat in a hot, invasive slide.
The first thrust was controlled, almost testing. The next was not.
He fisted my hair, locking my skull in place as he drove deep. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes as I tried to breathe through my nose, choking on the pressure. Spit and pre-cum slicked my lips and chin.
“Good,” Luka growled. “That’s how I want it. Messy.”
He rocked his hips, setting a brutal rhythm, never letting me pull away. Each time I gagged, he groaned.
He yanked my head back by the roots, forcing my eyes up to his. He watched without blinking, rolling his hips—slowly, deliberately—working my mouth open around him.
“Take it deeper,” he said, the accent thickening as his control thinned. “Choke on it. Show me how sorry you are, little whore.”
He pulled out just long enough for a ragged breath, then shoved back in again. The next thrust hit deeper, the head battering my throat until I retched, shoulders convulsing. The pain blurred into heat, a molten coil that spread through my chest and into my limbs.
He pulled out, ragged, and let my hair slip from his grasp. My jaw ached. Saliva clung to my lower lip as I blinked up at him through tears.
Luka cupped my chin, thumb pressing into my mouth. He let out a rough, satisfied laugh. “You look so fucking perfect like this,” he said, voice low and thick. “On your knees. Mouth ruined. Crying for me. My perfect little slut.”
A sick, hot pride flared beneath my skin. I should have felt wrecked. Instead, I wanted more. All of it. Every last scrap.