3. Ruslan #2
The car ride home passes in a blur of glass and streetlights and short messages that keep sharpening the line between us. She refuses to tell me her name. I don’t ask again. I refuse mine too. That seems to please her.
She likes the anonymity.
So do I.
My driver pulls up beneath the tower, and I step out into the night with my phone still in hand.
Are you always this calm? she asks.
I glance at the screen as I cross the lobby.
No.
A pause.
When aren’t you calm?
The elevator doors slide shut behind me. My reflection stares back at me in brushed steel: broad shoulders, dark shirt, bruised knuckles, blood cleaned away but not forgotten.
When something gets my full attention, I write.
That one takes longer.
Then: Is this your way of saying I have your attention?
I look at that message and smile again. You still replying?
Her answer is immediate: Annoyingly, yes.
Good.
The penthouse is quiet when I walk in. Dim, expensive, orderly. Floor-to-ceiling glass, dark stone, soft light from the lamps that come on automatically. No clutter. No softness. A place designed for control.
I set my keys down. Undo the top button of my shirt. Leave the jacket draped over the back of a chair.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
What do you look like?
There it is.
I walk to the kitchen, pour a drink I don’t want, and look out over the city before I answer.
Tall. Dark hair. Bad habits.
Three dots.
Bad habits sounds made up.
It isn’t.
How old are you?
I lean a hip against the counter. Old enough to know that question matters to you.
A long pause.
Then: It does.
Why?
The answer comes slower this time. Because you sound older than me.
I’ve known from the beginning she’s younger. It’s in the way she moves through the conversation, the flicker between hesitation and boldness, the quick recovery every time she says something that embarrasses her.
What matters is that she knows it too. And she keeps texting anyway.
Does that bother you? I ask.
A full minute passes.
Then: Not yet.
Heat moves under my skin, measured and deep.
I set the untouched glass aside and walk toward the bedroom.
Yet?
Her answer appears: Depends what you’d do with younger.
I stop at the foot of the bed.
There it is. Not an accident. Not nervous banter drifting over a line by mistake.
A deliberate step.
I sit down slowly, elbows on my knees, phone in one hand.
You ask that like you want an honest answer, I type.
The dots come back almost instantly.
I do.
My jaw tightens.
I look down at my knuckles, still swollen, a little raw. An hour ago I was beating answers out of a traitor. Now I’m sitting on the edge of my bed getting hard over a woman with no name and too much curiosity.
Life does have a sense of humor after all.
I unbutton the rest of my shirt.
Younger isn’t the interesting part, I write. The interesting part is that you keep making this easier than you should.
No answer.
Then: I can just stop replying to you.
Go ahead, I say.
Bossy. You talk like you already own me.
My cock hardens, sudden and heavy, pressing against my trousers.
I look at the screen for a long moment before I answer: Would you like me to?
The pause stretches.
Not retreat. Anticipation.
Then: Yes.
One word.
How? I ask.
Her reply is slower: I don’t know.
That, more than anything, makes my body tighten.
Not because she’s innocent. She isn’t. Not in the ways that matter. Because she’s honest enough to admit what she wants before she knows the shape of it.
I open my belt.
I think you do, I type. You’re just making me say it first.
This time she doesn’t answer right away.
When she does, the message comes in pieces: Maybe I want to hear you say it.
I smile. Then I’d sit down and pull you over my lap first.
Silence.
Then: Why your lap?
Because I’d want you spread against me while I talked to you.
The dots flash.
Talked to me how?
I push my trousers open just enough to ease the pressure and palm myself slowly through my briefs. Like I already know how wet you are from this.
That one keeps her quiet longer. Long enough for me to stroke myself once, firm and slow, and imagine her staring at the screen with that little catch in her breathing I can almost hear now.
Then: You’re very sure of yourself.
Tell me I’m wrong.
A full minute.
Then: You’re not wrong.
Fuck.
I tip my head back for a second and grip harder.
Good girl, I send.
Her answer doesn’t come immediately. I can almost feel the effect of it through the silence.
Then: I shouldn’t like that.
But you do.
Yes.
Heat curls low and dark in my gut. I stand and walk to the window, phone in one hand, the city glittering below me while I stroke myself in slow, controlled pulls.
Put your hand between your thighs, I type.
No answer.
Then: I already did.
My mouth curves. Tell me what you feel.
She takes her time now. Not because she’s uncertain. Because she’s savoring it.
My fingers.
A beat later: And the way you’re making me think.
That sends a rougher breath out of me.
Spread them wider.
The reply is immediate this time: You like giving orders, don’t you?
Only when they’re obeyed.
Maybe I’m not that good.
I laugh under my breath. Liar.
A pause.
Then: Maybe.
That one word is a tease, and she knows it.
I go with it. Touch yourself properly.
Long silence.
Then: You first.
I close my eyes for a second.
Bold little thing.
I text back with my hand around my cock, slow and tight: I am.
Her answer hits like a match dropped into gasoline: Tell me.
There are a hundred ways to answer that. I choose the one that will get the filthiest reaction: Hand around my cock. Thinking about dragging you down onto it slow enough that you’d feel every inch and hate how much you like taking it.
She goes quiet.
Then: Jesus.
I smile. That upset you?
No. Another pause. Maybe a little.
Because I said take?
This time there’s no delay: Because I imagined it.
My grip tightens. I walk back to the bed and sit again, spreading my knees, phone glowing in the dark room.
Tell me what you imagined then.
Nothing.
Then: Your hands on my hips.
A second later: You telling me not to move until you say.
Fuck. I look down at that and feel my cock jerk hard in my hand.
Would you listen? I ask.
She answers faster than before: I think so.
Think?
I might beg first.
That drags a groan out of me.
Begging is fine, I type. As long as you still do what I tell you.
She’s quiet just long enough to make me impatient.
Then: What if I want to be difficult?
I laugh once though there’s no one here to hear me. Then I’d hold your thighs open and make you come before I gave you anything else.
She disappears for several seconds.
Then the answer comes in one line: That’s not fair.
I’m not known for fairness.
No kidding.
I stroke myself faster now, feeling the drag of my hand and the tightening in my abdomen.
Use two fingers, I tell her.
Her reply is immediate, almost breathless even through text: You really think you can tell me what to do?
You’re still doing it.
Silence.
Then: Fuck.
A second later: You’re right.