Chapter Seventeen #2
I practiced, once, in the full-length mirror. The light caught the curve of my back and the point of my hip, both still dusted with traces of bruising, but the rest of me looked sharp. The color was coming back. The eyes were alive.
I smiled at my own reflection and told it, “Don’t fuck it up.”
Then I waited.
The moment I heard the bedroom door open—deliberate, not the soft hush of a man sneaking in, but the full, unapologetic slam of Vadim coming home—I started the music.
It was something slow and predatory, all bass and muscle, the kind of song that didn’t have to be loud because the low end did all the work for it.
He appeared in the doorway a breath later, black suit still crisp, tie loose around the neck, and stopped dead.
I gave him a second to look.
He didn’t say my name. He didn’t say anything at all.
The first pass around the pole was just to remind him what it was like. At Velvet, I played to the whole room, modulated everything for maximum crowd engagement.
Here, the crowd was one person, and he didn’t want modulation; he wanted the whole thing, undiluted. I arched into the pole, wrapped a leg around, spun slow, just to show the lines, then walked back, hips low, back straight, every inch of me balanced on the axis of his gaze.
I ran my hand along the mesh, played it up, pinched my own nipple through the fabric, and watched his jaw. It was set so hard you could have cut glass on it.
His hands gripped the arms of the chair he’d claimed, the skin over the knuckles going white, and the tent in his pants wasn’t even pretending not to exist.
When I dropped to the floor, it was slow. Controlled. I let the music run through my chest, the beat syncing with the way I curled onto hands and knees and crawled across the hardwood to him.
When I reached his chair, I stopped between his knees, close enough to see the black hairs standing up along his forearm, the silver of the watch, the hint of sweat at his hairline.
I looked up, and he stared back, and for a second it was like the rest of the house wasn’t even real.
I rose to my feet, standing between his knees, and peeled the mesh tank off inch by inch. The scars on my ribs were gone, but the memories under them still hummed.
I worked the band of the boy shorts over my hips, slow, then turned so he could see the plug. I heard the intake of his breath. I heard the growl that came with it.
He reached for me, and I let him.
He yanked me down onto his lap, the force of it sending a lightning bolt through my entire spine. His mouth found my throat before I could even get a joke out, teeth grazing the curve of my neck, tongue pressing hard enough to leave a mark. I gasped, but it wasn’t pain.
It was a permission slip.
His hand went into my hair, fisted at the nape, and he kissed me like it was the last time the world was ever going to allow it. The chair rattled under us.
My fingers dug into his suit, clutching at the expensive wool, pulling him closer, needing all of him at once. He kept his other hand at my hip, palm so wide it covered half my ass, thumb circling the plug and then gripping the flesh next to it, kneading hard.
He tore the shorts off the rest of the way. Not a metaphor: actually tore them, seams popping, red lamé splitting. I shuddered, all the way through, and he groaned into my mouth.
His hand found my cock. It was already leaking, hard, the tip flushed red. He stroked it, slow at first, then with a mean rhythm, not breaking the kiss, never stopping the bite and suck at my mouth.
I rolled my hips, grinding down, feeling the slick of myself on his palm, the pressure building in my chest and brain and somewhere lower that didn’t have a name.
He pushed two fingers into my mouth, made me suck them, then slid them out and under to trace my balls, then around the rim of the plug. He teased it, slow, then popped it out, letting the tension go. I moaned, involuntary, louder than I meant to, and he smiled into my skin.
He got the condom out of his pocket—prepared, always—and rolled it onto himself without taking his eyes off me. His cock was thick, darker than the rest of him, already veined and standing. I wanted it so bad my mouth went dry.
He held my hips, lifted me up, and lined the head to my hole, just resting it there.
“Ready?” he said, voice low and sharp as a knife.
“Please,” I begged, not even caring how I sounded.
He pressed in. Slow, but not gentle. The stretch burned, a good burn, the kind that split you open and glued you back together at the same time. I sank down inch by inch, my hands braced on his chest, nails biting the fabric. He bottomed out, filled me, and we both just breathed for a second.
Then I started to move. I rode him, slow at first, letting the motion smooth out, letting my body adjust to the size and the angle.
His hands never left my hips, guiding me, controlling the pace.
Every time I dropped, I could feel him deeper, feel the slap of his skin on mine, feel the heat building.
He angled his hips, drove up, and I nearly blacked out. I found a rhythm, using my thighs, pushing up and slamming down, over and over. Vadim’s face never changed, just locked on me, eyes black and burning.
I stroked myself as I rode him, the slick making it easy, the sensation amplified by the way his cock massaged my insides, the way he grabbed me, the way he whispered, “Good boy. Take it. All of it.”
He got tired of watching.
He always did.
He caught me at the peak of a bounce and flipped us both in a single move, laying me out on the hardwood floor, face up, legs spread and folded back.
He kept me open, hands on my thighs, and drove into me, hard, faster now, the sound of it echoing off the empty walls.
My breath came in sobs. I was close, so close, and he could tell.
He bent down, bit my neck, and hissed, “Come for me.”
I did.
It hit so hard I thought I was going to pass out. My cock erupted, thick and white, splattering both of us. The sight made him go wild. He slammed in once, twice, three times, and then groaned low and guttural as he came, hips jerking, cock pulsing inside me.
He stayed inside me for a long minute, just breathing, then pulled out, disposed of the condom, and lay down next to me on the floor.
He didn’t say anything. He just dragged me into his chest and held me there, one huge hand splayed across my back, the other stroking my hair like I was the most fragile thing in the world.
My face was pressed to his throat. I could feel his pulse, the steady, post-climax rhythm, and I let it ground me.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
When he did, it was with the certainty of a man giving an order that would last a lifetime. “You do not dance for anyone else,” he said. “Ever.”
I laughed, a dry, wrecked sound. “Not even for you?”
He rolled us so I was under him again, both arms bracketing my head, eyes inches from mine. “You will always dance for me,” he said. “I’m the last one, every time.”
I closed my eyes, memorized the weight of him, the warmth, the way he didn’t have to say it for me to know what he meant. I said, “Deal.”
And meant it.
~ The End ~