Chapter Text
The door clicked shut behind them, and Lucy stopped for a second. Like her breath had been holding out for that sound all night.
She stepped in, heels wobbling a little on the floor. The wine was still in her system, low and buzzy, but that wasn’t the only thing. Her body felt off, a little too warm, a little too alert. Every inch of her buzzing with something restless and sharp. Primed.
Tim’s jacket was already off. He moved with that grounded, coiled ease she’d never been able to ignore, shoulders taut, shirt stretched across his chest as he slung the jacket over the back of a chair. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Her skin still buzzed with the memory of what he’d whispered at the gala, words that had no business being said aloud, let alone in public.
She prided herself on control, on measured glances, polite smiles, the polite fiction of always being one step ahead. But one low command from him and she'd nearly shattered in a room full of people. That wasn’t wine. That was him. And it scared her how much she didn’t want to stop it.
She kicked off her heels, the relief almost dizzying. Cool wood met bare feet, but the house felt too warm, too close. Her dress shifted against her skin-silk on flesh, every inch of it now a reminder of how close she’d come to obeying him. Right there in public.
He hadn’t touched her. Not yet. But the things he’d said… they’d felt like touch. Like a dare she almost took.
And Lucy didn’t know what unsettled her more, that she hadn’t done it... or just how much she’d wanted to. “I’m gonna change,” she said, tossing a glance over her shoulder. It lingered longer than it probably should’ve.
Tim didn’t answer, not right away. He just watched her, something simmering in his eyes, and that silence, thick and loaded, sent a fresh pulse of heat through her. She turned away, heart ticking faster in her chest.
Their bedroom was dim, just a small lamp throwing a warm puddle of light that caught on the mirror and the honey-coloured floorboards. Lucy walked in and let the quiet wrap around her, like a hush that belonged to just-past-midnight... thick, still, waiting.
She moved toward the mirror, fingers brushing the back of her earring, the silk of her dress whispering with each motion, slipping lower over her shoulder like it wanted to be peeled off. Her reflection met her like a confession- flushed cheeks, parted lips, pupils wide with want.
It wasn’t just the wine.
It was Tim.
The way he’d spoken to her at the bar, low, calm, and completely unbothered by the crowd around them. Like he already had her. Like he didn’t need to touch her to wreck her. She hadn’t been able to breathe right since.
Not with the things he’d said.
Not with the way her body had reacted.
Her thighs clenched, memory sparking heat like a match to dry skin. She could still hear it. Still feel the heat bloom between her legs just thinking about it.
And now he was here. In the house. In the hallway. Watching.
Waiting.
He showed up in the doorway, just a dark outline against the hallway light. Then he came in, slow, unhurried, his hands buried in his pockets, in a rush for no one. That quiet confidence of his pulled tight in her stomach, low and deep. His black slacks fit just right, the white shirt stretched across his chest, sleeves rolled up in that way that always gave away the strength underneath. And somehow, the damn bow tie was still perfect, like he didn’t need to raise his voice to own the room. He never did.
And exactly how to take it.
Lucy watched him in the mirror, caught in his gravity, unable to move.
“God…” His voice broke the air. Low. Rough. “Look at you.”
The air snapped, tension drawn taut between them.
She went still, earring halfway off, her heart thudding so loud she was sure he could hear it.
He stood just behind her now, close enough that the air shifted. She caught his scent... soap, a hint of cologne, and something deeper, warmer. It wrapped around her slow and sure, like she’d stepped into it without realizing.
She breathed in too fast, lungs catching like they were trying to play catch-up.
“Standing there like that,” he murmured, “Lucy… that dress…”
She swallowed hard, all at once way too aware of how the dress clung to her. It barely felt like anything between her skin and the air. Her lips parted... she wanted to say something, but the words just didn’t come.
What was she doing? Why couldn’t she move? Why did his look feel like a secret they’d both been holding onto for way too long?
His hands landed on her hips first, firm, sure, the kind of grip that made her feel claimed. His thumbs pressed in, not hard, just enough to pull a sharp sound from her, half surprise, half something low and wanting.
His hands slid lower, fingers grazing the curve of her ass through the silk. Not rough, just deliberate. Possessive. He cupped her there, thumbs pressing in like he was testing her softness, her give.
“You trust me?”
She nodded.
Then one hand moved in, slow and sure, fingers tracing the dip between her cheeks over the thin fabric.
“Tell me if you don’t want this,” he said, voice quiet but steady. His thumb paused... not pushing, just there, like he was asking without words.
His thumb paused at the tight centre, pressing just enough to make her breath hitch-there but not insistent, just a promise. Her whole body went still, spine straightening, every nerve suddenly lit.
“Here,” he murmured, his voice a dark rasp. “I think about this. About opening you up. About how you’d sound if I pushed deeper.”
A soft, strangled sound escaped her throat-half shock, half need. She wasn’t prepared for the way that line landed, how it twisted something deep in her gut and dragged her heartbeat down with it.
His hands returned to her waist, thumbs drawing slow, lazy circles as he moved in. She felt him then, hard, warm, pressed flush against her, settling into the curve of her like he was made to be there.
“This is what you do to me, Lucy,” he said, voice rough, hips giving the slightest push forward. It made her breath catch.
She reached out, instinctively, trying to steady herself on the dresser, but his hand closed around her arm, firm but careful.
“No,” he said. “Kepp your hands where I can see them.”
The way he said it, low and final, struck something deep. Not cruelty. Control . She obeyed.
Her eyes flicked down for a fraction of a second, breath trembling, and then hs hand came up, firm on her jaw, not rough but inescapable.
“Eyes on me,” he ordered, gaze steady. “I want you to see how fucking gorgeous you are like this.”
Her pulse kicked hard, right in her throat. He was still behind her, pressing in slow and steady, the heat of him rubbing just enough to send a jolt straight through her spine.
One of his hands moved up, fingers skimming her shoulder, light, slow, intentional. Then, slow as anything, he started easing the fabric down her arm.
“Take it off,” he said, voice thick and low.
Lucy’s breath trembled as she reached for the zipper. It slid down with a soft sigh, the dress loosening around her body. She let it fall. The fabric slipped over her hips and dropped to the floor, leaving her in just her panties, black lace, delicate and already damp.
Tim groaned softly, stepping back just enough to see all of her, then moved behind her again. His hands glided over her hips, then hooked into the waistband.
He bent slightly, kissing the small of her back befor e dragging the panties down, inch by inch. She stepped out of them, legs trembling just a little, the air cool on her flushed skin.
He trailed his fingers slowly back up her calf, her thigh, then higher, gliding over the swell of her hip, claiming every inch on the way up.
His voice was almost reverent now. “Touch yourself.”
She froze.
The words hit hard- again-just like they had hours ago. Only now they weren’t a dare. They were a command.
She’d told herself she couldn’t. Not in public. Not then.
But now?
Now he was here. Watching. Waiting.
And she was still trembling from the memory of how badly she’d wanted to obey.
“I…” she began, voice thin, already breaking.
She wasn’t used to this. Not being this exposed. Not being seen.
But God-she wanted to be. For him.
Tim caught her wrist when she hesitated, not cruel but firm, and guided her hand between her thighs. “Now,” he ordered, voice low and sharp. “I said touch yourself.”
Her mouth fell open. Her knees went soft. He held her steady, kept her upright, his mouth close to her ear... whispering a mix of filth and praise as he watched her come undone in the mirror.
“That’s how much you want this,” he said.
And Lucy, lost in the thick haze of lust and the weight of his gaze, touched herself for him, heat pooling low and spreading outward like wildfire.
Lucy’s breath fogged faintly on the mirror in front of her, warm air from parted lips marking the cool glass in slow pulses as she stood there, bared and trembling under Tim’s gaze. Her fingers, still guided by his hand, trembled against her slick folds, hesitant at first, more suggestion than action. But he didn’t let her pull away. Didn’t let her hide.
“No,” he said, quiet but firm, his grip tightening gently on her wrist. “Don’t stop.”
She swallowed hard, her eyes locking onto his in the mirror.. Her pulse was a thunder in her ears.
Tim watched her watch herself, watched her body flinch and melt beneath her own fingertips as her arousal bloomed warmer, wetter with every slow pass.
She couldn’t look away. Not from him, not from the way her mouth opened on a silent gasp, not from the way his reflection seemed to darken with every ragged breath she took.
Her knees almost gave out again. But he was right there, steady as ever, his body a solid wall at her back. She could feel him, hard, pressing in, more insistent now. The shape of him through his slacks sparked something deep in her gut, heat curling low and tight.
“Jesus, Lucy…” he muttered, voice rough as his grip tightened just enough on her wrist. He moved her hand again, slower this time, guiding her fingers in one more circle over her clit, steady, deliberate.
A quiet, broken sound slipped out of her, half gasp, half whimper, and he pressed his hips forward, slow and sure, just enough to let her know he wasn’t going anywhere.
Her lashes fluttered. Her thighs trembled. But she didn’t look away. Not from the mirror. Not from the flush rising up her chest, the light sweat starting to mist her skin, or the way his body hovered behind hers, solid, close, impossible to ignore.
It felt almost too intimate, seeing herself fall apart like this, bit by bit, while he kept her grounded and made sure she felt every second of it.
Her fingers moved more surely now, spurred on by the low growl he gave behind her. Tim leaned in, mouth hot against her shoulder, kissing her slow and open, hungry like he couldn’t hold back anymore.
“Good,” he said, voice rough. “Just like that. Don’t be shy.”
“Tim…”
“I’ve got you,” he said. “You wanna come like this? With me watching you?”
The question hit her low and hot, unravelling whatever thread of modesty she’d been clinging to. She didn’t answer, couldn’t, but her hand didn’t stop moving. And he knew. Of course he knew. He could feel her trembling, see it in the mirror, in the way her thighs were pressing tight together, her hips jerking minutely with every pass of her fingers.
Tim slid one hand up her torso, broad palm flattening over her stomach, then higher until he cupped her breast, thumb brushing over the already-tight peak. The feeling hit hard, fast and sharp, making her whole body twitch in response.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and rough, his lips brushing against her temple. “Standing here, doing this... touching yourself like that. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
She felt him pressed up against her, the slow roll of his hips giving him away, he was close, barely holding it together. But he didn’t go further. Not yet. No matter how badly she wanted him to. He just kept her there, flushed and aching and spiralling beneath his voice and his hands and her own slow rhythm.
“I wanna watch you fall apart,” he whispered.
Her breath hitched. Her fingers moved faster. And then, white heat. Her whole body jerked, gasping as the orgasm hit, sharp and shaking. Tim held her through it, whispering praise like a litany.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “I’ve got you… I love you. You hear me?”
The words were quieter than the rest, less command, more confession.
She gasped, shuddering, her hand slick with her own pleasure. Her body arched, hips jerking in his grip like her nerves had snapped. Her breath fogged the mirror in frantic bursts as her free hand clawed for something to hold onto, anything solid.
Her pulse was still erratic when the memory surged, hot and unbidden.
The gala.
All gleam and polish. Chandeliers overhead, suits everywhere, glasses clinking. Lucy had been laughing at something she already couldn’t remember, wine glass in hand, the stem cool and a little wet against her fingers.
Then she felt it.
Tim.
Not across the ballroom. Right there. Leaning one elbow against the bar, shirt sleeves rolled just slightly, bow tie still perfect, drink in hand. And that stare. Direct. Burning. Possessive.
Her smile faltered mid-laugh. Her breath stuttered. Her nipples tightened under the silk of her dress like they recognized the danger before her mind did.
He didn’t look away. Didn’t blink.
And it wasn’t a look that asked if he could have her. It was one that asked when.
She made her way over to him on autopilot, heart pounding in her throat. “You’re staring.”
Tim sipped his drink. “I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
He looked at her, slow, steady... his gaze sliding from her mouth down to her chest. “How tight your throat would feel around my cock.”
Lucy’s stomach dropped. Her breath caught on something she couldn’t name.
“What the fuck, Tim,” she hissed, cheeks going hot. “Do you want someone to hear you?”
He leaned in, voice low and rough. “You wore that dress and thought I wouldn’t notice the way it clings when you breathe?”
Her grip on her wine glass faltered. Her fingers trembled. And he wasn’t finished.
“Bet your panties are already damp. Bet if I told you to slide your hand under that dress and touch yourself, you’d actually do it."
She stared at him, speechless. Her entire body went tight.
“You already thought about it,” he murmured. “Didn’t you?”
Her fingers twitched against her wine glass. It suddenly felt heavy. Her whole body was buzzing, heat winding tight in her gut.
“Tim,” she whispered, glancing around. “You’re being—”
“Honest,” he cut in. “You’d touch yourself for me if I asked.”
Lucy’s face went hot. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The wine glass slipped a little, and she caught the edge of the bar to keep steady.
Then she shifted, fingers fussing with the strap of her purse, totally fine, but it gave her something to do with her hands. But her fingers brushed the side of her thigh, nd her whole body went tight, like she’d just been flipped on. God, what if she...
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. And I haven’t even touched you yet, Lucy”
She swallowed hard, her whole body wired tight.
“Home?” he asked.
Lucy nodded, barely breathing. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Her voice still echoed in her head, Thought you’d never ask, but now her body was the one doing the talking. Buzzing. Weak-kneed. Soaked.
That filthy promise he'd whispered had just played out, inch for inch, word for word.
And he hadn’t even fucked her yet.
Tim didn’t let her fall. He kept her steady, one arm wrapped tight around her middle, the other caressing her through the aftershocks. She sagged into him, trembling, dazed.
He kissed her shoulder, then her neck, his lips brushing her jaw as he whispered something so quiet, it barely touched her skin.
Lucy blinked, trying to steady her focus. She caught her reflection in the mirror... sweaty, flushed, lips parted, eyes still dazed.
She looked utterly ruined. And more alive than she had in weeks.
Tim’s eyes met hers in the mirror. Dark. Hungry. Possessive.
“You okay?”
She nodded, breathless. “More than.”
Something in him let go. He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath this whole time. Then his hands were on her hips again, firmer now. Sliding down, spreading her open.
Lucy heard the rasp of his belt, the soft slide of a zipper. Then the press of him, thick and hot, the head of his cock dragging slow and wet through her folds.
She wasn’t sure how she was still standing. Her body was all ache and demand, her brain somewhere between shame and feral need.
She should’ve told him to slow down. But all she wanted was more.
“Still so fucking wet for me,” he groaned.
Lucy bit her lip, a soft gasp escaping her as he pushed forward. The stretch was sharp, even with how ready she was, but god, it was perfect. Her eyes fluttered shut.
“No,” Tim said, voice rough. “Look at me. Keep your eyes up.”
She forced them open again, watched as he pushed all the way in, watched the flush bloom across her chest in real time. She felt everything, every inch of him filling her, every breath he took against her back, the way his fingers dug into her hips like he couldn’t hold himself back anymore.
“Jesus,” he ground out. “You feel so good.”
Tim stayed still for a moment, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust. Then his hand slid around her waist. He growled low, his restraint thinning by the second. With one sudden motion, he kicked her legs a little wider with his knee and braced her against the dresser and yanked her back onto him, hard enough to make the mirror rattle.
She gasped again, sharp and breathless, and his voice came hot against her ear. “You can take more, Lucy. Don’t pretend you can’t.”
He found a rhythm, deep, steady, each thrust hitting just right. She whimpered with every one. The slap of skin against skin echoed in the room, broken only by their ragged breathing.
Lucy pressed her palms to the dresser. “God, Tim…”
Her breath caught again, voice shaky.
“So confident,” she gasped out, barely holding it together. “Like you don’t know who’s actually in charge here.”
Her mouth curved, slow and dangerous, even as she shook.
Tim’s next thrust landed harder, sharper. A growl rose in his throat.
His hands moved, one to her lower belly, anchoring her; the other sliding up to her chest, cupping a breast, thumbing her nipple until she was arching back into him with a broken moan.
Then his hand slid higher, until it wrapped around her throat. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to make her heart spike.
She looked up, meeting his eyes in the mirror... wide, a little shaky, but not afraid.
“I love you,” she whispered, like saying it out loud gave him permission.
Something passed between them in that reflection, raw and unspoken and electric. A flicker of heat. Of surrender. Of something neither of them had dared to name until now.
Tim’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening. Not with restraint, but with resolve.
“You’re gonna come for me again like this,” he said against her skin, each word pushed deeper with the roll of his hips.
His grip tightened, not painful, just firm, grounding. Her thighs shook beneath him. Thought scattered. The pressure wasn’t cruel. It was control. And she gave in, breathless, completely open beneath him.
He leaned in, lips grazing her ear, his voice a rough whisper. “You need me to stop?”
“No,” she gasped.
“Good girl.”
His pace faltered, just for a second.
“I can’t breathe when I look at you like this.”
That did something to her. Shattered whatever was left of her composure. Her body clenched tighter around him, a raw sound ripping from her throat.
Tim pressed a hand between her legs, fingers working her with relentless rhythm, faster now, cruel in the way only a lover can be. Just enough pressure, just enough pace to tip her over.
The second orgasm hit harder, hot and wild, tearing through her like a tide she couldn’t outrun. Her cry echoed off the glass. Her body clenched hard around him, milking him.
Tim swore, a long, guttural groan against her skin. “Fuck, I’m coming.”
He slammed into her, rough and relentless, the dresser jolting under the force.
His breath stuttered out against her shoulder as he spilled inside her, hips jerking with each pulse. Another low sound tore from his throat, rough and desperate, as he thrust again, then again, chasing it with shaky control.
He kept her close, like letting go wasn’t even on the table. She felt the slight tremble in him, the slow beat of him still inside her, and the way he tucked his face into her neck, murmuring her name like it was the only thing that made sense.
“I’ll never get enough of this. Of you,” he said, voice low and raw.
She lifted her head. Her gaze caught the mirror again. Flushed skin. Damp lips. His arms locked around her like armour. And her, wrecked. Gorgeous. Real. She couldn’t look away.
They stayed like that, tangled and trembling, their reflections hazy in the fogged-up mirror.
Eventually, Tim pulled out with a soft groan. His hands stayed on her waist, warm and steady.
Lucy’s legs wobbled. Her muscles still twitched, like her body didn’t quite remember how to hold itself up without him.
“Stay,” she whispered. The word caught in her throat, like just saying it was the only thing keeping her steady. “Please. Just… don’t go far.”
Tim didn’t say anything at first. His gaze moved over her, slow nd careful, taking in the way her legs shook, the sweat on her temple, the rise and fall of her chest like she still couldn’t quite catch her breath.
His brow furrowed a little. The edge of his mouth tightened, not with doubt, but something held back... like he wanted to touch her again but needed to be sure.
“You okay?” he asked again, softer now.
Lucy turned to him, skin still flushed, eyes slightly glazed. She leaned in and kissed him. Quick. Hungry. A little clumsy. Her fingers curled into the collar of his shirt and tugged him closer. He didn’t hesitate, groaning as he kissed her back, like he couldn’t help it.
Tim lay on his side, one arm across her waist, his breath slow and steady against the back of her neck. He’d fallen asleep not long after, completely out, still murmuring her name as he slipped under.
But Lucy couldn’t sleep.
Her body pulsed too loud. Everything ached... deep between her thighs and in every spot where his body had pressed against hers. She moved slowly, biting back a small gasp as soreness sparked with even the smallest shift.
Her skin was sticky with sweat and him, thighs tacky where they’d pressed together. She needed a shower, needed to wash off the heat, the ache, the evidence of how thoroughly he’d had her. But even that thought felt intimate. Like rinsing him off would be its own kind of surrender.
She slipped out from under his arm, careful not to wake him. He moved a little, murmured something too quiet to catch, then went still.
The bathroom was dark and quiet as she shut the door. She flicked on the light, and a warm gold glow spread across the tile and glass.
Then she looked.
And froze.
Her reflection stared back at her, hair mussed, lips swollen, cheeks still flushed. But it was her body that held her attention. The marks. The places he’d held her.
Her throat caught first.
A faint, dusky-red flush wrapped around the sides of her neck, where his hand had circled her throat, not tight, not bruising, but firm . Her breath hitched as she raised her fingers to touch it, lightly. The skin was warm. Tender. His.
Her chest bore a light sheen of sweat and rising colour, the tell-tale flush of where she’d been pressed to the mirror, friction blooming from contact with the cool glass.
She turned slightly, angling her shoulder, and saw it clearly now.
Faint prints along her waist and lower stomach where his hands had gripped her from behind, steadying her, claiming her. Lower still, her hips were red at the edges, the skin pink and overstimulated where his thighs had driven against her, where the pressure had pushed her forward, hips braced to take him again and again.
Her inner thighs bore the rawest evidence, a flush of red, tender from where he’d kept her spread, his fingers digging in to keep her open. The skin there was hot, tingling, marked not by pain but by the intensity of what they’d done. And between them, she could still feel the faint throb of the last orgasm, the stretch of him inside her, her body still reacting to him.
Her back, surprisingly, was untouched.
Because he’d been there the whole time, his chest against her spine, his arms around her, holding her steady against the dresser. Even at his roughest, he’d cushioned her. Thought about what she’d feel later.
She let out a shaky breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
She looked wrecked.
Not ruined.
Marked.
The mirror began to fog at the edges as she turned on the shower. But she didn’t look away. She wanted to see.
She stepped under the spray, and the first hit of hot water made her flinch, sharp, electric, where she was tender, where every nerve was still lit up. But she didn’t move. Didn’t shy away.
She let it sting.
Let it run down her chest, over her hips, between her legs.
It was almost too much.
And still not enough.
She braced one hand on the wall, the other over her belly, breath shallow. She could feel him everywhere. Still inside her. Still on her skin. Still wrapped around every nerve.
She didn’t want to wash him off.
Not yet.
Behind her, the door creaked open again.
Tim’s voice came low, rough with sleep. “You okay?”
She didn’t answer, just gave him a small nod. Her breath caught a little, but she stayed quiet.
Then she felt him.
The shower door creaked as it opened, steam drifting around him as he stepped inside. He stepped in close, slow and quiet. Like that was just... where he belonged. His chest touched her back, warm and steady, and his arm slid around her waist.
She let out a breath, slow, a little shaky, and leaned into him.
“You should’ve woken me,” he said, his voice low against her neck.
“Didn’t want to ,” she murmured. “I just… needed a moment.”
His hand slid over her stomach, easy and familiar. But when his thumb grazed a bruise low on her side, she gasped, just a little, but sharp. Reflexive.
He froze. Pulled his hand back like it had hit something live.
"Shit... did I—?"
He stepped back, blinking like he’d been hit with something. For a second, he just stared, his eyes moving down her body, slow and wide, like he was only now seeing it all.
"Jesus, Lucy.. ."
He stared, really seeing it now. The bruises, the flush, the ache still written into her skin.
"Fuck," he breathed. "I did that?"
"You held me there," she said gently.
His mouth opened like he was about to speak, but no words came out.
His hand hovered near another bruise, fingers just barely shaking. "I didn’t think... fuck, I didn’t realise how hard I was holding you."
"Tim-"
"No, Lucy, I-" He exhaled sharply, fingers pulling away. "I was so deep in it, I didn’t even see..."
She turned, catching his hand before he could retreat. "Hey. Look at me."
He did, reluctantly. Still wide-eyed. Still stunned.
"You didn’t hurt me," she said, firm. "I wanted it. I want you."
He swallowed hard. "But this..." His thumb brushed the edge of a bruise again. "I never wanted to leave marks like this. "
"I do," she said simply. "Because now I look in the mirror and I see it. What we did. What you did to me. And I don’t regret any of it.”
He looked like he didn’t know if he wante d to groan or fall apart, caught off guard by the weight of what she’d said.
She stepped closer and slipped her arms around his waist, pulling him into the water with her.
“I love you,” he said, words low and quiet they barely making it through the steam.