“My flat.”
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.”