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.