I imagined how I must look—spread open under the bright, unforgiving light—and that awareness burned hotter than friction.
He sat forward, elbows on his knees, watching. When my gaze dropped, he rapped the side of his glass against the table.
“Eyes on me,” he said. “Keep going.” A beat. “Faster.”
I obeyed.
I picked up tempo, my fingers circling slick and blunt over the swollen ache of my clit. The friction was sharp, the relentless pressure building. Every instinct screamed to close my legs, tohide. But I kept them spread, kept moving, because he’d told me to.
Because he was watching.
Because I wanted him to.
My thighs trembled. My hips rolled into my hand, chasing the release.
And his approval.
“Two fingers,” Luka said. “I want to see you fuck yourself. Deep.”
It was so clinical, that word: “see.” But my body didn’t care.
I slid two fingers down, parted myself, and pushed them inside. The wet sound made my face burn, but I kept my eyes locked to his, refusing to look away as my body tightened around the movement.
“God, look at you,” he said. “So greedy. Keep going. Harder.”
He leaned in, hands folded between his knees, his gaze fixed between my thighs. The room felt too quiet. Too bright. Like being on stage.
My breath came faster. My chest rose and fell. Still, I kept the rhythm, faster now, deeper. If this was a test, I refused to fail.
“Now your other hand,” Luka said, voice low and smooth as river rock. “Rub your clit while you fuck yourself. Hard. I want to see you lose those corporate manners.”
Fire climbed up my throat. I slid my free hand down and circled my clit while I kept the other driving into me. My thighs locked open, every muscle strung tight, as the sensation built too fast, too sharp, the edge between pain and pleasure blurred to nothing.
“Don’t you dare come,” he said with terrifying calm. “Fuck yourself raw, but hold it in.”
I obeyed, fighting the edge, every moment dragging me closer to breaking. My breath came in ragged pulls, my body tightening against the pressure I was supposed to hold back.
“Good girl.”
The words were a match dropped in gasoline.
He must have known. No one could hold out that long. My body took over. The control snapped. A sound tore out of me as the orgasm hit hard and sudden, my vision flashing white. My legs clamped shut, trapping my hand as the aftershocks rolled through me, hips jerking helplessly against my own fingers.
Then stillness.
I folded forward, thighs quaking, breath hitching in little moans I tried to swallow down. My skin prickled with the awareness of what I’d just done: ruined myself on command, then failed to stop when I was told.
Across from me, Luka didn’t move. He watched. A slow click of his tongue cut through the silence.
“Naughty, filthy girl.”
He tilted his head, disappointment written into the shape of his mouth, though the hunger in his eyes hadn’t dimmed.
“You love disobeying me. Almost like you want me to punish you.”
I dropped my gaze, only to catch my reflection in the coffee table glass: hair mussed, pupils wide, skin flushed.
“On your hands and knees,” Luka said. “Now.”