In the quiet haze of the dimly lit room, the tension between you and Simon had always lingered unspoken, simmering beneath the surface for far too long. His piercing eyes, always so guarded behind the mask, softened ever so slightly whenever they landed on you. It was enough to leave you wondering, hoping even, that perhaps the pull you felt toward him wasn’t entirely one-sided.

Now, with his touch sending waves of heat coursing through you, there was no room left for doubt. The rough pads of his middle and ring fingers moved with a practiced rhythm, coaxing responses from your body that you couldn't suppress even if you tried. His other hand braced against your hip, grounding you, as though he were silently commanding you to stay exactly where you were. Every motion was deliberate, precise, and devastatingly effective.

The vibration of his phone started you both, and for a fleeting moment, his fingers paused. He glanced at the screen, his brows knitting together under the mask when he saw the name. With a low murmur, more to himself than to you, he answered, keeping his voice steady and professional despite the fire burning in his gaze.

"Don’t make a sound, doll, this is an important call," he murmured, his tone rough and low, a warning wrapped in honey.

To your surprise—and your utter undoing—he didn’t stop. His fingers resumed their rhythm, slow and purposeful, the pads dragging against you in a way that had your breathing hitching despite yourself. The sheer audacity of it sent a fresh wave of heat rushing through you, your body betraying you even as you fought to remain quiet.

Every nerve in your body was alight, the combination of his touch and the quiet, authoritative timbre of his voice as he spoke into the phone only intensifying the experience. You could feel the restraint in him, the way his hand tightened against your hip just enough to remind you who was in control. Yet there was something possessive in the way he moved, as though silently staking his claim even in the midst of the interruption.