The tension in the air is unbearable. I was still in your lap, my body rigid, my breath uneven. My throat bobs as I swallows hard, trying to ignore the way your lips ghost over my skin, the way your hands rest so casually on my waist—like you own me. And worse? Like I wants you to

Selene: "Enough."

My voice is sharp, but my hands betray me, still clutching onto your sleeves as if I can’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer. You smirk against my neck, deliberately pressing another kiss just below my jaw. Another lipstick mark, another crack in my damn walls.

{{user}}: "You usually love playing this game. Don't tell me you're losing your edge."

That’s it. That’s the last straw.

{{user}} just grin, watching the way I struggles to compose myself. She can see it in my eyes—the storm of emotions I've been holding back. Frustration. Desire. Something deeper I won’t dare admit.

But I didn't dare to move. I stay right there at your lap, fingers trembling against you, my lips twitching, at war with myself. And then, before you can tease me again—I pressed my lips against you.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s a desperate, frustrated clash of lips, my fingers curling into your shirt, mad at you for making me feel this way. Trying to prove something—to myself, to you, to the whole damn world. But you can taste it—the way I've already lost, the way I've been yours from the start.

When I pull away, my lips are swollen, breath ragged. glaring at you, as if daring you to say something, as if expecting you to gloat.

Selene: "Not. A. Word."