Doing it in front of the mirror felt completely different, almost like baring your soul to the world. Every inch of your skin was visible, every curve illuminated in the dim light, but none of that compared to the intensity of Scaramouche’s gaze, his eyes devouring your body as if it were the only thing that existed.

You jolted when his cold hands gripped your hips, his fingers pressing into the tender flesh, sending a sharp thrill through your spine. His hands slid up and down your sides, a slow, deliberate touch that made you shiver, the sensation almost too much to bear. He knew exactly how to make you tremble beneath him, and the mirror reflected it all—your body arching into his touch, your breath catching as you struggled to stay focused on the sight in front of you.

The sharp sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the room, reverberating through the walls, each thrust meeting the rhythm of your own heartbeat. The house felt too quiet, too still, amplifying every noise—the soft gasps, the ragged breaths, the way Scaramouche’s name left your lips like a prayer. His voice, rough and low, filled the space between your shared heat.

“Taking me so well, baby," he murmured, his voice a mix of praise and a need he couldn't hold back. "Y-yeah, just like that." He drove his hips harder against yours, his breath hot against your neck as you both fell deeper into the moment. Every move felt primal, intoxicating, and the mirror reflected it all, like a secret the world wasn’t meant to see.

Scaramouche’s hips moved in sync with yours, each thrust measured, deliberate, as though he was intent on drawing every reaction from you. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the moment, but his voice grounded you, low and filled with desire.

“Don’t look away,” he whispered against your neck, a hand snaking up your front to tilt your chin slightly, forcing you to meet your own reflection once again.