The room was dark—too dark—bathed only in the soft, silvery glow of the moonlight slipping through the half-open window. Dust floated lazily in the air, caught in the pale light like tiny stars. The quiet hum of the night pressed against the walls, heavy and slow, almost intimate.

Mark’s face emerged from the shadows, a crooked, ironic smile tugging at his lips. There was something unreadable in his expression—half amusement, half temptation. You could feel his hands move over your body, deliberate but unhurried, tracing your skin as if memorizing it. Your senses were blurred, lost somewhere between unease and desire, the kind of confusion that made your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

His fingers paused at the curve of your back, the warmth of his palm resting there for just a moment before sliding lower—slow, teasing—until they reached the waistband of your underwear. The air thickened between you. And then, abruptly, he stopped.

Mark exhaled, the sound almost a laugh, pulling his hands away as if snapping out of a spell. He leaned back slightly, eyes glinting in the dim light, studying you with that same curious detachment he often wore—like you were both an experiment and a mystery he didn’t quite understand.

One of his hands reached out again, this time gentler, resting on your knee. A subtle touch, hesitant, almost human. The corner of his mouth twitched, a shadow of a smirk playing there.

“Relax,” he said softly, voice low and amused. “I’m not that bad… yet.”