Do you want me to stop

Lucas’s POV

I gave her time. Not because I was patient. But because I wanted her to squirm. To think she was still in control. To lie in her silk sheets at night and tell herself she hadn’t felt her thighs clench the second my voice landed between them.

She needed time to struggle. To wrestle with the truth. To remember what it meant to be mine. To remember whats its like to be filled by an actual cock, not some weak ass human dick!

But now? Time’s up. Time is up Sel, I am coming for what’s mine.

The next gallery opening was in Tribeca — minimalist, high-profile, an invitation-only crowd dripping in curated boredom and curated wealth. She would be there. I knew it the moment I saw the guest list, because this kind of stage was where Selina played best — high heels, high stakes, and just enough distance between herself and everyone else to maintain the illusion of detachment.

But detachment is a lie, and I was done letting her pretend. I was done letting that human thing have my cunt.

I arrived late. Deliberately.

The kind of late that announces itself without apology. The kind that parts crowds and makes women nervous and men resentful. The kind of late only a predator can afford to be.

I saw her the second I stepped inside.

Black velvet. A slit that threatened the laws of etiquette and gravity. Neck bare. Hair twisted up.

Jonathan wasn’t with her this time.

Good, because goddess help me, I will lose my cool one of these days and have him for dinner. Anyway, he didn’t belong at what was about to happen.

She saw me.

I didn’t smile.

Neither did she.

But her body betrayed her — just a flicker. A shift in her stance. A breath that hitched before she masked it.

It was enough, enough to know I will soon shove my dick in those Twinkies of hers, I wonder if her pussy will still France for daddy!

I let her feel me for fifteen minutes. Watched her try not to look. Watched her sip her drink too slowly, speak too quickly to the woman beside her, fingers tightening around the stem of the glass like she needed something to hold on to.

And then I moved.

I didn’t approach from the front.

I didn’t announce myself.

I came in from behind, leaned in just enough to let her feel the heat of me against the bare skin of her back, and whispered:

“Still pretending?” Her breath stopped and then she turned, slowly, controlled and deadly.

But her lips parted before she could speak — not in shock, not in anger — but in that same way they always had when I used to kiss her awake.

Like instinct.

Like surrender.

She recovered quickly. “You’re not subtle.”

“I don’t need to be.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not invited.”

I smiled, slow and wolfish. “Selina, you never stopped inviting me.”

She hated that her pulse betrayed her again, so I stepped closer. The room hummed behind us, oblivious. But all the air between us now belonged to me.

“I’m not doing this here,” she said, breath low, sharp.

“Then take me somewhere we can.”

“Lucas.”

I reached out — not roughly, not forcefully — just enough to let my fingers ghost along her wrist, barely a touch.

But it was electric. She inhaled.

“Five minutes,” I said. “No more.”

She didn’t answer. But she walked. And I followed.

The restroom was sleek, empty, bathed in low golden light that seemed to exist solely for indulgence.

She turned the moment the door clicked shut behind us.

“I don’t want this,” she said.

I stepped in.

“You don’t want me?”

“I don’t want this,” she snapped, gesturing between us.

But her back hit the counter as she said it.

And her eyes dropped — not to avoid mine, but to look at my mouth.

“I think,” I said, my voice silk-wrapped steel, “you don’t even know what you want anymore.”

“Lucas—”

“You want control. I get it. You built an empire from ashes I gave you. You clawed your way out of the wreckage I left behind. You made yourself untouchable.” I moved in closer, pressing her back to the marble. “But there’s one thing you can’t change.”

She stared at me. Waiting for me to finish. Daring me.

So I told her.

“You still get wet for me.” She slapped me. Hard. Very hard that the sound cracked the air between us.

I took it and smiled. And then I moved. Fast.

Not brutal. Not forceful. Just enough to make her pussy clench for me.

One hand grabbed her hip, anchoring her. The other tangled in her hair and pulled her head back — gently, but with enough command that her lips parted on instinct.

Her body didn’t resist. It arched.

“You hate me,” I whispered against her jaw.

“No—”

“You should.”

Her breath was ragged. “You hurt me.”

“I did.”

“I trusted you.”

“I know.”

“And still,” I said, dragging my fingers slowly down her ribs, over the seam of her dress, to where her legs had parted just slightly in defiance and desire, “you haven’t told me to stop.”

She didn’t speak.

So I let my fingers press up under the slit of her dress. My finger found he thing, I rip it off her and put the damn thing I my pocket and then slid my hand back into her dress, found her clit and I started with applying small pressure and then when she gasped, I slid my finger inside her and started to thrust so hard.

Her pussy clenched and unclenched around my finger and she gasped.

“You want me to stop?” I asked.

She opened her mouth.

Closed it. So I added another finger. She was soaked.

“Tell me to stop,” I said again.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she gripped the counter behind her and let her head fall back — lips parted, body shaking.