"Do you remember how I fight for your honor?" I ask suddenly, not knowing why, but I want her to recall something good, to remember that I'm always there for her.
"You're talking about that party I throw at my place?" She lifts her head and looks at me with a slight smile.
"Yes. Back then, I think my heart would jump out of my chest, but I just can't stand there and watch."
"I like it then. The way you defend me."
"Well, that's not the only time I fight for you..." it slips out before I can think.
Her eyes immediately dim, and I realize I've said too much.
"Don't even say his name in front of me. I don't want to think about him anymore."
"Sorry."
"You're not to blame. It's all on his conscience." Katrin lowers her head again, hiding her face in my chest.
I hug her tighter. Not because I want to prove anything, but simply because I want her to feel at peace. So that, in this night, she has no fears, no pain. Only me and her. Only the glow of the screen and the soft sound of voices from the movie, which we hardly pay attention to.
We start watching the movie in complete silence—not because we have nothing to say, but because words seem unnecessary, inappropriate, even rude at this moment. The room is filled with almost deafening silence, interrupted only by the quiet hum of the soundtrack and the occasional click of the projector. I feel the air between us vibrate with unspoken thoughts and suppressed tension.
The dim, slightly trembling light from the screen gently falls on her face, drawing a play of shadows and light. The contours of her cheekbones seem almost unreal—like they are carved out of marble, yet alive, warm. Her eyes are shadowed, but I feel that she watches, observes, analyzes. Sometimes, it seems as though she can see through everything—deeper than the film, deeper than me.
It's a banal love story, without refinements, without deep meaning, but we both know it's not about the plot. With each new scene, something in the room shifts, the air becomes denser, the breath slightly more restrained. We sit next to each other, but it feels as though we are in different worlds, yet connected by one thin, almost imperceptible, but unbreakable thread.
When the intimate scene between the main characters begins, there's no vulgarity—only incredible sensuality. The camera gently glides over the lovers' bodies, as if it itself touches the skin, echoing every curve, every gesture, every shudder. The music grows quieter, as if retreating, giving way to their breath—sharp, wet, real. I feel my own thoughts tangling, blending with the frames, and it becomes harder to distinguish reality from fiction.
I watch the screen with almost scientific focus, as if it's study material, and a crucial exam is just around the corner. Every glance, every hand movement, I try to memorize—unconsciously, hungrily. Next to me, Katrin remains calm, almost cold, like a statue carved from ice. But in that calmness, there's power—so much that it makes my blood hum in my veins. She simply watches, never blinking, giving away no emotion. And it's this—her detachment—that drives me crazy. Rebel Girl seems unattainable, but at the same time, closer than ever.
The movie ends as expected—with kisses, laughter, and hugs. Classic. But inside me, everything boils. I feel like I drift in a stream of sensations, lost, as if the film has stolen my ability to think logically. I sit silently, not knowing what to say, and suddenly she turns to me.
"How is their sex?" Katrin asks, not blinking, looking directly at me, without any pretense.
I hesitate. The question feels like it pulls me out of deep water and throws me onto the shore, exposing my thoughts, my fantasies. My head fills with a buzzing sound.
"Well... it's shot pretty well," I mumble, trying to maintain an appearance of calm. But inside, everything already boils, burning from the inside, as if living energy pulses beneath my skin.
She doesn't reply. She simply stands up. One slow, measured movement. And before I can understand what happens, she sits down on my lap. Smoothly, boldly, confidently. She spreads her legs, pressing closer, and I feel myself freeze at her touch.
It's like lightning in the silence, like a breath of air after a long dive. I look at her, and everything in me flares up—desire, fear, excitement, attraction. We are on the edge. On the edge of something that can no longer be stopped. Something new, wild, tempting. It's as if a door stands between us, and now—at this very second—it's wide open.
I place my hand on her waist, feeling the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her clothes. Her skin feels charged—as if it vibrates under my fingers, responding to every touch. Slowly, I run my palm down her back—softly, but with intention, with hunger. She arches slightly, and I feel our breaths merge. We aren't merging with our bodies—we are merging with something greater. With a barely perceptible impulse, a current passing between us.
Everything else disappears. The room, the movie, even time—it all becomes the background for the moment when everything inside us explodes and fuses into one: anticipation, excitement, the fear of being too exposed—and at the same time, the inability to hold back. This isn't just desire—it's acceptance. The willingness to be vulnerable. And it's more beautiful than any film.
"Do you want me?" she whispers, looking directly into my eyes.
Instead of answering, I cover her lips with a kiss—hungry, insistent, sincere, almost desperate. This isn't a cautious, testing contact—this is an impulse, one that can't be controlled, a spark of inner fire that has been building deep beneath my skin for a long time. I don't think—I just feel as though my whole body, every nerve, every muscle, demands that touch.
And at the moment when our lips meet, something inside me seems to click—like a lever shifting an inner mechanism. As if a dam breaks. The internal, restrained voice that whispers "wait, don't rush, it's not necessary" falls silent completely, overwhelmed by the rising roar of passion. I begin to move more confidently, more firmly, no longer ashamed of my emotions, no longer thinking about how it looks from the outside, no longer controlling myself.
My hands no longer hesitate—they eagerly, but respectfully, explore her body, as if remembering every curve, every millimeter that had been banished from my memory, as if they have longed to return to places they haven't been before. The thin fabric of her clothes almost isn't felt under my fingers—only warmth, only the smoothness of her skin, only the heartbeat, as broken as mine.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, and that gesture—so intimate, delicate, confident—seems to give me permission to be even closer. Rebel Girl responds with the same persistence, the same hunger, and it drives me crazy. I feel the electricity growing between us, how this moment stretches into something more than just the physics of touch.
Each of her movements is a revelation. She isn't just next to me—she is everywhere: in my mind, on my skin, in my breath. I don't know where I end and where she begins. We dissolve into each other, erasing boundaries, rewriting the map of desires.
And in this closeness, there is no vulgarity. Only truth. Only the pulsating "yes" from every part of my body. For the first time in a long while, I feel alive—not just existing, but feeling. There is no fear, no doubt—only openness, only honesty, only that wild, unstoppable pull that comes when you finally let go of everything.
I could describe this moment with thousands of words. But deep down, it is simple: I kiss her as if the world outside this room no longer exists. And maybe, in some sense—it really does disappear.
"Yes... I want you," I whisper in her ear, pressing her closer to me, almost embedding her into my body as though that touch still isn't enough.
My lips barely touch her skin, my breath hitting her temple, and I feel her hold her breath in response, her chest rising a little faster, her body responding with a subtle, trembling wave.
I stand up, maintaining eye contact with her, and, pulling her by the hand, lead her to the bedroom. We walk slowly, but with purpose, as if there is something sacred, something important about this path. She doesn't resist—in fact, her fingers tighten around my palm, as though this is exactly what she has been waiting for.
"If anything..." I begin, not really knowing what I want to say. Maybe apologize in advance. Maybe warn her. Maybe just express the anxiety bubbling inside me, like overheated water under the lid of a kettle.
"Don't be afraid," she interrupts. "We've already made it work, and we will now too."
Her voice is soft, almost whispering, like the touch of fabric against skin. It soothes me, like a warm blanket after a long cold day, but at the same time, it sparks an even greater flame within me. This isn't just confidence—it is closeness. Trust. Confidence not only in herself but in me.
I walk backward, never taking my eyes off her, leading her in front of me until her legs brush the edge of the bed. There I stop. For a moment, silence reigns—but not empty silence, it is filled with dense, electric tension.
"I want to undress you myself," I whisper, almost breathless.
My voice is hoarse, deep, full of desire, with no trace of embarrassment left. I allow myself to take the initiative—and she accepts it as something natural.
My fingers gently lift her sweater, inch by inch, revealing her skin. I kiss every area that appears before me, as though performing a ritual. No inch is left without attention. Her body responds—slight tremors, quickened breath, a bite of her lip. I feel her give me more with every second—herself, her trust, her fears.
Kneeling before her, I press my lips to her stomach, inhaling her scent—barely perceptible, almost instinctive, yet it immediately penetrates my brain, leaving an indelible mark. My fingers slowly unzip her jeans, savoring the process, as if in this simple movement lies an entire life. I carefully remove them, with reverence, not as with an object, but as with something sacred.
I stand up, not rushing, and begin removing my clothes. Her gaze—heavy, warm, hungry—follows every movement I make. She doesn't turn away, doesn't hide. On the contrary—she opens up, allows herself to be seen, to be desired, to be real. And when she swallows, I feel a wave of heat rise in me, burning away all doubt, all anxiety.
"Lie down," I say firmly, almost commandingly. The tone comes out by itself, as if from some deep part of me that has been dormant until now. I am surprised at where this need for control comes from, but it is there—strong, real.
Katrin obeys. Slowly, as if dissolving into what is happening, she lowers herself onto the bed, never taking her eyes off me. And in those eyes, I see everything: expectation, a slight nervousness, but most of all—trust. Pure, endless. She isn't just lying next to me—she is giving herself to me completely, without reservation, body, soul, and all her being.
I step closer, feeling my heart pounding in my throat. With every step, I feel a wave building in my body, rising from deep inside—not just desire, but the realization of how important this moment is.
"Tonight, you will be mine," I whisper, leaning toward her. Slowly, without haste, but with full confidence in every movement.
Everything that has been between us before—brief glances, hesitant touches, double meanings, restrained caresses in the hallway—everything leads to this. Everything merges into this moment, like rivers merging into the sea. And now, there is nothing left but the present. Real passion. Real closeness. Her real self.