Chapter One – The First Lie I Told Myself
The rain never really stops in New York in October; it just decides how cruel it wants to be. Tonight it chose slow, insidious drizzle. I stood at the window of my Chelsea apartment, forehead against cold glass, watching water trace slow paths down the pane. My phone buzzed again on the kitchen island.
Julian.
Black car downstairs. No coat. I want goosebumps on your thighs when you get in.
My pulse jumped painfully.
I should have deleted the thread. Blocked him. Called someone. Instead I looked down at myself: black silk camisole barely skimming my thighs, nothing underneath, already dressed for surrender before I even read the message.
I took the service elevator. Bare feet on cold concrete stairs. Nipples hard against silk. Wet between my legs before I even reached the curb.
The Mercedes door opened as I approached.
Julian didn't look up from his phone when I slid in. Only after three blocks did he speak.
"You're shivering."
"It's cold."
"Liar." One finger hooked the strap of my camisole, dragged it down until my left breast was bare. Thumb brushed my nipple once, then pinched hard. I gasped.
He slid his hand between my thighs, found me soaked, stroked once—slow, deliberate.
"Spread."
I obeyed instantly.
He worked me with cruel patience: slow circles, shallow dips, never enough. My hips lifted, chasing.
"Tell me why you came tonight, Elena."
"Because I can't stop thinking about how you fucked my throat last week… how you called me a good girl while I choked on you… how I hate myself for wanting it and hate myself more for not getting it."
He smiled—slow, dangerous.
"Good girl."
Three fingers plunged inside me. I cried out. He curled them, pumped hard, thumb on my clit. I came in under a minute, shaking, thighs clamped around his wrist, tears leaking.
He pushed wet fingers into my mouth. "Clean them."
I sucked greedily, tasting myself, tasting shame.
The car stopped at the hotel's private entrance. He carried me to the suite, backed me against the wall.
"On your knees."
I dropped.
He unbuckled slowly. The leather sliding through loops was obscene.
"I'm going to fuck your throat until you cry. Then your cunt. Then your ass. And you won't stop me."
I opened wide.
He pushed in deep, past my tongue, into my throat. I gagged, tears streaming. He held himself there, rocking shallowly.
"Look at me."
I did—eyes watering, mascara running.
"So fucking beautiful when you choke on me."
He used my mouth brutally until he came, flooding my throat. I swallowed everything.
Then he lifted me to the bed, spread my legs, licked me slowly, thoroughly, until I shattered again, screaming his name.
He entered me in one deep glide. Slow, rolling thrusts. Building me up even though I was already wrecked.
"Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours."
We came together, slow and devastating.
Afterward he held me, fingers tracing my spine.
In the quiet, the first real doubt crept in.
Three nights earlier, while he was buried inside me, while I was coming so hard I couldn't see, he had whispered:
"Mara would be so disappointed in you right now."
I never asked how he knew her name.
That was the first lie I told myself.
That it didn't matter.