Callum stared at her, stunned into silence. That smirk—wicked, knowing—still curled on her lips. Her eyes gleamed with something dark, too aware, too deliberate.
It was the kind of look that made his blood turn hot and cold all at once, like she was playing with fire and daring him to burn.
But then, just as quickly, it was gone.
Her entire demeanor shifted, as if a mask had dropped into place. Her gaze softened, lashes fluttered like a doe's, and she tilted her head, voice small and syrupy, a rehearsed kind of sweetness that almost made him believe it was real.
"I was just curious, Sir Hayes," she said, almost childlike. "I didn't know that happens when you do that… I just wanted to see."
Callum blinked, mind stalling. Her words were wrapped in innocence, but his memory screamed otherwise. She'd known exactly what she was doing. Every movement. Every breath. Every flick of her tongue.
What?
She sounded so sweet. So harmless. Like nothing had just happened. Like she hadn't just jerked him off in the dark and licked his cum off her fingers like sin given form. As if she hadn't left him trembling with shame and lust.
He blinked again, harder this time, as if the act might snap him out of whatever fog she was weaving around him. But it didn't help.
No.
No girl that innocent would touch him like that.
And no girl that unaware would wear panties that delicate, sit beside him half-naked, then act like her own exposure was a mystery she hadn't noticed.
Still, the dissonance cracked through him like thunder—because for months, he'd seen her as soft. Sweet. Wounded. A girl who flinched from eye contact and curled into herself in hallways. A girl with bruises and secrets.
Seeing her like this, like a seductress in disguise, sent his mind reeling. His image of her had shattered—and now he was scrambling to make sense of the shards.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he growled, throat dry. "Get dressed. Now."
She blinked up at him again, tilting her head in mock confusion, biting her lip like she was embarrassed. It might've worked—if not for the flicker in her eyes.
"Sir Hayes… I don't know why I'm naked," she murmured, voice trembling just enough to twist the knife deeper, to make him question everything again.
His fists clenched at his sides. His jaw ached from the tension.
"Stop acting innocent," he snapped, but the words came out more desperate than commanding.
And then, just as before, the mask dropped again.
Gone was the faux fragility. Gone was the wide-eyed innocence.
Her eyes darkened.
The smirk returned, slow and deliberate.
She lunged.
One shove to his chest and he stumbled backward, falling into the bed with a grunt, caught off-guard.
Before he could recover, she was on him.
Straddling his hips.
Leaning close, her thighs bracketing him, heat radiating from her bare skin. She smelled like skin-warmed perfume and danger.
Her fingers slid down his chest, nails trailing lightly over his shirt, and her hips rolled forward once—slow, deliberate. Just enough to remind him of what she'd touched earlier. Just enough to make his breath catch.
"Your mouth hates this," she whispered, breath ghosting over his jaw, "but this part of your body…" she ground down again, firmer this time, brushing perfectly against his stiffening cock, "says otherwise."
Callum's eyes snapped wide.
Shocked.
Aroused.
Helpless.
He gritted his teeth, every muscle straining against the confusion coursing through him. Lara's smile widened like she'd won.
She took his hands and brought them to her breasts—warm, soft, her nipples taut against his palms. The contact was electric. His hands instinctively closed around the weight of her.
"Did this reach your expectations?" she whispered. "Match your imagination?"
Her voice dripped with mock-innocence and cruel delight, a cocktail of temptation he had no name for.
He could feel it then—the weight of her hips grinding down, the pulse of her arousal slick through her panties, the heat curling through his gut like coiled fire.
She rolled her body against him again, slower this time, more purposeful, her breath warm on his throat.
"You think about me like this, don't you?" she whispered, lips brushing his ear. "Even when you tell yourself it's wrong. Especially then."
His breath hitched. His body betrayed him all over again. He felt himself throb in his pants, painfully hard, embarrassingly eager.
And he hated that his answer was yes.
Because it wasn't just lust anymore.
It was addiction. A pull he couldn't sever. A line he'd crossed so far back, it wasn't even visible anymore.
And she knew it.
Before he could summon the strength to pull away, her hands slid between them. One slow movement, and she was tugging her tiny underwear down her thighs. He caught a glimpse—just a glimpse—and it seared into his memory.
Pink. Glistening. Completely bare.
His mouth went dry. His thoughts shattered. She was soaked, open, shining with want. The kind of image he'd shamefully conjured alone in the dark more than once, hating himself each time.
He groaned, the sound ripping from his throat before he could stop it.
And he didn't even realize she'd taken him out until her heat met him directly.
Skin to skin.
She rolled her hips once, slow, unhurried—and his eyes rolled up in his skull.
"You like that, don't you?" she murmured, grinding against him, slickness coating the length of him in a single devastating stroke. "You're so hard for me again... I barely even touched you."
Callum's hands fisted the sheets. His breath came ragged, drawn through clenched teeth as every fiber in him burned from restraint.
"So much for hating it," she whispered darkly, rocking again, torturously slow. "You can't even think straight now, can you, Sir Hayes?"
And she was right.
He couldn't.
Because she was everything he'd told himself he couldn't have—and she was rubbing herself along him like she already owned him.
Her lips brushed his ear again. "You want me to put it in, don't you?" she whispered.
He swallowed hard, body stiff as her hips rocked forward again, teasing the tip of him between her folds. He didn't answer. He didn't even breathe. His brain screamed at him to stop this—to say no, push her off, anything—but his hips jerked up involuntarily, chasing the contact.
She giggled quietly. "You're soaked," she whispered, looking down between them. "Feels good, doesn't it? Just imagine how good it'll feel... inside."
He groaned, head falling back against the bed. His hands trembled beside him, clenched and useless. The image she painted in his mind—her warmth wrapped around him—made his breath stutter. Made his body scream.
He didn't say no.
He knew he didn't say no.
But he hadn't said yes either.
It didn't matter.
She shifted, positioning herself, her hand wrapping around him again.
"I've thought about this," she whispered. "I bet you have too."
And then she started to sink down.
Inch by inch.
Tight. Hot. Slick.
He groaned, hips twitching up to meet her, unable to stop himself from thrusting further into that unbearable heat. His eyes fluttered closed, overwhelmed by the sensation, every muscle in his body going rigid.
And still, he said nothing.
Because by the time she was halfway down, he was too far gone to speak.
She stilled over him for a heartbeat, breathing heavily, her voice trembling in mock concern.
"Be patient... you're too big," she whispered, biting her lip, eyes locked on his. "I haven't tried this before."
Those words—soft, breaking, innocent—hit him like a thunderclap.
And then she sank down fast.
His body responded with a violent jolt, hips jerking upward just as her cry of pain rang out.
He came instantly.
Hard.
His vision went white, mouth open in a silent moan as he emptied into her, wave after wave crashing through him, overpowering and blinding. But even through the pleasure, something else cut through—sharp and cold.
The second he released, something in him shattered. For a fleeting heartbeat, it felt like relief—like euphoria, pure and punishing. But the instant it peaked, it plummeted. Dread rushed in, hollow and nauseating, curling in his gut like rot. The afterglow wasn't warmth. It was horror.
Her pain.
It registered too late in his lust-clouded mind, but once it did, it snapped through him like a cold blade. The pieces connected.
Her words.
The tightness. The wince.
He froze.
And then shoved her off.
She gasped, startled, but he didn't look at her. Couldn't.
"Wait," she called softly behind him, her voice suddenly stripped of its teasing. "I didn't think it would hurt that much... but I still wanted you to be my first."
The words echoed in his ears, making his stomach churn.
But he didn't look back.
He stood, shaking, disgusted—with himself, with her, with all of it. He pulled his clothes together with frantic hands, ignoring the sting of her voice behind him, whatever it was saying.
He didn't hear it.
All he knew was that he had to leave.
Now.
Because that moment—that single, devastating moment—was going to end him.
And there was no coming back from it.