She was still slumped against the wall of the bathroom stall, legs half-spread, skirt wrinkled around her hips like she'd just survived a war.
Her chest was heaving, skin flushed, hair clinging to her forehead. Her phone had slipped from her hand and landed on her lap, screen tilted just enough for Peter to see the damage.
He let the silence hang—let her feel the weight of what she'd just done in a mall bathroom because he told her to.
Then, low and wicked: "Pick it up."
Her breath hitched.
"Wha—"
"You heard me, baby. Pick it up. Look at me."
She obeyed. Slowly. Like her body was still remembering how to move. Fingers trembling, she lifted the phone, her eyes glossy with the aftershocks of pleasure still dancing through her.
Peter was calm on the screen. Too calm. The kind of calm that made your stomach twist in anticipation.
"I want to see it," he said, eyes dark with hunger. "The mess you made. Show me the chaos."
