---
The first time I saw her, she was sitting on velvet, legs crossed, holding a wine glass like it was made to beg her for attention.
And maybe I was, too.
I hadn't eaten all day. My phone was dead. My hands smelled like bleach from the nightclub's bathroom shift.
But she looked at me like I was dessert.
> "You're not from here," she said, without even asking.
Her voice was soft. Expensive. The kind that made you want to kneel just to be told "good girl."
> "Neither are you," I replied, pulling my jacket tighter around my thin dress.
She smiled lazily, lips stained wine red.
> "I'm Celeste."
And just like that, she didn't ask for my name. She just handed me her card.
---
Two days later, I stood outside her penthouse, soaked in Barcelona rain.
I should've left. I should've walked away the moment the butler said, "She likes her guests obedient."
But I had nowhere to go. No money. No choices.
She opened the door herself.
Black robe. Wet hair. No makeup.
> "You came," she said, like she already owned me.
> "I just need a place to crash," I lied.
Her smile twisted. "Crash all you want, cariño. Just don't expect to leave untouched."
---
Her apartment was a sex fantasy—dark velvet, low lights, glass tables that had clearly seen things.
She gave me a guest room. Soft sheets. Warm towels. And silence.
I didn't see her again for three days.
Until that night.
---
I stepped into the kitchen in nothing but one of her shirts, oversized and unbuttoned halfway down my thighs.
She was at the counter, barefoot, pouring whiskey. She turned around, eyes dragging over me like a fucking violation.
> "Couldn't sleep?" she asked, sipping.
> "Couldn't breathe."
She raised an eyebrow.
> "The sheets smell like you."
She stepped closer, predator-slow.
> "Is that a complaint?"
I shook my head, smirking. "Just an observation."
Her eyes dropped to my legs. My bare thighs.
> "Virgin, right?" she asked, tilting her head. "You still haven't been kissed?"
> "Not properly."
> "You want to be?"
I walked past her, brushing my arm against her chest. Slow. Careless. Like I wasn't burning inside.
> "I want control," I said. "Not charity."
Her laugh was low. Dangerous.
> "You think this is charity? I want to fuck you until you forget how to talk."
I turned around, leaned against the marble counter.
> "Then earn it."
For the first time, her face hardened.
Celeste Moreau wasn't used to being told no.
---
She stepped forward. One hand on the counter beside me, the other gripping my jaw.
> "You think I won't break you just because you look fragile?"
> "You think I'm fragile just because I've never been touched?"
I licked my lips, slow, letting her eyes follow.
> "Kiss me like you hate me," I whispered. "Or don't touch me at all."
And then she did.
---
Her mouth crashed into mine—messy, violent, starving.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle.
It was war.
Her hands grabbed my waist like she wanted to bruise it. My back hit the cold counter. She pulled me up, lifted me onto it, and stood between my legs.
I gasped into her mouth, and she bit my lip.
> "Still think I need to earn it?" she whispered against my skin.
> "Still think I'll beg?" I panted.
Her fingers slid under my shirt.
> "You're already begging, princesa. Your body just hasn't admitted it yet."
---
And then she pulled back.
Completely. Coldly.
Just walked away, like nothing happened.
> "You can stay," she said, voice like steel. "But if you walk into my kitchen like that again—"
She turned around, eyes like frost and fire.
"I will fuck you. And I won't be gentle."
---
I sat there on the counter, lips swollen, legs shaking.
And I smiled.
Because now I knew what she wanted.
And now she'd have to chase it