Aurélie, standing in her hotel room, phone propped up on the vanity. The dress clung to her like sin, soft pink and dangerous. Short enough that my fingers twitched at the thought of gripping the hem and dragging it higher. She turned, slow and deliberate, giving me the full fucking show.
Every curve. Every devastating line of her body.
Then she faced forward again, hands settling on her hips in a way that had my mind spiraling into dark, filthy places.
She glanced up at her reflection, her lips parted just slightly, her expression caught somewhere between playful and knowing—like she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
Then she made kissy lips. And that’s when I lost the fucking plot.
The breath I dragged in didn’t reach my lungs.
My mind—it was already gone.
The little toss of her hair over her shoulder, the way her mischievous little grin lingered just before she stopped the recording?—
I was on fire.
My pulse thundered through my veins, hot and relentless. My jaw locked so tight it ached, fingers gripping my phone like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
My dick twitched in my pants, and I dragged a slow, deep inhale through my nose, pissed at how easily she was undoing me.
I was either going to die of blue balls or chafe myself to death from using my hand constantly. The only other option was to find a mindless fuck, but yeah, I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Probably never again at this rate.
Fucking hell.
She was out of control. She was making me out of control. I groaned, tugging at my hair. Forced my brain to function long enough to type out a response.
Depends. Are you trying to kill someone tonight?
But that wasn’t enough. Not nearly fucking enough.
I needed to find her. Now.
And I was abso-fucking-lutely going to cross lines when I did. There was no stopping it at this point.
Aurélie
Don’t be dramatic, Fraser. I’m just going out to celebrate.
In that? You’ll start a riot.
Aurélie
Good. Keeps it interesting.
I should’ve left it there, let her have her night out without inserting myself into the narrative. But the thought of her in that dress, out in Miami, surrounded by people who didn’t know her like I did—who didn’t deserve to know her—pissed me the fuck off. And now, I didn’t want to analyze that reaction right now.
The drink in my hand tasted like nothing. Didn’t matter what it was—whiskey, vodka, straight fucking gasoline—it might as well have been water for all it did. The only thing I could taste was frustration.
I was seconds away from self-destruction.
Where are you?
She sent a photo next.
Aurélie
Wouldn’t you like to know?
