Chapter 2: The Dressing Room Intruder
The chill of the polished floor seeped through her socks. Lily stood in the center of the fitting room, a small, mirrored cube that seemed to shrink by the second. Three of her reflected selves stared back, each looking more uncertain than the last. She’d come here on autopilot after leaving the park, her skin still humming, the phantom ache between her legs a persistent, shocking reminder. She needed normalcy. Something mundane. Trying on jeans.
She’d shimmied out of her own clothes, now folded in a neat, defensive pile on the lone stool. In the mirror, she saw the faint red mark on her neck where Niall’s stubble had rubbed. A brand. Her plain black bra and simple cotton underwear looked absurdly innocent against the memory of his hands.
She fumbled with the button of the high-waisted jeans she was testing, her fingers clumsy.
“Need a hand with those?”
The voice was low, distinctly British, and came from directly behind her reflection. She froze. Her eyes shot up to the mirror. Leaning casually against the wall just inside the velvet curtain he’d slipped through was a man. Slicked-back brown hair, sharp cheekbones, blue eyes that held a mischievous, knowing glint. Louis Tomlinson. He didn’t smile. His gaze travelled over her reflected body with a leisurely, hungry appraisal that felt like a physical touch.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. “How did you… this is a private room.”
“Curtain was open a crack. Saw you struggling.” He pushed off the wall, taking a single step forward. The space, already small, became claustrophobic. She could smell his cologne—something smoky and expensive, cutting through the sterile air. “Looks like you need more than a hand. You look… flustered.”
“Get out.” The command was weak, breathy.
He ignored her. Another step. Now he was directly behind her, not touching, but she could feel the heat radiating from him. His eyes locked onto hers in the mirror. “Or what? You’ll call security? Tell them Louis Tomlinson is admiring the view?” His lips curled into a smirk. “I think we both know you won’t.”
He was right. The scandal, the explaining… and a treacherous, pulsing part of her, still awakened from the park, was curious. It was this acknowledgement, this fucking betrayal by her own body, that made her anger spike.
“You’re arrogant.”
“Observant.” His hands came up then, not to her hips, but to rest on her shoulders. His thumbs stroked the bare skin above her collarbone. She shuddered. “You’re also tense. Someone got you all worked up and just left you here, yeah? That’s rude.”
She couldn’t speak. His fingers trailed down, over the front straps of her bra, following the line to the clasp between her shoulder blades. With a deft, practised flick, he undid it. The material loosened. She gasped, her hands flying up to hold it to her chest.
“Don’t,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. His hands covered hers, peeling them away. He pulled the bra straps down her arms, letting the garment fall to the floor. Her breasts were exposed in the triple mirrors, her nipples hardening instantly under his scrutiny and the cool air. “That’s better. Now I can see what’s got you so bothered.”
Before she could react, he spun her around, her back hitting the cold mirror. The impact stole her breath. He pressed his body against hers, pinning her. One hand gripped her jaw, tilting her face up to his. His other hand slid down her side, over her hip, and cupped her ass through her underwear, squeezing hard.
“You like being manhandled,” he stated, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. “I can tell. Your pulse is racing right here.” He brushed his thumb over the frantic beat in her throat. “Your friend in the park… did he fuck you like this? Up against something? Or was he gentle?” He ground his hips against her, and she felt the hard length of him. “I’m not gentle.”
He crashed his mouth onto hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a conquest. demanding, bruising. His tongue claimed hers. He tasted of black coffee and mint. His free hand yanked her underwear down her thighs in one rough motion. She kicked them off, a helpless, agreeing gesture. He broke the kiss, breathing harshly, his eyes burning into hers.
“Hands on the mirror,” he ordered. When she hesitated, he gripped her wrists and placed them flat against the glass above her head. “Hold on. You’ll need to.”
He unbuttoned his own jeans, freeing himself. He was thick, veined, brutally erect. He didn’t ask. He hooked one of her legs over his hip, opening her up, and notched himself at her entrance. She was wet—shamefully, undeniably wet—a slickness left over from earlier and generated anew by his crude, assertive dominance.
“Look at you,” he snarled, his gaze fixed where their bodies met. “Soaked for a complete stranger. You’re a filthy little thing, aren’t you?”
He drove into her.
It was a single, deep, unforgiving thrust that buried him to the hilt. She cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by the muffled silence of the fitting room. The stretch was intense, overwhelming. The mirror rattled against the wall.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. “Tighter than I imagined.” He pulled back almost all the way and slammed home again. And again. Establishing a relentless, pounding rhythm.
The mirrors showed it all. Her face, flushed and contorted. Her breasts jolting with each brutal impact. His body, coiled and driving into hers. It was obscene. It was exhilarating. The cold glass against her palms and back contrasted violently with the scorching heat of him pistoning inside her.
“You see that?” he grunted, his voice strained with effort. “See yourself getting fucked? Watch it. Watch how much you love it.”
She did. She saw her own mouth fall open in a silent scream. She saw the desperate hunger in her own eyes. She was complicit. She was wanting it.
His hand left her hip and snaked between their bodies, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed rough, tight circles exactly where she needed it. The dual assault was too much. Pleasure, sharp and coppery, began to scream through her veins.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his breath hot on her neck. “Come on my cock. Do it. I want to feel you milking me, you greedy slut.”
The crude word, the relentless friction of him, the visual of their raw coupling in the mirror—it shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her with violent, silent convulsions, her mouth open in a soundless cry as her internal muscles clenched and fluttered around his invading length. The world narrowed to the feeling of him, the sight of them.
Her climax triggered his. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself and let go. A guttural, choked sound escaped him as he came, his hips stuttering against hers, pumping his release into her in hot, endless pulses. He held himself there, fully seated, for a long moment, his body shuddering.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The fluorescent hum overhead. The distant murmur of the store. The smell of sex, thick in the enclosed space.
He softened, slipped out of her. He stepped back, tucking himself away and doing up his jeans with an unsettling casualness. He reached down, picked up her bra, and handed it to her. His smirk was back, but his eyes were dark, satisfied.
“Guess you won’t be buying those jeans,” he said, nodding at the denim pooled around her ankles. “They’re probably ruined.”
She couldn’t move. She just stared at him, her body humming, sticky, used.
He leaned in, kissed her cheek, a parody of tenderness. “See you around, Lily.”
He slipped out through the velvet curtain, leaving it swaying in his wake.
Alone again, she looked at her reflection. Her hair was wild. Her lips were swollen. A new mark was forming on her shoulder. She saw a woman she barely recognized. She slid down the mirror to the floor, her torn underwear and the rejected jeans tangled around her feet. Outside, a sales associate called, “How are we doing in there?”
Lily closed her eyes. The camera was in her bag, on the floor. She hadn’t taken a single picture all day.