Chapter 3: Encore Performance and aftermath
The heat of the shower hit her first, a blanket of steam that smelled of jasmine and the lingering sweat on their skin. Luka guided her in, his hand firm on her wrist, not painful but inarguable. The glass door clicked shut, sealing them in a noisy, warm world.
He backed her against the wall. The black marble tiles were shockingly cold against her shoulder blades, a sharp contrast to the scalding needles of water beating down from above. She gasped, and he covered her mouth with his, swallowing the sound. It was a kiss without softness, all possession and reclaiming. His body, still hard from his earlier release, pressed against her stomach.
When he broke the kiss, he trailed his lips down her neck to the join of her shoulder. His teeth found the spot, not breaking skin but pressing hard enough to make her whimper. It was a brand, another mark to join the constellation he’d left on her last night.
“Still so sensitive,” he murmured against her damp skin, his voice a low vibration she felt in her bones. He pressed his hips forward, and she felt him, fully hard again, insistent against her thigh. Even slick with water, the sheer size of him was daunting—thick and heavy, a prominent nine inches that curved slightly upward, the head a broad, flushed cap against his stomach. His stamina felt less like passion and more like a contest he was determined to win against his own biology.
He turned her, hands on her hips, facing the fogged glass. His reflection was a golden blur behind her. He nudged her legs apart with his knee, his intent clear, his movements efficient. There was no gentle preamble, not even the perfunctory slickness of arousal; she was still tender and wet from before, and he used that, pushing into her with a single, deep, stretching thrust that forced a choked sound from her throat.
“See? You can take it,” he said, his breath hot in her ear. His hands slid around to her front, one splaying across her lower belly to hold her still, the other finding her breast, his touch rough, kneading. “You’re made for it.”
He set a ruthless, driving rhythm, using the wall for leverage. The water sluiced over them, plastering her pink hair to her skull and his blonde strands to his forehead. Each impact drove the air from her lungs. Her fingers scrambled for purchase on the slick glass, leaving smeared trails. It was overwhelming, a sensory bombardment of heat, water, and the relentless, deep ache of him. Her empathy, usually turned outward, was forced inward, hyper-focused on the raw physical negotiation of her own limits.
He was vocal, grunting with each thrust, words fragmented by effort. “That’s it… god… clutch me just like that.” His control was a live thing, a focused intensity that turned the act into a physical demand for her surrender. He bit her shoulder again, a sharper punctuation, and the mix of pain and piercing pleasure made her cry out, the sound echoing off the marble.
His pace became frantic, piston-like. The hand on her stomach clamped down, holding her immobile as he drove into her one last, brutal time. With a harsh, guttural shout that was nothing like his stage voice, he came, his body locking rigid against hers. She felt the hot, internal pulses, distinct even through the water’s heat. He stayed there for a long moment, buried inside her, his forehead against her wet back, his breathing ragged.
Slowly, he softened and slid out. He turned her around, his gaze assessing. He tilted her chin up with a thumb, studying her face—the flushed skin, the wide purple eyes. He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Clean slate,” he said, his tone lighter, shifting back to the charming performer as he reached for the jasmine-scented soap. The strategic pivot was seamless.
He washed her with a surprising, impersonal thoroughness, as if detailing a prized object. She stood passively, letting him, the warm water finally feeling cleansing instead of punishing. When he was done, he turned and let her wash his back, a small concession that felt like a transaction.
They emerged wrapped in thick, white bathrobes. Her skin was scrubbed pink, but the evidence of the night and morning remained in the bruises on her hips, the red marks on her neck and shoulders. Luka, tying his robe, had scratches down his back she didn’t remember making.
He led her out into the hall, the heated floors warm under their feet. They almost collided with Till and Ivan exiting their own apartment.
Till looked wrecked in a different way. His grey hair was a chaotic mess, and his purple eyes were shadowed, but they burned with a fierce, volatile energy. The collar of his pajamas was twisted, revealing a stark bite mark on his collarbone and a litter of bruises along his jawline. Ivan stood beside him, a tall, silent figure in dark silk pajamas. He was perfectly composed, his charcoal eyes taking in the scene with detached observation. Only the faint, recent scratch marks visible over the V of his neckline hinted at anything.
A beat of silence hung in the plush hallway.
Then Till’s eyes raked over Luka, then over Mizi, noting the matching marks. A slow, sharp grin spread across his face, all intensity and no joy. He looked at Luka and gave a short, sharp laugh. “Looks like you had a busy morning too.”
Luka mirrored the grin, his charismatic mask clicking perfectly into place. “Just collecting what I’m owed.” He clapped a casual hand on Mizi’s shoulder, pulling her subtly closer to his side. The possessiveness was a performance for them.
Till nodded, his gaze flicking to Mizi for a second. Something unreadable—concern, recognition, jealousy—flashed in his eyes before it was smothered by his usual aggressive defensiveness. “Yeah. Same.”
Ivan said nothing. His eyes met Mizi’s for a protracted moment. In his controlled, distant expression, she saw no judgment, only a deep, unsettling understanding. He saw the tremor she was hiding, the overwhelmed quiet behind her eyes. He gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod, as if acknowledging a shared secret she hadn’t even articulated. Then he placed a large, steadying hand on the small of Till’s back, a gesture of restraint and anchor.
The two pairs stood there, a mirror image of victory and its costs, marked by the same dark currency. The warmth Mizi represented felt like a small, guttered flame against the cold, polished marble of the hall. The hope was still there, but it was tangled now, rooted in the complicated, fertile soil of everything that had just been broken and claimed.