Chapter 15: Bathroom Quickie
The party noise was a muffled, gauzy thing beyond the bathroom door. Laughter, the clink of glasses, the smooth drone of a jazz playlist Sid’s wife, Priya, had curated. Anya leaned against the cool marble sink, the gin and tonic in her hand doing nothing to quell the heat. She’d spent twenty minutes making polite conversation with Priya, a stunning woman in a tasteful saree who spoke intelligently about gallery openings, all while Anya’s skin remembered the imprint of Sid’s hands against glass.
He entered without a sound, locking the door with a soft, definitive click. The room, large and fragrant with an expensive diffuser, shrank to the space between them.
“Enjoying the party?” Sid asked, his voice a low rumble that bypassed her ears and vibrated straight down her spine. He looked immaculate in a deep navy linen shirt, the picture of the gracious host.
“Your wife is lovely,” Anya said, the words a deliberate provocation. She took a slow sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving his.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He stepped closer, crowding her against the sink. The citrus and spice of his cologne mixed with the cleaner, floral scent of the soap. “What do you want, Anya?”
“You. Here. Now.” She set her glass down with a sharp tap. “While she’s out there. I want you to fuck me in your perfect house.”
His control visibly frayed. The polished CEO veneer cracked, revealing the raw hunger underneath. He didn’t kiss her. He grabbed the neckline of her silk camisole and pulled, hard. The delicate fabric tore with a sickening, satisfying rip, baring her breasts. “You greedy little bitch,” he breathed, his hands rough on her skin, palming her, his thumbs scraping over her nipples. “You get off on this, don’t you? On the risk.”
“Yes,” she hissed, arching into his touch, her own hands fumbling for his belt. The leather slid free, the zipper a loud buzz in the quiet room. She shoved his trousers and briefs down just enough, freeing his cock, already thick and heavy in her hand. She stroked him, a firm, knowing grip. “Do it. Before I change my mind.”
He spun her around, bending her over the sink. Her reflection stared back, wide-eyed, lips parted, her torn top hanging off one shoulder. He pushed her slender skirt up around her waist, exposing her bare ass—she’d worn nothing underneath, a premeditated sin. His fingers parted her, finding her wet and ready. He let out a gruff, humorless laugh. “Soaked. For me. In my home.”
He didn’t wait. He positioned himself and drove into her with one brutal, deep thrust, slamming her hips against the hard marble edge. Anya choked back a cry, biting her own wrist to stifle the sound. The pain was sharp, bright, and it melted instantly into a debilitating, shameful pleasure.
“See?” he grunted, setting a punishing rhythm, each inward plunge knocking the air from her lungs. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh, sure to leave bruises. “See us?” He forced her head up to look in the mirror. Their eyes locked in the glass—his blazing with possessive fury, hers dark with delirious complicity. His other hand snaked around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “You wanted this. You asked for it.”
“I did,” she panted, her vision blurring. The party sounds were a distant echo. All she could hear was their ragged breathing, the wet, slapping sound of their bodies connecting, the creak of her leather belt as he used it for leverage. “Harder. Don’t you dare fucking stop.”
He fucked her like he was trying to erase something, to mark his territory on the very edge of his domestic life. His pace was relentless, a machine-like piston of hips. The sink rattled with their force. A bottle of hand soap clattered into the porcelain bowl. His thrusts became shorter, harder, a focused ramming. She could feel him swelling inside her, the tension coiling at the base of her own spine.
“Come with me,” he commanded, his voice guttural, close to her ear. “Now.”
It wasn’t a request. It was the final demand. His words, the obscene fullness of him, the terrifying clarity of the mirror image—it broke her. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and silent, a series of internal clenches that made her legs shake. She bit down on her own arm again to keep from screaming his name into the quiet, perfumed air.
Feeling her convulse around him, Sid buried his face in her torn blouse, muffling his own roar as he came, jetting deep inside her, his body shuddering against hers. For a long moment, they stayed like that, frozen in the aftermath, a stark, debauched portrait in the mirror.
He pulled out slowly. The sound was obscenely wet. He tucked himself away, zipped up, ran a hand through his hair. He looked at her reflection, at the mess of her, the evidence of him on her inner thighs. He turned on the tap, washed his hands methodically.
Anya pushed herself upright, legs unsteady. She looked at herself—the ruined top, the wild hair, the fucked-out hollow look in her eyes. She found a hand towel and ran it under cold water, pressing it between her legs, a futile attempt at cleaning up.
A light knock on the door made them both freeze.
“Sid?” Priya’s voice, smooth and curious, filtered through the wood. “Everything alright in there? Someone said they heard a noise.”
Sid’s eyes found Anya’s in the mirror. His face recomposed itself, the mask sliding perfectly back into place. “All fine, darling,” he called out, his voice effortlessly calm, even warm. “Dropped a bottle. Be out in a second.”
He looked at Anya, his gaze stripping her bare all over again. He nodded toward the door, a silent command to get ready, to reassemble herself. The party, his wife, the real world, waited just beyond the lock. And she had to walk out and face it, carrying the secret of him, hot and sticky, inside her.