Chapter 7: Reversed Roles
The bite mark on Brooke’s neck pulsed beneath her high-necked leotard, a secret rhythm counterpoint to Cathy’s staccato instructions. All day, through grueling reps and punishing corrections, she felt it. A phantom brand. A reminder of his mouth, his silence, his dismissal.
Oliver was flawless in rehearsal. A perfect partner. His hands on her waist during lifts were professional, impersonal. His eyes, when they met hers, were clear and empty. The boy from the dawn-lit sheets was gone, sealed away behind a wall of charming, focused intensity. It made her want to break him.
She found her opportunity that evening. He’d given her a key, and she used it, letting herself into the penthouse’s cool, silent expanse. The city glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a necklace of cold light. The rose he’d given her last week—a stupid, cliché gesture—sat wilted on the nightstand. She ignored it.
He was in the living area, stretching on the polished hardwood, wearing only low-slung sweatpants. The soft thud of his bare feet against the floor stilled when he saw her.
“Brooke.” His tone was flat. A warning.
She didn’t speak. She dropped her dance bag, the sound loud in the quiet. From within it, she pulled out the harness, the deep purple silicone stark against the muted tones of the room. She’d bought it this afternoon, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, a plan solidifying with cold clarity.
Oliver’s eyes tracked her movements, his body going very still. “What’s this?”
“A correction,” she said, her voice low. She let the harness dangle from her finger. “You had your turn. Your little lesson. Now it’s mine.”
A smirk touched his lips, the one she hated. The one that said he found her amusing. “You’re playing a game you don’t understand.”
“You keep telling me what I am,” she said, advancing. “A performer. A liar. Graceful. Ordinary.” She stopped a foot from him. “But you never seem to know what you are. Liam’s Boy. The charmer. The user.” She dropped the harness at his feet. “So let’s find out.”
He looked at it, then back at her, the smirk fading into something more calculating, more interested. The air between them crackled, charged with unfinished arguments and the raw residue of the morning.
“You think you can dominate me?” he asked, a challenge.
“I think you’re begging for it,” she breathed. “All that control. That cool, collected shit. It’s a cage. Don’t you want a break from being perfect?”
Something shifted in his face. A fissure in the marble. It was all the invitation she needed.
She shoved him. Hard. It was a dancer’s push, using leverage, sending him stumbling backward onto the massive bed. He landed on the silk sheets with a soft thump, surprise flashing in his eyes. She was on him before he could move, her knees pinning his thighs, her hands forcing his shoulders down.
“Brooke—”
“Shut up.” She yanked his sweatpants and boxers down in one vicious tug, baring him. He was half-hard, interest betraying him despite the tension in his jaw. She reached for the harness, strapping it on over her own jeans with practiced, furious efficiency. She took the thick, silicone cock in her hand, the purple glistening under the recessed lights.
She spat into her palm, the act crude and deliberate, then slicked the length of the toy. The sound was obscene in the quiet room.
His smirk was utterly gone now, replaced by a focused, dark-eyed stare. He was watching her, analyzing, his breath coming faster.
“You wanted to play Dom?” she growled, aligning the tip with him. She leaned close, her hair a curtain around their faces. “Let’s see how you take it.”
She didn’t wait. She didn’t gentle him. She pushed forward, a slow, inexorable invasion. His body resisted, then yielded, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. His hands came up, gripping her forearms, his knuckles white.
“Fuck,” he gasped, his head pressing back into the sheets.
“That’s the idea,” she whispered, her own breath catching as she seated herself fully, feeling the power of the act thrum through her veins. She owned this. She owned this space inside him, this surrender. She began to move, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm. The bedframe tapped a sharp tattoo against the wall.
His composure shattered. Grunts were torn from him with each thrust. His elegant hands scrabbled at her hips, trying to guide, to slow, but she batted them away, pinning his wrists above his head. She watched his face, the play of shock, pain, and a raw, unraveling pleasure. The poster of his father’s boyband grinned from the corner, a silent, judging audience.
“Is this clean enough for you?” she panted, driving into him. “This transaction?”
He couldn’t answer. A choked, guttural sound was his only reply. His eyes were screwed shut, his perfect features contorted.
Then, they flew open. He looked at her, really looked, and the vulnerability there was more terrifying than any anger. “Stop.”
She stilled, hovering over him, both of them slick with sweat. “What?”
“I said stop.” His voice was wrecked, but clear.
A cold dread washed through her heat. She’d gone too far. She’d actually broken it. She started to pull away, shame rising like bile.
His hands shot out, not to push her off, but to clutch her hips, holding her in place. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.” The command was raw, desperate. “Just… look at me. Please.”
She met his gaze. The city’s lights reflected in his pupils, twin galaxies of chaos. The mask was not just off; it was shattered on the floor. What was left was naked, hungry, and utterly lost.
“Alright,” she whispered.
She moved again, but the quality had changed. It was still deep, still intense, but it was a conversation now. A furious, fucking dialogue. His hips rose to meet hers, his legs wrapping around her back, pulling her deeper. He chanted her name, a broken litany against her collarbone where he buried his face.
When he came, it was with a shuddering, silent cry that seemed to tear through his entire frame. She followed, a sharp, surprised climax wrenched from her simply by the feel of him coming apart beneath her.
She collapsed to the side, the harness a uncomfortable knot between them. For long minutes, there was only the sound of ragged breathing. The humid air smelled of sex and salt and his cologne.
Finally, he spoke, his voice aimed at the ceiling. “I was eight when he gave me that poster. Signed it ‘To my biggest fan, love Dad.’” He gave a soft, hollow laugh. “He’d forgotten my birthday. The poster was in the trunk of his car. A leftover piece of promo.”
Brooke turned her head on the pillow. She saw the corner of the framed poster, peeking from under a stack of books. A relic.
“I keep it there,” he continued, “to remind me what fandom looks like. What love looks like from a distance.” He turned to look at her, his eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. “It’s easier when it’s a transaction, Brooke. You get exactly what you pay for. No forgotten birthdays. No empty signatures.”
She understood then. His cruelty wasn't a weapon; it was a moat. A moat around a boy staring at a signed poster, trying to feel like a fan instead of a son.
She reached over, her fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead. He flinched, then stilled, allowing the touch.
“You should go,” he said, but the words had no force.
“I know,” she replied. But she didn’t move. Outside, the city hummed, indifferent. Inside, the cage door, just for a moment, hung open.