Chapter 3: Infinite Reflections of Taking
The metallic tang of the shattered lens still hung in the air, sharp and unsettling. Steve’s hands, feeling unnervingly empty, instinctively sought the familiar curve of A'Lisha’s hips. His palms slid over the warm, smooth planes of her lower back, pulling her closer against the sudden chill radiating from the mirrored wall at his own spine. Her bare skin seared through the thin cotton of his shirt.
Her mouth was still on his, a fierce, demanding pressure, but it shifted. Not retreating. Sharpening. Her teeth grazed his lower lip, not gently. A warning. Or a promise. Her hands weren’t idle. They pushed his open shirt back over his shoulders, the fabric bunching awkwardly around his elbows, trapping his arms. He started to pull them free, but she broke the kiss, leaning back just enough to fix him with a look that pinned him to the glass. Dark eyes, glittering and utterly focused, held his.
"Don't," she breathed, the word a puff of warm air against his damp lips. Her gaze dropped, traveling down his chest, over the exposed skin of his abdomen where his shirt hung open. Her expression was predatory, assessing. Calculating. "My turn."
Her fingers moved with ruthless efficiency. They found his belt buckle. Cold metal clicked once, loudly, in the sudden silence between their ragged breaths. The rasp of the zipper being dragged down felt obscenely loud, amplified by the angled mirrors. Steve sucked in a sharp breath as cool air hit him. He watched her face, mesmerized by the intensity, the absolute lack of hesitation. This wasn't seduction. This was claiming.
She shoved the fabric of his trousers and underwear down over his hips in one rough motion. He kicked them off, boots thudding dully on the thick carpet beside the ruined camera. The vulnerability was instant and absolute. He was exposed, pressed against the cold, unforgiving glass, while she remained partially shielded by the remnants of his shirt tangled around his arms.
A'Lisha stepped back, just a fraction. Her eyes traveled the length of him, openly, hungrily. A faint, triumphant smirk touched her lips. Not playful. Not anymore. It was the look of a hunter surveying captured ground. The infinite reflections showed a thousand versions of her bare shoulders, her focused expression, and Steve, trapped and aroused against the mirrored wall.
"Always knew you looked good on your knees," she murmured, her voice low and husky. The casual cruelty was back, a familiar weapon.
Before he could retort, before he could even process the taunt fully, her hands planted firmly on his chest. Not pushing. Commanding. "Down," she ordered, applying pressure.
He didn't resist. His bare knees hit the plush carpet. The contrast – the soft pile against his skin, the cold glass at his back – was jarring. He looked up at her, framed by the harsh light, a vision of power and barely contained need. The sheer robe was gone. Only skin and intent remained.
She didn't make him wait. She stepped forward, one hand braced against the mirror above his shoulder, the other guiding him. There was no tentative exploration, no slow descent. She arched her spine, a powerful, deliberate movement, and sank down onto him in one smooth, claiming stroke. Deep. Filling. Taking.
A choked groan tore from Steve’s throat, echoed instantly by her own sharp gasp that fractured into a low moan. The sensation was blinding – the impossible heat, the tightness, the sheer shock of her control. His trapped hands clenched into fists behind him.
Her head tipped back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat. Her eyes closed for a split second, lashes dark against her cheeks. A ripple went through her, visible, powerful muscles flexing beneath flawless skin as she adjusted, seated herself fully against him. Then her eyes snapped open, locking onto his again. They were dark and fathomless, reflecting the overhead lights and his own stunned face back at him. A thousand A'Lishas stared down, each one radiating that same fierce intensity.
She moved. Not gently. Not tentatively. Her hips rolled with a slow, deliberate power that forced another ragged sound from him. Her inner muscles clenched, a deliberate, devastating pressure. She held his gaze, her expression unreadable except for the raw, glittering intensity. Watching him. Seeing every flicker of sensation cross his face, every involuntary twitch.
"S-safe enough for you now?" she breathed, the words tight, punctuated by the deliberate flex of her body around his. Her voice held a challenge, yes, but beneath it, something else – a raw vulnerability masked as defiance.
He couldn't speak. Language had shattered along with the camera. All he could do was feel. The cold glass pressing into his shoulder blades. The soft crush of the carpet under his knees. The brutal heat and pressure of her surrounding him. The impossible strength in her thighs as she began to move with more insistence, rising and falling with a rhythm that stole his breath. Her hand on the glass beside his head slid down, fingers splaying against the cool surface, bracing. Her other hand came to rest on his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscles there. Anchoring. Demanding.
Her movements became less controlled, more urgent. The slow, deliberate rolls gave way to quicker, sharper lifts and drops. Each descent was a deliberate, consuming pressure. Each rise a fleeting, agonizing release. Her breath hitched, coming faster now, sharp little gasps escaping her clenched teeth. Sweat beaded on her collarbone, catching the light. A single drop traced a path down between her breasts.
Steve’s vision blurred at the edges. The mirrored walls became a dizzying mosaic of fragmented lust – flashes of bare skin, strained muscle, the arch of her back, the desperate clench of his jaw. The sounds multiplied too: the slick, rhythmic friction of their bodies, her escalating gasps mixing with his own groans, the faint creak of the glass under her shifting weight, the frantic pulse hammering in his own ears. The expensive perfume mingled with the sharp scent of sweat and something deeper, muskier, primal.
He tried to lift his hands, to touch her, but the shirt still tangled around his elbows held him pinned. He strained against the fabric, a low growl of frustration escaping him. His gaze burned into hers – a silent demand.
A'Lisha saw it. A flicker of something – amusement? acknowledgment? – crossed her face. She leaned forward slightly, bringing her face closer to his. Her breath, hot and quick, fanned his cheek. One hand left his shoulder. It slid down his chest, over his ribs, rough and possessive. Then lower, her fingers finding the trapped fabric around his elbow. She didn't gently untangle him. She yanked.
The shirt ripped. A sharp tearing sound joined the symphony. His arms were free. Instinctively, desperately, his hands flew to her waist, fingers digging into the powerful muscles of her hips. He gripped her, trying to guide her rhythm, to regain some semblance of control in the maelstrom she’d unleashed.
She hissed, a sharp intake of breath, but didn't stop her relentless pace. Her eyes locked on his, blazing. "Don't," she warned again, her voice thick. "My show." She slapped his hand away, not hard, but decisively. Then, her fingers wrapped around his wrist and slammed his hand back against the cold glass beside his head, pinning it there.
He was trapped again. By her hand, by her body, by the intensity in her eyes. He could only hold on, fingers splayed against the chill mirror, watching her, feeling the devastating power of her movements as she rode him. Her control was terrifying, exhilarating. Every muscle in her abdomen and thighs worked with focused power, driving herself down onto him with increasing force. Her moans grew louder, less controlled, echoing endlessly in the chrome and glass cage. Her head tipped back again, a raw cry starting deep in her throat.
The crescendo hit her suddenly, violently. Her body locked, rigid, back arched impossibly, every muscle straining. A guttural cry tore from her, sharp and unrestrained, bouncing off the mirrors. Her internal muscles clenched around him like a vise, a series of devastating pulses that ripped a harsh groan from his own chest. She held herself there, trembling, suspended for one endless, breathless moment, her cry echoing into a shuddering gasp.
As the peak subsided, her rigid posture collapsed. She slumped forward, her forehead pressing against the mirror above his shoulder, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps that fogged the glass. Her hand, still pinning his to the mirror, loosened its grip, sliding down to brace herself on his shoulder again. Her body still pulsed rhythmically around him, aftershocks drawing soft, involuntary whimpers from her throat.
Steve watched her, mesmerized and utterly undone. The fierce huntress was gone, replaced by a woman trembling with spent intensity, her cheek now pressed against the cool glass, eyes closed, lashes damp. The vulnerability he’d glimpsed earlier was laid bare. He could feel the tremor running through her, the slick heat where their bodies joined, the rapid thud of her pulse beneath his fingers where his hand had fallen to rest on her thigh.
He shifted slightly beneath her, the movement drawing a faint, breathy sigh from her lips. The tension in the room had shifted, thickened with something new – exhaustion, rawness, and the heavy weight of what had just detonated between them.
A sharp, authoritative rap sounded on the dressing room door.
A'Lisha flinched violently, her eyes snapping open. They met Steve’s, wide and suddenly uncertain, stripped of all their earlier armor. For a heartbeat, frozen against the glass, all the multiplied reflections captured a moment of pure, shared shock.
"Five minutes, A'Lisha!" Janie’s voice, muffled but impatient, cut through the fragile silence. "They’re resetting for the deco shoot. You decent?"
Steve felt A'Lisha’s body tense around him again. Her knuckles, where her hand still braced against his shoulder, whitened. The thousand reflections watched, waiting.
The knuckles pressed against Steve’s shoulder stayed white, frozen. A'Lisha's wide, startled eyes held his in the glass – a thousand shared moments of exposure echoing around them. The muffled voice outside the door seemed impossibly distant. "A'Lisha? You in there?" Janie knocked again, sharper.
Steve felt the tremor run through A'Lisha’s body where she still straddled him, her softening muscles tightening reflexively around him. Her breath hitched, trapped in her throat. The vulnerability etched on her face in the reflection sparked something primal in him, cutting through the shock. Not tenderness. Possession. A low growl rumbled in his chest, surprising them both.
He moved fast. His hands, free now, clamped onto her waist, fingers digging into the sweat-slicked skin. He lifted her bodily, her gasp swallowed by the thick air, and spun her with a force that slammed her front-first against the cold mirror wall. Glass vibrated faintly against her cheekbone.
"Steve—" Her protest was choked off as he pressed his entire weight against her back, pinning her. His knee nudged her legs wider apart. She was still open, wet, trembling from her own climax. He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. He drove himself back into the molten heat of her, deeper this time, angling up. A raw, punched-out sound escaped her lips, fogging the glass beneath her cheek.
He leaned in, his mouth finding the shell of her ear, his voice thick and ragged. "Ignored the door." His hips snapped forward again, burying himself to the hilt. "You wanted obvious." Her reflection showed eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. But her back arched instinctively, pushing back against him, meeting his thrust.
The mirrors multiplied the frantic scene: his powerful thrusts rocking her body against the unforgiving glass; the flex of his shoulders; the desperate clutch of her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surface; the sweat tracing paths down his spine. Her earlier control was shattered glass on the carpet. Now, he set the pace. Hard. Relentless. Claiming.
Her moans started low, vibrating against the mirror. Then they fractured into sharp cries, building with each driving push. "Fuck— Steve—" Her voice was stripped bare, stripped of its earlier cool command. He could feel her tightening around him again, the tremors returning, faster this time. Amplified by the angle. Amplified by the raw need he poured into every movement.
He braced one hand high on the glass beside her head, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, holding her steady for his assault. The only sounds were the slick, rhythmic slap of their bodies, their harsh breathing, the faint groan of pressure against the mirror wall. Her reflection showed flushed skin, parted lips catching ragged gasps, eyes wild and unfocused. Gone was the predatory amusement. Only desperate sensation remained.
He felt the moment her second climax tore through her. Her body locked, rigid against his, a choked scream tearing from her throat. Her inner muscles clenched around him like a fist, rhythmic, insistent, pulling him deeper still. It ripped the control from him. His thrusts became erratic, frantic jerks. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, groaning her name like a curse as his own release slammed into him, hot and blinding, emptying into her shuddering body.
They collapsed against the glass, a tangle of slick skin and heaving chests. Steve’s weight pinned her, his forehead resting on the cool surface beside her head. Their harsh breaths fogged overlapping circles on the mirror. The thousand reflections showed exhaustion, spent fury, and a terrible intimacy. The knocks had stopped. Silence pressed in, heavy and complete.
A'Lisha shifted slightly beneath him, a small, almost pained sound escaping her. Her voice, when it came, was a raspy whisper, stripped of all pretense, aimed at their blurred reflections. "Janie’s going to be pissed."
Steve’s breath rasped against the sweat-damp skin of her shoulder, his weight still anchoring her to the chilled glass. "Worth it," he managed, the words thick and rough. Her reflection showed the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth, quickly suppressed. Silence descended, thick as the perfume and sex hanging in the air, broken only by their slowing heartbeats echoing in the quiet chamber of mirrors.
A'Lisha shifted, testing the pressure against her spine. "Get off me, Steve. You’re crushing my spleen." Her voice was flat, drained of the earlier fire, leaving only blunt exhaustion. He pulled back reluctantly, the sudden separation leaving a raw chill on his skin where hers had been pressed. She turned, leaning back against the mirror, her gaze sliding down his body with detached assessment, then up to meet his eyes. The predatory glint was gone, replaced by a guarded weariness.
The silence stretched. Shattered glass glittered like malevolent stars near her discarded robe. Steve bent, wincing at the pull of muscles, and picked up his crumpled trousers. He fumbled with the stiff zipper, his fingers feeling thick and clumsy. He caught her watching him in the reflection, her expression unreadable. "So," he started, clearing his throat. "The 'obvious' worked then?"
Her laugh was short, humorless. "Observant as ever." She pushed off the wall, stepping over the camera debris towards a small vanity draped with fabric samples. Her stride was deliberate, the powerful muscles in her back flexing beneath flawless skin still flushed. She pulled a delicate silk scarf from the pile, holding it up as if considering it, her back to him. "Still think you can capture me, Steve? After that?"
He pulled his shirt on, the torn sleeve hanging awkwardly. The cool air felt abrasive on his exposed skin. "Seems I already did." He gestured vaguely towards the mirrored chaos surrounding them. "In triplicate." He watched her shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. The air crackled again, a different charge now – bruised pride, unsaid words, the ghost of a shared past suddenly very present.
A sharp, impatient rapping echoed through the room, louder this time. Bang. Bang. Bang. "A'Lisha! Open up! Now!" Janie’s voice was sharp, fraying at the edges. "The Deco set is lit and waiting. Laurent is pacing. This is unprofessional!"
A'Lisha didn't turn. Her gaze remained fixed on the silk scarf in her hands, her knuckles white where she gripped it. Steve froze, one hand hovering near his last button. The reflections showed a hundred versions of their arrested motion, the intrusion shattering the fragile bubble. He saw the subtle hardening of A'Lisha’s jawline in the mirror.
She took a slow, deep breath, her chest rising and falling visibly. Then, with deliberate slowness, she let the scarf drift from her fingers onto the vanity. She turned, finally, to face the door. Her expression was cool, composed, the weariness masked behind a familiar mask of detached professionalism. Her eyes met Steve’s, holding them for a beat. There was no apology, no defiance. Just a silent command.
"You coming?" Janie yelled, the doorknob rattling violently.
A'Lisha’s lips curved into something faint, almost imperceptible. Not a smile. A challenge. She took a single, unhurried step towards the door, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet. Her eyes never left Steve’s. "Hold that thought," she murmured, the words barely audible above Janie’s insistent pounding. She reached for the door handle, her reflection a thousand poised, enigmatic figures turning the lock.
The lock clicked. A'Lisha pulled the heavy door open just as Janie’s fist was raised for another barrage. The studio manager stood frozen mid-knock, her sharp, perpetually impatient features slackening with shock. Her gaze swept past A'Lisha’s bare shoulders and flushed skin, taking in the chaotic scene beyond: Steve hastily buttoning his ruined shirt, one sleeve hanging by threads, the shattered camera like a murdered insect on the plush carpet, the mirrored walls reflecting fragments of dishevelment and sweat.
"Jesus wept, A'Lisha!" Janie exploded, shoving past her into the room, the scent of expensive coffee on her breath clashing violently with the musk hanging thick in the air. She waved a manicured hand at the broken equipment. "What the hell happened in here? Did you wrestle the damn Hasselblad? Laurent is having kittens! Deco set is hot, hair and makeup are twiddling their thumbs. This is a set, not a goddamn... whatever this is!" She jabbed a finger towards Steve. "And you! Professionalism? Ever heard of it?"
Steve met her glare, adjusting the torn shirt collar. The adrenaline was draining, leaving a hollow buzz and the sharp tang of awkwardness. "Equipment malfunction, Janie," he said, keeping his voice level. "Sudden, catastrophic." He nudged the broken camera body with his boot. "Didn't see it coming."
A'Lisha didn't look at Steve. She moved past Janie towards the vanity where her discarded robe lay pooled. Her movements were liquid, controlled, a complete contrast to the frantic energy radiating from the manager. She picked up the robe, letting the silk slither through her fingers before shrugging it on. The gesture was deliberate, reclaiming territory. "Calm down, Janie," she murmured, tying the sash with precise, unhurried knots. "The camera slipped. Accidents happen. Especially," she added, her voice dropping to a cool murmur as she finally glanced towards the mirrored wall, her reflection meeting Steve's, "when things get... intense."
Janie snorted, unconvinced, her eyes darting between them, taking in the disarray, the flush on A'Lisha’s neck, the charged silence. "Intense? Looks like a tornado hit a boudoir. Laurent needs you now, A'Lisha. Not in five, not after you've... recovered. Now." She zeroed in on Steve. "And you. Can you even shoot? Or did you break your magic eye along with the gear?"
"I have backups," Steve said, the words clipped. He bent to gather the larger pieces of glass and cracked plastic, avoiding looking at the spot on the floor where minutes ago, control had been violently stripped from him, then violently reclaimed. "I'll be ready."
"See that you are," Janie snapped. She turned back to A'Lisha, who was now calmly applying a touch of balm to her lips, studying her reflection with detached appraisal. "Move. Hair. Makeup. Now. Glamour Deco, remember? Think polished chrome and restraint, not..." She gestured vaguely at the room again, her nose wrinkling. "...whatever primal scream therapy this is."
A'Lisha snapped the balm shut with a decisive click. The sound echoed faintly in the mirrored room. She turned, the silk robe whispering against her skin, her expression smooth, unreadable. "Restraint, Janie? How terribly dull." She walked towards the door, the predatory confidence settling back around her like the robe. As she passed Steve, her hand brushed lightly, almost accidentally, against the torn fabric of his sleeve. Her voice, low and meant only for him, carried the faintest trace of the aftermath rasp. "Hold that thought, Steve. We're not finished dissecting that... malfunction."
She swept past Janie out the door, leaving the manager sputtering. Steve stood amidst the wreckage of the camera and the lingering scent of their collision, the cool air from the open doorway chilling the sweat on his neck. Janie glared at him, hands on her hips. "Ten minutes, Steve. The Deco set. Try not to break anything else. Or anyone." She spun on her heel and stalked out after A'Lisha, slamming the dressing room door behind her with a force that made the remaining glass shards tremble on the carpet.
The sudden silence was deafening. Steve stared at his reflection in the fractured mirrors. A thousand distorted versions stared back: shirt torn, hair damp, eyes holding a mix of exhaustion, residual arousal, and a sharp, unsettling awareness. A'Lisha’s final words hung in the charged air, a promise wrapped in a threat. We're not finished. He ran a hand over his face, the scrape of stubble loud in the quiet. The echo of her cry against the glass, the feel of her muscles clenching around him, the sheer, terrifying power in her movement when she took control – it wasn't just sex. It was a gauntlet thrown down. Again.
He knelt, carefully picking up the largest shard of his broken lens. The cool, jagged edge bit into his thumb. He looked at the tiny bead of crimson welling up. Real. Grounding. He grabbed his backup camera bag from the corner, the familiar weight a small anchor. Ten minutes. Polished chrome. Restraint. The words felt like a sick joke. How the hell was he supposed to capture restraint when every mirror in this damn room still vibrated with the memory of her abandon, and the echo of her command – Hold that thought – pulsed in his veins like a second heartbeat? He slung the bag over his shoulder. The dressing room felt suddenly suffocating, a chrome-plated cage holding the too-fresh ghosts of what had just exploded. He needed air. He needed to get to the Deco set. He needed to see her under those lights, composed, controlled… and remember exactly what lay beneath that polished surface. He yanked the door open, stepping into the bright, sterile glare of the studio corridor, the slam of the door behind him sounding like a full stop to one chaos and the uncertain start of another.