Chapter 5: The Waxed Confidence
The buzz of the door was a live wire against her nerves. She stood frozen in the center of her dorm room, the towel’s rough fabric digging into her arms where she held it clenched. He was here. The proof of her submission was stinging, naked beneath the terry cloth.
She took a shaky breath and pressed the entry button. A minute later, his familiar knock—three soft taps—sounded on her door.
She opened it. He stood there, holding a paper bag spotted with grease, his skate bag slung over his shoulder. He looked tired, his hair damp from a post-practice shower, but his eyes lit up when he saw her.
“Hey, you.” His gaze dropped to the towel, a playful smile touching his lips. “Interrupting something?”
“Just… getting ready,” she managed, stepping back to let him in.
The room felt smaller with him in it. He dumped the food and his bag, the scent of salty soy sauce and fried tempura mixing with the lavender from his skin. He turned to her, his expression softening as he really looked at her.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice low. He reached out, his thumb brushing her cheek. “You seemed off in your texts.”
“I’m okay. It was just… more intense than I thought.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. He wrapped his arms around her, towel and all, and buried his face in her damp hair. “Thank you. For considering it. For doing it.”
The words were meant to be kind, but they anchored the act to him. She had done it for him. The power she’d briefly imagined in the studio evaporated. She just felt sore.
They ate sushi cross-legged on her bed, the cardboard containers between them. He told her a rambling story about his coach yelling at him for a botched quad toe loop, making silly voices that finally coaxed a genuine laugh from her. For a while, it was normal. Easy.
But his eyes kept drifting to her, a new heat in them. A focused curiosity. The air thickened with unspoken intent.
When the last piece of salmon roe was gone, he gathered the containers, threw them away, and came back to the bed. He didn’t turn on the main light, just clicked on her small, salt-rock lamp that cast the room in a warm, pinkish glow.
“Come here,” he whispered, pulling her into his lap so she straddled him. The towel gaped, and she clutched it closed at her chest. He kissed her slowly, deeply, his hands smoothing up and down her bare back. She could feel the hard planes of his body through his thin t-shirt, the controlled strength in his thighs beneath her.
His lips traveled to her jaw, her neck. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he murmured against her skin. “About this.”
One hand slid from her back, over her hip, and came to rest high on her thigh, just where the towel ended. His fingers brushed the skin there. He stilled. His breath hitched, just slightly.
He broke the kiss, his blue-gray eyes searching hers. There was awe in them, and a hungry appreciation that made her blush.
“Can I see?” he asked, his voice rough.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
His hands went to the knotted fold of towel at her chest. He didn’t fumble. His movements, always so precise, were slow and deliberate. He loosened the knot and the towel fell open. He didn’t push it away; he let it slide off her shoulders by its own weight, pooling around her hips where she sat on him.
His gaze was a physical touch. It traveled from her face, down her throat, over the curves she usually hid, and lower. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just looked, his expression one of rapt fascination.
“Louise,” he finally breathed out. He said her name like a revelation.
He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to her sternum, a kiss as soft as a falling petal. Then another lower, on the soft swell of her breast. His hands came up to cradle her ribs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just beneath. He was worshipping her.
The raw tenderness of it undid her. The lingering sting of the wax became just another nerve ending, alive and singing under his attention. The humiliation of the afternoon began to blur, transforming into something else. This was the reward. This awe in his eyes.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered, his lips trailing fire down her stomach. “So unbelievably perfect.”
He helped her shift off his lap, laying her back against her pillows. He knelt on the floor beside her bed, his eyes level with her hips. The cool air of the room, the pink glow of the lamp, the complete exposure—it should have been terrifying. But his expression held no judgment, only desire and a profound gentleness.
He hooked his fingers in the towel still bunched at her hips and drew it off, tossing it aside. He looked at her, all of her, this new landscape she had created for him.
“Is it… is it what you wanted?” she whispered, the question slipping out before she could stop it. She needed to know the flicker was gone.
He smiled, a real, slow smile that reached his eyes. “Louise,” he said, his voice thick. “It’s you. It’s all you. And you’re everything I want.”
He bent his head. He didn’t start where she expected. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, then her thigh, nuzzling the sensitive skin. His stubble was a rough contrast to his soft lips. He was mapping her with his mouth, taking his time, as if they had all night. The tension coiled tighter and tighter inside her.
When his tongue finally touched her, a low, broken sound escaped her throat. Her hands flew to his hair, not to guide him, but to anchor herself. The pleasure was shocking in its immediacy—a bright, sharp line drawn from her core to every extremity. It wasn’t clumsy or hesitant. He was attentive, responsive, reading every gasp and tremble.
“Ilia…” she moaned, his name a prayer.
He made a sound of encouragement against her, the vibration tipping her closer to the edge. The world narrowed to the feeling of his mouth on her, the grip of her hands in his hair, the scent of him and her and the lavender candle still burning on her desk. All her fears, her overthinking, the echoing rip of the waxing strip—they dissolved into pure, overwhelming sensation.
She came apart quietly, a wave of warmth and release that left her trembling, her thighs tightening around his head. He gentled her through it, his kisses softening until they were just breaths against her oversensitive skin.
He rested his forehead against her thigh for a moment, his own breathing uneven. Then he looked up at her, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and satisfied. He crawled up the bed and gathered her into his arms, skin to skin now. She could feel the hard proof of his own desire pressed against her hip, but he made no move to escalate it. He just held her, stroking her hair.
“See?” he murmured into her temple. “My beautiful girl. No more nerves.”
She curled into him, boneless and spent. The confidence he spoke of was a phantom, fleeting. In its place was a deep, trembling gratitude that she had pleased him, and a fainter, more confusing echo—a hollow where a piece of her own unruly truth had been. She had given him a version of herself shaped by his preference, and he had adored it. The trade felt equal, and yet it didn’t.
But as his heartbeat slowed under her ear, she pushed the thought away. He was here. He was hers. For now, that was enough. It had to be.