Chapter 15: I couldn’t help myself hihi
The slam of the front door echoed through the small apartment, a final punctuation mark on Katya’s whirlwind departure. The sudden quiet felt heavy, thick with the ghosts of her perfume, her nervous energy, and the frantic intimacy Sharon had just extracted from Alexey against their bedroom door. Alexey remained frozen by the armchair, his knuckles white where they gripped the worn navy fabric. The cool silk of Katya’s suit jacket against his palms warred with the scalding memory of Sharon’s mouth, her possessiveness. He could still taste himself, faintly metallic and salt-edged, on his own lips.
Sharon hadn’t moved from the window. She watched him, the morning light catching the slight curve of her mouth, her dark eyes sharp and unreadable. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of the city and the frantic ticking of the cheap plastic clock above the muted television. The cozy living room – the plush couch, the warm glow of the untouched fireplace they’d planned to light that weekend, the photos of their hikes on the mantel – felt suddenly alien, a stage set for the raw drama still playing out inside him.
He finally turned, his movements stiff, meeting her gaze. Her expression was calm, almost contemplative, but the intensity beneath it was a physical pressure in the room. She took a single, deliberate step towards him.
"Okay?" she asked, her voice soft but cutting through the silence like a scalpel.
He cleared his throat, the sound rough. "Da." Yes. It felt inadequate, a placeholder for the storm of shame, residual arousal, and bewildered submission swirling inside him.
She closed the distance between them, stopping just inches away. Her perfume, jasmine and clean skin, mingled with the lingering scent of his release – a combination that sent a fresh, unwelcome jolt through his system. Her eyes flickered down his body, lingering where he knew the denim still felt tight, then slowly traced back up to his face. A small, knowing smile touched her lips. She reached up, her fingers brushing the damp hair at his temple where sweat had gathered during those frantic minutes.
"I know," she murmured, her voice dropping to a husky whisper that vibrated in his bones. Her gaze held his, unblinking. "I know that by our… new rule…" She paused, letting the words hang, the weight of the unspoken agreement they’d forged last night in this very room – the agreement born from his raw confession about his cuckold fantasy, about wanting her to flirt with others if she tells him everything after – settling heavily between them. "...you should’ve been eating your own cum after every orgasm."
Alexey’s breath hitched. He looked away, focusing on a stray thread unraveling from the armchair’s piping. The clinical term, spoken in her soft, certain voice, felt more exposing than anything physical. It stripped bare the mechanics of their new, fragile dynamic.
"But," she continued, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw, forcing his gaze back to hers. Her smile widened, playful yet utterly devoid of apology. A spark of that familiar, teasing light ignited in her eyes. "I couldn't help myself." She leaned in, her lips brushing his earlobe, her breath warm. "Hihi." The soft laugh was pure, mischievous possession. "Watching you, pinned against the door… the way you came apart…" Her hand slid down, resting possessively low on his stomach. "It was too tempting. I wanted it. Mine." Her fingers pressed slightly, emphasizing the claim.
He swallowed hard. The casual admission, the light-hearted 'hihi' juxtaposed with the brutal intimacy of her actions and the weight of the rule she’d broken for her own pleasure, tangled inside him. Shame warred with a deep, unsettling thrill. She’d taken what she wanted, asserting her dominance even beyond their agreed-upon structure. And he’d given it. Willingly? Helplessly? Both.
"Yeah," he rasped, finding his voice again. He met her eyes, the conflict plain in his own. "But I can still taste myself." He paused, the words thick. "On your lips."
Her smile deepened, turning predatory. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she tilted her head, her gaze unwavering. "Good." The single word was a velvet-wrapped stone. She leaned forward slowly, deliberately, and kissed him. It wasn't the bruising assault from the bedroom door. It was slow, deep, unhurried. Her tongue explored his mouth, claiming the shared taste she’d left there. He tasted salt, the faint bitterness of coffee, and himself. It was intimate, dizzying, a stark reminder of her possession.
She pulled back, leaving him breathless, his body humming again despite the recent release. Her eyes studied his face, reading the turmoil beneath the stoic mask. "It lingers," she murmured, brushing her thumb across his lower lip. "A reminder. For both of us." She glanced at the clock on the mantel, its ticking suddenly loud. "Right. Work." The shift was abrupt, practical. The therapist resurfacing, slotting the wild creature away beneath the silk blouse. "You have the Henderson plant schematics review at ten, right? The one with the faulty pressure valve?"
Alexey blinked, momentarily disoriented by the sudden plunge back into mundane reality. The pressure valve. Gantt charts. Stress analysis. It felt surreal. "Da," he managed, the industrial world a distant shore he needed to swim towards. "Ten."
"And I have Mrs. Delaney at nine-thirty. Her agoraphobia is improving, but today’s session is crucial." Sharon smoothed her blouse, a gesture both practical and symbolic, shedding the skin of the woman who had knelt before him minutes ago. "We need to move." She turned towards the hallway leading to their bedroom.
He followed numbly, the taste of himself still sharp on his tongue, the ghost of her claiming kiss on his lips. In their room, the air still felt charged. The unmade bed, the lingering scent of sex… it was impossible to ignore. Sharon moved with efficient grace, grabbing her coat and bag. Alexey mechanically retrieved his own work satchel and keys from the dresser. He avoided looking at the spot near the door.
Sharon paused at the bedroom doorway, watching him shrug into his jacket. Her expression softened, losing the predatory edge, replaced by a look that held complexity – affection, understanding, and that unwavering, unsettling perception. "Alexey?"
He looked up, meeting her gaze.
"Tonight," she said, the word a simple statement, yet loaded with the weight of their agreement, the broken rule, the lingering taste, and the promise of more. "We talk. About it all. Properly." She stepped closer, kissed him again, briefly, softly this time. The shared taste was still there, a secret bond. "Okay?"
He nodded, unable to speak past the knot of conflicting emotions. "Okay."
They walked back through the living room, the cozy space feeling less like a sanctuary and more like a silent witness. Sharon paused by the thermostat on the wall near the fireplace. "Did you turn this down last night?" she asked, frowning slightly. "It feels chilly."
Alexey glanced at the digital display. "No. I set it to sixty-eight before bed."
"It says sixty-four." She nudged the dial up. "Probably Katya messing with it when she couldn't sleep. That girl..." She sighed, a fond exasperation in her voice that felt jarringly normal after everything.
They grabbed their keys and stepped out into the bright, noisy hallway. The mundane sounds of the building – a door slamming upstairs, a distant vacuum cleaner – were a stark contrast to the intense, closed world they’d just inhabited. Alexey locked the apartment door, the click of the deadbolt sounding final. As they walked towards the elevator, the scent of Katya’s vanilla-citrus perfume still faintly clung to his shirt where she’d hugged him. Underneath it, layered like a palimpsest, was the lingering taste of salt and sex on his lips, and Sharon’s quiet, unbreakable promise hanging in the air between them: Tonight. The city awaited, vast and impersonal, but the real landscape he navigated now was the treacherous, exhilarating territory Sharon was mapping within him, one broken rule, one shared taste, one whispered promise at a time. The elevator doors dinged open on the mundane world. He stepped inside beside her, the echo of his own submission a silent companion.
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft sigh, sealing them in chrome and silence. Alexey stared at the illuminated floor numbers descending, the faint taste of salt and Sharon still sharp on his tongue. Beside him, she adjusted the strap of her leather bag, the scent of jasmine cutting through the stale elevator air. Her calm felt unnerving after the storm inside their apartment.
The lobby bustled with morning commuters. Alexey automatically scanned for Katya’s blonde head, a pointless reflex. She’d be halfway downtown by now. Sharon touched his arm lightly. "See you tonight?" Her dark eyes held his, a reminder of the promised reckoning.
"Yeah," he managed, his voice rough. "Tonight."
She nodded, a small, knowing curve to her lips. Then she turned, her stride confident as she headed towards the building’s main entrance. He watched her go, the sway of her hips beneath the tailored trousers, the vibrant dark hair catching the light. The echo of her command against the bedroom door vibrated in his bones. Mine.
His own commute felt detached, a blur of subway noise and crowded platforms. The Henderson plant schematics swam before his eyes, pressure valve calculations failing to displace the phantom sensation of Sharon’s demanding mouth. He kept touching his lower lip unconsciously. The taste lingered, a persistent, intimate brand.
The sterile, fluorescent-lit engineering office offered no sanctuary. He sat at his desk, the hum of computers a dull counterpoint to the chaos in his head. He pulled up the pressure valve diagrams, forcing focus onto stress points and load tolerances. Metal fatigue. Yield strength. Concepts he understood. Unlike the yielding surrender he’d shown Sharon. Unlike the confusing heat Katya’s oblivious hug had sparked.
His phone buzzed. A text from Sharon. A simple picture: Katya’s sleek black portfolio case resting prominently on a stylish glass desk, sunlight streaming through a window behind it. The caption: Intern has landed. Looks official. Breathing now. A small smile touched his lips despite himself. Relief, mixed with something else. Pride? Protectiveness? He typed back: Good. Udachi.
Minutes later, another buzz. This time, a selfie. Sharon was in her therapy clinic’s bright, modern lobby, standing near a tall, leafy plant. Beside her, leaning casually against the reception desk, was Mark. Mark from the couples retreat weekend last year. Easy smile, confident posture, eyes always a little too appreciative when they landed on Sharon. Alexey’s jaw tightened instinctively.
Sharon’s expression in the photo was warm, professional. But her body language… angled slightly towards Mark, her head tilted just so. Her hand rested lightly on her own forearm, drawing attention to the elegant line of her wrist. The caption was innocuous: Ran into Mark downstairs. Remember him? He’s consulting here now.
Alexey stared at the image. Mark’s grin was wide, his gaze fixed intently on Sharon. Sharon looked… engaged. Playful, even. Her therapist’s warmth dialed up a notch. Flirting. The word slammed into Alexey’s chest, hot and sudden. This wasn't accidental proximity. This was Sharon performing. For him? For Mark? Both?
His thumb hovered over the reply field. He remembered her husky whisper in the kitchen, her predatory smile against the bedroom door. "Seeing you like this... flushed, trembling... knowing exactly what churns inside you... it makes me want to remind you who holds the leash." Was this the reminder? A casual, devastating snapshot? Proof she could turn it on? Proof she would?
He typed, fingers stiff: Yeah. Remember. He hesitated, then added, the words tasting like ash: Looks cozy.
Her reply was almost instantaneous. A single winking emoji. 😉 Followed by: Just catching up. He asked about you. Said you looked intense at the retreat. In a good way. Another pause. Then: Told him you still are.
Alexey’s breath hitched. The sterile office air felt suddenly thin. He pictured Sharon saying it, her dark eyes meeting Mark’s, that subtle curve on her lips. Intense. What did Mark imagine? The stoic engineer? Or the man pinned against a door, surrendering utterly to his wife’s mouth? The taste of himself flooded back, thick and undeniable. His cock stirred traitorously against the confines of his work trousers. Shame warred with a sharp, unwelcome spike of arousal. He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white.
On screen, the pressure valve schematic blurred. The cold calculation of metal stress points dissolved. All he saw was Sharon’s knowing wink emoji, Mark’s appreciative gaze, and Katya’s bright, oblivious smile as she hugged him goodbye. The conflicting images collided, amplified by Sharon’s deliberate provocation. Tonight we talk. The promise now felt like a precipice. He closed his eyes, the sterile hum of the office fading beneath the roar of his own churning thoughts and the phantom scent of jasmine and vanilla-citrus. The pressure building inside him had nothing to do with faulty valves.
The Henderson plant schematics swam before Alexey’s eyes, the precise engineering calculations dissolving into meaningless symbols. The sterile office air tasted stale. Mark’s grin in that photo, Sharon’s knowing wink emoji – they burned behind his eyelids. His phone screen glared accusingly. Told him you still are. Intense. Did Mark picture the stoic engineer? Or the man gasping against a door, surrendering?
He shoved his chair back, the scrape loud in the hushed office. Needed air. The men’s room offered cold tile, harsh fluorescent light, and his own strained reflection in the mirror. He splashed water on his face, the shock barely denting the heat simmering under his skin. The phantom taste of salt lingered. He scrubbed his lips with the back of his hand. Useless. He could still feel Sharon’s demanding mouth, the claiming pressure, the brutal efficiency.
Focus. Pressure valves. Yield points. He forced himself back to his desk, gripping the mouse until his knuckles ached. The day dragged, each minute an eternity measured in awkward silences with colleagues and the relentless buzz of his own thoughts. Sharon sent one more text mid-afternoon, utterly mundane: Picking up Thai? Green curry? Normalcy as a weapon. He typed Yes. Hit send. The domesticity felt like a thin veneer over a chasm.
The subway ride home was a press of bodies and muffled noise. He leaned his head against the cool window, the city lights blurring past. Tonight. The word echoed like a threat and a promise. What would ‘talking properly’ even look like? Dissecting his shame? Planning her next performance? A fresh wave of heat, unwelcome and insistent, coiled low in his gut at the thought. He shifted, adjusting himself subtly against the rough fabric of his trousers. The doors hissed open at his stop. He pushed through the crowd, the familiar weight of his keys cold in his palm.
He climbed the stairs to their apartment, the worn carpet muffling his steps. He paused outside their door, key hovering. Silence. Then, as he slid the key into the lock, it came: Sharon’s bright, bubbling laugh, rich and warm, followed immediately by Katya’s higher, melodic giggle. A sound of pure, uncomplicated joy spilling from under the door. He turned the key. Pushed it open.
Warmth, the savory aroma of Thai food, and the vibrant energy of two women hit him. Katya and Sharon were curled up on the plush sofa, bathed in the soft glow of the table lamp. Empty takeout containers littered the coffee table. Katya’s blonde hair was loose, her face animated, still wearing her sharp black pantsuit but with the jacket off, the white blouse unbuttoned one notch lower than this morning. Sharon was in soft leggings and an oversized sweater, looking relaxed, her dark eyes sparkling.
"Alex!" Katya chirped, spotting him first. She sprang up from the couch like a released spring, her bare feet padding swiftly across the rug. Before he could fully step inside, she flung her arms around his neck in a tight, exuberant hug. "You're home! Oh my god, Lesha, it was amazing!" Her words tumbled out in a rush, warm against his neck, the vanilla-citrus perfume he’d tried to scrub off his shirt now fresh and potent. "Seriously, the best first day ever! Everyone was so nice, the office is incredible, views for days, and my boss loved my portfolio! He said my mockups showed 'unexpected flair'!"
He stiffened instinctively for a fraction of a second, then forced himself to relax, patting her back awkwardly. Her body felt small, vital, pressed against him. "That’s... good, Katya," he managed, his voice rough from disuse. "Udachi." He gently disentangled himself, stepping fully into the room, closing the door behind him.
Sharon uncurled herself from the sofa with fluid grace, her smile wide and genuine as she approached. "Welcome home, engineer," she murmured, her voice thick with warmth. She slid her arms around his waist, pulling him into a firm embrace. Her kiss was soft but lingering on his lips. He tasted green curry, coconut milk... and underneath, faint but undeniable, the lingering metallic ghost of salt from this morning. Her dark eyes, sparkling with shared joy over Katya’s day, locked onto his for a charged second. Mine, they seemed to whisper again, despite the domestic tableau. She pulled back slightly, her hand resting possessively on his chest. "We saved you curry. Katya has stories."
Sharon’s hand lingered on his chest, warm and possessive, before she finally released him. "Sit," she urged, nodding toward the low table where the rich scent of green curry and coconut milk hung heavy in the air. "Eat before it gets cold." Katya bounced back to the couch, tucking her legs beneath her, eyes bright with the afterglow of her triumph.
Alexey dropped his keys and bag by the door, the mundane action a temporary anchor. He sank into the armchair opposite the sofa, the worn leather sighing under his weight. Sharon placed a steaming container of curry and rice in front of him on the coffee table, sliding chopsticks his way. He picked them up, the familiar wood cool against his fingers, and mechanically scooped a bite. The spicy-sweet flavors barely registered over the hum in his head. Katya leaned forward, her unbuttoned blouse revealing a delicate silver chain nestled against her collarbone.
"So," Katya began, unable to contain her excitement, "my boss, David? He’s this tall, kinda intense English guy with glasses." She gestured vaguely upwards with her hands. "But super nice! He took me around, introduced me to everyone." She took a quick sip of water. "They have this huge project for this new eco-luxury hotel chain. Branding, website, everything!" Her eyes sparkled. "And David just... he just handed me the mood board draft and said, 'Katya, your mockups showed genuine flair. Run with it. Show me your vision by Friday.' Can you believe it? First day!" She beamed, looking between Alexey and Sharon, seeking validation.
Alexey chewed slowly, the rice sticking slightly in his dry throat. "Flair," he repeated, his voice a low rumble. He focused on the glistening green curry sauce, avoiding the swell of her breasts as she leaned towards the table to grab a spring roll. He could still feel the phantom pressure of her enthusiastic hug at the door, the fresh wave of her vanilla-citrus perfume overlying the faint, persistent tang of salt on his own lips. His jaw tightened.
Sharon watched him, her expression soft, almost serene. She sat curled at Katya’s end of the sofa, one leg tucked beneath her. Her gaze wasn’t just on Katya; it kept drifting back to Alexey, lingering on the tight line of his shoulders, the way his knuckles whitened slightly on the chopsticks. It was a look of deep affection, yes, but layered with an intense, private knowledge. She saw the struggle beneath his stoicism, the echo of their morning encounter vibrating just beneath his skin. A small, knowing smile played on her lips as she reached out, not to touch him, but to gently nudge the soy sauce closer to his plate. Her movement was casual, domestic, but her eyes held his for a fraction too long.
"Then," Katya continued, oblivious, crunching into the spring roll, "at lunch, Sophie – she's the senior designer, super cool, has this amazing sleeve tattoo – she took me to this tiny Vietnamese place down an alley. Best pho ever! We talked about Russian graphic design collectives versus Western agencies." She waved her spring roll for emphasis. "She said my perspective is 'refreshingly unjaded'. Refreshingly unjaded!" Katya laughed, a bright, clear sound that filled the cozy room. She turned fully towards Alexey, her blue eyes wide and earnest. "It feels… possible, Lesha. Like I could actually belong here." She leaned back, sighing happily, her unbuttoned blouse revealing a delicate silver chain nestled against her collarbone.
Alexey swallowed another tasteless bite. He felt Sharon’s gaze like a physical weight, warm and inescapable. He could picture Sharon kneeling, taking him deep, the ruthless efficiency, the way she’d watched him break against the door. He could taste it. He could see Mark’s appreciative grin in the lobby photo. He could feel the brief, firm pressure of Katya’s body against his, her innocent joy. The conflicting sensations – shame, a dark coil of unwanted heat, a protective instinct warped by his own treacherous thoughts – tightened his chest. He kept chewing, methodically, staring at his food. Sharon’s loving gaze never wavered, her silent understanding a profound, unsettling intimacy. She knew exactly what churned inside him. And she held the leash.