Chapter 15: Public Decorum
The velvet rope of the VIP lounge felt less like an honor and more like a cell block. Yang nursed a whiskey, the ice long melted, his smile a practiced reflex aimed at passing producers and nodding acquaintances. The air was a soup of ambition and expensive cologne. Across the room, Churan was a vision in emerald green silk, the dress a slash of color that hugged every curve before falling away in a daring side slit. She laughed at something a veteran director said, her head tilted, the picture of elegant composure.
He’d watched her all night. Watched the delicate column of her throat as she sipped champagne. Watched the subtle shift of her hips beneath the silk. Every glance they’d traded across the crowded ballroom during the ceremony had been a live wire. The memory of her trembling in his arms just nights before was a constant hum beneath his skin, transforming the glittering event into a prolonged, exquisite torture.
He caught her eye again. This time, he didn’t smile. He simply held her gaze, let his own drop to the slit in her dress, then back to her face. He saw the faint flush creep up her chest. She looked away first, but her fingers tightened around her flute.
Enough.
He set his glass down with a quiet click and moved through the crowd. He exchanged a few necessary pleasantries, a hand on a shoulder, a flash of his famous smile, but his trajectory was unwavering. He reached her just as the director was called away.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear as he pretended to admire a hideous abstract painting on the wall beside them.
She didn’t look at him. “You’re drinking too much.”
“I’m painfully sober.” He took her elbow, his grip firm. “Come with me.”
“Where? There are photographers everywhere.”
“The booth. The one in the back corner. Now.” His tone brooked no argument, the playful Yang entirely absent, replaced by something darker, more imperative.
She went, her steps graceful but hurried. The secluded booth was shrouded in deeper shadow, a high-backed semicircle of leather that offered the illusion of privacy. The moment they were behind the partition, his hands were on her. He spun her to face the room, her back to his front, and pulled her down onto his lap as he sat. To anyone glancing over, it might look like a close conversation between co-stars.
His right arm snaked around her waist, holding her firmly against him. His left hand went straight to her thigh, his fingers sliding beneath the cool silk of her dress, up the incredibly smooth skin of her outer leg.
“Yang,” she hissed, her body going rigid. She kept a placid smile fixed on her face, directed at the room.
“Relax. Smile. You’re talking to me about the award you lost.” His voice was a low, rough vibration against her ear. His fingers journeyed higher, over the crest of her hip, and then dipped inward. He found the edge of her lace underwear. He traced it, a slow, maddening circuit. “You’re not wearing the ones I like.”
“They didn’t… fit the dress,” she breathed, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She shifted, trying to close her legs, but his own kept them spread.
“No matter.” His finger slipped under the lace. He found her folds, already slick and hot. A low groan escaped him. “Fuck. You’re soaked. Just from me looking at you all night?”
She whimpered, her head falling back against his shoulder for a second before she jerked it upright, resuming her mask. His middle finger slid through her wetness, gathering it, then circled her clit with a firm, deliberate pressure.
Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. “Stop. Someone will see.”
“No one can see.” He pinched her nipple through the silk of her dress, twisting gently. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath she covered by coughing lightly into her hand. “You love this. You love knowing you’re getting fingered in a room full of people who think you’re a pristine little goddess.”
He plunged his finger inside her, deep to the knuckle. She was tight, clenching around him instantly. He worked it in and out, a slow, penetrating rhythm, his palm grinding against her clit with every stroke. Her internal muscles fluttered, a frantic pulse around his finger. Her polite smile was now a grimace of intense concentration, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the table.
“You’re going to come,” he stated, feeling her body coiling. “Just from my finger. Right here. And you’re going to sit there and pretend you’re listening to me talk about box office numbers.”
“I can’t,” she panted. Her body was betraying her, arching back into him, seeking more friction. “Oh, god…”
“You can. And you will.” He added a second finger, stretching her. The wet, obscene sound was muffled by the fabric of her dress and the ambient noise, but to him it was deafening. He scissored them, crooking them to find that spot inside her that made her see stars. When he pressed it, her entire body seized.
She bit down on her own lip hard enough to leave marks, a strangled sound trapped in her throat. Her climax ripped through her, a violent, silent quaking. He felt her inner walls convulse around his fingers, the flood of new wetness. He held her through it, his arm a steel band across her trembling stomach, his fingers still working inside her, milking every last spasm.
As she came down, shuddering, he slowly withdrew his fingers. He brought them to his lips, tasting her tang on his skin, his eyes locked on her profile. She watched him do it, her eyes wide and dark with shock and sated lust.
“My turn,” he said, his voice thick.
With quick, efficient movements, he unzipped his tuxedo pants, freeing his erection. It was rigid, the head flushed and wet. He guided her hips up slightly. “Now. Sit on it.”
“Are you insane?” she whispered, but her body was already moving, compliant in its post-orgasm haze.
“Back to the room. Slowly. Just sit down on me.” He helped her, positioning the head of his cock at her entrance. She was impossibly slick, swollen from her climax. He pushed upwards as she sank down.
The feeling was catastrophic. The hot, velvet grip of her, still fluttering from her orgasm, enveloping him inch by excruciating inch. She muffled a cry against his shoulder, her body accepting him with a delicious, familiar ache. He filled her completely, until she was fully seated in his lap, his length buried to the hilt inside her.
For a moment, neither moved. They were joined in the most intimate way, hidden in plain sight. He could feel her heart hammering against his arm. He nuzzled her hair, inhaling her scent mixed with the faint perfume of her sweat.
“Now,” he instructed, his lips against her ear. “You’re adjusting your position. That’s all. Rock. Back. And. Forth.”
She began to move, a subtle, agonizingly slow rise and fall of her hips. The friction was exquisite. Each tiny bounce took him almost all the way out before she sheathed him again, deep and full. The silk of her dress whispered with the motion. Her internal muscles clenched rhythmically around him, pulling him deeper each time.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his own composure cracking. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her pace, forcing it to remain slow, torturous. “You feel… like heaven. A hot, tight heaven.”
She was breathing in ragged little pants, her smile completely gone now, her face a masterpiece of strained pleasure. She kept her eyes open, fixed on the crowd, her public persona a glassy shell over the raw, fucking animal beneath. A well-known critic walked past the booth, nodding at them. Churan gave a small, polite nod in return, even as Yang thrust up into her, hard, on the next downstroke.
The duality was destroying him. The contrast of her impeccable exterior and the secret, slick union of their bodies. He was going to lose his mind. The coil of pleasure in his gut pulled taut, threatening to snap.
“I’m close,” he gritted out. “Come with me. Again.”
“I can’t,” she whimpered, but her body said otherwise. The pace of her hips became less controlled, more desperate. She was chasing it, the friction of him dragging against her oversensitive clit with every deep stroke.
“You can. Let go. I’ve got you.” One hand slipped around to her front, his fingers finding her clit again, rubbing tight, fast circles. “Come on my cock. Now.”
It was the permission, the filthy command, that did it. Her second climax crashed over her without the quiet restraint of the first. Her head fell back, her mouth open in a silent scream, her back arching. Her cunt clamped down on him like a vise, rhythmic, pulsing waves of pure sensation.
That was all it took. With a choked groan, he buried his face in her hair and came, his release jetting deep inside her in hot, relentless spurts. He held her hips down, grinding her onto him, fucking up into her through his own climax and the last shudders of hers, until they were both spent, trembling, and utterly connected.
They sat like that for long minutes, breathing heavily, still joined. The world outside the booth continued its oblivious chatter.
Slowly, gently, he helped her off him. She straightened her dress with trembling hands, the silk now clinging to her damp skin. He rearranged his own clothing, the evidence of what they’d done hidden away.
She turned to look at him then, really look at him. Her makeup was slightly smudged, her lips swollen. She looked thoroughly, beautifully ruined. There was no playful glint, no casual detachment. What looked back at him was something raw, unveiled, and a little scared.
He reached out and wiped a smudge of her lipstick from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. The gesture was oddly tender amidst the carnage of what they’d just done.
“The director,” she said softly, her voice hoarse. “The one from earlier. He’s been watching this booth for the last five minutes.”
Yang didn’t turn to look. He just kept his eyes on her. “Let him watch,” he said, echoing his words from her bedroom, but now they felt less like defiance and more like a grim acknowledgment. The lines were not just blurred; they were obliterated. And there were witnesses.