Chapter 2: Velvet Curtains and Stolen Moments
The bass from Irene’s state-of-the-art sound system was a physical thing, a pulse that vibrated up through the polished marble floor and into Lisa’s bones. The penthouse was a labyrinth of cool, curated opulence—glass, chrome, low-slung white furniture that nobody dared actually sit on. Bodies swayed under the ambient glow of hidden LED strips, the city’s skyline a spectacular, silent film beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“You’re thinking again.” Somi’s voice was a liquid murmur against Lisa’s ear, her arms snaking around Lisa’s waist from behind. The familiar scent of vanilla and gin enveloped her. “Stop it.” A chilled glass was pressed into Lisa’s hand. Something clear and fizzing with a sprig of rosemary. “Drink up, baby. You’re here with me.”
Lisa obediently took a sip. The alcohol was smooth, expensive, and burned a warm path down her throat. She felt Somi’s lips curve into a smile against her neck before she was spun around, pulled into the throng of dancers near the grand piano. Somi moved with a natural, hip-rolling rhythm that commanded attention, her hands always anchored on Lisa—her hips, her waist, the back of her neck. It was a performance, and Lisa was her key prop.
Across the room, perched on a sleek arm of a sofa, Jennie Kim watched. A champagne flute dangled from her fingers. She wore a simple black slip dress, a stark contrast to the vibrant sequins and colors around her. Her cat-like eyes were unreadable.
Irene materialized beside her, following her gaze. “The dancer and her keeper,” Irene said, sipping her own drink. “It’s a bit theatrical, don’t you think?”
“She looks like she’s trying to remember the steps she was given,” Jennie replied, her voice barely audible over the music.
“Jeon Somi doesn’t give steps. She gives commands.” Irene’s gaze was analytical. “Why the interest?”
Jennie shrugged one bare shoulder. “No interest. Just observation.” But she didn’t look away.
After two more of Somi’s cocktails, a restless heat spread under Lisa’s skin. The room felt unbearably close, the press of Somi against her back suddenly smothering. “I need air,” she mumbled, disentangling herself.
“Don’t wander far,” Somi said, her smile sharp. Her fingers gave Lisa’s ass a possessive squeeze before releasing her.
Lisa wove through the crowd, the cool glass of the balcony door a relief under her palm. She slid it open and stepped out into the relative quiet. The spring night was cool, the hum of the city a distant substitute for silence. She leaned on the railing, letting the wind off the river tousle her bangs.
The door slid open again. Lisa turned, expecting Somi, readying an excuse.
It was Jennie. Holding two full flutes of champagne. “Escaping the royal court?” she asked, her tone lightly teasing.
A surprised laugh escaped Lisa. “Something like that. It’s… intense in there.”
“Irene believes if a party doesn’t slightly damage your hearing, it’s a funeral.” Jennie handed her a glass. “You looked like you needed a refresher that wasn’t… herbally assaulted.”
Their fingers brushed during the exchange. Lisa felt it like a static shock. “Thanks.” She took a sip. It was crisp, dry, perfect. “You’re not dancing.”
“I prefer to appreciate the art from a distance.” Jennie joined her at the railing, not too close, but close enough that Lisa could smell her perfume—something green and sophisticated, like crushed stems and rain. “You’re Lisa, right? From Choreography III. The piece you did to that Bon Iver track was… visceral.”
Lisa blinked, stunned. “You saw that?”
“I was in the back. You moved like you were trying to punch a hole through the floor. It was good.” Jennie looked at her, not at the view. “Different from how you move out there.”
The comment, so casually incisive, unraveled something in Lisa’s chest. She didn’t know how to answer. She took another, too-big gulp of champagne. Some of it splashed over the rim, down her wrist and onto the front of her dark shirt.
“Ah, shit.” Lisa laughed, awkwardly shaking her hand.
“You’re a spiller,” Jennie observed, a genuine smile playing on her lips. She pulled a small, impossibly white handkerchief from somewhere. “Here.”
“Who carries these?” Lisa laughed again, accepting it. Their laughter mingled, easy and light, a counterpoint to the thudding bass inside.
The balcony door slammed open.
The ease shattered. Somi stood framed in the light, her expression a mask of amused displeasure. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for my date.” Her eyes flicked to Jennie, dismissing her, before locking back on Lisa. “Come on. Irene’s about to do something dramatically illegal with the dessert table.”
Lisa’s spine went rigid. She clumsily tried to hand the handkerchief back to Jennie. “Thanks, I—”
“Keep it,” Jennie said softly, her smile gone. Her eyes held Lisa’s for a heartbeat too long. Understanding. A hint of pity.
Somi didn’t wait. She strode forward, her fingers clamping like a vice around Lisa’s wrist. “Now, Lili.” The command was sugar-coated steel.
She was dragged back inside, through the crowd, past the grand piano, down a hallway lined with abstract art that swirled in Lisa’s drink-addled vision. Somi pushed open a heavy door, revealing a dimly lit bedroom—all gray velvet and chrome. A guest room. She pulled Lisa in and kicked the door shut with her heel, cutting off the music. The silence was violent.
“What was that?” Somi’s voice was low, dangerous.
“What was what? I was just getting air.”
“With Jennie Kim?” Somi stepped into her, backing Lisa up until her shoulders hit the cool wall. “I saw you laughing. You looked cozy.”
“She just brought me a drink. You were busy.” Lisa’s heart hammered against her ribs.
“I’m never too busy for you.” Somi’s hand came up, not to caress, but to grasp Lisa’s jaw, forcing her to meet her eyes. “You’re mine, Lalisa. Everyone needs to see that.” Her anger seemed to mutate then, shifting into a dark, hungry certainty. Her grip softened, her thumb stroking Lisa’s bottom lip. “Maybe you need to feel it, too.”
Lisa’s breath hitched. “Somi…”
“Shhh.” Somi covered Lisa’s mouth with her own, the kiss hard, claiming, devoid of the earlier playfulness. It was a brand. Her other hand slid down, fingertips skating under the waistband of Lisa’s pants. She found the button, popped it open, the zrip of the zipper obscenely loud in the quiet room.
Lisa tensed, a protest dying in her throat as Somi’s hand shoved past fabric, nails grazing her hip bone. She wasn’t gentle. Her fingers curled, insistent, demanding. Lisa’s body, trained to respond to Somi’s touch, betrayed her. A traitorous heat pooled low in her belly, a sharp, unwanted thrill shooting through her as Somi’s palm pressed firmly against the hardening length of her cock through her underwear.
“See?” Somi whispered against her lips, her breath hot. “You want this. You always want this.” She broke the kiss, her eyes gleaming in the gloom. She used her body to keep Lisa pinned to the wall, one thigh slotting between Lisa’s legs, applying pressure. Her hand worked Lisa’s pants and boxer-briefs down just enough, freeing her.
The cool air on her heated skin made Lisa gasp. Somi’s hand wrapped around her, a firm, knowing grip. She began to stroke, her movements ruthless and efficient. “She doesn’t know you like this, does she?” Somi hissed, her mouth at Lisa’s ear. “Sweet, shy Lisa. This is what you really are. This is what you need. Look at you.”
Shame and forced pleasure warred inside Lisa. She squeezed her eyes shut, a moan tearing from her throat as Somi’s thumb smeared pre-cum over the head, working it into a slick, punishing rhythm. Her hips bucked involuntarily, fucking into Somi’s fist.
“That’s it,” Somi coaxed, her voice dropping to a filthy whisper. “Come on, baby. Come for me. Show me who you belong to.”
Her pace increased, a relentless, focused friction. Lisa’s head thudded back against the wall, her knuckles white where she gripped nothing. The climax, when it ripped through her, was less a release than an annihilation. It tore a choked, ragged sound from her, her whole body seizing as stripes of white shot across Somi’s fingers and onto the dark fabric of her own shirt.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing. Somi pulled her hand away, examining the mess with a satisfied smirk. She wiped her fingers on Lisa’s discarded waistband. “Mine,” she stated, as if finalizing a contract.
She stepped back, smoothing her own clothes, her composure instantly restored. Lisa sagged against the wall, pants around her thighs, feeling hollowed out and filthy. The phantom scent of Jennie’s green perfume was gone, completely obliterated by the odors of sex and vanilla.
Somi leaned in, kissing her softly, tenderly now. A complete transformation. “Get cleaned up, baby. We should get back to the party.” She turned and opened the door, the sounds of the celebration flooding back in.