Page 30 of Phantom Flower

I shook my head fast, eyes wide.

I had never been touched there.

Never.

The void had kept everything locked down, sealed tight. No one had ever gotten close. And now Dimitri Morozov had his finger between my ass cheeks in my own bedroom, asking like he already knew and was just making me say it out loud.

He felt the shake of my head.

Saw the panic in my eyes.

His finger paused, then pressed - just the barest hint of pressure right against the center of my hole.

He didn’t breach it.

Just enough to make me feel it. To make my body clench and flutter in terrified, unwanted response.

I squeezed my eyes shut, a broken sound catching in my throat.

My free hand pushed harder at his chest, but it was useless.

He was solid.

Unmoving.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think past the sensation of his fingertip right there, the knowledge that he could push in if he wanted, that he was choosing not to.

The pressure eased.

His finger slid away slowly, dragging back between my cheeks one last time before his hand settled on my hip instead, holding me in place.

I opened my eyes, breathing hard, vision blurry at the edges.

My cock was aching. Dimitri’s eyes were locked on mine like he could see every crack he had put in the old numbness.

“Good,” he murmured. “I’ll be the first.”

***

The night replayed on a loop behind my eyes every time I tried to close them.

I hated how those words had followed me into sleep.

How my cock had stayed half-hard even after he left through the window.

How my hole had fluttered for hours afterward, empty and untouched but no longer unknown.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Couldn’t stop replaying the way he had smelled, the way his voice had dropped when he said he would be the first, the way my cock had throbbed against the towel like it wanted him to keep going.

By morning I was exhausted and wired at the same time. I clipped the red flower into my hair - blood red, defiant, because black belonged to the old nothing and red was what he had left behind.

I dressed in black slacks and a fitted black shirt, trying to look put-together even though my skin still felt marked.

I didn’t want to go downstairs. But I had no choice.