Two Months Ago
Phei couldn't sleep.
That wasn't unusual. Insomnia had been his constant companion for years now, showing up uninvited like everything else in this house. Sometimes it was the stress. Sometimes it was Danton. Sometimes it was just his brain refusing to shut the fuck up, replaying every humiliation from the day like a highlight reel of his failures.
Tonight, it was thirst. Simple, mundane thirst.
He'd gone to bed without water because the kitchen had been occupied—Danton and some girl making out against the counter, her giggles echoing through the mansion like nails on a chalkboard. Phei had turned around immediately, gone back to his room, and tried to ignore the dry scratch in his throat.
But by 1:47 AM, according to the clock on his nightstand, he couldn't ignore it anymore.
Fuck it. Danton and his flavor of the week were probably done by now. Probably in his room, doing whatever it was that required Phei to be exiled from his own space for the night.
He slipped out of bed, wearing just his old t-shirt and sweatpants, and padded barefoot into the hallway.
The Maxton mansion was different at night. During the day it was all sharp edges and cold marble, a showpiece designed to intimidate. But at night, with only the subtle glow of accent lighting along the baseboards, it almost felt... peaceful. Like a museum after hours, when all the visitors had gone home and the exhibits could finally breathe.
Phei moved quietly down the hallway, years of practice making his footsteps silent. Rule number one of survival in this house: don't draw attention to yourself. Ever.
He made it to the main staircase, started descending toward the first floor where the kitchen was located, when he heard it.
A sound.
Soft. Barely audible. Coming from somewhere below.
Phei froze mid-step, his hand gripping the banister.
It came again. A faint... whimper? Moan? He couldn't tell. But it was definitely human, and it was definitely coming from the first floor.
His first thought: Danton had brought his girl downstairs. Great. Just fucking great. Now he'd have to wait even longer for water, or risk walking in on something that would give him nightmares.
But as he stood there, listening, something felt off.
The sound wasn't coming from the living room where Danton usually fooled around. It was coming from... the other side of the house. Toward the east wing.
Toward the library.
Curiosity—that dangerous, stupid thing that had gotten him in trouble more times than he could count—made him continue down the stairs. Slowly. Carefully. Each step deliberate and silent.
Phei hesitated only a moment. Curiosity had always been his weakest muscle; it overpowered common sense every time.
He descended the rest of the stairs in silence, keeping to the edges where the marble was less likely to echo. The foyer stretched wide beneath the absurd chandelier that glittered even in the dark, throwing fractured light across the floor like spilled coins.
Phei kept to the shadows along the wall, moving toward the source of the sound.
The library door was closed but not latched. A sliver of light spilled out from the crack, painting a thin line across the marble floor.
And the sounds—clearer now—were definitely not the kind Danton usually made people produce.
The air in the hallway felt thick, almost humid against Phei's skin, carrying the faint, lingering trace of Melissa's perfume (something expensive, spiced, with a dark floral bite that always clung to the back of his throat like a threat).
He'd reached the library door and the scent changed. Sharper. Salt and skin and something unmistakably female, raw and animal, curling out through the gap like smoke. It hit him low in the gut, a hot, dizzying rush that made his mouth water even while his stomach twisted.
Through the sliver of open door the room breathed heat. The monitor's glow was a cold blue blade across the oak desk, but the air itself felt feverish, heavy with the musk of arousal. He could taste it on every inhale: coppery, sweet, edged with the faint metallic tang of her sweat.
Then the sounds wrapped around him.
Wet. Not polite, not discreet. A thick, rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick as her fingers plunged in and pulled out, skin on slick skin, loud enough that he felt it in his teeth. Each stroke ended with a soft, filthy squelch when her palm ground against her clit.
The chair creaked in time, old leather exhaling like it, too, was breathing hard.
Someone was sitting in that chair.
Someone with long, dark hair cascading over bare shoulders.
Someone whose right hand was moving rhythmically beneath the desk, out of sight, while soft moans escaped her lips.
Melissa.
Phei's breath caught in his throat so hard he almost choked.
His aunt—no, his guardian, his tormentor, the woman who'd made his life a calculated hell for ten years—was sitting in Harold's chair, her silk robe hanging open, one hand between her legs, the other braced on the desk as she watched something on the computer screen.
The monitor's glow illuminated her face, and Phei could see her expression even from his limited angle through the crack. Eyes half-lidded. Lips parted. Cheeks flushed. Her hand moved faster, and her breathing hitched.
A faint sheen of sweat coated her spine, catching the monitor light in trembling streaks that slid slowly downward, tracing every vertebra before disappearing beneath the bunched silk at her waist.
The muscles along her shoulder blades flexed and released, flexed and released, skin sliding over bone in a rhythm that matched the frantic motion between her thighs.
In the cheval mirror the view was merciless: her pussy flushed dark rose, swollen and shining, lips parted and glistening like split fruit. Her two fingers (middle and ring) drove in to the knuckle, came out slick and webbed with her own wetness, then curled upward before plunging again.
Each thrust pushed a soft bead of fluid over her perineum; it rolled down the crease of her thigh and dripped, one slow drop after another, onto the leather seat beneath her. The wet patch spread, dark and gleaming.
Phei's pulse thundered so hard he felt it in his cock, a heavy, aching throb that jerked against the waistband of his sweatpants. Pre-come leaked, warm and sticky, soaking into cotton. The fabric clung to the head, every heartbeat dragging it across hypersensitive skin until his knees nearly buckled.
"Fuck," she whispered, so quiet Phei almost didn't hear it. "Yes... just like that..."
She was talking to the screen. To whatever porn she was watching.
Melissa's breath sawed in and out, harsh, wet, almost animal. Little broken noises spilled from her throat (half-swallowed whimpers, low curses, pleas she'd never let anyone hear in daylight).
Phei knew he should leave. Knew this was beyond wrong, beyond inappropriate. If she caught him—if anyone caught him—he was dead. Worse than dead.
But he couldn't move. Couldn't look away. It was like his brain had short-circuited, trapped between horror and something else. Something he didn't want to name.
Melissa's moans grew louder, more desperate. Her hips shifted in the chair, grinding against her own hand. The wet sounds intensified.
"God... yes... please..." Her voice was nothing like the cold, controlled tone she used during the day. This was raw. Desperate. Human in a way Phei had never seen her.
Her scent thickened with every second, flooding the air until Phei tasted her on his tongue: salt, sex, the faint bitterness of her own arousal.
Her spine bowed suddenly, a sharp, elegant arch.
Her movements became erratic, her breathing harsh and rapid. And then she tensed, her whole body going rigid, her free hand gripping the edge of the desk hard enough that her knuckles went white.
The mirror caught everything: the way her pussy clenched hard around her buried fingers, a visible flutter, another thick pulse of wetness forcing its way out around her knuckles and sliding down her wrist. Her thighs shook; the leather seat squeaked under the sudden pressure of her hips grinding down.
A low, desperate cry tore loose despite her clenched teeth (raw, guttural, nothing like the polished woman who ruled this house). Her whole body seized, shoulders locking, toes curling against the floor, and for one endless second she was perfectly, violently still.
Then she shattered.
A full-body shudder rolled through her, sweat-slick skin rippling. Another gush (hot, clear fluid) spilled over her fingers and pattered audibly onto the seat. The smell of it (sharp, heady, unmistakably her climax) slammed into Phei like a fist.
She sagged forward, forehead almost touching the desk, chest heaving. Her hand stayed between her legs a moment longer, lazily stroking through the mess she'd made, fingers shining like they'd been dipped in oil.
"Fuck," she rasped, voice cracked open and trembling. The single word hung in the humid air like incense.
Phei's lungs burned; he hadn't taken a breath in far too long. His cock jerked again, leaking steadily now, the wet spot on his sweatpants cold against his skin. Shame and lust braided so tight he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
He forced himself backward (one silent step, two), every nerve screaming. The marble was ice under his feet now, shocking him back into his body.
He fled.
The hallway blurred past him, perfume and sex still clinging to the inside of his nose, the wet sounds echoing behind his eyes. He didn't stop until his bedroom door clicked shut and he collapsed against it, sliding down until he sat on the floor, shaking, hard, filthy with the memory of her soaked fingers and the way her pussy had clenched and wept for no one but herself.
He didn't sleep again that night.
What the fuck had he just seen?