Alone in the sunlit room, he sank into the chair, gripping the edge of the table. His mind was consumed with thought, replaying every sway, every glance, every teasing whisper.
What if… she let herself go? What if… I…
Every imagined movement, every possible touch, every forbidden moment pressed on him like fire. He closed his eyes, heart pounding, thinking of the impossible, intoxicating desire she had left behind.
The room was silent except for his heavy breathing, but in his mind, Selena's teasing, lustful presence lingered—alive, untouchable, and utterly consuming
The door clicked softly behind her, leaving the room silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. The late afternoon sunlight slanted across the floor, but it felt colder now, emptier without her presence.
Lucien sank into the chair, hands gripping the edges tightly. His pulse pounded, and his mind refused to stop replaying her—the sway of her hips, the tilt of her shoulders, the glint in her eyes, the subtle brush of her fingers along the table.
He imagined her voice in his ear, soft and teasing: "Imagine… what it would be like if you didn't have to resist."
In his mind, her body pressed against him. He could feel the curve of her back under his hands, the softness of her skin, the warmth radiating from her as if it were real. Every whispered word she had murmured, every teasing glance, every subtle shift of her weight became a vivid, forbidden intimacy.
Lucien's breath came faster. He pictured the brush of her lips on his neck, the quiet shiver she might give under his touch, the way her fingers would curl around his arm if he dared. Every impossible sensation, every imagined caress pressed against him like fire.
His hands flexed on the table, knuckles whitening. He had felt the heat of her presence, had imagined her body close, intimate, teasing, yet it had vanished in an instant, leaving him raw, craving, and restless.
Lucien leaned back, closing his eyes. He could still hear her soft laughter in his mind, feel the electric tension of her teasing, smell the faint perfume that lingered in the room. The more he thought about it, the more he realized—he wasn't just frustrated. He was obsessed.
He imagined what it would be like if he had allowed himself to give in: the closeness, the warmth, the impossible touch of her skin against his, the whispered gasps, the heat of her body pressed to his. Every imagined movement, every subtle touch she had hinted at, left him restless and consumed.
The room felt impossibly empty now, though it had been full of her mere presence. He opened his eyes and stared at the doorway, pulse still racing, mind still aflame with desire and obsession.
Even alone, Lucien knew one thing with sharp clarity: he could not forget her, and he would not be able to stop thinking about her
The room still held her.
Lucien remained where he was, unmoving, as if standing might break the fragile illusion she had left behind. The air felt warmer, heavier, saturated with the echo of her presence. Her perfume lingered faintly—soft, teasing—clinging to the space like a memory that refused to fade.
He closed his eyes.
And there she was again.
Not as she had been moments ago, but as his mind reshaped her—closer, slower, deliberately his. He imagined the way she would have looked if she hadn't stopped herself. The way her gaze would darken, her teasing smile softening into something more dangerous. He imagined her stepping closer, not to touch, but close enough that restraint became agony.
His jaw tightened.
He imagined her yielding—not in surrender, but in choice. Imagined her wanting him the way she had made him want her. Imagined the power of that moment, the control, the way her breath would hitch if he claimed the space she had offered without words.
It wasn't just desire.
It was possession.
Lucien exhaled slowly, fingers curling against the table. The idea of her being his—of her choosing him fully—wrapped around his thoughts, tightening with every second. She had planted something inside him, something sharp and insistent.
And she had left it there.
He opened his eyes, staring at the door she had walked through. There was no anger in him—only a restless hunger, a need sharpened by denial. She had come close enough to be imagined, close enough to be claimed in his mind, and then she had walked away, knowing exactly what she was doing.
A slow, dark realization settled in his chest.
She hadn't wanted him to touch her.
She had wanted him to want her.
And she had succeeded.
Lucien straightened, his expression controlled once more, but something had shifted beneath the surface. What she had awakened would not fade easily. Desire had turned into intention. Curiosity into fixation.
She was no longer just a woman who intrigued him.
She was a thought that stayed.
And somewhere, he knew—quietly, dangerously—that this was only the beginning.
********
The road stretched dark and empty before her. The hum of the engine, the warm glow of the streetlights, even the night air drifting through the cracked window—it all felt alive, charged, like the memory of the golf yard was still pressed against her skin.
Her hands gripped the wheel, tight enough to leave white lines along her palms. Her pulse raced. She could feel it in her chest, a heat that wasn't just the car or the city lights—it was him, Lucien, imagined, alive in her mind.
Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.
For a moment, she didn't recognize the woman staring back. The gaze was dark, intense, daring—hungry. Her lips curved in that slow, teasing smile, and her body tensed, every nerve awake with longing.
And then… she froze.
The reflection shifted. The fire dimmed, replaced by something fragile, trembling, almost childlike. The lips twitched, the eyes widened—not with lust, but with fear. A small, desperate voice echoed in her mind:
"Stop… you're going too far. You can't… not like this. You'll get hurt."
Her chest tightened. Her foot hesitated over the pedal. Her grip on the wheel shook slightly as if the voice had reached into her bones.
She whispered aloud, almost without realizing it: "No… I can't. Not this time."
The image in the mirror softened, showing the scared girl she had once been—the one who had been hurt, abandoned, made to feel small. The one who had never been able to say no before. She looked at her own hands, trembling slightly, the pulse of desire still strong but tempered now by fear.
A shiver ran down her spine. Her body had wanted to lean forward, to chase the memory, to imagine what could have been, but the girl inside her had forced her back, reminding her of the consequences, the danger, the part of herself she could never lose.
Selena exhaled slowly. The tension remained, a low, simmering fire, but it no longer threatened to consume her completely. She could feel the pulse of desire still alive beneath the restraint, sharp and insistent, but the girl's voice—the scared one—had anchored her, reminded her of control.
"Not yet," she whispered to herself, voice small, fragile.
"Not yet… you have to stop."
She blinked, and the mirror reflected her face again—her own, composed, controlled, though the memory of that fear and longing lingered, shadowing her eyes.
The car moved forward again, slow and deliberate, and the night stretched ahead. Inside her, the two selves remained—a quiet, fragile plea, and a burning, restless need—locked in a delicate, endless tension