49

Helper 99

S he folds into him like she already knows how this ends.

He doesn’t rush. He never does. His fingers trace her jaw, then her neck—slow, like he’s confirming she’s real. Like he thinks he can heal her with his hands. Like he’s checking for weakness.

He lifts the hem of her dress with the care of someone unwrapping something expensive. His fingers slide beneath. No fumbling. No guessing.

He touches her like it’s a memory he’s correcting.

She exhales when he finds her—wet, ready, no hesitation. She doesn’t pull away. She leans into his hand.

He watches her face the entire time.

Two fingers curl inside her, slow and deliberate, pressing upward, drawing out a sound she tries to hold back. Her head falls forward; her hips roll forward to meet him.

He doesn’t chase her orgasm. He paces it.

When she comes, it’s not loud. It’s clear. Her thighs tighten. Her mouth opens. Her fingers grip the back of his neck like she needs to hold onto something. She keeps her eyes open.

That’s what sets her apart.

He doesn’t let her come down. He lifts her onto the table without a word, spreading her open with one hand, unbuckling his belt with the other.

He doesn’t kiss her.

He watches her.

Then he slides in.

Not fast. Not all at once.

He presses in inch by inch , every movement controlled, calibrated for pressure. For stretch.

Her breath hitches. She doesn’t look away.

He bottoms out and holds there—deep, still, waiting for her to break eye contact.

She doesn’t.

He pulls back slowly, then thrusts in again—harder this time. He grunts softly, more breath than sound, and she moans.

He fucks her the way he does everything else: measured. Engineered. Cruel in how completely it fits.

His hand wraps around her throat—not to choke. To position.

He angles her chin so she can see him.

“Look at me,” he says.

She does.

Her mouth is open. Her eyes flicker, but she holds the gaze.

He thrusts deeper. Slower.

She comes again—writhing under him, breath hitching, her moan caught in the press of his palm.

He keeps going.

No rush. No softness.

Just control. Perfectly executed.

When he finishes, her face is already turning blue. He’s still watching her.

He doesn’t pull out right away.

He brushes her hair behind her ear. Touches her cheek like she’s a system that just passed a test.

She watches him like she knows better than to speak.

I pause the footage there.

Because it’s the look on her face I need to study.

Not her body.

Her mind.

Because that’s what he’s really after.

I unpause the footage.

Hate the way she looks at him.

Hate the way he looks back.

Like maybe this matters.

Like maybe it doesn’t.

I catalog the footage.

No labels.

Just date, time, and file number.

Then I watch it again. I can’t help myself.