Phei exhaled slowly, the sound soft and ragged in the blue-lit quiet, carrying the weight of everything he was holding back. He lifted her head from his chest with reverent fingers under her chin, tilting her face up to his like she was sothing fragile and sacred he didn’t quite trust himself to hold.
That beautiful face—flushed deep rose from the night’s champagne and wine, eyes glassy with heat and trust, lips parted on a shallow, trembling breath. The city lights through the vast glass painted faint golden constellations across her cheekbones, turning her skin luminous, almost otherworldly against the deep navy dark of the room.
He cupped her face in both hands, palms warm and steady, thumbs brushing the delicate corners of her mouth with aching tenderness.
Then he leaned in.
First the forehead—a slow, lingering press of his lips, warm and reverent, breathing her in like she was oxygen he’d been denying himself all night. He lingered there, lips parting slightly so the heat of his exhale ghosted over her skin, tasting the faint floral of her perfu mixed with champagne.
Patricia sighed—a small, broken sound that cracked open into vulnerability, body lting heavier into him, a soft, needy whimper vibrating in her throat.
Then her left temple—soft, open-mouthed kiss, tongue just barely grazing the delicate pulse point there, a slow, wet drag that made her shiver.
He sucked lightly, not enough to mark, just enough to pull blood to the surface and make her feel claid.
A quiet, needy moan slipped from her throat, raw and unguarded. Her fingers curled tighter into his jacket, knuckles whitening as she pulled him closer, hips shifting restlessly against his thigh.
He kissed her right cheek—lips trailing down the high bone in a slow, deliberate path, then lower, kissing the soft curve where cheek t jaw, open-mouthed and lingering, tongue flicking out to taste the faintness of her skin.
She squird helplessly, thighs pressing together hard, a soft whimper vibrating against his palm. Her breath hitched, shaky and wet, ass clenching under the tight fabric of her dress as she tried to grind for friction she couldn’t quite reach.
The tip of her nose—gentle, affectionate nuzzle first, nose brushing hers, then a slow, savoring kiss, lips wrapping around the very tip in a soft suckle that made her giggle break free—tipsy, breathless, edged with sothing deeper, sothing that sounded dangerously close to a sob of want.
Corner of her left eye—soft press to the delicate skin, tasting the faint salt of earlier tears she hadn’t let fall.
He kissed there like he was drinking her vulnerability, lips lingering until she arched subtly into him, spine curving, chest rising on a trembling inhale, fingers digging into his shoulders like anchors.
Right eyelid—closed, trusting, lips brushing the fragile lid with feather-light reverence, then pressing firr, a slow, warm seal that made her lashes flutter against his mouth.
A full-body shiver rolled through her, thighs rubbing together again, a quiet, keening whimper escaping as her head tipped back, offering more of her throat.
And finally, her mouth.
He didn’t claim it—not yet.
He kissed her like she was the only thing keeping him from flying apart: slow, deep, passionate, lips parting hers with aching care, tongue sliding in to taste her—champagne, heat, surrender.
He poured everything he couldn’t say into it: the restraint tearing at him, the hunger roaring under his skin, the bone-deep need to protect this mont from anything less than perfect.
While his mouth worshipped hers, his hands began to explore—slow, deliberate, reverent, never crossing into crude territory, just tracing the shape of her through the dress like he was morizing every curve for later ruin.
One palm slid down the elegant line of her spine, fingers splaying wide to feel the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the firm roundness of her ass beneath the silk.
He cupped one cheek gently, thumb stroking the underside in slow circles, feeling the muscle flex and yield as she arched into his touch.
The other hand drifted up her side, tracing the outer swell of her breast—never cupping, never pinching, just gliding over the curve, feeling the heavy weight shift under his palm, the stiff peak of her nipple dragging against his fingers through the fabric.
He let his thumb brush the side of it once—accidental on purpose—drawing a sharp, broken moan into his mouth.
Patricia moaned into his kiss—loud, vulnerable, completely undone. Her hands slid up to fist in his hair, pulling him closer, body trembling against his as she kissed him back with desperate, open-mouthed need. Her hips rolled once, instinctively, seeking friction she couldn’t find, a soft, broken sound vibrating between their lips.
When he finally pulled back—just enough to breathe—her eyes opened, half-lidded, pupils blown black, lashes clumped with tears.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged pants, lips swollen and glistening, cheeks flushed darker from his kisses.
He held her gaze, voice low and rough, cracked with the effort it cost him.
"Yes," he said, the word scraping out of him. "I want to take you. I want to make you mine—more than you know. I’ve wanted it since the second you looked at across that table in class on our first alone encounter."
Her lips parted on a shaky, wet inhale.
"But I can’t. Not like this."
Patricia blinked slowly, tears spilling over, but she didn’t look away.
He kept going, words steady even as his pulse thundered under her palm still pressed to his chest.
"You’re tipsy—beautifully,adorably tipsy—but you’re not sober. And when I finally get to have you—when I finally get to strip you slow, spread you wide, taste every inch of you, and fuck you until you’re sobbing my na and coming so hard you see stars—I want you clear-headed.
"I want you to feel every single thing: every kiss, every touch, every slow stretch when I fill you, every ti I make you shatter. I want you to rember it tomorrow—every detail, every sensation—because you chose it with nothing blurring the edges.
"Because you begged for it awake and wanting, not because the night carried you there."
He brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb, voice dropping softer, almost reverent.
"I’m not saying no forever. I’m saying not tonight. Not when there’s even a chance you might wake up and second-guess a single second of it. You deserve better than that. You deserve to be taken completely—mind, body, heart—with nothing held back and nothing regretted."
Patricia stared at him for a long, trembling beat.
Then she sighed—a soft, resigned sound laced with quiet, aching acceptance. No anger. No frustration. Just trust.
She surprised him all over again.
No argunt. No playful push.
Just quiet surrender.
She lifted both arms toward him, wrists loose, palms up—an unmistakable, wordless plea.
Carry .
Phei’s mouth curved, relief and fierce tenderness flooding through the tension in his shoulders.
He nodded once.
Then he slid one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and lifted her in one smooth, effortless motion.
Patricia yelped—sharp, delighted—then dissolved into soft, tipsy giggles as her arms looped tight around his neck, face burying against his throat.
"Gods," she murmured, voice muffled and laughing against his skin, "you’re stupid strong."
He carried her easily down the short hallway, her body light and warm and trusting against his chest, her breath tickling his collar, her fingers tracing lazy circles at his nape.
The bedroom door stood open.
Sa darkness. Sa deliberate blue.
But quieter in here. More intimate. The room was smaller than the living room—not cramped, just contained, like a space that understood it existed for one purpose and didn’t need to apologise for it.
Deep charcoal walls that drank every photon that touched them. A low platform bed—wide, clean-lined, no headboard, just the mattress sitting on dark wood like it had been placed there by soone who thought bed fras were a waste of architecture. Navy sheets. Not silk, not satin—Egyptian cotton, high-thread-count, the kind that felt cool against bare skin and ward to body temperature within minutes. A single dark duvet folded at the foot.
Blue LED strips traced the ceiling’s periter and the edges of the floor-to-ceiling glass, casting the room in that sa underwater glow that made the whole apartnt feel like the inside of a deep, calm ocean.
The view was closer here. The bedroom windows faced the river directly—from the bed you could see it without lifting your head. Could fall asleep watching it and wake up to find it still there, still moving, still patient.
Phei lowered her onto the sheets.
The mont her back touched them, Patricia sighed—deep, content, already lting into the mattress. Her eyes half-closed. The black dress against the navy cotton.
The bare shoulders catching blue light. The river reflected in the glass reflected in her eyes.
Before he could straighten, she rolled to the side. Bare feet finding the floor. She stood—steady enough, the alcohol losing its battle with her constitution, she did not look drunk at all—and padded toward the far wall where a mirrored door stood beside a sleek black panel.
The walk-in closet.
She disappeared inside without a word. Hips swaying. Just enough to remind him exactly what he’d chosen to wait for.
Phei watched her go.
Then turned to the window—he let out a long, slow breath that fogged a small circle on the surface and disappeared.
Behind him, the faint rustle of fabric drifted from the closet.
He didn’t look.
He just watched the city breathe.
And waited.
He knew she wasn’t giving up... he was afraid he was already on the edge to muster another "no"
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