Coruption of Power

She only realized it wasn't her room after the door clicked shut behind her.

Same floor. Same layout. Same cold air-conditioning and too-bright lamp. But it wasn't hers.

It was his.

And he was already stepping out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, water still clinging to his chest. They locked eyes. One heartbeat. Two.

Neither of them moved to leave.

He said, "You're lost."

She said, "Am I?"

"I didn't stutter, did I?" he says, stepping into the living room.

A towel hangs low around his waist, water still rivulets across his skin, glinting in the shifting light.

His eyes finally break from her form as he exhales a soft sigh.

What is she doing back here?... How did she get in? I could have sworn I changed the locks.

He approaches the sideboard where a bottle of amber liquid rests beside a tray of glasses.

"What do you want, Arianna?" he asks into the silence--

the kind of silence she used to leave hanging like a noose over his head.

She always knew how to torment his anxious mind: pauses, hesitations, glances that made him squirm.

But not anymore.

He uncorks the bottle and pours two fingers into each glass. No point in being rude.

She came all this way.

He would hear her out.

But he won't be serving her--not tonight. Not anymore.

She doesn't move. Not at first.

Just stands there in the middle of his living room, leather coat still dripping from the rain, a single heel clicking softly as she shifts her weight. The silence wraps around her like perfume--intentional, practiced, weaponized.

Then, finally, her voice.

"Nice place. Cold."

She lets her eyes wander over the room, deliberately avoiding him--until they don't. Her gaze lands on his chest, follows a rivulet down to where the towel clings low on his hips.

"You always did like playing host after a shower."

Her lips curl--not quite a smile. Not yet.

"I didn't come for a drink, Marcus."

She steps forward, slow, unhurried. Removes her coat and lets it fall to the floor like a challenge. Underneath, she's dressed for war--or seduction. Maybe both.

"I came to see if you were still him."

A pause, deliberate and deep. Then her eyes soften, just enough to sting.

"Or if you'd let that part of you die after I walked out."

Same game, Marcus thinks, lifting one of the glasses and taking a slow sip.

He walks to the window overlooking the city, letting the silence stretch just enough to feel intentional.

"First," he says, voice calm but edged, "you interrupted my shower."

He glances back at her, towel still clinging to his hips. "I hear my front door open--uninvited. What am I supposed to do? Hide in the corner and wait for the wolf to pass?"

The mocking lilt is slight, but it's there. He wants her to hear it. To know she no longer gets the unguarded version of him.

"Second," he continues, swirling the drink in his hand, "you may not have come for it..." He sets the second glass down on the table beside her coat. "But you'll have it. It's the proper thing to do, isn't it?"

A pointed jab--her own weapon, turned neatly back on her.

He turns back to the window, not trusting himself to keep talking. Because part of him wants to keep going--spill every frustration, every memory she still owns.

But instead, he lets his posture answer the only question that matters:

He's still standing.

Just not where she left him.

She doesn't touch the drink. Not yet.

Instead, she traces the rim of the glass with one fingertip, slow and deliberate, like she's testing the temperature of the past.

"You always did like pretending you weren't waiting for me."

Her voice is low, nearly amused--but only nearly. There's something taut behind it. Something rehearsed and dangerous. She takes a step closer, heels soft on the hardwood.

"I didn't come for the drink," she says, eyes on his back, "but I knew you'd pour it anyway. Because that's the version of you I broke. The polite one. The one who hides fire behind ritual."

She steps beside him now, close but not quite touching. Her reflection swims beside his in the glass.

"I came to see if you were still standing," she adds, gaze flicking to his towel, to the tension in his shoulders. "And now that I see you are... I wonder why you're shaking."

Then she finally lifts the glass--not to drink, but to toast.

"To wolves who don't knock."

She drinks. And watches him like she just made her first move on a chessboard neither of them ever stopped playing.

"To wolves who are dogs," Marcus replies, raising his glass but not drinking.

His eyes stay locked on her reflection in the windowpane.

He hates that she's right.

His ribs feel like they're crushing his stomach. Every hair on his body flutters like it's waiting for her touch.

And his cock--damn it--thickens with slow, traitorous weight.

He breathes deep, monk-like. Not loud, but unmistakable in the rise and fall of his shoulders.

"Alright, Arianna. I've given you a drink."

A pause.

"We have nothing more to discuss. It's time you leave."

It isn't stammered. The words are solid. But the calm he wanted, the perfect control--it slips through his fingers.

When he turns, he realizes how close she is.

Her perfume hits him. Cherry groves in early bloom, rain still clinging to the bark. His brain lights up with memories--her mouth, her warmth, her laugh in his bed.

He swallows them. Hard.

The joy was real.

But the cost was too high.

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Just lets the silence thicken between them like smoke in an old parlor room.

Then--softly--she sips.

"You almost said that with conviction," she says, placing the glass down on the table behind her with a quiet clink. "You've gotten better at pretending."

She steps forward, slow and sure, each movement deliberate. Her heels click softly against the wood, a rhythm that used to make his breath hitch.

"I remember this version of you," she continues. "The one who tries so hard to be polite while his cock gives him away."

She stops just short of touching him. A breath's length away.

Her hand rises--not to caress, not yet--but to tug at the knot in his towel, ever so slightly. She doesn't pull it free. Just enough to suggest. Just enough to remind him.

"I should leave, right?" she whispers. "But you haven't said please."

She lets the word linger, curling around her tongue like sugar laced with cyanide.

"And I'm not going to," Marcus says as his hand closes around hers, gripping the knot in the towel. His eyes bore into hers, sharp with false bravado.

Inside, his mind -- no, his soul -- is begging. Pleading for her to let go. To leave him this fragile moment of power and sanctuary. To not take everything he's rebuilt and crush it under her heel like a roach.

But his body betrays him. It sings to her. Whimpers for her touch. For skin instead of terrycloth. His cock stiffens, rising to full, wedging itself hard against the heat between them.

"You need to leave," he growls, low and primal. His stance shifts -- barely -- but it's the stance of a man bracing for a fight.

He just doesn't know what kind.

And that uncertainty terrifies him, because one of the possible fights...

He always loses.

Arianna doesn't flinch when his hand grips her wrist -- in fact, she tilts her head, raising an eyebrow like she's daring him.

The moment draws taut, the world holds its breath, and that's it. Marcus snaps.

There is a soft roar that cuts into the stillness like a guillotine. He strides forward, hands clamping down on her shoulders. He slams her against the nearest wall, the thud echoing like a gunshot. His towel ruffles onto the floor behind them. He doesn't notice. Doesn't care. All he sees is her -- smug, still, too composed for the chaos she's just conjured in him.

"You don't want to leave?" he growls, voice rough like gravel. "Fine."

His hands find her throat, not squeezing -- just possessing. 'I'll make sure you never leave me again,' he thinks as his lips crush hers without invitation, teeth clashing. There is a gasp that follows; it is a match to the gasoline he's been swimming in for months.

The sound of shredding fabric slices through a clap of thunder as his lips descend her neck. Sucking. Biting. Under his heavy breathing, her voice shudders in a tone he can't place... won't place. Her top is discarded somewhere into the room. He pushes her again, down to her knees. With practiced effort he takes hold of his cock, rubbing his raging gland across her face and lips. He sees a shiver coil through her body but her eyes stay locked on him.

'If that's what you want, I'll make you regret it.' He promises himself as his tip slides past her lips.

He misses the soft mewling moan that escapes her throat as his cock pushes deeper. He does not see the fire that is burning in her eyes as he lets her breathe at the perfect moments. Even in his defiance, he knows just what she needs to feel alive.

When he feels he's had enough of her mouth, he takes her hair in his hands and walks her to the couch. Shoving her down onto the cushions, he aims to take her like a lion mounting its rival. Her dress is hiked up her thighs, maybe torn a bit at the seams as he exposes her ass, and he yanks her panties to the side -- not even bothering to remove them. His cock, hard and heavy, slaps against her cheeks like a gavel sealing her fate.

'Look what I've grown into,' he prides himself as he plunges into her depths. There is no rhythm. No finesse. Just need.

He grips her shoulder and the base of her skull, fingers tangling in her hair for emphasis.

"You show up here like a ghost and expect me to what? Sit still? Fall back into that little toy you let slip your grip?" His hips slam into her with every question, wanting to be the executioner of his own judgment -- rough, deep, claiming.

She's wet. He groans when he feels it. Her moans are like the nectar of the gods, spurring him on to greater heights. His pace is brutal, hips slamming into her like he's trying to bury the last of her power somewhere deep.

Her hands grip the cushions, his legs, and ending to play with her clit and his balls as they slap against her. He grabs them, pinning her wrists behind her back. "You're mine right now," he snarls. "Your pleasure is mine! Don't pretend otherwise."

There is a flash of lightning followed by heavy thunder as he comes out of his haze. He hears his mouth roaring to the night as his cum spills into her, seeming to never end. He hears her voice. She's moaning like she's wild, or gone mad. Her body continues to writhe against him, milking him for all he is worth. The sight sinks in his gut, ripping his high away from him.

This is what she wanted. She wanted him to go on the attack. She wanted him to set that fuel on fire and burn hot. It was a rush for her. A game. And he played into her hand like he always did.

His eyes take in the look of her body as one of her hands pulls free and she strokes her clit, wanting another climax. He sees the handprints turning red. The spots that are bound to turn into bruises. He feels the sting in his hands -- it feels good. Powerful. But the knowledge that she wanted it turns him mute to those feelings. As his cock slides free from her folds, his ears finally hear her laughter. That cackle that affirms what his brain was guessing.

She turns around to look at him. A brilliant and alive smile on her face as her body still twitches from her last burst of pleasure. She rises, just enough to have a proper seat on his furniture. Her eyes burn into his as she spreads herself, letting him see the results on her swollen and used lower lips. Her fingers stroke through their mess and to him she looks like she's on a throne.

"That's the pet I remember," she coos, mocking clear in her tone. "Such power. Such ferocity." She giggles for a moment, dancing in place. "God, how I've missed that fire!"

Her form returns to that throne-claiming pose, a single finger pointing to her pussy. "Clean me up, pet. You deserve a reward after that performance!"

He is stuck now. He could run and leave. But this is his home, and he knows she will wait him out. She is persistent like that.

She always won. No matter the fight, no matter the distance, no matter how far he clawed his way out -- she always brought him back. And the worst part? She didn't even need to try. She knew. She trusted that his body, his hunger, his heart would bring him to heel eventually. And he hated her for being right. Hated himself more.

There is a shudder of shame that rips through him as he feels his body follow her command. His mouth opens and drool drops from his extended tongue. 'Not again!' he cries in his own mind as his throat rumbles in a pleased moan. He dutifully savors their mixed juices and crumbles into her, shivering in the cold truth that he failed... and finds himself under her boot again. And the truth that he would not have it any other way.