Cowgirl
The fluorescent lights in Sybilla Roux's office hum at a frequency that makes Mila's hungover skull throb in sympathetic vibration.
She stands in the centre of the geometrically precise space, her leather jacket still zipped to her sternum, her pixie-cut brunette hair flattened on one side from where she passed out against a velvet banquette six hours ago. The gold ring in her navel catches the overhead light as she shifts her weight, a small rebellion of movement in this room of stillness.
Sybilla sits behind her obsidian desk, her asymmetric charcoal bob perfectly rigid, that single silver streak at her temple catching the light like a blade.
She doesn't gesture for Mila to sit. Her wire-rimmed glasses rest low on her nose as she reviews a document, her matte black nails tracing columns of figures that Mila knows, with sudden sick certainty, represent her own dissolution.
"Your contract," Sybilla says, her voice carrying the clipped precision of someone who has rehearsed this moment for maximum efficiency.
She pushes the papers forward with one deliberate finger.
"Section fourteen, clause seven. Moral turpitude. The photographs from last night's after-party reached my inbox at four this morning."
Mila's mouth tastes of tequila.
She remembers the flash of cameras, the wet heat of someone's mouth on her neck in a bathroom stall, the way she laughed when security tried to remove her from the venue.
The images exist now in digital perpetuity, her skirt hiked to her hips, her eyes wild with pharmaceutical brightness.
"You're terminating me," Mila says.
"Effective immediately." Sybilla's pale brown eyes lift from the document, assessing Mila with the same detachment she applies to flawed fabric samples.
"No severance. No references. You will collect your personal effects from your locker and exit through the service entrance. The front of house is no longer yours to traverse."
Mila's hands curl into fists at her sides against the black leather of her jacket.
"I've made you millions. I've been your fucking muse for three seasons."
"You've been a liability wearing expensive clothes." Sybilla removes her glasses, folds them with mechanical precision.
"Models never read the fine print. 'Scandalous behaviour bringing disrepute upon the House.' It's rather explicit, Miss Cruz. You signed it. I enforce it."
The words land like physical blows, each one stripping away another layer of the identity Mila has constructed from magazine spreads and runway applause.
Without Roux House, she is merely the daughter of two has-beens, the girl who fucked her way into relevance and drank her way back out.
"Get out," Sybilla says, returning her attention to her desk.
"The service entrance. Don't make me call security."
Mila turns, her boots striking the carpet with a stomp, and storms from the room.
The corridor outside spins slightly, the hangover making everything soft-edged and nauseating.
She doesn't go to her locker. She goes to the kitchenette, that small fluorescent cave where models huddle over espresso and misery, and she punches the button on the industrial coffee machine with enough force to crack her knuckle.
The pain grounds her. She leans against the counter, her forehead pressed to cool laminate, and listens to the machine gurgle and spit.
The smell of dark roast fills the small space, bitter and familiar.
The door opens behind her. She doesn't turn.
"Rough morning? Or rougher night?"
Caspian's voice carries that particular blend of dockyard bravado and runway polish, the accent he modulates depending on his audience.
She hears the door click shut, the shuffle of his worn leather boots against linoleum.
"Fuck!" Mila says, but there's no heat in it.
She sounds exhausted, which she hates.
She hears him move to the counter beside her, close enough that she can smell his cologne—something with leather and smoke notes, expensive but worn.
He doesn't touch her. He never touches her first; she's noticed.
Always lets her come to him, always makes her choose the proximity.
"Sybilla?" he asks.
Mila lifts her head, turns to face him. His pale grey eyes are hooded, assessing, that thumb already tracing his lower lip in his habitual gesture of calculation.
He looks like he hasn't slept either, his dark chestnut hair more dishevelled than artful, his vintage band tee wrinkled beneath his open black overcoat.
"Terminated," Mila says. "No severance. Service entrance only. I'm toxic now."
Caspian's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture, a subtle realignment of weight that suggests opportunity rather than sympathy.
"She's making a mistake. You're the most photographed face in her last three campaigns."
"Was." Mila laughs, a harsh bark that hurts her throat.
"I was the most photographed face. Now I'm just another drunk model with her pussy on the internet."
The crudeness doesn't shock him.
Nothing shocks Caspian Bane; she's learned.
He reaches past her for a mug, his arm brushing her shoulder, and pours himself coffee with the same precision he applies to everything.
Black. No sugar. He drinks it scalding.
"Come with me," he says.
Mila blinks. "What?"
"Not like that."
His mouth quirks, not quite a smile.
"Though I'd be lying if I said the thought hadn't occurred."
He sets down his mug, turns to face her fully.
"I'm building something. Outside Valois. Outside all of them. My own house. My own rules."
Mila stares at him.
The coffee machine gurgles behind her, forgotten.
"You're leaving?"
"I was never staying," Caspian says.
"Five years memorising their supply chains, their pattern cutters, their distribution networks. I know where everybody is buried, Mila. And I'm going to dig them up and build something better on the bones."
He steps closer. She doesn't retreat. His pale eyes catch the fluorescent light, something feverish moving in their grey depths.
"I need a face," he says. "Someone with your edge. Your chaos. Someone who doesn't give a fuck about playing nice with the Sybilla Roux's of the world."
Mila's breath comes faster. She can feel the heat of him, smell the coffee on his breath, see the pulse beating in his throat.
The rage that has been curdling in her stomach since Sybilla's office finds new purpose, new direction.
"Screw that bitch Sybilla," she thinks. "Let's leave this place a frickin' mess."
She reaches for him.
Her fingers tangle in the silver chain at his throat, pulling him down to her height.
He doesn't resist. His mouth opens under hers, coffee-bitter and hot, and she pushes him backward until his spine hits the refrigerator, the metal cold through his thin shirt.
"Here?" he asks against her lips, but his hands are already moving, finding the zipper of her jacket, the waistband of her ripped jeans.
"Here," Mila confirms, and drops to her knees.
The linoleum is hard against her kneecaps, unforgiving.
She doesn't care. She works his belt with vigorous efficiency, the leather sliding free, the button of his distressed denim popping open.
He isn't wearing underwear. Seldom does, she's noticed.
The calculation of it, the preparedness for opportunity, makes her wet.
His cock springs free, thick and flushed, already hardening under her gaze.
She doesn't tease.
Best cure for a hangover, a mind-blowing orgasm.
She opens her mouth and takes him deep in one movement, feeling the weight of him press against her tongue, the salt-bitter taste of pre-cum coating her throat.
He groans, his hand finding the back of her head, not guiding, just present, grounding.
Mila relaxes her jaw, pushes forward until her nose presses against the dark hair at his base, until she can feel him pulsing against the back of her throat, until her eyes water and her lungs burn and she is nothing but heat and pressure and the desperate need to take him deeper.
The only thing in her head is cock as she lets Caspian skull fuck her.
Gug, gug, gurgle, guggle, gug, gug.
Sloppy, slushy, his stiffy is spit-coated.
His knob shining brighter than a polished brass door handle.
She eventually gags.
Well, she's not a sword swallower.
A wet convulsion that sends saliva spilling down her chin, onto her jacket, onto the floor between his boots.
Dribble and spit dangle from her jaw.
Caspian breathes, his hips twitching forward involuntarily.
"Mila, fuck— that was frickin deep."
She pulls back, gasping, strings of spit connecting her lips to his shaft, her throat raw and her vision blurred.
Then she goes down again, impossibly deeper this time, finding the rhythm of it, the surrender of breath and control that makes her pussy ache with emptiness.
She wants to be filled everywhere, wants to be ruined and used and claimed by something better than Sybilla's fucking fine print.
Her hand finds her own jeans, shoves them down her hips, her underwear with them.
She's wet, like she's stepped out of the shower, her fingers coming away slick when she touches herself.
Caspian pulls her up, his hands under her arms, and spins her toward the counter.
"Yeah, nice position, but today I'm riding you," she says.
Mila pushes him down onto the lino; his cock standing upright and straining.
She climbs onto him, her boots still on and lowers herself into a squat that tenses her thighs.
"Uhh!"
"Ahh"
Well, she's girdling his cock.
Captured his spear in her wet, fleshy sheath.
She controls the pace, the pummelling down, the delicious clenching upward drag of her enveloping, gripping, flexible girly canal.
They both groan.
Well, heaven, this is a true skill in a pussy's massive repertoire of positions.
She is stretched, impaled, her weight driving him deeper than she's ever taken anyone.
She presses her arms to his shoulders and begins to move in earnest.
The squatting cowgirl position is athletic, demanding.
Her thighs tremble with the effort of controlling the depth, the angle, the pace.
Balance and pleasure fight each other.
In the short term, flesh bliss wins.
She rises and falls, feeling him slide against her walls, feeling the drag of him against her most sensitive places.
Mila becomes alert to everything.
Great sex does clear her head.
The refrigerator hums behind him, the coffee machine ticks as it cools, and she fucks him with the desperate energy of someone who has nothing left to lose.
"Oohh! Mmm, mmm! Oohh!" she coos.
"Ahh! Uhh! Orggh!" he groans.
"Cup your frickin' hands under my arse, if you want this last, you prick, I don't have super girl thighs."
His hands grip her ass like scaffolding, yet also spreading her open, his thumbs finding her tushy rim and pressing inward; just enough to make her gasp.
He thrusts his boner up into her, meeting her downward movements with violent upward snaps of his hips.
A combination of flesh connection outside everyday sex.
Wetness and trapped air add to the fucky, fucky sounds.
This isn't sex about lasting an hour.
This is hot, wild and fast.
Intense.
Their climaxes will be up there with the Burj Khalifa.
She is close, so close, her clit grinding against his pelvic bone with every descent.
She chases it, chases the oblivion of orgasm, the temporary death of everything but sensation.
Her fingers dig into his shoulders, her nails finding purchase through his shirt.
The door opens.
Mila squats mid-thrust, her pussy lips gripping Caspian's cock in involuntary spasms of interrupted pleasure.
She turns her head, still impaled, still spread, and meets Celedwen Rey's wide green eyes.
The nineteen-year-old stands in the doorway, an empty teacup forgotten in her hand, her auburn hair catching the fluorescent light like autumn fire.
She is barefoot, as always, her linen dress flowing around her willowy frame.
She stares at the place where Mila's body joins Caspian's, at the visible stretch of her pussy around his shaft, at the tightest connection of conjoined sexual parts.
For three heartbeats, nobody moves.
Then Celedwen's hand opens.
The teacup falls.
It shatters against the linoleum with a sound like breaking bone, porcelain shards scattering across the floor.
She turns and runs.
Mila hears her bare feet slapping against the corridor tiles, then silence.
Mila can't sustain the squat.
The muscle burn in her thighs.
Yet she does.
She rises, feeling him slide almost free, then slams back down with enough force to make him grunt.
She sets a brutal pace now, punishing, claiming.
Her orgasm builds; driven by adrenaline: the image of Celedwen's shocked green eyes.
"Orrghh!" as she finds release.
Quickly, she commands, grinding down on him.
"Come for me, Caspian. But don't come inside."
She pulls off him in the moment before his release, her hand wrapping around his sheathed cock, pumping him furiously.
Drags him up.
She directs his ejaculation with deliberate fire-hose precision—across the stainless-steel sink bench, splattering the microwave door, streaking the laminate table and chair, pooling on the linoleum floor where Celedwen's teacup shattered.
It is a mess, a desecration of Sybilla's pristine space.
Mila watches each spurt land, watches the glue spread, and feels something dark and satisfied uncoil in her chest.
Caspian sags against the counter, his chest heaving, his cock still twitching in her grip.
She releases him, steps back, and pulls up her jeans.
The small kitchenette smells of sex first, a hint of coffee second.
They both step over the broken teacup, over a puddle of cum on the floor, and walk out through the service entrance without looking back.