The act itself—hide-the-sausage, quick and filthy, whether under the warm tangle of sheets between lovers or slammed against the icy tiles of a stolen bathroom—devours every careful thought you ever had. It drags you under, floods the mind with heat, strips away right and wrong until all that remains is the raw, animal need to touch, to taste, to chase the bright, shattering wave of release.
Natalia's spine met the wall with a soft thud, the marble drinking the warmth from her skin. Her silk gown had surrendered the moment William's fingers found the zipper; the teeth parted like they were eager to bare her to the cold stone. She couldn't look anywhere but up—ceiling frescoes blurring—because he had pinned her gaze with his own. His mouth settled in the hollow where neck curved into shoulder, open-mouthed kisses branding her pulse. She clutched him, nails raking the fine wool of his jacket, arms too short to circle the breadth of his back.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, the old fear of a maid rounding the corner still flickered. Then his hips rolled forward and the hard ridge of his cock pressed against her thigh, and that fear burned away in a rush of liquid fire.
She rose onto one foot, the other leg sliding high around his waist. Nothing separated them but a whisper of linen and the soaked lace of her knickers. Reason made one last, trembling plea. "William, we should—"
His hand was already there, cupping her through the fabric, two fingers tracing the seam until her hips jerked involuntarily. The words strangled in her throat, replaced by a low, broken moan that echoed off the tiles.
William had done this before—knew the exact tilt of wrist, the perfect pressure, the slow circles that turned a woman into pleading silk. He mapped her like territory he'd already conquered, teasing the plump outer lips until her thighs shook. When he finally slipped beneath the lace, the slick heat he found made him growl against her throat.
He pulled back just enough to spin her, palms slamming flat to the wall. One hand gathered the hem of her gown, bunching it at her waist; the other claimed her arse, fingers sinking into flesh still covered by ruined panties. The linen was no barrier—he felt every tremor.
"Say stop," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Say it once more and I will."
She answered by pushing back, rolling her hips until the length of his cock nestled between her cheeks. The friction dragged a whine from her.
"Please…" The word cracked.
"Please what, darling?"
The breath he exhaled was furnace-hot. She felt it skate across her nape and down her spine.
"Fuck me."
It was barely sound, yet the marble seemed to shiver with it.
Gentleness vanished. He shoved the gown higher, fisted the delicate side-strings of her knickers, and ripped. The lace tore with a soft, violent sigh. Cool air kissed the wet folds of her cunt; then his palm cracked across her arse—once, twice, five times—each slap sharp enough to brand. Heat bloomed under her skin, spreading outward until she was sobbing for more.
Natalia's hand snaked behind her, frantic. She wrestled his belt open, dragged the zipper down, and wrapped her fingers around him. He was thick, scalding, the vein along the underside pulsing against her palm like a second heartbeat. She measured him once, twice, a startled cry escaping at the sheer size.
The cry never finished.
"William?" Tracy's voice cut through the hallway, bright and knife-sharp. "Natalia?"
"Shit." He tucked himself away with shaking hands. Natalia yanked the shredded panties up her thighs, smoothed the gown down just as the sitting-room door flew open.
Tracy stood framed in the archway, designer heels clicking like gunfire across the marble. Her gaze sliced from Natalia's flushed cheeks to the faint red blooming high on one shoulder—visible where the gown had slipped.
"Natalia." The name cracked like a whip. "You were due on the floor an hour ago."
"I—the maids said—"
"Pathetic." Tracy advanced until Natalia could smell her perfume, something expensive and venomous. "Every time I look at you I see my sister's failure staring back. Half Donovan blood, all disappointment."
Natalia's throat worked. "I'm trying—"
"Trying?" Tracy laughed, brittle. "Jennifer's been here three weeks and already owns every stage. You? Months at Veloura and nothing. You wear our name like a borrowed crown and give us dust."
The insults kept coming—mother in an asylum, father who vanished, legacy squandered—until Natalia's eyes burned and her knees threatened to fold.
Tracy's hand lashed out. The slap snapped Natalia's head sideways; pain flared white-hot across her cheek.
"Answer me!" Tracy hissed. "When will you be worth the air you breathe?"
The words tumbled out before Natalia could cage them. "Jennifer's sleeping with William."
Silence detonated.
Tracy's arm froze mid-air. "What did you say?"
"I've seen them. In the staff bathroom. More than once."
Tracy's face drained of color, then flooded crimson. "You little—"
"Tracy." William's voice rolled down the hall like thunder. He stepped between them, shoulders squared. "Touch her again and you'll deal with me."
Tracy's mouth opened, closed. "You're defending that whore?"
"I'm defending basic decency," he said. "Whatever you think Jennifer's done, Natalia doesn't carry your grudge. Leave her out of it."
He turned to Natalia. "Go."
She fled, heels skidding on marble, tears blurring the villa into watercolor streaks.
William faced Tracy again. "You want to tear someone apart, start with me. But stop punishing the world because one woman dances better than your niece."
Tracy's manicured nails dug into the edge of a console table. The room tilted; the white walls pressed inward. Breath sawed in her throat—too fast, too shallow. She had felt this once before, years ago, on a sunlit morning that ended in sirens and a lifetime of regret.
William's footsteps receded. Porcelain clinked somewhere far off. Alone, Tracy slid down the table legs until she sat on the cold floor, palms pressed to her breastbone, trying to remember how to breathe while the past roared back in perfect, merciless detail.
Beverly Hills — Sixteen Years Ago
Not everyone rejoices at the sudden revelation of a sister they never knew existed.
For seventeen years, Tracy Donovan had lived as the only child of her parents — the perfect daughter of a perfect family. She was born from love, raised on affection, and bathed in the attention that came with it.
In high school, she was the sun everyone orbited around — the queen of corridors, the envy of girls, and the quiet obsession of most boys. All except one: Vincent Moretti.
Vincent didn't look at her the way the others did. He was polite, distant, even indifferent — which made him all the more magnetic. His heart, as everyone knew, belonged to Samantha. Samantha, her rival. Samantha, the girl Tracy could never outshine no matter how bright she burned.
It was the talk of the school — the two of them, Vincent and Samantha, the golden couple. Tracy, ever the observer, lingered on the edges of their story. She'd even tried to force herself into it, smiling too brightly at Vincent, laughing too loudly at his jokes, but his eyes never lingered. Not once.
Spring was nearing, which meant prom season. Boys lined up with roses, desperate for her yes. She smiled at them, accepted the flowers, and felt absolutely nothing.
Vincent, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen. Word was, he spent most of his afternoons driving Samantha around the Moretti estate — a place Tracy had only ever seen once, when her father attended a business gala at the mansion.
Those were her dark days — the ones she poured into her diary with trembling hands and smudged ink.
But that afternoon — that cursed afternoon — when she came down the stairs and saw a red-haired girl about her age laughing in her father's arms, her entire world tilted.
The sound of her own voice cut through the air.
"Who is she?"
Her mother, Catherine, turned with a smile too wide, too fake. "Trace, this is your sister — Elizabeth."
Tracy froze. "I wasn't talking to you, whore."
"Watch your tone, girl," her father thundered. Murphy Donovan — proud, stern, a man who measured respect in obedience.
But Tracy didn't flinch. She looked straight at the stranger, the girl her father held like family.
"You are not my sister. And you will never address me as such. You're nothing but the product of lust and infidelity. I'd rather die than let the world know you share even half my blood."
Her words cut like a blade too sharp for a seventeen-year-old to wield. Murphy staggered toward her, his face red with rage, but Tracy turned and ran — up the stairs, down the hall, into her room — where she locked the door and refused to come out for the rest of the day.
The next morning, the wound deepened. Elizabeth, the red-haired interloper, had enrolled at her school. Same classes. Same last name: Donovan.
Elizabeth was radiant — wild in spirit, bold in laughter, hair like fire. Within days, the girls at school swarmed her, touching her curls, braiding her hair. The boys, helpless and entranced, brought her flowers, asked her out to the movies. She said no to all, but somehow, that only made them chase harder.
And in all truth, Elizabeth wasn't trying to steal anything. She was simply... alive. Friendly. Free.
But to Tracy, she was a thief.
Within weeks, the queen of the school had become a ghost. Tracy ate alone. She quit the teams, stopped attending events. The world that once revolved around her now spun around the girl with the red hair.
At home, it was no different. Elizabeth laughed with Murphy, teased him, made him smile. The same man who once called Tracy his little princess now called Elizabeth his sunshine.
Her life had been taken — quietly, completely.
The final blow came that spring. Vincent Moretti — the one man Tracy wanted to notice her — had a small circle of friends: his girlfriend Samantha, and two other couples, Ray and Dorothy. But by spring, there was a new member in that circle. Elizabeth.
She was everywhere — at the coffee shops, in the library, on the school lawn. Laughing. Always laughing.
Tracy began to doodle in her notebooks instead of listening in class. She refused car rides home if Elizabeth was inside. She'd rather walk in heels through rain than share that silence.
Prom arrived. Tracy swallowed her pride and asked Jihoon — an athletic, charming student who had always admired her. For years, he'd hovered on the edges of her orbit, waiting. But when a red-haired girl with a brighter laugh showed up... he drifted away.
Elizabeth had stolen it all — her father's affection, her mother's attention, Vincent's gaze, and now, even the boy she'd chosen as second best.
All in two months.
Then college came, that was when Tracy snapped. She paid a few boys to follow Elizabeth around. Watch her. Report back.
And they did.
The news was almost too perfect — Elizabeth was using drugs. Meth, they said. Tracy didn't even hesitate. She knew exactly what to do. She would expose her. Let their father see her for what she was.
Soon, everything began to unravel. Elizabeth started skipping classes, partying, spiraling. Tracy made sure Murphy found out. And when Elizabeth finally overdosed, the story hit like wildfire.
The Donovan name trembled. Murphy, humiliated, threatened to cut ties. Catherine begged for mercy. Divorce followed swiftly after — the family fractured in two.
Tracy stayed with her father, of course. Elizabeth with her mother.
Then came the final humiliation: Elizabeth, barely twenty, got pregnant. Dropped out of college. Was later admitted into an asylum for her unstable state. Catherine vanished not long after.
Tracy wrote it all down in her diary.
Every disaster.
Every downfall.
Every poetic justice.
And when she heard of Samantha's tragic death — Vincent's beloved — she didn't cry.
She smiled.
Because now, he needed a shoulder to cry on.
And she was there.
***
The flashback faded, but the ache in Tracy's head did not.
She sat at her desk, nails clawing at the polished wood. "How dare they…" she muttered, her breath ragged. "How dare all of them…"
The room was still when the phone rang. A private number.
She hesitated before answering.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end was low, coarse, and edged with mockery.
"Tracy Donovan."
Her heart lurched. "Who is this?"
A pause — then, almost like a whisper wrapped in a smirk:
"The man who's going to bring all your sins down on your head."
The line went dead.
And Tracy stood there — frozen, trembling — as anger, confusion, and a flicker of fear coiled together beneath her skin.