My phrase, it seems, has no effect on her. She stands before me with the same unchanged, slightly mocking expression, as if I had said something completely ordinary. Her eyes, bright and penetrating, show neither surprise nor curiosity — only slight confusion, as though she had heard it a thousand times before. Around us reigns a hum of conversations and music, creating an invisible barrier between us.
"Then we need more tequila, and lime with salt," she adds with a slight smile.
When the order is brought, we head to the plastic tables in the corner. It is noisy around, and the bright lights of the lamps create a fake festive atmosphere.
There are no chairs, and we, slightly flustered, remain standing, nervously exchanging glances. The plastic tables creak slightly, and the glances of passersby sometimes linger on us, creating the feeling that we are — part of something bigger, accidental observers of the evening.
"First we'll just drink, and then we'll move on to tequila, agree?" she suggests.
I nod, confirming that this plan suits me. The tension recedes slightly, but a chill remains in her gaze, something unspoken that goes beyond ordinary communication.
Katrin, with her usual dexterity, pours the liquid into the plastic cups, glancing briefly at me. Her movements are quick, but graceful.
We drink a few cups, and the alcohol begins to take effect, dulling the senses, but enhancing the moment. Inside, anticipation flares up, slowly but surely heating the interest in what is happening.
"Alright, let's begin," her voice sounds slightly tense, as always when she is ready for something bolder and more uncertain.
The girl skillfully picks up a knife and begins to thinly slice the lime. Her movements are quick and confident, like those of a true Rebel Girl. The blade slides across the fruit with a precision that any chef would envy.
There is something mesmerizing in these simple actions, and I watch this without taking my eyes off, trying to comprehend what is happening in my head.
"From which part of the body will you lick the salt?"
I do not immediately find an answer, but instinctively grab her hand. I carefully run my finger along her collarbone, feeling a slight warmth under the skin. There is something intimate in this touch, making my heart beat faster.
She glanced at me. Her eyes are burning — playful, provocative, but with an interest that is impossible to hide. I know that she understands exactly what she is doing.
"Alright, I'll prepare everything, and then I'll explain the rules. You will just do what I tell you," she says, beginning to pour lime juice over the salt, mixing them slightly to achieve the right consistency.
Every movement of hers is measured, but with special attentiveness, as if she strives to create the perfect mixture where every element takes its place.
I watch how the drops of lime merge with the salt crystals, forming a thick, slightly transparent liquid. At this moment, the salt ceases to be just a substance — it becomes something alive, with its own rhythm, and its merging with the lime resembles an act of magic.
"So that the salt holds better on the body," she explains, not taking her eyes off her task. "Usually, the salt is licked from the palm or shoulder, and there is no point in mixing it. Although some just sprinkle salt on a part of the body and lick the partner. To me, it doesn't hold long, especially if the partner is moving all the time."
The words sound like a revelation, as if she knows all the nuances of this process. I feel how my attention focuses only on her and her actions, and the space around us seems to recede, making the atmosphere even denser and more intimate.
Her fingers slowly smear the paste of salt and lime juice across the surface of the table, accurately picking the right amount of the mixture. The tension grows — not only in the air, but also inside me.
"Will it be fine right here?" Katrin asks, starting to smear the paste on herself, carefully drawing a line along her shoulder.
This movement is smooth, almost hypnotic, and confidence is felt in it. Her skin shines from the mixture, and I cannot tear my gaze away from how her hands move across her body, as if creating their own ritual that requires no explanations.
"Yes," I answer her, not taking my eyes off.
I am absorbed by her actions and feel how all of this pulls me into a world where there is no place for either thoughts or doubts.
She nods, as if satisfied with my answer, and her face becomes more focused.
"Now listen carefully," her voice sounds a bit more serious, and a subtle threat appears in it, as if she is warning me.
Every word of hers sounds like an instruction that I must execute.
"There is a rule: 'Lick, shoot, bite'. You lick the salt off me, then you drink, and then you bite the lime. I will hold the lime with my lips. Is anything unclear?"
"I thought first you have to drink, and then lick. You have it the other way around," I do not hide my confusion.
My words are — not a condemnation, but a light irony sounds in my voice, as if I am trying to understand what stands behind her game.
She looks at me with a slight smirk, not rushing to answer. In her gaze is a mix of mockery and care, as if she is checking whether I am ready for these games.
"If you want it so badly, you can lick a little, drink, and then finish licking what's left and follow it with the lime. I'm not particularly against changing the combinations. Everyone drinks however they want."
Her words sound like permission for an experiment, as if she is inviting me to join this strange ritual with alcohol. There is such freedom in them, such confidence, that she could change the rules of the game at any moment, and this freedom begins to act on me, turning what is happening into something thrilling and dangerous.
"Alright, I got it. Let's start."
I step closer, leaving a minimal distance between us. My breathing falters when I find myself next to her, and her presence once again drives me crazy.
Everything inside seems to freeze, and I cannot understand what exactly she is feeling. Her gaze is meaningful, but I cannot decipher it. There is a feeling that we are both standing on the edge of something, but I do not know of what exactly.
I remember how I thought that she would send me away if I proposed something like this. But she agreed. Why? I cannot understand her reaction.
Her indifference to boundaries and rules surprises me. Or does she really not care who to drink with and how? Or does she not perceive me as a man at all?
I discard the first option, remembering how she tried to break free from Ivan's embrace — she is definitely not like everyone else.
I carefully pull aside her swimsuit, while not letting it fall, so that no one sees more than I would like. My movement is slow, almost ticklish, but I know exactly what I want to achieve.
Despite the internal anxiety, I try to respect her space.
My gaze involuntarily slides down, and I feel how the tension mounts. The view is already breathtaking — the swimsuit opens a magnificent view of her slender legs.
But I quickly return to the actions, not allowing myself to lose control. I carefully toss her hair to the other side so it does not interfere.
Suddenly, I discover a luxurious view of her neck, and I feel how the closeness of this moment covers me completely.
I take the glass in my left hand, put my right hand on her back and feel how her body softly yields to my movement. I pull her closer, and she does not resist.
Her left hand ends up on my head, and she lightly squeezes my hair. This gesture is unexpected, but incredibly intimate, as if she is telling me that she is ready to continue, that she wants this just as much as I do.
Her smile is confident and slightly daring. This is something new that makes me tremble inside, as if I have collided with something dangerous and enticing at the same time.
I am stunned by her determination, but I cannot help but give in; I do not know how to resist her magic.
"Come on," her words sound with such impatience that I feel the thirst for continuation taking hold of me.
I lean down to her collarbone and lick off the salt, feeling its taste on my lips. It is strange, but so mesmerizing that I cannot hold back.
Right after this, I sharply wash it down with tequila, feeling how the alcohol pierces me from the inside, forcing my whole body to tense up. The gulp is burning, but unbearably attractive.
I press Katrin even closer, as if I am afraid that after this glass she will disappear, dissolve in the air, and I will be left alone, in emptiness.
Absorbing the drink, I slowly raise my gaze and meet her eyes. She looks at me with a smile full of admiration, like a winner whose victory was sweet and elusive.
But in what exactly has she won? I do not know and do not want to know.
All that I feel — is her gaze, her smile, a thin thread connecting us, and I can neither walk away from her nor break it.
Without taking my eyes off, I lean down again and begin to lick the remaining salt from her skin. My tongue carefully glides along her neck, collarbone, and I feel her warmth, as if with every movement I open a new world.
This is something more intimate than I could have imagined — every centimeter of her skin becomes a new discovery in which I get lost.
When I finish the glass, she is already holding the lime with her lips, waiting for when I will be ready to eat it.
I raise my head, find her lips and, without hesitating, press against them, greedily taking the lime, feeling the sweet-sour taste, but inside me remains a thirst for more — it is only an obstacle.
I want to kiss her, feel her breath, taste, but the lime remains between us as a barrier that only fuels the desire.
After she passes it to me, I lean down again, continuing to lick the salt from her collarbone, occasionally biting her shoulder, which makes her breathe heavily beneath me.
Every breath of hers is — like a whisper that I catch and feel with my whole skin. I hear how she too is losing control, and this arouses me even more.
But suddenly the Rebel Girl starts pushing me away. I pull my head back and look at her, not understanding what is happening.
My lips are still wet from the kiss, but she, softly placing a finger on my lips, stops me. Her touch is like a command, but there is so much tenderness in it that I cannot help but obey.
"Well, don't be greedy," she says with slight playfulness. "I want to drink tequila too."
I take a step back, letting her out of my embrace, and the cold air immediately touches my skin, making me shudder.
She prepares everything for the next stage of the game and with a gesture of her finger calls me back.
I approach, and her figure turns out to be so close that I feel her breath, its heat touches my skin, making my heart beat faster.
She takes off my shirt, carefully puts it on the table and begins to smear my neck with salt. It is so intimate and delicate.
A strip of salt stretches from the bottom of my neck almost to the ear, her fingers glide over my skin with such softness that I hardly believe in the reality of this moment.
I feel how the hands caress me, and emotions overwhelm me — a mixture of excitement and anticipation.
The girl stands on the ground, but her movements are so confident that she can reach everything she wants without standing on tiptoes.
Rebel Girl takes a glass in her left hand, and runs her right one into my hair.
It is strange, but I like how her fingers squeeze my hair, how she uses me to feel control.
This gesture is small, but powerful, and I cannot help but give in to its strength.
It speaks of much — of her cruelty and passion, of her ability to make me lose control. This is her world, strange and unpredictable, and I am ready to follow her.
I hold the lime in my lips, feeling its sour taste, which seems strangely sweet combined with the heat flaring up inside.
I look at the girl, waiting for what she will do next. She does not make me wait. Pulling her hand up, she forces me to raise my head, giving herself more access to my neck.
My gaze clouds over when her hot tongue touches my skin. Its movements are gentle, but full of passion.
She slowly moves up, and every touch of hers makes me freeze, feeling how her tongue smoothly glides over my body, awakening a fire that cannot be extinguished.
But instead of continuing, she sharply knocks back the glass, tears the lime from my lips and bites it so rapidly that I barely have time to understand what has happened.
Her movements are precise and confident, but this unexpected acceleration confuses me.
Questions spin in my head: why so fast? Is something wrong? Or... does she not like me?
I try to hide the confusion, pulling a serene mask onto my face, but inside a light wave of anxiety spreads.
"Stop drinking, I want to dance," these words catch me off guard, as if she knows how to disarm me in a second.
I look at her, trying to understand what lies behind this phrase, but instead of an answer I only keep silent, mesmerized.
She, without hesitating, takes me by the hand and pulls me towards the dancing crowd. Her grip is firm, warm, and in this touch there is something undeniably attractive.
I follow her as if hypnotized, feeling how my heart accelerates from every movement of hers.
When we stop, she turns to me and looks with a slight mockery, as if checking how far I am ready to go for her.
Her eyes shine from the light of the fires, and her smile is daring and confident, like that of a person who knows exactly that they control the situation.
"Or do you want your Rebel Girl to dance alone?"
She stands opposite me, her gaze penetrates somewhere deep, straight to my doubts and fears.
And I suddenly realize: she is checking me. Checking whether I will withstand her rhythm, her fire, her rules.
I shake my head slightly, smiling, as if this decision is — the easiest in my life.
Katrin again grabs me by the hand and pulls me into the very thick of the crowd, where the music thunders, and people move like a single living organism.
I follow her like a complete fool, smiling at how she effortlessly turns this moment into a game where I am — merely a player.
My heart beats wildly in my chest, but now I know one thing: with her I am ready to lose control, whatever dance she chooses.