Chapter One: Mira
I didn't come upstairs to find him.
I came to breathe.
To get away from the laughter, the music, the memories.
But the moment I opened the guest room door and heard it click shut behind me, I knew I wasn't alone.
"Took you long enough."
Zayn stepped out from the shadows, the top buttons of his shirt undone, belt already loose. His eyes dragged over me like a violation, like he was seeing something no one else should.
"You knew I'd come," I whispered.
He stalked toward me slowly. The kind of slow that made your breath catch. The kind of slow that promised ruin.
"No," he said. "I knew you'd run. And I knew I'd catch you."
I didn't get a word out before his hand grabbed my throat and his mouth claimed mine.
It wasn't a kiss. It was war.
Tongues, teeth, heat. His body pressed me back against the dresser, his knee wedging between mine. I could feel him already—hard, thick, throbbing through his pants.
"Mira," he growled against my lips. "You wore this little black dress just to piss me off, didn't you?"
"It's my best friend's anniversary."
"You mean my mother's." His grip tightened. "That make this hotter for you?"
It should've made me sick.
But I was already wet. Already desperate.
He spun me around so I faced the mirror. Bent me slightly forward. My dress rode up without effort. I wasn't wearing panties. Not tonight. Not after the way he looked at me during dinner. Not after the way he bit the rim of his champagne glass while staring at my legs.
"You came up here dripping," he muttered. "You really are filthy."
"Then why are you still dressed?" I snapped.
That grin. That goddamn cocky, too-young, too-knowing grin.
He unzipped. Freed himself. Thick and flushed, cock in hand, already hard like he'd been touching himself before I walked in.
"On your knees."
His voice wasn't raised. He didn't need to shout. The authority was already in the way he stood, shirt open, belt dangling, cock heavy in his hand.
I dropped.
Carpet under my knees, him in front of me like temptation made flesh. My lips brushed his tip, and he hissed—soft, sharp, barely restrained.
"Slow," he warned. "You know I lose it when you—"
I swallowed him before he finished.
His head tipped back. One hand flew to my hair, the other gripped the dresser behind him. I took him deep, let him hit the back of my throat, then pulled back with a slick pop and sucked again, slower this time. Teasing. Taunting.
"Mira—fuck, just like that."
I hummed around him. His thighs twitched.
I wrapped one hand around his base and the other between my legs. I didn't need foreplay—I was already soaked. Already ruined.
His hips bucked forward. I let him. Let him fuck my mouth in short, quiet thrusts while my fingers circled my clit beneath the hem of my dress.
He looked down, watched me—lips swollen, eyes glassy, spit on my chin, his cock sliding in and out like we had hours and not minutes before someone noticed we were missing.
"You're gonna make me come," he groaned. "And I'm not done using you yet."
I pulled back just enough to speak.
"Then fuck me, Zayn."
I barely finished the words before he grabbed me.
Zayn's hands found my waist, lifted me effortlessly, and turned me so fast my heels skidded against the carpet. One palm flattened between my shoulder blades, forcing me forward over the dresser. My cheek hit the cool wood, my chest pressed into the surface, and I felt my ass lift involuntarily, waiting for the weight of him.
But instead, there was a pause.
A long, quiet pause filled only by my panting and the muted sound of laughter from the party downstairs.
"Stay just like that," he muttered, voice low and hungry.
I didn't dare look up.
I heard the snap of a plastic case, the soft buzz that followed, and my stomach flipped.
"Zayn—"
"You said fuck me," he interrupted, pressing something cool and rounded to my entrance. "But you're gonna feel this first."
The vibrator slid along my folds, coated instantly with how wet I was. He circled my clit slowly—barely touching—until my knees buckled and my toes curled in my heels. I bit down on my fist to stop the moan that clawed up my throat.
"You're already this close," he whispered, breath grazing the back of my neck. "You came up here aching. You knew I'd take care of it."
He pressed the toy deeper, not inside yet, just teasing. Every vibration lit up my nerves like sparks. My hips moved without permission, chasing friction, chasing that dangerous edge.
"Don't come yet," he warned. "You come before I say, and I'll leave you dripping down your thighs with no cock inside you. You understand?"
I nodded.
He reached up, fisted my hair, yanked me up by it.
"Use your words."
"Yes, Zayn. I understand."
"Good girl."
That praise. That fucking praise. It burned hotter than his threats.
He pushed the vibrator deeper between my folds, slipping just the tip of it inside while his other hand snaked around my throat again. He squeezed gently—not hard enough to cut off air, just enough to hold me still, to remind me whose filthy secret I was.
"Look at yourself," he murmured, eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "Dress pulled up. Mouth swollen. Face flushed. And soaking wet for me."
I whimpered.
"You like knowing they're all downstairs toasting to love and fidelity while I'm up here ruining you, don't you?"
"Yes," I gasped. "Yes, I—fuck—"
The vibrator moved deeper.
My knees buckled. His grip on my throat tightened just enough to hold me up.
I didn't care that the dresser edge bit into my hip. I didn't care that anyone could come looking for me. All I cared about was the promise in his cock pressing against my thigh, the filthy pleasure coiled in my gut, and the heat of his breath on my ear when he finally said—
"Now, Mira. Now you can come."
I shattered.
My legs were still trembling when he pulled the vibrator out of me.
I was breathing hard, my hands gripping the dresser like it was the only thing keeping me upright. My orgasm still rolled through me in waves, heat pulsing low in my belly. But he didn't give me a second to recover.
The vibrator landed somewhere on the carpet with a soft thud.
And then I felt him—his cock nudging between my thighs, already slick from how wet I'd gotten for him.
"Zayn—"
"You think that was the main event?" he muttered behind me. "You're not even close to done."
He pressed into me slow. Too slow.
I could feel every vein, every ridge of him as he eased in, stretching me open inch by thick inch. My hips jerked forward against the dresser, but his hand shot out and pinned me down by the back of my neck.
"Stay still," he growled. "I want to feel every second of this."
The stretch made me gasp. My eyes flew open and met our reflection again in the mirror—his jaw clenched, his eyes locked on where he was sinking into me. My dress was bunched at my waist, makeup smudged, my mouth parted as I fought to stay quiet.
He filled me to the hilt.
"Fuck," he whispered. "You feel tighter every time."
"You make me like this," I hissed. "You always have."
He pulled out slow, then slammed back in.
The force rattled the dresser. I slapped a hand over my mouth to muffle the noise.
He didn't stop. He set a brutal rhythm, one hand gripping my hip, the other fisting in my hair, yanking my head back so I couldn't look away from what we were.
"You think you're quiet, Mira?" he said against my ear. "You're fucking not."
"We'll get caught—"
"You're scared of getting caught, but you let me fuck you in my mother's house?" He thrust harder. "That mouth says no, but your pussy's begging me to keep going."
My legs were jelly. My spine arched as he fucked into me deep and slow, grinding with every thrust like he wanted to own every inch inside me.
His fingers slid between my legs and circled my clit—again. I whined low and desperate.
"You're gonna come again," he murmured. "And you're gonna do it with my cock so deep in you, you'll feel it for days."
"Zayn—please—"
"You want my cum?" he asked, slamming into me again.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I want your cum. I want to feel it inside me. Fuck—Zayn, I want everything."
That was all it took.
He bit down on my shoulder—hard—and I shattered again, tighter this time, clenching around him as he groaned into my skin and thrust so deep I thought I'd break.
He came with a quiet growl, holding himself inside me as we both shook, still locked together in sweat and filth and silence.
But even as the wave passed, he didn't let me go.
I was still trembling, still stretched around him, when he pulled out slowly—too slowly—and let my body feel every inch leaving me.
His cum dripped down my thighs. My dress was twisted around my waist, my cheek still pressed against the cool surface of the dresser. My knees threatened to give way, but his hands kept me steady, holding me there as if the night wasn't done with me yet.
"You good?" he asked, voice rough, almost mocking.
"No," I whispered.
He chuckled low behind me.
"Then let's fix that."
I thought he meant helping me up, maybe offering water, some sort of human gesture. But I should've known better. Zayn didn't offer comfort. He offered more ruin.
He pulled me back gently, like I weighed nothing, turning me until I faced him again. My legs were unsteady, but he lifted me like I was weightless and set me on the edge of the dresser, spreading my thighs with both hands, eyes locked on the slick mess between them.
"You're dripping," he murmured.
"Because you—"
He leaned in, pressing a finger against my lips.
"No excuses."
His mouth dipped to my inner thigh, tongue dragging up the sticky trail he'd left. I jerked, hips twitching, breath caught. I was still sensitive. Still pulsing. But it didn't stop him. His tongue found my clit again—slower this time, no rush, no mercy.
"Zayn, please—"
"You don't want me to stop," he said into me. "You just don't know how to take more."
He slipped two fingers inside, curling them just right, making me moan into my own hand again as his tongue circled my clit in perfect rhythm. I couldn't think. Couldn't speak. My whole body felt like it was being played.
He had me teetering on the edge again before he even stood up.
"Lie back," he ordered, already sliding the vibrator back into his palm.
I did as he said, my back against the smooth surface of the dresser, legs spread wide. He kissed his way up my body—inner thighs, stomach, the underside of my breasts. Then he slipped the vibrator inside me again, pressing it deep, keeping it there while his mouth wrapped around my nipple and bit.
My back arched off the wood.
"So fucking pretty like this," he growled. "You gonna come for me again?"
"Yes."
"That's not good enough."
He slid his cock between my slick folds, teasing. Just the tip. Then the full length, slow, letting the toy vibrate inside me while he filled me again.
"You gonna come with my cock inside and this toy buzzing in your pussy like it owns you?"
"Yes, Zayn. Yes—fuck—please."
He thrust deeper, angling up, letting the vibrator press against a spot that made my whole body jolt. I cried out.
"Shhh," he breathed into my ear. "Quiet now, Mira. Don't forget where we are."
I buried my face in his shoulder as he fucked me harder—one hand pressing the toy deeper, the other covering my mouth. His breath was ragged, his rhythm relentless, and all I could do was take it.
Take everything.
"You love this," he said. "Being used. Bent. Full. Soaked. Knowing they're downstairs and you're up here letting me do whatever I want."
I nodded, body shaking. I was close again. Too close.
"Say it," he snapped. "Say who's fucking you."
"Zayn," I moaned into his hand. "You. Only you."
His hips stuttered. The vibrator pushed hard against me. And I came again—louder this time, helpless, messy, broken apart on his cock and the pressure inside me.
He followed, thrusting deep, holding there as he spilled into me again. The way he groaned in my ear made me throb all over.
Silence followed.
Our breathing was the only sound. My body buzzed. My thighs were soaked. My lipstick was gone, my hair a wreck. And still, he didn't let go.
"Stay," he said, his lips brushing mine.
But before I could answer, a voice carried faintly up the stairs.
"Mira?"
My heart stopped.
Korra.