The dressing-room floor was cold linoleum under his palms, the wall at his back peeling with age and sweat. Lena stood above him, and the fluorescent light caught the sharp line of her collarbone as she reached for the hem of her shirt. She pulled it over her head slow — deliberate, ceremonial. Her breasts fell free, the silver hoops in her ears catching light as she tilted her head, watching him watch her. His mouth went dry. She unbuttoned her jeans, pushed them down her thighs, and stepped out of them without hurry, and he felt the air in his chest turn to something thick and unbreathable.
She knelt over him, one knee on either side of his hips, and the heat of her settled against his stomach before she lowered fully. Her cunt was slick against his bare skin — no underwear, she'd planned this — and the wetness of her spread warm across his abdomen as she settled into his lap. Her thighs bracketed his hips, her weight pressing down, and he felt the whole world narrow to this: her skin against his, the sharp smell of her arousal cutting through the stale perfume and sweat of the room. Her dark eyes held his, unblinking.
"Breathe," she said, low and quiet. His chest unlocked. He hadn't realized he'd been holding.
She took his right wrist, lifted his hand, and guided it to her throat. His fingers spread instinctively, trembling, and he felt her pulse under his palm — steady, slow, nothing like the wild hammering in his own chest. She held his hand there, pressing just slightly, teaching him the pressure. His thumb found the hollow of her throat. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft against his callused fingers, and she didn't look away.
"You can hold me," she said. "I'll tell you if it's too much."
His fingers tightened, just a fraction, testing. She exhaled slow, her eyes half-lidding, and the sound she made — not fear, not pain — sent heat straight through him. Her hips rolled forward, once, and the slick heat of her slid against his stomach, leaving a wet trail. His hand on her throat tightened again, reflex, and she rocked into it, her breath catching in a way that made his cock ache against his jeans.
She rocked again, slower this time, grinding against his abdomen, and the friction made her gasp — a soft, broken sound that she let him hear. Her hand stayed over his, pressing his palm into her throat, and he felt the vibration of her pulse under his fingers as she moved against him. Her hips found a rhythm, small and circular, and her cunt left a smear of heat across his skin with every roll. He watched her face — her lips parted, her jaw soft, her dark eyes hazed — and he understood: she was giving him this. Her trust, open and bare under his hand.
"Like that," she breathed. "Feel it."
He pressed his thumb into the soft hollow of her throat, just barely, and she shuddered above him, her rhythm stuttering. Her hand left his, falling to his shoulder for balance, and his hand stayed — his choice now, his grip. She rocked against him harder, chasing something, and the wet sound of her sliding against his skin filled the small room. His fingers trembled against her neck. He held her, and she moved, and neither of them looked away.
His hand slid from her throat, trailing down her chest, past the sharp line of her ribs, over the soft curve of her stomach. She was still rocking against him, slow and wet, and his fingers found the slick heat where her cunt pressed against his skin. He touched her without thinking — two fingers spreading through the wetness, finding her swollen and open. She gasped, her rhythm faltering, and her hand caught his wrist.
"Easy," she breathed, but she didn't push him away. She guided his hand lower, pressing his fingers against her entrance, and he felt the heat of her, the ache of her waiting. He slid one finger inside her, slow, and her head fell back, a low moan spilling from her throat. She was tight around him, wet and clenching, and he felt her pulse through the walls of her cunt.
"Yeah," she whispered, her voice rough. "Like that." He pushed deeper, and she rolled her hips onto his hand, taking him in. His thumb found her clit, slick and hard, and she shuddered, her hand tightening on his wrist. He watched her face — her lips parted, her eyes hazed, her jaw slack — and he understood he was doing this to her.
He added a second finger, stretching her, and she cried out — a sharp, breathless sound that cut through the humming lights. Her cunt gripped him, wet and hot, and he felt the tremor run through her thighs. She rocked against his hand, chasing it now, her breath coming in short gasps.
"Don't stop," she said, but it came out broken, like she wasn't sure she meant it. He didn't stop. He curled his fingers inside her, searching, and when he found the spot that made her gasp and buck, he pressed there, steady, feeling her clench around him.
Her hand left his wrist and grabbed his shoulder, her nails digging in through his shirt. She was close — he could feel it in the way her rhythm grew erratic, in the way her cunt fluttered around his fingers. He watched her, his thumb circling her clit, and she looked at him then — dark eyes wild, vulnerable, trusting.
"Come for me," he said, his voice a rasp he barely recognized.
She did. Her body arched, her mouth opening in a silent cry, and he felt her clench around his fingers, wave after wave, wet and hot against his hand. She rode it out, her hips grinding against his palm, and he held her through it, his fingers still inside her, feeling every pulse.
When she stilled, her forehead dropped to his shoulder, her breath ragged against his neck. He pulled his fingers out slowly, and she gasped at the loss. He didn't know what to do with his hand — wet with her, trembling — so he let it rest on her thigh, her slickness cooling against his skin.
She lifted her head, her eyes finding his, and her hand came up to cup his jaw. Her thumb traced his bottom lip, once, slow. "Good," she said, and the word settled in his chest like a weight he didn't know he needed to carry.