Page 51 of His Orders

“Done,” he replies without missing a beat. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

He doesn’t give me a chance to ask what we’re seeing or where, but I don’t press. I like that he’s planning something, that he’s making space for me in ways I never expected, never asked for. When the call ends, I set the phone down gently, heart lifting in that light, fizzy way it does around him, and I spend the rest of the afternoon floating on the feeling, letting it color everything with a faint, anticipatory glow.

By the time I step outside that evening, the world has tipped into twilight, the streets of Valleria washed in soft amber, fairy lights flickering from the edges of windows, and the scent of roasted chestnuts rising in the air like an old holiday song brought to life. Ethan waits beside the car, tall and elegant in a dark coat, his eyes catching the light like a secret, and the moment he sees me, something in his expression softens—not the usual smirk, not even the teasing half-grin he reserves for our sharpest exchanges, but something quieter, deeper, like he’s been waiting for this all day too.

“You look beautiful,” he says as he opens the door for me, and even though the dress is simple, soft wool and velvet in muted winter blue, I feel it in my bones, the way he sees me. Like I’m the only thing that exists in his line of sight.

We drive without rush, the radio playing low in the background, the city moving slowly around us like a living thing settling into its evening rhythm, and I don’t realize where we’re going until we pull up in front of an old theater, the kind with a marquee lit in warm bulbs and a red carpet runner leading up to tall glass doors.

There’s no line. No crowd. Just Ethan, who helps me out of the car and leads me toward the entrance with a look that makes my pulse skip, that makes me feel like I’ve stepped into a story he’s writing just for us.

The lobby is empty except for a single attendant who greets him with a nod, then hands him a set of keys and disappears down a corridor without a word.

“You booked the entire theater?” I ask, half-laughing, half-breathless.

He glances at me, pleased, then offers his arm. “I told you. You needed popcorn. And privacy.”

The theater itself is beautiful, all velvet seats and golden sconces, the kind of place built when film was still new and opulence was expected. He leads me down the aisle to the center row, and we settle in, side by side, our shoulders touching just enough to make my skin sing.

The movie is old and romantic, sweeping vistas and orchestral swells, lovers who fight and part and find their way back to each other across continents and lifetimes. But I hardly watch it.

I watch him instead.

The way his hand brushes mine, his thumb trailing along my knuckles like he’s learning them by heart. The way his gaze flicks toward me in the glow of the screen, dark and intent, until his arm slides around the back of my seat and draws me in closer, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

When his fingers curl around my waist, I let myself sink into the warmth of him, let my head rest on his shoulder, and breathein the scent that’s become so familiar it nearly undoes me—soap and cedar and the faintest trace of skin warmed by desire.

His lips find my neck first, brushing just beneath my ear, a whisper of heat that sends a tremor down my spine. Then he’s kissing lower, slower, until his hand drifts to my thigh, guiding it across his lap until I’m straddling him in the half-dark, the moving light of the film casting shadows across our skin.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, voice thick, hands already sliding up beneath the hem of my dress.

I nod, breath caught somewhere between need and surrender. “I want you.”

The seats creak faintly beneath us, but the sound fades beneath the rush of blood in my ears and the heat building low in my belly. The screen flickers in front of us, casting golden light across Ethan’s face, but my focus is entirely on the way his hands grip my hips like he owns them, like he’s been waiting all night to get me back in his lap, where I clearly belong. There’s reverence in the way he touches me, yes, but there’s filth in the way his fingers drag up under my sweater and squeeze the bare curve of my ass, rough and hungry, like he’s seconds away from breaking every rule he’s ever set for himself.

I roll my hips over his cock, still pressed tightly beneath his jeans, and the friction pulls a guttural sound from his throat that makes my pussy clench around nothing. His mouth finds mine again, kissing me deep and slow, the kind of kiss that feels like possession and prayer all at once, but I can feel how hard he is now, feel the way he’s holding back, barely, and it only makes me grind down harder. His fingers flex, then move, tugging the soft cotton of my panties to the side, just enough to bare my soakedcunt to the cool air and the hot, solid pressure of his cock still straining inside his jeans.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters against my lips, his breath harsh and uneven as he shifts beneath me, his hands moving to undo his fly, working quickly, not carelessly, but like he’s already too far gone to pretend he doesn’t need this just as badly as I do. I help him, fumbling the button open, dragging the zipper down, and the moment his cock springs free, thick and hard and already glistening at the tip, I nearly whimper.

I wrap one hand around him, stroking him slowly, watching his head fall back against the seat as he groans through gritted teeth, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he tries to stay still. But there’s nothing still about the way I line him up, nothing soft in the way I sink down onto his cock, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated inside me and my walls are gripping him like I never want to let go. The stretch is deep and obscene, and the angle makes me see stars for a moment, my breath catching as he presses right against that tender spot inside me that makes my legs shake.

“Oh, my God,” I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders for balance as I start to move, slowly at first, testing the drag of his cock against my G-spot with every grind of my hips. He’s thick and hot inside me, every inch hitting just right, and the way he watches me, jaw clenched, eyes locked on where we’re joined, makes it feel even filthier.

“You’re fucking soaked,” he growls, one hand sliding between us to press his thumb against my clit in tight, punishing circles. “This pussy missed me, didn’t it? Missed being full of cock like this.”

I moan, loud and desperate, not caring how the sound echoes in the empty theater. “Yes, fuck, I missed this. Missed you.”

He thrusts up into me, hard, and the sudden slam of his cock against my cervix makes me cry out, my whole body jolting from the force. I ride him faster now, chasing the friction, grinding my clit down against the base of his cock with every stroke as heat builds between us, thick and fast and impossible to ignore.

“You feel that?” he pants, voice wrecked, lips brushing my ear. “That’s your greedy little cunt sucking me in, trying to keep me right here.”

I nod, unable to speak as another thrust slams into my G-spot, making me jolt and tighten, my moans coming faster, messier, completely unrestrained. My thighs tremble, the pressure in my core winding tight and hot, every nerve ending lit up as I ride the edge of release, my hands clinging to his shoulders like I’ll fly apart if I let go.

“Come for me,” he growls, biting the side of my neck hard enough to make me cry out. “Wanna feel you soak my cock, baby.”

I shatter with a scream muffled against his throat, my pussy clenching and fluttering around him as I come hard, gushing around his cock, soaking him with every wave of release. My whole body shakes in his lap, and he grabs my ass, slamming me down onto him again and again, chasing his own high as I sob and tremble in his arms.

“Take it,” he snarls, the sound low and feral. “Take every fucking drop.”

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