
I have always admired the beauty of destruction. There’s something intoxicating about watching things crash and burn, about stripping life down to its bare, unvarnished truth. I don’t leave anything to chance—I orchestrate the flames. If it must burn, then I will be the one to light the match. Metaphorically, of course. Though, truth be told, fire heals. I’ve burned letters, gifts, fragments of lives that no longer serve me, each ash-streaked ritual a declaration of closure. A final, searing end until nothing but embers remain.
Adam and I met that day because something had to burn. When he opened the door, cradling a dozen Black Baccara roses in his arms, my heart betrayed me with a flutter, a reminder it still lived within my chest. “Master Liz,” he murmured, his voice soft and imploring as he leaned in to greet me with two kisses. His eyes, those doe-like, pleading eyes, locked onto mine, brimming with an emotion I refused to name. “Please don’t do this.”
I slid my Versace sunglasses off—the ones with the gold detail I actually liked—and fixed him with a look I knew would disarm him. “May I come in?”
He nodded, stepping aside to let me into the warm cocoon of his brownstone. It was a house I had grown fond of, perched on a tree-lined street opposite the park where I lived. How many times had we met halfway through that park, bridging the distance between his world and mine? How many stolen afternoons had we spent in the quiet comfort of each other’s homes, tangled in desire? And yet, like all good things, this too had to end.
“I won’t see you once a month,” I said, my voice calm but unyielding, “and I can’t abide this fiancée.” I spat the word like it was venom. She was the embodiment of my own mortality—young, sweet, pure. She would marry him, my monster, utterly unaware of what lurked beneath his carefully polished surface. The idea of her innocence enraged me, yet it was her beauty that made me pity her most. She had no idea what she was inheriting.
He extended the roses to me. “They’re real,” he whispered.
“Are they?” I asked, lifting my gaze to meet his. He nodded solemnly, and the moment stretched taut between us before snapping like a bowstring as our lips collided. The kiss was deep, raw, and almost cruel, filled with the ferocity of everything we couldn’t say. My teeth sank into his lower lip, drawing blood. He moaned softly, his hardness pressing against me, betraying his surrender.
“Take off your shirt,” I commanded.
He obeyed without hesitation, peeling off a cashmere sweater and crisp white shirt, leaving his skin bare to me. His vulnerability—his willingness to kneel before my wrath—only made him more beautiful. I motioned silently for him to drop to his knees. His gaze fell to the floor as he obeyed, a glint of defiance tempered by reverence.
“These roses are expensive,” I murmured, plucking one from the bouquet. Slowly, deliberately, I traced the velvety petals down his skin, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. He closed his eyes, his breath hitching as I leaned in to kiss him again. The mingling tastes of blood, saliva, and desire were electric, a flavor that seared itself into my memory.
Then, without warning, I struck him with the rose. A sharp slap of petals and thorns against his pale, unmarred back. His body tensed, but he did not cry out. I gathered three roses in my hand and struck him again, harder this time, watching as thin red lines bloomed across his skin, beads of blood trickling down his back. Petals scattered across the carpet like remnants of a broken promise.
“How dare you make me want you like this,” I hissed, punctuating my words with another sharp strike, “only to impose conditions.”
For a moment, I thought I saw tears in his eyes—not from pain; Adam welcomed pain, relished it. This was something deeper. Shame? Regret? The kind of vulnerability he never allowed himself to show.
“Look at me, Adam.”
His eyes lifted to mine, glistening and wide, brimming with unshed tears. “Hands behind your back,” I ordered. He complied, and I couldn’t suppress the wicked smile that curved my lips. Kneeling before me, bound by my will, he was everything I wanted him to be—everything I knew he could never stay.
“Open your mouth.”
He obeyed, and I scooped a handful of petals from the floor, shoving them between his lips. He didn’t resist, only stared up at me as the floral remnants filled his mouth. Despite the violence, or perhaps because of it, his arousal was evident, straining against his trousers.
“You’ll never see me again,” I said, my voice a low, venomous whisper, “but you’ll remember me for the rest of your miserable existence.”
And he would.
With a slow, deliberate motion, I pressed my left foot against his shoulder, tipping him onto his back. He fell with a muted thud, struggling to keep his hands behind him as instructed. My crocodile-skin boot, gleaming under the low light, found its place on his bare chest. His breath hitched, his pupils dark and pleading. I had long forgotten where I had gotten these boots, or what designer had crafted them—but at this moment, they belonged exactly where they were: on Adam’s skin, pressing down on the trembling beat of his heart.
This is why you never mix emotions in these dynamics. This is why younger men are a terrible idea, especially the beautiful ones with their aristocratic names and impeccable pedigrees. They crumble too easily. They linger too long.
I removed my leather gloves and placed them neatly on the sofa, alongside my YSL bag. From within, I pulled out a coil of rope.
"Back on your knees."
He obeyed instantly, rising with the kind of practiced grace that made my pulse quicken. I reached for another rose from the bouquet, its velvety petals nearly black in the dim light. I wanted to tell him how much I loved them—how much I loved this—but if I did, he would see too much of me. And I had already allowed more vulnerability than I should have.
The ones I enjoy always have to be let go. The ones I don’t, they haunt me with their incessant neediness, grasping for more than I will ever give.
"Stick out your tongue," I ordered.
He did, his lips parting, his breath warm against my fingertips as I traced the delicate petals along the wet expanse of his tongue. A bead of saliva escaped, glistening against his chin before falling onto the carpet. My own body responded, tightening with heat.
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