A Night with Mr Bryan

Chapter 3: A Night with Mr Bryan

Why are you late?” He slurred, rubbing his eyes. “You said… you were going to the bathroom.”

I froze. My lips parted but no words came. Naomi’s instructions rang in my head…Don’t speak. Not a word. Let him think you’re me.

His gaze dropped to my dress, the same black silk Naomi had handed me an hour ago. The scent on my skin was her perfume too. She’d planned it all.

He blinked hard, swaying slightly, then dragged a hand down his face. His head tilted as though even holding it up was too much effort. The air smelled of whiskey, sharp and heavy, burning my nostrils.

Every second felt like the room was shrinking, the walls inching closer. I wanted to run, but my legs stayed rooted to the floor. My heartbeat was so loud I feared he could hear it.

I stepped inside slowly, each movement weighted with fear and guilt.

The suite was massive. High ceilings, low lighting. A minibar in the corner, and clothes scattered across the couch like he’d been here for days. The bed was huge, the sheets tangled.

He turned and stumbled toward it, groaning like his head was splitting. He dropped onto the mattress, half-sprawled, then looked up at me with glazed eyes.

“You’re quiet,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Are you okay?”

My throat tightened. I didn’t answer.

His eyes lingered on me, unfocused but soft. He patted the space beside him. “Come here,” he whispered.

I stood frozen at the foot of the bed. My knees locked. For a breathless moment, I nearly shook my head. I nearly said no.

Then my mind flashed to my mother–her face pressed against cold iron bars, her hands clutching at the officers as they dragged her away.

If I walk out now, she stays there. If I stay, maybe she comes home.

I swallowed hard and forced my feet forward. The carpet under my heels felt too soft, swallowing every step like it didn’t want anyone to hear me.

This wasn’t what I believed in.This wasn’t mine. And yet I walked closer.

Because somewhere in a cell, my mother was waiting… waiting for me to do the unthinkable.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands trembling.

“Naomi…” he murmured, reaching for me. His fingers brushed my wrist. “You came back.”

The sound of that name on his lips cut me deeper than any blade. I wanted to scream the truth. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t Naomi. But my lips stayed sealed. My silence was my cage.

Guilt twisted in my chest. His touch was gentle, patient, but my skin crawled. I closed my eyes, holding back a sob.

I wasn’t Celina anymore. Not really. For tonight, I was Naomi…everything Naomi wanted me to be.

He wrapped an arm around me and sighed like he’d found comfort. I pressed my hands against my face, trying to disappear into the mattress, wishing for it to end, praying my heart wouldn’t break completely.

“I wanted…you,” he whispered into my hair. “I was scared you wouldn’t come back…”

His words stabbed deeper than I expected. This man thought he was with the woman he loved. He was drunk, vulnerable, and being used, just like me.

I didn’t respond.

I couldn’t.

I prayed silently that it would end soon. That I wouldn’t break. That I could walk out of this room whole.

But I already knew I wouldn’t.

He snapped me out of my thoughts with a murmur. “Just tell me to stop when you’re not comfortable.”

I nodded–small, forced. My lips were dry. My hands were shaking.

His hand slid slowly to my lower back, the weight of it heavy, pressing. My pulse hammered so violently it felt like the air itself vibrated around me.

And then his palm rested on the curve of my hips.

I didn’t lean into it. I didn’t pull away either.

I just… stayed still.

I wasn't supposed to be here not like this.

But because of Mom… I have to.

His touch was warm through my skirt, deliberate, slow. It wasn't rough, but it still felt wrong. Not because he was being cruel but because I knew this wasn’t mine to receive. Not this version of him, not this softness.

Not tonight.

His hand pressed gently into my lower back before sliding down, settling on the curve of my ass.

The heat from his hand burned through my skirt and into my skin. My heart pounded, not from excitement but from the war happening inside me. The war between screaming and surviving.

“Turn around, Miss Naomi,” he said, voice low and soft.

Miss Naomi.

I wished he would stop calling me Naomi. That name burned more than his touch. I wasn’t her. I didn’t belong here.

He looked at me like I was his prize. His promise. His virgin Naomi. Like, this was some sacred night they’d waited for. His first time with her. His only time, maybe.

Slowly I turned, his hand skimming across me and sliding to my hip. I could feel the way his hand spread from his fingertips on my lower back all the way to where his thumb pressed against the soft skin just in front of my hipbone. I looked down. His eyes locked in mine, intent..

I could see his chest rising and falling, each breath deeper than the last. A muscle twitched in his sharp jaw as his thumb began to move, slowly sliding back and forth, his eyes never leaving mine. He was waiting for me to stop him or maybe to tell him how I feel, just because it was my first time. But I dare not to speak.

His hand grazed my waist, moving lower until it reached the hem of my skirt. I flinched not enough for him to notice. Just enough to feel it echo in my chest.

He slid his hand up my thigh, found the garter, the lace. When his fingers brushed my panties, I stopped breathing.

Don’t react. Don’t make a sound. Just get through this. Please, God…

His touch was gentle. Too gentle. Like he was trying to be careful. Like he cared.

He slipped his fingers beneath the fabric, sliding over my skin, parting me softly. I swallowed hard. My throat burned. He reached the edge of my panties and slipped his fingers under the fabric. I felt him slide against my

skin and graze my c**t. I bit my lips so hard I tasted blood, fighting in the screaming building my throat.