YURI

CHAPTER NINETEEN

As the kiss deepened, I felt myself melting into him, my hips instinctively rolling against his lap in slow, deliberate circles. His grip on my hip tightened—firm, almost possessive—as if he was trying to still me, to keep me from pushing things any further.

But every time I felt him harden beneath me, every inch he grew against me, it was like pouring gasoline on an open flame. My thoughts screamed *this is the time to stop*, that I should pull back before I crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.

But my body? My body was a traitor. My body pressed closer, hips grinding with a mind of their own. My fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his shirt, and instead of stopping, my lips moved more urgently against his, drawing him in deeper.

And the truth was… I didn’t want it to stop. Not even a little.

He broke the kiss abruptly, his hands firm but not rough as he gently pushed me off his lap.

I sat there in silence, my breath still uneven, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to break free. My lips were swollen, my body still humming from the heat of his touch, but my mind was a complete blank.

I didn’t ask why. I didn’t plead. I didn’t even wait to see if he would explain himself.

Instead, I stood, tightening the belt of my robe around me like it was the only thing holding me together, and walked to the door without looking back.

If I stayed a second longer, I wasn’t sure if I’d hear words I didn’t want to hear…

I think I heard him call out my name—soft, almost hesitant—but maybe it was just my imagination playing tricks on me, whispering what I desperately wanted to hear.

I didn’t stop to find out. I rushed straight to my room, shutting the door with more force than necessary. My chest felt tight, my cheeks were burning, and all that heat from earlier had twisted into something else entirely—humiliation.

God, I wanted to scream. I wanted to kick something, throw something, anything to release the storm inside me. Instead, I grabbed my pillow, buried my face in it, and screamed until my throat ached.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

I was supposed to tease him, make him squirm, get under his skin the way he had been getting under mine for days now. I wasn’t supposed to melt against him like some lovesick teenager. I wasn’t supposed to give myself away so easily.

But here I was—humiliated, frustrated, and painfully aware that not only had I failed at my little game, I’d been rejected in the process.

Oh my God. I feel so embarrassed I could disappear into the floor right now.

I just lay on my bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, my mind looping the scene over and over like a cruel movie I couldn’t pause. Every detail replayed—the heat of his hands, the way his lips moved against mine, the exact moment he pulled away, the look in his eyes before he gently pushed me aside.

Each time I replayed it, my stomach knotted tighter, the sting of embarrassment mixing with something I didn’t want to name—longing.

Eventually, the ache in my chest dulled, my eyelids grew heavy, and the sharp edges of my thoughts blurred. The room faded into darkness, and without realizing it, I slipped into the pull of sleep, still tangled in the remnants of his touch.