Forbidden Rose

Weeks of tension

July claimed its rights with suffocating heat. Daytime temperatures soared past thirty-five degrees, and even in the evenings, the air refused to cool—it hung heavy, humid, saturated with the scent of blooming roses and freshly cut grass from the garden. In the mansion, the air conditioners hummed constantly, but in the annex where Arina lived, there were none. Only an old fan on the table, lazily circulating the hot air around the room. She had grown used to sleeping naked, the sheet clinging to her skin, while her thoughts—always the same—revolved around him.

Daniel Rivers never left her mind for a moment. After that scene in the kitchen, when he pressed her against the sink and let her feel just how badly he wanted her, he regained control. Pulled back. Became even colder during the day—passing by without a glance, giving orders through Mrs. Gray. But Arina knew: it was a mask. His eyes gave everything away. When she bent to wipe the floor, he stood in the doorway and watched—long, hungrily, as if memorizing every curve of her body. When she cleaned the windows in his study, he worked at his desk, but she saw in the glass's reflection how his gaze slid over her legs, her ass, her breasts swaying with the motion.

He was playing. Teasing. Keeping her on the edge—and himself too.

A week had passed since that night in the kitchen. Arina was working in the library—dusting the high shelves, standing on the ladder. Her uniform clung to her body again from sweat, the blouse unbuttoned at the top— the heat was unbearable. She reached for the upper shelf, her skirt riding up, exposing her thighs almost to the lace tops of her stockings (Mrs. Gray had issued them as part of the uniform—thin, with lacy bands).

She didn't hear him enter.

She only felt it—the air changed. Grew thicker. Hotter.

Daniel stood at the door, arms crossed over his chest. His shirt unbuttoned at two buttons, sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms veined with tension. His eyes—dark, almost black with desire.

"You're doing this on purpose," he said low, his voice vibrating in the library's silence.

Arina froze on the ladder but didn't turn immediately. "Doing what?"

"Arching like that. Showing yourself. Teasing me."

She slowly climbed down, facing him. Her chest heaved with heavy breaths. "I'm just working."

He stepped closer. Another step. Stopped half a meter away. His scent—cologne, sweat, pure male—hit her like a wave. "You're lying. You want me to look. You want me to snap."

Arina lifted her chin. "And do you want to snap?"

The corner of his mouth twitched in a predatory smile. "More than anything in the world."

He closed the distance. His hand settled on her waist—firmly, confidently. Fingers dug into her skin through the thin fabric. His other hand on her neck, thumb tracing the pulsing vein.

"You're trembling again," he whispered, leaning so close his lips nearly brushed hers. "And not from fear."

Arina felt his erection—he pressed his hips forward, and she gasped softly. He was huge, hard, hot even through his trousers.

"Feel what you do to me?" His voice roughened. "Every day I walk on a knife's edge. I want to take you right here—on this desk, on the floor, against the window. Want to spread your legs and thrust so deep you'll scream my name until your voice gives out."

Her knees buckled. She clutched his shirt to stay upright. Everything throbbed between her legs—she was soaked, ready, from his words alone.

"Then why don't you?" she breathed, meeting his eyes. Challenge. Desire.

He growled low—a real growl that sent shivers across her skin. His hand slid lower—along her thigh, under her skirt. Fingers found the edge of her panties, traced the damp fabric.

"God, you're dripping," he whispered hoarsely. "So wet for me."

One finger slipped under the fabric—touched her c**t, circled. Arina moaned, arching into him.

But he stopped. Withdrew his hand.

"Because I want you to beg," he said, pulling back. His eyes burned. "I want you to come to me yourself. On your knees if necessary. And then I'll take you how I want. Long. Hard. Until you forget your own name."

He left, leaving her alone—trembling, on the brink of orgasm, with soaked panties and an aching emptiness inside.

Arina slid down the wall to the floor. Her hand slipped under her skirt on its own—she came in seconds, imagining him thrusting into her, filling her completely, owning her.

After that, the real games began.

Every day—a new torment.

In the morning, he "accidentally" passed by while she cleaned the pool in just her swimsuit (Mrs. Gray had allowed it because of the heat). His gaze seared her. He stripped off his shirt, remaining in trousers, and dove into the water—his body perfect: broad back, abs, arms that could break or protect. He swam like a predator, then emerged—water streaming down his muscles, trousers clinging, outlining everything. He knew she was watching. Smiled with the corner of his mouth.

In the afternoon—in his study. He summoned her "for business"—to bring papers, coffee. Locked the door. Pressed her against the desk from behind, hand under her blouse, fingers pinching her n*****s to the edge of pain and pleasure. Whispered filthy words in her ear: what he'd do to her breasts, how he'd lick between her legs until she came in his mouth. Brought her to the brink—and stopped.

In the evening—in the garden. She watered the roses; he appeared from the darkness. Pinned her to a tree, hand under her skirt—two fingers inside, slow, deep. She bit her lips to stay quiet. He looked into her eyes: "Quiet. I don't want anyone hearing how you come for me."

But he never finished it. Never kissed her. Never took her fully.

Arina was losing her mind. At night, she m*********d three times—imagining him inside, f*****g her mercilessly, coming in her. During the day, she moved in a haze, her body constantly aroused.

She started responding. Teasing back.

One morning, she "forgot" to button the top of her blouse—the lace bra peeked through. She bent deeper than necessary in front of him. Saw his jaw clench.

Another day—in the library—she stood on the ladder, knowing he was watching from below. Deliberately parted her legs a little wider. He saw—her panties soaked through. She heard his quiet groan.

One evening in the greenhouse, she took off her blouse—"too hot"—and worked in just her bra. He entered—froze. His eyes darkened to black.

"You're playing with fire, baby," he said dangerously quiet.

"Afraid of getting burned?" she replied, stepping closer. Her breasts nearly brushed his shirt.

He grabbed her wrists—hard, raised her arms overhead, pinned her to the glass wall of the greenhouse. His body molded fully to hers—his erection pressed into her stomach.

"I'm not afraid. I control it. But if you keep this up—I'll snap. And then you won't walk for a week."

She arched, grinding against him. "Maybe that's what I want."

He growled, leaned in—lips a millimeter from hers. She felt his breath—hot, ragged.

But he pulled back again.

"Not today."

And left.

Arina remained alone—her body on fire, tears of frustration and desire in her eyes. She hated him for that control. And wanted him even more.

By the end of July, the tension became unbearable. They were both on the edge. Every glance—like a blow. Every accidental touch—like s*x.

One night, a thunderstorm broke. The power went out across the entire mansion. Arina sat in her room, shivering—she'd feared the dark since childhood. A knock at the door.

She opened it—Daniel with a flashlight. He wore only trousers, torso bare—muscles glistening with sweat.

"You okay?" he asked, but his eyes said something else.

She shook her head.

He entered. Closed the door.

"I can't take it anymore," he said hoarsely.

And kissed her—for the first time.

Roughly, greedily, as if dying of thirst. His lips crushed hers, tongue invading, claiming, exploring. She responded—with all the pent-up passion, fingers tangling in his hair, pressing her whole body to him.

He lifted her—easily, like a feather—and carried her to the bed.

But in this chapter—only the kiss. Hard, long, wet. He f****d her mouth with his tongue, showing what he'd do lower. She moaned into his lips, legs wrapping around his waist.

Then he pulled back—breathing heavily.

"Not today. But soon. When you're ready to beg."

He left.

Left her—on the edge, soaked, trembling, with swollen lips and the taste of him in her mouth.

Arina realized: he didn't just want her body. He wanted her soul. Completely. Without reserve.

And she was ready to give it.