Forbidden Rose

The first morning at the mansion

Arina woke up at five in the morning to the sound of the old alarm on her phone. The room in the annex was small but clean: a narrow bed, a wooden wardrobe, a small table by the window, and a shower down the shared hallway. For the first time in a long while, she had slept in silence—no mother coughing behind the wall, no neighbors shouting through the thin walls of their apartment. But her sleep had been restless. All night, she had dreamed of him—Daniel Rivers. His gray eyes that didn’t just look through her but inside her, as if stripping her to the bone. His voice—low, commanding, sending shivers down her spine. And his body: broad shoulders, strong arms that, in her dream, pinned her against the café wall, not letting her move. She woke up with heat throbbing between her thighs, the sheet damp with sweat and a desire she didn’t want to admit.

She got up, took a cold shower to cool her body, and put on the uniform Mrs. Gray had given her the day before: a gray cotton blouse with short sleeves and a knee-length skirt. The fabric was soft but fitted—accentuating her slim waist, rounded hips, and full breasts, which Arina usually hid under loose sweaters. In the mirror, she saw a stranger: hair pulled into a neat ponytail, face bare of makeup, but her eyes burning with a strange fire. “Don’t think about him,” she told her reflection. “You’re here for the money. Only for the money.”

By six, she was in the kitchen. Mrs. Gray was waiting with a cup of tea in hand. “Start with the dining room floor, then the kitchen, then the living room. Mr. Rivers gets up at seven-thirty. Brew his coffee only from that jar—he brings the beans himself from New York. And don’t get in his way unless necessary.”

Arina nodded and took the mop. The dining room floor was dark wood, polished to a shine. She worked quickly but thoroughly—every inch. Sweat trickled down her back, the blouse clinging to her skin. She bent to wipe under the table, feeling the skirt ride up slightly above her knees. For a moment, she caught herself thinking, “What if he sees?”—and immediately scolded herself. “Stop it.”

At seven-thirty, footsteps sounded. Firm, confident. Daniel was coming down the stairs. Arina was in the corner of the living room, dusting a tall vase, and she froze. He passed by—in a black shirt with sleeves rolled up and trousers that hugged his strong thighs. The scent of his cologne hit her—the same as what lingered in the café after the spilled coffee: woody, with a note of pepper and something dark, masculine. He didn’t look at her, but she felt his presence with her whole body—as if the air around her had grown thicker.

He sat at the table in the dining room. Mrs. Gray brought the coffee. Arina kept working, but out of the corner of her eye, she watched. He drank slowly, scrolling on his tablet. His fingers—long, strong—wrapped around the mug. She imagined those fingers on her skin, gripping her wrists, pinning her to the wall. Heat flooded her lower belly again. She pressed her thighs together, trying to ease the throbbing.

After breakfast, he went to his study. Arina exhaled. But the tension didn’t leave. It hung in the air all day.

By lunchtime, the heat was unbearable. The air conditioning worked only in the main rooms; the annex had none. Arina was cleaning the pool in the backyard—the water was a perfect blue, crystal clear. She knelt, scrubbing the tiles with a brush, her blouse plastered to her chest, n*****s visible through the fabric from the cold water and sweat. She didn’t hear the footsteps.

“You always work so… intensely?” His voice came from behind her.

Arina startled and turned. Daniel stood in the terrace doorway, still in the same shirt but unbuttoned at the top three—revealing a strong chest with a light dusting of dark hair. His gaze slid slowly over her body—from her wet hair down to her hips, where water dripped.

She stood, trying to hold on to her dignity. “Yes. I try to do everything well.”

He stepped closer. Too close. She felt the heat of his body despite the meter between them. “I can see that,” he said low. His eyes lingered on her lips, then dropped lower—to her chest, where the fabric outlined every curve. “You’re… wet.”

Arina felt her cheeks burn. “From the pool water.”

He smirked—truly, for the first time. The smile was predatory, dangerous. “I meant sweat. It’s hot.”

He reached out and touched her cheek—with his thumb, wiping away a drop of water (or sweat). The touch was light but electric. Arina froze. His finger slid lower—down her neck, to her collarbone. She stopped breathing.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered. “Afraid of me?”

“No,” she lied, her voice shaking.

He leaned in closer. His breath brushed her ear. “Good. You shouldn’t fear me. You should fear what I could do to you.”

He pulled back just as suddenly. “Keep working.”

And he left.

Arina stood there for a long time, unable to move. Everything throbbed between her legs. She sat on the pool edge, pressing her hand between her thighs, trying to ease the ache. “This is madness,” she thought. “He’s playing. He always plays with women like this.”

But her body didn’t listen to reason.

That evening, back in the annex, she took a shower—cold, then hot—but nothing helped. She lay naked on the bed, the sheet cool against her back. Her hand slid down on its own—between her thighs, where she was soaked, not from water. She closed her eyes and imagined him: bursting in without knocking, ripping off her uniform, pinning her to the wall, his lips hard, his hands rough but precise. He entered her in one thrust—deep, commanding, giving her no time to adjust. She moaned into the pillow, fingers moving fast, imagining him inside her. The orgasm crashed over her like a wave—intense, almost painful. She cried out his name into the empty room.

Afterward, she felt ashamed. But also sweet.

The next day, he appeared again—in the library, where she was dusting the high shelves. She stood on the ladder, her skirt hiked up above her knees. He approached from behind, silent. Placed his hands on her hips—firmly, confidently. She froze.

“Careful. You’ll fall,” he said, but didn’t remove his hands. His fingers gripped her skin through the fabric.

Arina turned. They were eye-level—her face opposite his. His eyes burned.

“You’re playing with fire, Arina.”

“You started it,” she whispered.

He smirked. “And I’ll finish it. When I want to.”

His hand slid higher—under her skirt, along her thigh. She gasped. He stopped a centimeter from the edge of her panties.

“But not today.”

He removed his hands and left.

Arina climbed down the ladder on shaky legs. She was completely wet. “He knows,” she thought. “He feels it.”

The days went on like that: he touched her “accidentally”—a hand across her back as he passed, fingers brushing her wrist when taking something from her hands. Each time—like an electric shock. She responded with looks—challenge, desire. But he didn’t cross the line. He kept distance. Controlled.

Arina was going insane. At night, she m*********d, imagining him inside her—hard, without tenderness, just as he’d implied. During the day, she worked, but her whole body was tuned to him: where he was, what he was doing, when he would appear again.

By the end of the first week, she realized: this wasn’t just attraction. It was obsession. And he felt the same—his gazes grew darker, his hands bolder. But he waited. Controlled himself. And her.

One evening, as she was washing dishes in the kitchen, he came in. Without a word, he approached from behind and pressed her against the sink. His body—hard, hot—molded to her back. She felt his erection through his trousers—large, rigid.

“You’re driving me insane,” he whispered into her neck, his lips brushing her skin. “I’ve been walking around like this every day because of you.”

His hand slid under her blouse—up her stomach, to her breast. He cupped it through her bra—firmly, but not painfully. Her n****e hardened instantly.

Arina arched back, pressing her ass against him. “Then take me,” she breathed.

He growled softly. “Not yet.”

He pulled away.

Left her alone—trembling, soaked, ready to explode.

Arina understood: he wasn’t weak. He was a predator. And he played by his own rules.