The Dictation

I Want You

Belinda spent the rest of the day in a fog.

The note in her pocket felt like a live wire. Every time she moved, she felt it against her thigh. A reminder that someone was watching. Someone knew. Someone would be at the penthouse tonight.

She should cancel. She should go home, lock her door, and pretend none of this had ever happened.

But she couldn't.

Because Lucas Alejandro was waiting for her. And she had never wanted anything more than she wanted him.

At six thirty, she stood outside his building. The tower rose above her, glass and steel, reflecting the dying light of the setting sun. Her hands were shaking. Her heart was pounding.

She walked inside.

The lobby was empty. The security desk was unmanned. The elevator doors opened as if they had been expecting her.

She stepped inside. Pressed the button for the top floor.

The elevator rose.

Floor after floor. Numbers ticking upward. Her reflection stared back at her from the polished metal doors. Red silk dress. Hair down. No underwear.

She had made that decision in the cab. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it all the way.

The doors opened.

A private foyer. One door. One apartment.

She knocked.

The door opened.

Lucas stood in the doorway. He was not wearing a suit. Black trousers. White shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Those forearms.

His eyes traveled down her body. Stopped at the red silk. Traveled back up.

"You came," he said.

"I said I would."

"So you did."

He stepped aside. She walked past him into the penthouse.

The apartment was warm. Candlelit. Smelling like cedar and something cooking in the kitchen. A table was set for two.

"You made dinner," she said.

"I cook when I'm nervous."

"You? Nervous?"

He closed the door. Turned to face her. His hands were in his pockets. His shoulders were tense.

"I haven't done this in a long time," he said. "I don't want to mess it up."

Belinda walked toward him. Slowly. Deliberately. She stopped when her chest was inches from his.

"You won't mess it up," she said.

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm already yours."

She reached up and touched his face. His stubble scraped her palm. He closed his eyes.

"Belinda."

"Lucas."

He opened his eyes. The whiskey color was gone. They were dark now. Dark with wanting.

"Dinner first," he said. "Or I won't make it through the night."

She laughed. A real laugh. The first one in days.

"Dinner first."

They ate at his table, looking out at the city. The lights flickered below them. The stars were hidden behind the glow of the skyline. Lucas had made pasta. Simple. Perfect. He watched her eat like he was memorizing every bite.

"You're staring," she said.

"I'm allowed to stare. You're in my apartment. In that dress."

"What about the dress?"

"It's unfair."

She smiled. "Good unfair or bad unfair?"

"Good unfair. Devastating unfair. I can't think straight when I look at you."

Belinda set down her fork. She stood up. She walked around the table and stopped beside his chair.

"Then stop looking," she said. "And start touching."

Lucas looked up at her. His chest rose and fell. His hand came up, slowly, and his fingers brushed her hip.

"This dress," he said. "It's beautiful."

"It has a zipper in the back."

"I know."

He stood up. She turned around. He found the zipper. Pulled it down slowly. Inch by inch. The silk fell away from her shoulders.

She was not wearing underwear.

His breath caught.

"Belinda."

"Turn around."

She turned. The dress pooled at her feet. She stood before him, naked, trembling, not from cold.

His eyes moved over her. Her breasts. Her stomach. The space between her thighs.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered.

"Do you want me, Lucas?"

"You have to ask?"

"I want to hear you say it."

He stepped closer. His hands cupped her face. His forehead pressed to hers.

"I want you," he said. "I want you so much I can't breathe. I want you in my bed. I want you in my life. I want you every morning when I wake up and every night when I go to sleep."

She kissed him.

Not gentle. Not careful. She kissed him like she was drowning and he was air.

He picked her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her through the penthouse, past the candlelit table, past the windows, into his bedroom.

The room was dark. The sheets were white. He laid her down on the bed and stood over her, looking at her like she was something sacred.

"Your turn," she said.

"My turn for what?"

"To be naked."

He laughed. That rusty sound. He unbuttoned his shirt. Slowly. Watching her watch him. His chest was broad. Covered in dark hair. A scar across his ribs that she wanted to trace with her tongue.

He unbuckled his belt. The sound of it, leather sliding through metal, made her clench around nothing.

He stepped out of his trousers. His boxer briefs did nothing to hide his erection. Thick. Long. Curved slightly to the left.

"Condom?" she asked.

"I have one." He pulled it from the nightstand drawer. "But first, I want to taste you."

He knelt on the bed. He pushed her thighs apart. He lowered his mouth to her.

"Lucas."

"Shh. Let me."

His tongue found her. She gasped. Her hands fisted in the sheets. He was slow this time. Deliberate. Building her up and pulling back, up and back, until she was begging.

"Please."

"Please what?"

"Please let me come."

"Not yet."

He added two fingers. Curled them inside her. His tongue circled her c**t. She sobbed.

"Now," he said. "Come for me now."

She shattered. Her orgasm tore through her, wave after wave, and he drank every drop.

He kissed his way up her body. Settled between her thighs. Rolled on the condom.

"Last chance," he said. "Tell me to stop."

She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him in.

He filled her in one slow stroke. She gasped. He groaned. Their foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air, as she adjusted to the stretch of him.

"Okay?" he whispered.

"More than okay. Move."

He pulled out almost all the way. Pushed back in. Slow. Torturous. Watching her face.

"Harder," she said.

He obliged. His pace quickened. His hips snapped against hers. The bed creaked beneath them.

"Look at me," he commanded.

She did.

His face was stripped bare. No mask. No armor. Just pure, raw need.

"I'm close," she warned.

"Good. Come with me."

She did. She shattered around him, crying out his name, and he followed with a guttural shout, burying himself as deep as he could go.

They stayed like that. Bodies tangled. Breathing ragged.

Then Lucas rolled off her. Pulled her against his chest. Kissed the top of her head.

"Stay," he said.

It wasn't a question.

"I'll stay."

They lay in silence. The city hummed outside the windows. Belinda traced patterns on his chest.

"Lucas."

"Hmm."

"The security footage. From last night. Did you see anything?"

His body went rigid beneath her.

"No," he said. "The cameras were disabled. But I have someone looking into it."

"Someone you trust?"

"Someone I pay to be trustworthy."

Belinda hesitated. The note was still in her dress pocket, across the room. She should tell him. She should show him.

But she didn't want to ruin this. This perfect, fragile thing between them.

"I'm sure it's nothing," she said.

Lucas tilted her chin up. His eyes searched her face.

"You would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Of course."

He kissed her. Soft. Trusting.

"Good."

He reached for the light. Turned it off.

They lay in the dark. Belinda closed her eyes.

But she didn't sleep.

She thought about the note. The handwriting. The way it had felt to find it on her keyboard.

Someone had been in that office. Someone had written in her steno pad. Someone had said I'll be watching.

And tonight, someone had said they would be at the penthouse.

She sat up. Her heart was pounding.

"Lucas."

He was already asleep. His chest rose and fell. Slow. Peaceful.

She slipped out of bed. Walked to the living room. The candles had burned down. The city lights flickered through the windows.

She looked out at the street below.

And she saw him.

A figure. Standing across the street. Looking up at her window.

She couldn't see his face. The shadows hid his features. But she could feel him watching.

Her phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number.

Enjoying yourself, Miss Sparks?

Belinda's blood turned to ice.

She looked up. The figure was still there. Still watching.

She typed back: Who is this?

The response came immediately.

Someone who knows what you did. Someone who knows what he did. Someone who will make sure everyone finds out.

Another buzz.

Seven o'clock. The penthouse. I said I'd be watching. I always keep my promises.

Belinda looked up.

The figure was gone.

She stood in the dark, alone, her phone shaking in her hand.

Someone had been watching her with Lucas. Someone had seen everything. Someone had taken pictures, maybe recordings.

And someone was about to destroy them both.

The question wasn't who.

The question was why.