Page 135 of Picture Perfect

I press myself harder against her, my erection a firm line down the cleft of her ass, moving in small circles that mimic the motion of my fingers below. She's so close already, her body responding to each whispered word, each deliberate touch. With every grind, I feel her tense, her breath catching in short, sharp intakes.

As I coax her closer to the edge, her quiet moans become a challenge to contain. She bites down on her lip, trying to muffle the sounds, but it's not enough. In an instant, I cover her mouth with my hand, pressing firmly to trap the cries of pleasure about to spill forth. My heart pounds with the thrill of our secret, the danger of being discovered only adding fuel to the fire.

"Stay silent, Princess," I urge against her ear, my voice a mix of command and plea. "If we get caught I'll have to stop and I don't want to stop."

Her eyes, wide and wild, meet mine in the mirror even as her body betrays her attempt at silence. I watch the exquisite torment play across her features, the desperate need to vocalize her climax warring with the desire to obey. It's a beautiful struggle, one that I'm entirely responsible for—and utterly captivated by.

"Good girl," I breathe out, the words a vow as much as they are praise. Her climax washes over her in silent waves, her inner muscles clenching around my fingers in a rhythm that threatens to pull me under with her. The sight of her biting back her pleasure, the way she strains against the hold of my hand—it's enough to drive me wild.

"Quiet," I hiss, as much to myself as to her, as we ride the razor's edge of discovery. But she's good, so very good, and she manages to keep the world outside that door oblivious to the tempest within.

"Princess," I whisper once more, letting pride lace the syllables, knowing full well the power such simple words hold.

As the tremors of her release begin to fade, I gently extract my fingers, coated with the evidence of her desire. The air is thick with the scent of her arousal, a heady perfume that speaks volumes of the forbidden act we've indulged in. Lifting my hand, I lock eyes with her reflection in the mirror, and without breaking the intensity of our gaze, I slip my fingers into my mouth. Her taste bursts across my tongue—a mix of sweet and sin that has me groaning softly.

"Fuck, you're delicious," I murmur, tongue swirling around each digit as I savor her. Pulling my fingers out, I fix her with a look that's part adoration, part promise. "Such a good girl for me, Princess."

She's panting lightly, her green eyes still locked on mine in the mirror, flitting between confusion and the dawning realization of what she means to me. I can't help but lean down and capture her lips with mine in a tender kiss that says more than words ever could. It's an affirmation of everything unspoken between us, a silent vow that this—whatever this is—is real.

"Try on everything," I say against her lips, voice low and husky. "Find what you like, what makes you feel good. And later, I'll make sure you're rewarded." The words are playful, yet there's a depth to them that echoes through the cramped space of the dressing room.

I give her one last kiss, a soft press of lips that lingers just a moment too long, before stepping back and opening the door. Gen, Chess, and Dre stand there, arms laden with an assortment of fabrics and colors, all potential new pieces for Princess's self-expression.

"Looks like you've got your work cut out for you," I quip, brushing past them with a nonchalant shrug. But inside, my heart is racing, my body still thrumming with the connection to Princess. I smirk, knowing full well that this is only the beginning.

Chapter fifty-nine

Addy

The curtain swings shut, Saint's dark silhouette disappearing beyond it, and I'm left with the echo of his promise. A reward. The words hang in the air, mingling with the scent of cologne and new fabric, wrapping around me like a tangible shiver.

"Addy, look what I've snagged!" Gen bursts into the room, arms laden with colors and patterns that spill from her embrace onto the small bench. My mind still swims in the undercurrent of Saint's voice, but I force my attention to the here and now.

"Wow, you've been busy," I manage, my voice steadier than the pounding of my heart.

"Busy is an understatement." Gen plunks down the armful of clothes and grins at me. She surveys her work, hands on hips, a general assessing her troops. "This is just the beginning."

I can't help but smile back at her enthusiasm. "A good start, huh?"

"Definitely," she says, eyes twinkling as she starts sorting through the mound. "Come on, let's dive in."

"Alright." I step forward, tugging at a soft sweater. It's cozy, uncomplicated—like the safety I've yearned for. Each piece we try on is like stepping further away from the shadows of my past.

"Let’s find you something that feels like you," Gen says, nodding approvingly as she hands me another outfit, a silent promise to help me navigate this sea of silk and cotton.

"Thanks, Gen," I say, a warmth blooming in my chest that has nothing to do with the layers of clothing. Decisions have always been made for me, but here, with Gen, I get a say. And that means everything.

I slip into another outfit, the fabric soft against my skin, and turn to face Gen. Her gaze sweeps over me, a critical eye that somehow doesn't feel judgmental. She tilts her head to one side, her lips pursed as she considers the fit and flow.

"Do you like it?" she asks, breaking the silence with her directness.

"I do," I admit, tugging gently at the hem of the shirt. "I'm not sure I'm much help with how it looks though. I've never been allowed to choose things for comfort and that seems to be all I can focus on. But I still want to look... good."

"Addy, you could make a burlap sack look like haute couture," Gen laughs, but nods in understanding. "We'll find the perfect balance for you. Let's keep looking."

As we continue the search, I start to enjoy it—the brush of different textures, the way colors can alter the mood of an ensemble. It's like discovering a part of myself that got lost or maybe was never found in the first place.

"Okay, brace yourself," Gen says with a mischievous glint in her eye, handing me a hanger with a red dress draped on it. Chess's choice. With the leather jacket Dre chose folded on top and Saint's suggested ankle booties on the floor, it's a combination that screams bold and daring—so unlike me, yet strangely appealing.

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