nanananac

[nanananac]

The Stranger in the Living Room - Part 2

The Salesman x Female Reader

Summary:

She thought the Salesman was just a polite guest, her father’s new friend, charming and well-mannered. But when her father drank too much and fell asleep, she found herself alone with him.

He teased, tested, touched just enough to make her want more. She tried to fight it, tried to pretend she wasn’t affected. But when she moaned for him, breathless and shaking?

She knew she had already lost.

Warnings:

Tension, power play, obsession, slow surrender, edging, emotional conflict, teasing, slutshaming

The smell of food pulled her from sleep.

She stirred, groggy, blinking against the sunlight that streamed through her curtains. For a second, she wasn’t sure where she was. Then—she remembered.

The night before.

Him.

Her stomach flipped, and she clenched her jaw.

No.

She wasn’t thinking about him. She wasn’t thinking about the way his hands had teased her skin, the weight of his hand on her thigh, the way his voice had curled around her like a promise, the way his voice had dropped into something dark and teasing.

The way he had said those things.

the way she had—

No.

She shoved the thoughts away and got out of bed.

The scent of eggs and butter filled the kitchen when she stepped inside. Her father was at the stove, working effortlessly, the way he always did.

"Morning," he greeted without looking up, flipping a pancake with one practiced motion.

She sat at the table, exhaling carefully. "Morning."

He plated the food, setting eggs, bacon, and pancakes in front of her before sitting across the table with his own plate.

They ate in comfortable silence for a while.

Then—

She twirled her fork, keeping her voice casual. "Oh, by the way… your guest from last night."

Her father glanced up. "Hm?"

She took a bite of eggs. "How do you know him?"

He waved his fork absently. “Met him through work.”

Her stomach tightened.

That didn’t tell her anything.

She cut into the egg, pretending not to care. “What does he do?”

Her father paused.

She glanced up.

He looked… uncertain.

Not suspicious. Not like he was hiding something.

Just like he had never really thought about it before.

“…Sales,” he said after a beat. “He’s a salesman.”

Her breath caught.

She had known that was the answer.

And yet—

It still sent a shiver down her spine.

She forced herself to take a bite.

Tried to act unbothered.

Tried to ignore the phantom press of his lips against her jaw, the teasing warmth of his fingers on her thigh, the card still waiting for her upstairs—

She clenched her fork tighter.

“Sales?” she repeated.

Her father nodded, taking another bite. “Yeah.”

She swallowed. “…Sales for what?”

A pause.

Her father blinked.

Then, after a moment—he laughed.

She stiffened.

“Good question,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t think I ever actually asked.”

She stared at him.

He looked… completely unbothered.

Completely unaware that the man he had been drinking with last night had been in her bedroom, touching her, whispering in her ear, making her fall apart just to prove he could.

And the worst part?

The way he had smiled as he left.

Like he had known exactly how much space he had taken up in her head.

Her pulse pounded.

Her fingers tightened on her fork.

Yeah. He does.

She hummed, keeping her tone light. "How old is he?"

Her father frowned.

A beat of silence.

Then—

"I have no idea."

A chill slid down her spine.

She forced herself to take another bite.

Then, her father laughed.

It wasn’t a normal laugh. It was… confused.

Her father—who prided himself on knowing everyone—had let a man into their home, drank with him, trusted him…

And yet.

He didn’t even know his age.

Didn’t even know his job.

He must have seen something on her face because he chuckled. "Strange, isn’t it? We talk all the time, but now that I think about it… I don’t know much about him at all."

Her pulse pounded.

Because she did.

She knew his touch.

She knew his voice.

She knew the way he could break her apart with nothing but a look.

And now?

She wanted to know more.

The card was in her palm.

She sat on the edge of her bed, heart hammering.

This was stupid.

But she was already dialing.

The phone rang.

A click.

Then—

A low chuckle. "Couldn’t stay away, could you?"

Her breath hitched.

His voice was smooth, thick with amusement.

"I just want to talk," she said, hating how breathless she sounded.

"Do you?" he murmured. "Because last night, you sounded a lot more like a desperate little whore than a girl who just wants to talk."

Her stomach flipped violently.

She clenched her jaw. "Shut up."

He laughed. "Oh, but you liked it, didn’t you? Liked how I touched you. Liked how I left you there, shaking."

Her whole body burned.

She gritted her teeth. "Are you done?"

"Hm," he hummed. "I don’t know. Are you done? Or are you calling because you want me to finish what I started?"

She sucked in a sharp breath.

His voice dipped lower, teasing. "You should be careful, sweetheart. Call me too much, and I might think you need me."

Her fingers trembled on the phone.

"I want to meet," she snapped.

A pause. Then—

"You’re really making this easy for me."

Her teeth clenched. "Are you coming or not?"

A slow exhale.

"Of course, Texting you the location now."

"I just have some some questions for you..will you answer them when we meet?"

"Of course" He said in a sarcastic but still serious tone.

The line went dead.

Her pulse was wild.

She stared at the screen.

Then—

A message.

She clicked it.

A location.

A bar.

A wealthy one.

She took a shaky breath.

And then—she got ready.

The bar was sleek, dimly lit, expensive.

And he—

He was already there.

The Salesman sat at the bar, one arm resting lazily on the counter, dark eyes watching her with calm amusement.

"You came," he murmured.

She slid onto the seat beside him. "Obviously."

His lips curled. "Drink?"

She shook her head.

He smirked, ordering a whiskey for himself.

She exhaled. "I want to know more about you."

His gaze flickered. "Oh?"

She nodded.

His smirk widened.

She was here to get answers.

So she met his gaze, steady, sharp.

"What do you do?"

The Salesman tilted his head.

"Work," he said simply.

Her eyes narrowed. "What kind of work?"

A pause.

Then—he smiled.

"The kind people don’t ask about."

Her stomach twisted.

Not an answer.

Not really.

But wasn’t that the point?

Her fingers clenched against her lap. "How old are you?"

His lips twitched.

"Old enough."

She exhaled sharply. "That’s not—"

"Do you ask everyone you kiss these kinds of questions?" he mused.

Her face burned.

"That’s not—!"

But the bartender returned, setting a crystal glass in front of him, filled with rich amber liquid.

The Salesman nodded in thanks, picking it up carefully, deliberately, taking a slow sip before setting it back down.

Like she wasn’t even there.

Like she wasn’t losing her mind.

She forced her voice even.

"You said you’d answer my questions."

His brow lifted. "Did I?"

She glared. "You know you did."

He exhaled, tapping a finger against the glass, thinking.

Then—

"Let’s play a game."

Her stomach dropped.

She should have known.

Her fingers twitched. "What kind of game?"

His smile deepened.

"If you win," he murmured, voice low, smooth, dangerous, "I’ll answer whatever you want."

Her breath hitched.

He wasn’t joking.

His expression was calm, patient, composed.

But his eyes were daring her.

She licked her lips. "And if I lose?"

A slow hum.

"Then you answer a question for me."

Her pulse jumped.

She should have walked away.

Should have said no.

But the way he was looking at her now—calm, unbothered, like he already knew she would agree—

It made her want to fight.

She straightened, lifting her chin.

"Fine," she muttered. "What’s the game?"

His smirk widened.

"Simple." He leaned forward slightly, gaze never leaving hers.

"All you have to do," he murmured, "is not react."

Her breath caught.

Not react.

That was it?

She swallowed. "For how long?"

He tilted his head. "Until I’m bored."

Her stomach coiled.

That wasn’t fair.

Nothing about him was fair.

But she couldn’t back down.

She had come here for answers.

She wasn’t leaving without them.

So she nodded.

"Fine."

A pause.

Then—

He smiled.

And moved.

His hand lifted slowly, deliberately, fingertips brushing over the top of her knee.

Her pulse jumped.

She fought not to react.

Not to stiffen.

Not to pull away.

Not to let him see that it was already working.

That he was already winning.

His fingers moved again.

A slow, lazy drag up her thigh.

Not enough.

But just enough.

Her breath shook.

His eyes flickered, catching it.

His lips curved.

"Careful," he murmured. "You’re losing already."

Her stomach twisted.

Because he was right.

Because she wasn’t sure she could win.

And the worst part?

She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

She refused to lose.

Her whole body was shaking, her pulse pounding so hard she could barely breathe, but she refused to give him the satisfaction.

Because his fingers were still moving.

Slowly going more up and up.

Slow. Deliberate.

A soft, lazy drag up her lower abdomen, pressing just enough—just barely enough—to make her stomach coil.

Not enough to cross the line.

But enough to make her want him to.

Her nails dug into the leather seat of the booth.

Not yet.

Not yet, not yet, not yet.

She just had to last.

She had to make it through without reacting.

Because if she lost, he would win.

And she couldn’t let that happen.

Not again.

The Salesman watched her carefully, waiting for her to slip.

His fingers trailed higher and then lower, pausing just at the edge of something dangerous.

Her breath shook.

His lips twitched.

"You’re close, aren’t you?" he murmured.

Her stomach flipped.

She didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because if she opened her mouth now, she might not be able to stop the sound.

His fingers pressed just slightly harder.

Her jaw clenched.

He hummed, amused.

"Still fighting," he mused. "You really don’t like losing, do you?"

Her nails bit into the seat.

She wouldn’t break.

She wouldn’t—

And then—

His hand stilled.

The heat of his palm lingered, heavy against her skin—but he didn’t move anymore.

Didn’t push further.

Didn’t test her one last time.

Just let the silence stretch.

Let the tension burn.

And then—

He smiled.

"Congratulations," he murmured. "You win."

Her breath caught.

Because she had.

She had won.

He had stopped.

He had lost.

But then—why?

Why didn’t it feel like winning at all?

She was breathless.

Shaking.

Her face was burning.

She couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, couldn’t even celebrate the fact that she had beaten him at his own game.

And when he leaned back, eyes calm, amused, unreadable, she realized—

He knew.

He knew she was unraveling.

Knew she was too shaken to even care about whatever answers she had fought for.

And still, he indulged her.

He reached for his drink, taking a slow sip before setting it back down, exhaling softly.

Then, he met her gaze.

"As promised," he murmured. "Ask me anything."

Her pulse pounded.

She had won.

This was the moment she had fought for.

But suddenly—

It didn’t matter.

Because she couldn’t think of a single question anymore.

Not a single one.

Because she was too hot.

Too shaken.

Too out of breath.

Her chest rose and fell too quickly.

Her lips were parted, trembling.

Her thighs were still tense, still burning from where his fingers had touched.

And the moment she opened her mouth, the truth fell out before she could stop it.

"Wait," she whispered. "No. That can wait."

His brow lifted slightly.

She exhaled hard.

Her fingers shook.

She swallowed.

Her voice was thinner, weaker, barely there as she admitted it.

"Right now… I need something else."

Silence.

He stilled.

The air went thick, suffocating.

And then—

Slowly.

Deliberately.

He smiled.

The silence between them felt thick.

Unbearable.

Her words still hung in the air, trembling, raw, too honest to take back.

"Right now… I need you."

She had said it.

She had admitted it.

And he had heard her.

He had heard every breathless syllable, every soft, desperate edge in her voice.

And now?

He was making her wait.

The Salesman leaned back against the booth, watching her like she was the most interesting thing in the world.

Like she was something to unravel.

His lips curled.

"Oh, you need me?" he murmured.

Her stomach tightened.

He was going to make her say it again.

He was going to make her beg.

Heat curled in her cheeks.

She clenched her hands in her lap. "You heard me."

His smirk deepened.

"I did."

Her breath hitched as he reached out, fingers grazing the inside of her wrist—light, teasing, a reminder of what he had done to her earlier.

A reminder of how much she had wanted it.

How much she still wanted it now.

His touch sent shivers up her spine.

Slow. Lazy. Too gentle.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Her legs pressed together.

Her whole body was burning.

But he wasn’t satisfied yet.

He tilted his head slightly, his voice smooth. "If you want it, then say how much little slut."

Her breath caught.

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

He wasn’t going to make this easy.

She swallowed. "I…"

She should have said it.

Should have just given him what he wanted.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Because she had spent so much time fighting this, fighting him—pretending she didn’t care, pretending he didn’t affect her.

And now?

Now he was making her destroy all of that herself.

Her nails dug into her palms.

She wanted to fight.

But she was so tired of fighting.

She exhaled shakily.

Then, finally—

She gave up.

"Please," she whispered.

His eyes darkened.

Her pulse skipped.

But still—he didn’t move.

"Not enough," he murmured.

Her stomach flipped.

He wanted more.

She bit the inside of her cheek, legs shifting restlessly beneath the table.

She was losing it.

Losing everything.

And still—she wanted more.

She met his gaze, cheeks burning, breath uneven.

"Please," she whispered again, softer this time, weaker, like she was breaking apart piece by piece.

The Salesman inhaled slowly.

And then—

He moved.

Not slow.

Not teasing.

She couldn’t move.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything at all except sit there, frozen, trapped in the space between anticipation and inevitability.

The Salesman’s fingers tilted her chin up, slowly, effortlessly, like he had all the time in the world.

Her lips parted.

Not on purpose.

Not because she wanted to—

But because she couldn’t help it.

His smirk deepened. "Still pretending you don’t want this?"

She should have answered.

Should have shoved him away, sneered something sharp, something to regain control—

But she didn’t.

Because she couldn’t.

And he knew it.

His gaze lowered, flickering down to her lips.

Her stomach tightened painfully.

She should have looked away.

She should have moved.

But she didn’t.

She just sat there, helpless, breath caught in her throat, waiting—waiting—

His lips brushed against hers.

Barely.

Just a whisper of contact, a slow, deliberate tease, like he wanted to torture her with the moment before it happened.

Her whole body shook.

And then—

He kissed her.

It wasn’t hesitant.

It wasn’t unsure.

It was precise—calculated, controlled, exactly like him. Like he had already decided how this would go, like he had already known exactly what she would do.

Nothing.

She did nothing.

She just sat there, breath stolen, mind blank, body burning, lips parting for him before she even realized it.

His fingers tightened in her hair—just barely, just enough to tilt her head, just enough to make the kiss deeper, slower, drawing her further and further in until there was nothing else.

Just him.

Just the slow drag of his mouth against hers, the soft pull of his lips, the teasing scrape of his teeth—

She shuddered.

A low sound escaped her throat, something between a gasp and a whimper, and she hated it—

Because the second she made it, his smirk curled against her lips.

"There it is," he murmured.

Her stomach coiled violently.

She should have pulled away.

She should have ended this, should have slapped him, screamed, done something to stop herself from unraveling completely

But she didn’t.

Because she couldn’t.

Because his hand was still in her hair, his mouth was still moving against hers, slow, indulgent, completely in control—

And she was falling apart.

Her fingers trembled in her lap, nails digging into her own thighs just to keep herself from reaching for him, from grabbing his shirt, from pulling him closer—

Because that’s what he wanted.

That’s what he was waiting for.

And she refused.

She refused.

But then—

His tongue slid against hers, slow, teasing, a wicked little test, and her whole body tightened so violently she almost gasped again—

Almost.

But not quite.

His fingers flexed against her scalp, his teeth catching her bottom lip, pulling, teasing, and she felt it coming, felt her body slipping, felt herself about to give in completely—

And then—

He pulled away.

Too slow.

Like he wanted her to feel the loss.

Like he wanted her to ache for it.

Her breath hitched sharply, her chest rising and falling too fast, the space between them suddenly unbearable.

Her lips burned.

Her whole body burned.

And he—

He just sat there.

Unbothered.

Untouched.

Completely in control.

His smirk was calm, amused, like he had won something.

And maybe—

Maybe he had.

He exhaled, slow and measured, gaze flickering down to her lips, watching her, studying her, taking in the way she was still breathless, still shaken, still desperately trying to pretend she was fine.

Then—

"Look at you," he murmured, voice low, warm, too knowing. "Falling apart already."

Her stomach dropped.

She tried to glare.

She tried to look unaffected.

But her body was betraying her.

Her breath was still uneven.

Her lips were still parted.

And worst of all—

She wanted more.

She could still taste him, still feel the way his fingers had curled against her skin, teasing, controlling, unshakable.

And now?

Now he was just sitting there, watching her struggle.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Her fingers clenched into fists.

She wouldn’t let him win.

So she forced herself to breathe.

To calm down.

To smirk right back.

"That all you’ve got?" she whispered.

His eyes darkened.

And she knew—

This was far, far from over.

Now, he had exactly what he wanted.

Now, she was his.

"Careful, brat" he murmured. "You keep asking for trouble."

[nanananac]

The Stranger in the Living Room

The Salesman x Female Reader

Summary:

She thought the Salesman was just a polite guest, her father’s new friend, charming and well-mannered. But when her father drank too much and fell asleep, she found herself alone with him.

He teased, tested, touched just enough to make her want more. She tried to fight it, tried to pretend she wasn’t affected. But when she moaned for him, breathless and shaking?

She knew she had already lost.

Warnings:

Tension, power play, obsession, slow surrender, edging, emotional conflict, teasing, slutshaming

The sound of laughter echoed through the house. Low and rich, it belonged to her father—a laugh full of warmth, but also thick with alcohol. He was enjoying himself. Too much.

From her room upstairs, she could hear the clinking of glasses against the polished mahogany table in the living room. A deep, unfamiliar voice accompanied her father’s, smooth as silk, each word spoken with perfect enunciation. It was controlled, elegant in a way that didn’t quite match the easy comfort of her father’s slurred speech.

She had barely seen the man when he arrived earlier that evening, only catching a glimpse of his dark suit and neatly styled hair as he stepped into their home. A friend of her father’s, apparently. The Salesman, he’d introduced himself as.

Her father was a businessman—always hosting associates, partners, and old friends for drinks—but this one felt... different. He wasn’t like the usual guests, who were either loud and boisterous or stiff and humorless. This man had an air of refinement, of calculated charm, as if every smile, every movement, was intentional.

And, most unsettlingly, he was still here.

She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. 11:47 PM.

They had been drinking for hours now.

She sighed, sinking into her plush mattress, the silk sheets cool against her skin. The bedroom—like the rest of the house—was beautiful, adorned with carefully chosen furniture, expensive rugs, and golden lighting that bathed everything in a soft glow. Her father had always insisted on quality.

Another round of laughter from downstairs. A glass thumped against the table, the sound heavier this time. She winced.

He’s drinking too much again.

It wasn’t unusual. Her father was a good man, but when he drank, he drank. She had no doubt that soon enough, he’d pass out on the couch, leaving his guest alone. The guest.

The Salesman.

She frowned, shifting under the covers. She didn’t know why he made her uneasy. He had been nothing but polite so far—his voice was smooth and respectful, his smile perfectly practiced. But there was something in his eyes when he glanced at her earlier. Something calm but too knowing, as if he could already tell what she was thinking.

She had avoided looking at him for too long.

A muffled voice carried up from the living room. The Salesman was still speaking, but her father wasn’t responding.

Silence.

Then—a quiet chuckle.

Soft footsteps.

Heading toward the staircase.

Her breath hitched.

Was he leaving?

A door creaked. No—the footsteps weren’t retreating. They were moving through the house, unhurried.

She swallowed.

Her bedroom door was closed, but the hallway outside was silent now.

Too silent.

And then—

A gentle knock.

She froze.

"Still awake?" The voice was low, amused, but perfectly calm.

She gripped the covers tighter.

The Salesman was standing just outside her door.

She didn't answer.

She couldn't.

The knock was light—polite, even—but it didn’t belong there. Not at her door. Not at this hour.

The house was too quiet now, no longer filled with the comfortable hum of her father’s voice. He had drunk himself into unconsciousness, just as she had predicted. But what she hadn’t predicted was this—the stranger standing just outside her room, speaking to her like they were old acquaintances.

"You're still awake, aren't you?" The Salesman’s voice was smooth, the kind that could convince people to say yes to things they shouldn't.

She hesitated. She could pretend to be asleep—stay still, hold her breath, and wait for him to go.

But something told her he wouldn’t leave so easily.

“…What do you want?” Her voice came out quieter than she intended.

A pause. Then, the faintest sound of a chuckle.

"You could open the door and find out," he said lightly. "Or I could keep talking through it. But I imagine that would be… strange."

Her pulse quickened.

He wanted her to let him in.

And the worst part? She was tempted.

She had spent most of the evening avoiding him, stealing only brief glances at the man who had charmed her father so effortlessly. Up close, she had noticed the details—the crispness of his dark suit, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the way his eyes seemed amused but unreadable all at once.

He was handsome.

Unfairly so.

But there was something about him that put her on edge, something just beneath that charming exterior that she couldn’t quite place.

Another knock, softer this time.

"Come on now," he coaxed. "It’s a little rude to ignore a guest, don’t you think?"

Her fingers twitched against the blanket.

She had two choices: keep him outside and let the tension stretch thin between them, or open the door and see what he wanted.

She made the mistake of hesitating.

The handle turned.

Her breath caught as the door eased open on its own.

She hadn’t locked it.

The Salesman stood in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, head tilted slightly as he regarded her.

"Much better," he said, stepping inside as if he had been invited.

She scrambled upright in bed, pressing her back against the headboard. "You're not supposed to be in here," she blurted out.

His lips curved—not quite a smirk, but something close. "No? And yet, here I am."

The warmth of the golden bedroom lighting softened the sharp lines of his face, but it didn’t make him look any less dangerous. Not in the obvious way, not like someone who would hurt her—but in the way of someone who could make her say yes to things she knew she shouldn’t.

He took another step inside, his eyes flickering over the room with mild interest. "Your father had quite a lot to drink," he remarked. "I doubt he’ll be waking up anytime soon."

Her stomach twisted.

He must have noticed the way her fingers gripped the blanket, because his expression shifted—still amused, but now laced with something else.

"Relax," he said, tilting his head slightly. "You're looking at me like I’m some kind of monster."

She forced herself to hold his gaze. "I don’t know you."

His smile didn't falter. "No. But I know you."

Her throat went dry. "What?"

"I've been watching you."

Her heart stopped.

The air in the room felt too thick, like the walls had suddenly closed in.

Then—

"I'm joking," he said smoothly, his smile widening ever so slightly.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She wanted to believe he was just messing with her. That he was teasing, playing some harmless game.

But there was something about the way he looked at her that made her stomach coil in ways she didn’t understand.

"You're nervous," he mused, taking slow, careful steps toward her bed.

"I just—" She swallowed hard. "I don’t understand why you're in here."

He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets. "Because I wanted to talk to you."

"Why?"

"Because I find you… interesting."

That was not the answer she expected.

Her heartbeat stuttered, her mind racing through possibilities. Was he playing with her? Testing her?

Or did he mean it?

"You're lying," she said, watching his face carefully.

The Salesman smiled like he had just won something. "Maybe."

The worst part was that it wasn’t a clear yes or no—it was somewhere in between, and that was somehow more unnerving.

"You don’t like me very much, do you?" he asked, feigning offense.

"I don’t know you," she repeated.

"Yet," he corrected smoothly.

Her fingers clenched against the blanket again.

She wanted him to leave.

She wanted him to stay.

The two thoughts collided, tangled, and left her silent.

His head tilted slightly, studying her. His eyes—dark and unreadable—lowered, just for a fraction of a second.

To her lips.

The air between them changed.

Not much. Not enough to be obvious. But she felt it.

And from the slight shift in his stance, from the way he didn’t immediately look away, she knew he felt it too.

"You’re looking at me differently now," he noted.

Her breath hitched.

"I—" She tried to think of something sharp, something to shut this down before it turned into something else.

But nothing came.

Nothing except the realization that she was, in fact, looking at him differently.

And she wanted him to keep looking back.

The silence stretched between them.

Too heavy. Too thick.

And the worst part? He knew it.

The Salesman didn’t move from the foot of her bed, but he didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough—unshakable, suffocating in the most calculated way. He was watching her the way a cat watches a trapped mouse—amused, patient, entertained.

She should have told him to leave. She should have thrown a pillow at him, screamed for her father—anything.

But she didn’t.

Because part of her was still waiting. Wanting.

For what, exactly? She wasn’t sure.

His head tilted slightly, as if he could hear the hesitation in her silence.

Then—his lips curled into something almost too pleased.

"Oh," he murmured, mock realization slipping into his tone. "You like this, don’t you?"

Her breath hitched.

Her fingers dug into the silk blanket. "Shut up."

The Salesman laughed.

It was low, warm, knowing.

"How rude," he mused, stepping closer. Not enough to touch, not yet, but enough that she could feel the weight of him in the space between them. "I’ve been nothing but polite, and here you are—telling me to shut up like a spoiled little brat."

Her stomach flipped.

That word.

Brat.

She clenched her jaw, willing her face not to burn. "Don’t call me that."

"Why not?" His voice was light, teasing, but his eyes stayed locked on hers—unblinking, unyielding. "It fits, doesn’t it?"

She glared at him. "I don’t even know you."

"Mm." His gaze flickered over her face, studying. "You keep saying that, but you’re letting me stand here in your bedroom."

She opened her mouth—then closed it again.

He wasn’t wrong.

And worse, he knew it.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice like velvet. "If you glare at me any harder, I might start thinking you like me."

"I don’t," she said quickly.

The Salesman smiled. Slow. Amused. Unconvinced.

"Of course not." He said it like he was indulging a child’s lie.

The irritation in her chest flared. "You’re annoying."

"Am I?" he mused, taking another step closer.

Now, he was close enough for her to see the details—the crisp collar of his shirt, the faintest scent of expensive cologne, the way his dark hair was just barely out of place, like he had run a hand through it absentmindedly.

Close enough that if she reached out—just a little—she could touch him.

She swallowed.

He was too much.

Too sharp, too deliberate, too aware of what he was doing to her.

And she hated that he was right.

"You really should be more careful," he murmured, watching her with calm amusement.

Her brow furrowed. "Careful of what?"

The Salesman smiled.

Then—he leaned in.

Not touching. Not yet. But his face was so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.

She froze.

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

His lips barely moved as he spoke. "Of men like me."

Her stomach twisted.

Her instinct should have been to pull away—to put distance between them, to snap at him, to do anything but sit there, holding her breath, waiting for what came next.

But she didn’t move.

She didn’t move at all.

His gaze dropped again—to her lips.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers tightening in the sheets.

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Look at you," he murmured, voice smooth as honey. "You’re not running away."

Her breath hitched.

He was too close.

Too warm.

And worst of all—she wasn’t scared. Not anymore.

She was something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

Something wanting.

And when his fingers brushed her jaw—just barely, just enough to make her shiver— she realized with a sinking feeling that he could tell.

He always could.

The air between them felt like a thread pulled too tight.

One wrong move, and it would snap.

His fingers lingered at her jaw, the touch so barely there that it made her skin burn more than if he had grabbed her outright.

She should have pulled away. She should have done something.

Instead, she just sat there, breathing too hard, watching the way his lips barely curled—like he was enjoying watching her come apart.

"Are you nervous?" The Salesman’s voice was soft, but taunting.

"No," she lied.

The amused hum he gave in response made her stomach coil.

"Liar," he murmured.

Her jaw tightened beneath his touch.

He tilted his head slightly, watching her, taking his time. "You can keep pretending if you want," he mused. "Acting like you don’t like this. Like you don’t like me."

She glared. "I don’t."

The Salesman laughed.

Not loud—not mocking—but deep and pleased, like she had said exactly what he wanted to hear.

"Of course not," he said smoothly, fingers barely shifting against her skin. "That’s why you’re still sitting here, blushing like a little girl."

She hated that he was right.

Her whole body felt like it was on fire, heat creeping up her neck, making it impossible to hide the way her pulse raced beneath his fingertips.

And worse?

He knew it.

His thumb traced the line of her jaw, slow and deliberate, like he was testing a theory.

She sucked in a breath.

His gaze flickered—down.

To her lips.

Again.

Her stomach twisted.

"You’re thinking about it," he murmured, eyes dark, unreadable.

She swallowed. "About what?"

His lips just barely twitched.

"About kissing me."

Her breath hitched. "I—"

"I can see it," he interrupted, tilting his head. "You keep looking at my mouth."

She hadn’t even realized she was.

Her face burned. "I’m not—"

"Brat," he cut in smoothly, amusement lacing the word.

Her stomach flipped.

It was so unfair—the way he said it, so casual, like he wasn’t this close to her, like he wasn’t breaking her apart piece by piece.

"You don’t like being told what you want, do you?" he mused. "You like to act like you’re in control."

Her teeth clenched. "I am in control."

The Salesman smiled.

Then, he moved.

Not much—not enough to close the space completely—but enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, could see the way his lips curved just barely at the edges.

"Then prove it," he murmured.

She blinked.

Her pulse pounded. "What?"

"If you’re really in control," he said, voice light, amused, challenging, "then kiss me."

Her whole body went still.

The worst part was that he meant it.

She could see it in his eyes—the dare, the taunt. He knew exactly what he was doing, backing her into a corner with nothing but his voice and his patience.

And he knew she wanted to.

That was the part that made her stomach twist—the part that made her feel lightheaded, reckless.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

She did want to.

Even if it was stupid.

Even if it was dangerous.

Even if she shouldn’t.

But instead of moving, instead of leaning in, instead of giving him what he wanted, she just stared at him.

Silent.

Breathless.

His eyes flickered, watching her—waiting, waiting, waiting.

And then—

He sighed.

"Predictable," he murmured.

And then—he kissed her first.

Her breath caught.

It wasn’t rough.

It wasn’t rushed.

It was measured, precise, exactly like him—controlled, deliberate, like he had planned it all along.

But what ruined her was how slow it was.

How easy it was for him, how effortless the press of his lips felt against hers, like he was taking his time, letting her feel every second of it.

And she let him.

She let him.

Because the second his mouth was on hers, her whole body went hot, and her fingers—before she could stop them—clutched at his shirt.

The Salesman hummed, pleased.

Too pleased.

Her face burned.

He knew exactly what he was doing—teasing her with the slow, lazy drag of his lips, kissing her like he had all the time in the world, like he was waiting for her to break first.

And she hated that she almost did.

When he finally pulled away, it was too slow, like he wanted her to feel the absence of him.

She did.

Badly.

He studied her, eyes flickering over her face, drinking in the way she was breathless, flushed, stunned.

Then—his lips curved.

"Not so in control now, are you?"

Her stomach twisted.

And she realized—this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

The room was too quiet.

The air between them felt thicker now, heavier, like something had shifted irreversibly the moment his lips touched hers.

And the worst part?

He knew it.

She could see it in the way he looked at her—calm, measured, composed while she sat there, struggling to breathe like she hadn’t just let him kiss her, like her fingers hadn’t clutched at his shirt before she could stop them.

She needed to get it together.

Quickly.

So she forced her expression blank, lifted her chin, and exhaled slowly. "Well," she said, voice carefully casual. "I hope that was fun for you."

The Salesman’s lips curved.

"Very," he murmured.

Her stomach flipped.

No. She couldn’t react. Couldn’t let him see how hot he looked like that—calm, so infuriatingly smug, as if he had won something.

So she shrugged, rolling her eyes like it had meant nothing.

"Good," she said, lifting her brows. "Because I’ve already forgotten about it."

The Salesman laughed.

And just like that—her face burned.

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t mocking. It was low, smooth, tinged with something so frustratingly pleased that she instantly regretted speaking.

"Oh, brat," he mused, shaking his head slightly. "You really are adorable when you try to lie."

She stiffened.

"I’m not lying."

"Of course not," he murmured, mocking indulgence lacing his tone. "That’s why your hands are shaking, right?"

Her breath caught.

Immediately, she clenched her fists in her lap, trying to steady them.

His lips curled. Too late.

The Salesman sighed, almost amused. "Still pretending, then?"

"I’m not pretending."

He hummed thoughtfully, gaze flickering over her face. "No?"

"No."

He considered that for a moment. Then, he took a slow step forward.

Her heart skipped.

She fought the urge to pull back. Fought the instinct to react at all.

Because that’s what he wanted.

But when he reached out—slow, deliberate, testing—and brushed a single knuckle against the underside of her chin?

Her stomach twisted.

"You’re still shaking," he murmured, voice lower now, quieter, like he was testing the weight of every word.

She swallowed.

She was.

And she hated that he could see it.

"Maybe," he mused, studying her like a puzzle, "you just need a little more convincing."

Her lips parted slightly, a sharp breath catching in her throat.

"Convincing of what?" she managed, voice thinner than she wanted.

His lips barely twitched.

"That you want this," he said simply.

Heat flooded through her.

She should have denied it. Should have scoffed, should have pushed him away, should have done anything except sit there, trapped under his gaze, completely unable to move.

But she did none of those things.

Because she couldn’t.

And then—he kissed her again.

This time, it wasn’t slow.

This time, it wasn’t patient.

This time, it was deeper, heavier, his lips moving against hers with a certainty that sent something sharp and shivering through her veins.

Her fingers—without thinking, without meaning to—gripped at his sleeves.

The Salesman hummed approvingly.

It was humiliating.

It was electrifying.

His hand moved—slow, knowing—along the curve of her jaw, tilting her face up slightly, guiding her deeper into it, like he had all the time in the world to take her apart.

And she let him.

Because her body was betraying her, leaning in, moving instinctively, responding to the way he kissed her—not desperate, not rushed, but controlled. Measured. Like he had already decided exactly how this would go.

His fingers skated lower, tracing the barest path down the side of her neck—barely there, like he was testing, teasing, waiting for the moment she would break.

And she was so close.

Too close.

She couldn’t think.

Could barely breathe.

And the worst part?

She didn’t want him to stop.

She wanted—

A sharp noise from the hallway.

They both froze.

For one heavy, breathless second, neither of them moved.

Then, slowly, the Salesman pulled back—just barely, just enough for their lips to part.

His eyes flickered to hers—calm, knowing, composed.

Then, his lips curved.

"Saved by the bell," he murmured.

Her heart pounded.

She could barely breathe, barely process what had just happened, what had almost happened.

But one thing was clear.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

And the way the Salesman was looking at her now—calm, so infuriatingly patient, like he already knew how this would end— made her stomach twist with something dangerous.

Because he wasn’t leaving.

And neither was she.

The noise outside the door faded.

Whatever—or whoever—it had been, it was gone now.

But the moment it interrupted?

That wasn’t.

Because she was still here, still sitting on the edge of something she didn’t fully understand, heart racing, lips swollen from his kiss.

And worst of all?

He was still watching her.

The Salesman hadn’t moved away—not really. He had only pulled back enough to let her breathe, but not enough to let her go.

The air between them still felt too thick, too hot, like something had shifted irreversibly, and yet—

Neither of them acknowledged it.

Not yet.

Instead, he studied her in that infuriating, patient way of his—like he could still see every thought racing through her mind, like he already knew how this would end and was simply waiting for her to realize it too.

Then—his lips curved.

"Still pretending, are we?"

Her stomach flipped.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, lifting her chin.

The Salesman laughed.

Soft. Smooth. Unbothered.

"So stubborn," he mused, almost to himself.

She forced herself to hold his gaze, to keep her breathing steady, to act like the way he was still so close, so composed, so completely in control of himself wasn’t making her head spin.

But then—his fingers moved.

Not far. Not fast.

Just the barest touch—the backs of his knuckles grazing her knee.

Her pulse skipped.

His gaze flickered, catching the way her breath hitched.

"Interesting," he murmured.

She clenched her jaw, determined not to react.

"I don’t know what you’re trying to prove," she said flatly.

He hummed. "I think you do."

And then—his fingers moved again.

Slow. Unrushed.

A deliberate drag up her thigh.

Her stomach coiled.

She should have stopped him. Should have shoved him away, should have done anything except sit there, gripping the silk sheets too tightly, pretending like she wasn’t waiting for him to go further.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Because that wasn’t the game.

Instead, he stopped halfway—just barely letting his fingers rest against the warm skin of her thigh, nothing more, nothing less.

And then—he tilted his head.

"You're shaking again."

Her face burned.

"No, I’m not," she lied.

The Salesman smiled.

He wasn’t fooled.

She could tell by the way his thumb brushed against her skin, featherlight, teasing, like he was testing a reaction he already knew was coming.

And she hated—hated—how easy it was for him.

How he didn’t even need to push.

Just a touch.

Just a whisper of skin against skin.

And already—she was falling apart.

"Still in control?" he murmured, voice lower now, almost a purr.

Her fingers curled tighter into the sheets.

"Obviously," she forced out.

His thumb pressed down.

The smallest shift—barely there, barely anything.

But it sent heat curling through her anyway.

She bit the inside of her cheek hard, refusing to make a sound.

And the Salesman?

He just sighed.

"Such a brat," he mused, shaking his head. "Still pretending, even now."

Her breath caught.

But before she could think—before she could react—his fingers flexed.

A slow, lazy drag, higher, closer.

Not enough.

But just enough.

Enough to make her stomach tighten.

Enough to make her exhale—too sharp, too shaky, too much.

And that?

That was when his smile sharpened.

"There it is," he murmured.

Heat flashed through her.

She snapped her gaze up, glaring. "Shut up."

The Salesman only chuckled.

Low. Pleased.

Not mocking, not cruel.

Just like he had won.

And maybe—he had.

But she wasn’t ready to admit that yet.

So she forced her expression blank, lifted her chin, and exhaled slowly.

"Are you done?" she asked flatly.

The Salesman smiled like she had just given him the best gift in the world.

"Oh, brat," he murmured. "I haven’t even started."

Her stomach dropped.

Because there was something in his voice—a promise, a warning, a guarantee.

Something that told her this wasn’t the last time she’d find herself like this—breathless, flustered, on the edge of something she didn’t have the courage to name.

And the way he was looking at her now?

Like he was already planning what he would do next?

It terrified her.

Because the worst part?

She wanted to let him.

The room felt too small now.

Like the walls had pulled in around them, trapping her here—trapping her with him.

The Salesman hadn’t moved away.

His hand was still on her thigh—still warm, still steady, still waiting.

And that was the worst part.

He wasn’t impatient.

He wasn’t rushed.

He was just watching her.

Waiting for the moment she would break.

And she was close—so close.

She had spent the last ten minutes pretending, acting like she could handle this, like she could sit here and not react while he teased her, tested her, toyed with her like a game he already knew he was going to win.

But the second his fingers moved again—higher, slower, softer—she knew she wasn’t going to last much longer.

And the worst part?

He knew it too.

His eyes flickered over her face, dark and amused, lips just barely curling like he could hear every frantic thought racing through her head.

Like he already knew exactly how this would end.

She gritted her teeth.

No.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

She wouldn’t let him win.

She inhaled carefully, forcing herself to breathe steady, to sit still, to act like she wasn’t seconds away from falling apart right in front of him.

And then—

His thumb pressed in.

Right against the softest part of her inner thigh.

Her whole body shook.

A sharp breath escaped her—too sharp, too loud.

His lips curled.

"Sensitive, aren’t you?" he murmured, voice smooth.

Her nails dug into the sheets. "Shut up."

The Salesman sighed.

"Still fighting me?" His thumb brushed again—barely, just a whisper of pressure, just enough to make heat coil in her stomach.

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stay still.

His smile deepened.

"You're trying so hard," he mused, watching her closely. "So desperate to pretend this isn’t getting to you."

Her breath hitched.

"It’s not," she lied.

He laughed.

Soft. Slow.

Like she had just proven his point for him.

"Brat," he murmured, tilting his head. "Do you really think I can’t tell when you’re lying?"

Her whole body felt too hot.

Because she was lying.

And he knew it.

His fingers moved again, deliberate now, testing, pressing just a little deeper into the soft skin of her thigh.

Her body tensed.

He sighed, feigning disappointment. "Still nothing?"

Her stomach tightened.

Because she knew—she knew—what he was doing.

He was waiting.

Waiting for her to give in.

Waiting for her to let him have it—the proof, the sound, the reaction he had been pulling from her all this time.

And she wouldn’t.

She wouldn’t.

She wouldn’t.

Then—his fingers shifted.

Higher.

Slow.

Too slow.

And she—

She couldn’t stop it.

The sound that slipped out—

A moan.

Low, quiet, helpless.

Her whole body froze.

The room went silent.

The Salesman stilled.

For a second, he didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then—

His lips parted.

"Oh," he murmured, soft, slow. So satisfied.

Her stomach dropped.

Too late.

She had given him exactly what he wanted.

And from the way his eyes darkened, the way his fingers flexed against her skin, gently, barely, just enough to remind her that he was still touching her, still in control

she knew.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

His voice was softer now, lower, almost mockingly gentle.

"There it is," he murmured.

Her breath was ragged, her whole body shaking, heat burning in her stomach like she had just stepped off a ledge with no ground to catch her.

But she still—still—tried to act like it wasn’t happening.

She turned her face away, breathing hard, forcing herself to glare at the wall instead of looking at him.

"Whatever," she muttered. "You’re being annoying."

The Salesman chuckled.

Not loud.

Not mocking.

Just warm, like he found her so amusing.

"So stubborn," he mused, voice dipping lower. "Even now, after all that, still pretending you don’t want it."

She clenched her jaw.

"I don’t."

His lips twitched.

"Then why are you still letting me touch you?"

"Why are you acting like a pretty little slut for me?"

She sucked in a sharp breath.

Because she hadn’t pulled away.

Because she had let him.

And they both knew it.

He shifted—leaning in, closer, closer, until his lips were right by her ear, until his breath ghosted against her skin.

"Say it," he whispered.

Her stomach twisted.

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

But her body was already betraying her, heart racing, lips parted, thighs tensing beneath his touch.

The Salesman hummed, satisfied.

"Not yet?" he mused.

Then—his fingers flexed.

And she bit back another moan.

He sighed, tilting his head slightly.

"That’s alright," he murmured, voice like silk. "I have time."

Her heart skipped.

Because the way he said it—so patient, so certain—felt like a promise.

And the way he looked at her—dark-eyed, unreadable, like he was already planning what he would do next—made her stomach coil with something she didn’t dare name.

Because this wasn’t over.

This was just the beginning.

And the worst part?

She knew she wouldn’t stop him.

Not now.

Not next time.

Not ever.

The room was still too hot.

The air between them felt thicker now, heavier, like the space he took up wasn’t just physical anymore.

It was inside her.

In the heat curling in her stomach.

In the pulse racing in her throat.

In the place he had touched her, fingers pressing just enough, teasing just enough, making her break before she even realized she had lost the game.

And now—

Now, he was pulling away.

The Salesman sighed, slow and deep, like he had gotten exactly what he came for.

Then, without a word—he moved.

She blinked, breath still shaky as she watched him shift back, fingers sliding from her skin, warmth leaving her too suddenly.

She hated how cold it felt when he wasn’t touching her anymore.

And she hated how her body reacted—how it followed him, just slightly, just enough to make her realize too late that she didn’t want him to go.

He straightened his sleeves, rolling them neatly back down to his wrists, rebuttoning them with calm, practiced ease—as if he hadn’t just spent the last twenty minutes teasing her to the edge of insanity.

Like he wasn’t affected at all.

Like this was just a silly game.

Her stomach twisted.

He’s really leaving.

Her throat tightened.

She should have said something.

Should have told him to stop.

Should have told him to stay.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Because what would she even say?

Don’t go?

I’m not done with you yet?

Stay, because I don’t know how to make this feeling go away?

Her fingers curled into the sheets.

No.

She couldn’t say that.

So she said nothing.

And that was the problem.

Because he knew.

He always knew.

His gaze flickered back to her, dark and unreadable, lips just barely curved in that calm, knowing way that made her want to scream.

Then—he exhaled, straightened his tie, and took a step back.

"You should get some sleep," he said smoothly.

Her stomach dropped.

That was it?

That was all he was going to say?

She hated how normal his voice sounded.

Like he wasn’t leaving her a mess.

Like he wasn’t taking something with him when he walked away.

She wet her lips, trying to force herself to speak, to say anything to stop him.

But he was already turning toward the door.

And suddenly, it hit her.

He’s leaving.

For real.

And she—

She didn’t want him to.

Her fingers twitched.

Her whole body tightened.

She had spent the entire night pretending she was unaffected.

And now?

Now she was seconds away from proving how much she really cared.

She clenched her jaw.

No.

She wouldn’t let him see that.

So instead of stopping him—instead of saying his name, instead of reaching out, instead of pulling him back in the way she wanted to so badly she could taste it—

She just watched.

Watched as he moved through her bedroom.

Watched as he reached for the door.

Watched as his hand rested on the knob, lingering there just long enough to make her chest squeeze.

And then—

He turned his head.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

Enough for her to see the sharp curve of his smirk, the faintest glint in his dark eyes.

Enough for her to know—he was still playing with her.

And then—

He was gone.

The door shut softly behind him.

And just like that—the weight of him disappeared.

Her whole body collapsed into the mattress, exhaling hard, head spinning.

Gone.

He’s gone.

She stared at the ceiling, fingers trembling as she lifted them, pressing them against her lips.

She could still feel him.

Still taste him.

Still burn from the places he had touched.

And she—

She hated this feeling.

The ache.

The absence.

The way the air in the room suddenly felt too empty, too still, too cold.

She let out a slow, shaky breath, finally letting herself admit it.

She wanted him to stay.

And that was the worst part.

Because she knew—knew—that wanting him was a mistake.

A mistake she was going to make again.

And again.

And again.

Until there was nothing left of her to give.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the heat in her body to go away.

Willing the ache in her stomach to fade.

Willing herself to forget.

And she almost convinced herself she could.

Almost.

Until—

Her eyes snapped open.

Something was on her nightstand.

She frowned, shifting up onto her elbows, stomach flipping as she caught sight of it.

A card.

Black, sleek, unfamiliar.

Her breath caught.

She reached for it, fingers brushing over the smooth surface, heart pounding as she turned it over.

No name.

No address.

Just a single line of text.

A phone number.

And suddenly—

She understood.

Her throat went dry.

He had left it on purpose.

He had left it knowing she would find it.

Knowing she would look at it.

Knowing she would think about it.

Think about him.

She exhaled sharply, flipping the card over in her hands.

Once.

Twice.

Too many times.

Like she was waiting for it to change.

Like she was waiting for herself to change.

But nothing changed.

Nothing at all.

Except for one thing.

She wasn’t thinking about whether or not she should call him.

She was thinking about when.

And that?

That was the real mistake.

Because now?

Now she knew this was never going to end.