He didn't stop.
Throughout the night, Mike kept going, his body pressing into mine again and again, like he owned me completely. He wanted to hear me moan, to feel me respond. And I did. I moaned so loud my voice started to shake. My throat burned. My legs trembled under the weight of everything I was feeling.
How long would this last?
How could one man draw so much from me?
At some point, I used my hands on him, my mouth, too. I didn't even know what I was doing, I just followed his lead, followed his demands. He touched, kissed, and tasted every inch of me, like my body belonged to him, like he was determined to leave nothing untouched.
"You need to enjoy it," he whispered. "Let me hear you moan."
So I did.
But it wasn't just pleasure.
It was exhaustion. Heat and chaos.
I came so many times, I lost count. My body reacted on its own arching, shaking, surrendering. My vision blurred. My chest heaved. My legs ached from how often they tensed and trembled.
I thought I would break.
I thought I would die.
Eventually, I cried not from pain, not even from pleasure, but from something I couldn't name. A helpless, desperate feeling that I wasn't prepared for... nothing could have prepared me for this.
I was a virgin. Just hours ago, I didn't even know what a man's touch felt like.
And now… I had given everything. My body, my voice, my tears.
When it finally ended, I couldn't even move. My strength had been completely drained, like he had pulled the life right out of me with every kiss, every thrust, every command.
Was this what it meant to belong to someone like him?
Was this what I signed up for?
I closed my eyes for just a moment, and sleep dragged me under like a wave. I was too tired to even care if he held me, if he whispered anything sweet, if he noticed the mess he left me in.
But when I blinked open my eyes again just briefly, I saw him.
Mike lay beside me, his tall frame relaxed, his chest still bare. A laptop rested on his lap, his phone in his hand. He was typing, focused, his brows furrowed like nothing had happened. Like the night we just shared was nothing more than a quick distraction before business resumed.
Was I just another body in his bed? A name on a contract?
I turned my face away, my cheeks hot, my body sore.
He didn't check if I was bleeding.
He didn't ask if I was in pain.
And maybe I was foolish for expecting him to. He told me from the start: No love. No attachment. No pretending.
I curled up quietly, hugging the sheets against my chest. The ache between my thighs pulsed, a dull reminder of everything he took and everything I willingly gave.
I didn't even know who I was anymore.
Still, I whispered a soft prayer to myself.
Good I survived.
Because I didn't think I would.
As sleep pulled me under once more, one final thought whispered through my mind.
I want to go home but u don't have any.
Morning rise
Knock. Knock.
The sound echoed through the room like a bell, pulling me from the shallow, restless sleep I'd finally fallen into.
My eyes fluttered open. The sheets clung to my bare skin, still warm from the night before. My body ached, my thighs, my back, my arms... even places I hadn't known could hurt.
I felt like I'd been run over by a storm.
A storm named Mike Mikako.
The knock came again, softer this time.
I turned toward the digital clock on the bedside table.
10:03 a.m.
I overslept…
But could I even call it sleep?
The night had barely allowed me any. Every time I'd started drifting, his hands were on me again. His mouth. His body. Like he was trying to imprint himself into my bones. Again and again, until I didn't know where I ended and he began.
"Come in," I said, my voice hoarse and cracked.
The door opened quietly, and two maids entered with lowered eyes, carrying a tray and several items in their hands.
One placed a silver breakfast tray gently on the nightstand, while the other laid out a fresh set of clothes, silky, black, and clingy, with delicate corset strings and lace trims. I noticed something else placed neatly beside it: a small velvet pouch.
I leaned forward, wincing slightly at the soreness between my legs, and picked up the pouch. When I peeked inside, my stomach twisted.
Contraceptive capsules.
And beside them, a second packet thin, clear gel labeled with a warning for "tightness and friction sensitivity relief."
I swallowed hard.
He thought of everything…
One of the maids stepped forward and bowed slightly. "Sir Mikako left instructions," she said gently. He requested that you take the pill daily. The ointment is for discomfort...
I blinked, feeling both exposed and numb at once.
I scanned the room. "Where is he?"
The maid straightened. "Mr. Mikako left early this morning for a business trip. He will return in a few days.
Business trip?
After everything that happened last night, he just… left?
I forced myself to nod. "Okay. Thank you."
She gave another respectful bow, then both maids quietly exited the room.
I sat there for a moment, frozen, the silk sheets still tangled around me. My fingers curled around the soft fabric, grounding me.
He didn't even say goodbye…
I thought I'd feel relief with him gone, but instead, I felt... hollow.
He could have at least looked me in the eye.
I put every thought aside.
I forced myself out of bed, even though every inch of my body protested. My legs trembled when they touched the floor, and the soreness between my thighs burned with every step. A dull ache pulsed deep inside me the memory of last night carved into my flesh.
But I didn't cry.
I walked slowly into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and let the warm water pour down my skin.
Down there… it hurt. Raw and tender.
Every drop that touched me made me flinch. But I didn't stop.
I just gritted my teeth and let the pain wash down the drain.
When I finished, I wrapped myself in a soft towel, pulled on the fresh clothes the maid had left earlier a silk robe that barely clung to my shoulders and walked carefully out of the room.
The stairs stretched below like a winding path to something I wasn't ready to face. But I moved, slowly, one step at a time, until I reached the main floor.
The house was quiet.
But on the long dining table, a feast had already been prepared.
Croissants. Fresh fruit. Soft scrambled eggs with herbs. Toast. Coffee. A glass of orange juice, chilled and perfect. Everything looked expensive, like a five-star hotel's breakfast buffet but laid out for just one person.
Me.
My stomach twisted.
I didn't have the appetite, but my body was weak and hungry.
I sat down and took a bite.
It was delicious. Rich, buttery, warm. The kind of food I'd only seen in magazines.
I ate slowly. One bite. Then another. And another. Until I realized I'd eaten more than I expected.
But there was too much. I couldn't finish it all.
I pushed the plate away and leaned back in the chair, my eyes drifting to the tall glass windows.
The sun was shining outside.
But inside, everything still felt dark.
Mike's POV
The city was still waking up, but Mike Mikako had already made his first kill of the day.
Not with a gun.
Not with a knife.
But with a word.
"Finish it," he said coldly, and the man across from him was dragged out of the abandoned warehouse, screaming, begging.
The steel door slammed behind him, and silence fell once again.
Mike adjusted the cuff of his black tailored suit and lit a cigarette.
"Messy," one of his men muttered beside him. He thought he could steal from us and disappear.
"He thought wrong," Mike replied, blowing out a slow stream of smoke. No one walks away from me owing anything.
His voice was like ice, controlled, and deadly.
The room stank of sweat and fear, the air thick with tension. All around him were his top men armed, silent, waiting for orders. They had been summoned before sunrise, no questions asked. When Mike moved, the world made room.
"Is the shipment secure?" he asked, eyes narrowed.
Yes, sir. It'll arrive at the dock by midnight. Clean paperwork, no trail.
Mike nodded once.
But even in the thick of business, the kind that involved blood, silence, and disappearing bodies, his mind drifted.
Back to the girl.
Mira.