Kofi woke to darkness and the distant hum of the city. His neck ached. His mouth was dry. The kitchenette light pooled across empty cups.
Then he heard it—a sound from the bedroom. Low, muffled. A sharp inhale, then a slow exhale, then another.
He froze. The bedroom door wasn't fully closed; a thin glow edged through the gap.
Rah, he thought. Dis better not be what mi tink it is.
He needed to use the bathroom, which was past the bedroom door. He sat still and listened.
A whisper. Dorian's voice, low and calm: "You like that?"
A pause. Skin shifting on sheets. A sharp gasp. Then Elise's voice, high and breathless: "More—don't stop—"
Mi should go back to sleep, he told himself. Dis not my business.
But he didn't move.
---
The chaise was too far to see anything—just the light, just the sounds. He stood and walked toward the bathroom, unhurried, quiet.
The bedroom door was open maybe two inches. Light spilled through. Kofi's eyes adjusted as he passed. He couldn't help it. He looked.
Through the crack, he saw them.
Elise was on the bed, on her hands and knees, facing away from the door. He could see her lower half—her waist, the curve of her backside, the way the light caught the sweat on her skin.
Kofi caught only Dorian's profile—his shoulder, a hand on her hip.
The bedframe creaked under a wet, rhythmic impact.
Elise's moans were high-pitched, sharp, unrestrained. She wasn't trying to be quiet.
"Ah—ah—ah—" Her voice rose with each thrust.
Dorian's hand slid into her hair and pulled, tilting her head back. "You like that?" he said again. Not loud. Just certain.
"Yes—give it to me—" The words tumbled out, broken, desperate.
Kofi didn't move.
---
The rhythm quickened. The wet sounds grew louder—squelching, clapping—the bedframe creaking in time.
Then something shifted. Elise's rhythm broke for a second, like her body couldn't keep up anymore. Her breath caught hard, another sound tearing out of her throat—higher now, less controlled.
Her rhythm broke. Dorian didn't slow.
Dorian's voice cut through: "Say my name."
"Dorian—"
CRACK. His hand came down on her backside. The sound echoed off the walls—sharp, sudden.
Kofi flinched. Then she cried out—not in pain, in surprise, something else—her body arching.
The bedframe creaked faster.
Then Dorian turned his head.
Their eyes met through the crack.
Him see mi.
But he didn't flinch. He just held Kofi's gaze for a beat, then looked back down at Elise. Like Kofi wasn't there.
Kofi stepped back, legs unsteady, and returned to the chaise. He lay down, closed his eyes, forcing his breathing slow and even.
---
The bedroom kept breathing—creaks, muffled moans.
Kofi stared at the ceiling. Then his phone slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a soft thud.
Shit. His body locked, holding motionless.
The bedroom door swung open wider. Light spilled across the floor. Elise's silhouette appeared in the doorway.
Kofi kept his eyes closed.
The silence stretched. He kept his breathing even.
Then she turned. The door clicked shut.
Kofi exhaled silently.
---
Silence. Then the bedroom door opened wider. Elise stepped out, a towel wrapped around her body. She crossed to the kitchenette, drank straight from the glass. The ring light's glow caught her bare shoulders.
She set the glass down and slipped back into the bedroom. Kofi lay in the dark. Sleep took a long time coming.
---
The bedroom door clicked shut. Dorian lay on his back, one arm behind his head, sheets tangled at his feet. The light caught his jaw, his shoulders, the flat plane of his stomach.
Elise stood at the foot of the bed, watching him, towel loose at her hips.
Dorian didn't move or speak. Just watched her through half-lidded eyes.
She let the towel fall. It pooled at her feet.
She climbed onto the bed, unhurried. Her back arched, pushing the curve of her backside upward. She crawled up the length of his body, feet planted on the mattress on either side of his thighs, hands sliding up his chest. Her hair fell around her face.
She straddled him, settling her weight onto his hips. Her palms pressed flat against his stomach, fingers splayed for leverage. She leaned forward slightly.
"Still watching?" Her voice was low, teasing.
Dorian didn't answer. His hands came up to her waist—not gripping, just resting.
She moved on him. Slow at first, then faster. Her hips rolled, her palms pressing into his stomach for balance. She was setting the pace.
His hands tightened on her hips—not pulling, just holding still. She tried to keep moving, but his grip didn't loosen. Her rhythm faltered.
His hips pressed upward, driving into her from below. Her breath caught.
He set the pace now. Each upward thrust unhurried, absolute. She tried to match him. He kept going.
Her palms slipped on his stomach. She caught herself, nails scraping his skin.
"Dorian—"
"Shh."
He drove upward again. Her nails dug into his chest.
Then his hands slid to her waist and he pushed her back—not a flip, just a guided lay-down. She ended on her back beneath him, hair spread across the mattress, hands reaching up to his shoulders.
He loomed over her. His hand came up to her jaw, fingers curling under her chin, tilting her face toward his. She held his gaze, lips parted.
His other hand trailed down her body—collarbone, ribs, the curve of her waist—and found the slickness between her thighs. She gasped, hips bucking against his hand.
He pushed one finger inside her. She moaned, low and throaty.
He added a second finger. The sound was wet, rhythmic. Her breath came in sharp gasps.
"Please—" The word slipped out.
He pulled his fingers out. She whimpered.
He gripped her hip, positioned himself, and drove into her. She cried out, sharp and high-pitched, her back arching off the bed, legs wrapping around his waist.
He held still for a moment, her chest heaving.
Then he moved. Deep and measured. The bedframe creaked.
"You feel that," he said.
"Yes—" The word trembled.
He thrust again, harder. The slap of flesh punctuated the air.
"There you are."
"Yes—Dorian—"
He thrust again, and again. The pace quickened. The sounds grew sharper—clapping, squelching, the headboard tapping against the wall.
Her moans pitched higher, her rhythm faltering, her voice breaking.
"Ah—ah—ah—"
He gripped her hips, pulling her against him. The rhythm was relentless.
"Look at me."
She forced her eyes open.
Thrust, thrust, thrust. Her body tensed. Her nails raked down his back. Her voice rose.
"I'm close—don't stop—"
He didn't. He drove into her faster, harder, the sounds filling the room.
"Yes—yes—yes—"
Her back arched, her legs tightened around his waist.
"Now—"
He thrust once more, deep, holding. She shattered—body trembling, cry sharp and broken—riding out the wave.
He followed a heartbeat later, forehead pressed against her collarbone, breath hot against her skin.
Neither of them spoke.
---
7:00 AM.
Grey light filtered through the curtains. Kofi sat up, stretched. The ache in his neck was still there.
The bedroom door was open. Elise was in the kitchenette, travel mug in hand, scrolling through her phone. She wore leggings and an oversized hoodie now, her face bare.
She glanced up. "Morning."
Kofi nodded. "Morning."
She poured coffee into a second mug and slid it across the counter. He lifted it. The ceramic was warm, but the coffee had already gone cold.
"He left like an hour ago," she said. "Didn't even say goodbye."
Kofi looked at the mug. "Yeah?"
She shrugged. "Typical."
She scrolled through her phone. A video played—low volume, thumping bass, someone dancing.
"I've got a shoot later," she said, glancing at her phone. "Afternoon… maybe evening."
Kofi set the mug down.
"You can stay or head out."
He hesitated, then shook his head. "I'll bounce soon."
She finished her drink, rinsed the mug, and drifted back toward her bedroom.
"I'll be out in a bit."
The door closed behind her.
Kofi sat alone in the apartment. The tripod stood in the corner, the phone still attached, its lens dark.
---The morning air was cold enough to sting. Dorian walked back to his dorm through empty streets. He let himself in, showered, changed.
His phone buzzed on the desk. A message from Jenna: You okay? He didn't reply. Another from Priya: We need to talk. He swiped it away. A missed call from an unknown number.
The system interface flickered in the corner of his vision.
[LEVEL 6 – THE KISS GAUNTLET] NEW TARGET UNLOCKED
He spent the afternoon in the library. He watched the clock. He swiped away texts. He paced the aisles between the stacks. He didn't study. He just waited.
By the time the sun went down, his jaw was tight, his breathing steady.
---
MIDNIGHT.
The parking lot behind the science building was empty. Streetlights hummed overhead, casting pale pools of light on the cracked asphalt. A single car sat near the far end—dark, windows tinted, engine off.
Dorian stood in the center of the lot, hands in his pockets. His breathing was slow. His jaw was set.
"You wanted to see me," he said. "I'm here."
Silence.
Then movement. A figure emerged from the shadows behind the car. Hood up, hands tucked into a jacket, walking with a slight hesitation.
The figure stopped twenty feet away.
"You came," it said. The voice was distorted—electronic, pitched. "You've been busy."
Dorian stepped forward. "You were there."
The figure shifted its weight. "I'm always there."
Another step. "You don't just watch. You wait."
"I watch. I notice." The figure's voice wavered. "You're changing. Faster than I expected."
Dorian kept walking.
"Say it."
The figure opened its mouth. Closed it.
"I—I don't—"
Dorian waited. The silence did the work.
Then he moved.
Fast. Low. His shoulder drove into the figure's chest, slamming them to the asphalt. The impact knocked the air from their lungs. Dorian pinned their wrists with one hand.
He reached up. Found the edge of the hood. Pulled.
Underneath, a thin plastic mask—featureless, cheap—held in place by elastic straps around the ears. He ripped it free.
Beneath the mask, a black neoprene collar wrapped around the neck, a small modulator box pressed against the throat. The straps snapped as he tore it off.
The face stared up—wide-eyed, trembling.
Dorian went still.
He knew that face.
---
[END OF CHAPTER 46]