Kathryn Merteuil was a soft spoken lady. She articulated, somewhere between a purr and a whimper, and inspired thoughts of sincerity automatically and doubt of it later. Her words each sounded carefully spoken, artfully planned, but flavored with a monotone that, after time, made one think she was reading from a script. Whether her inner most thoughts were revealed was never a question, but rather an automatic dismissal; her writer was paid handsomely. And so when her dark-glossed lips parted to show off her embellished squeal, it was for the deception of others and not her own personal enjoyment.

Her reward for the performance? The door unlatched dryly. Sebastian was so easy. All she had to do was pull the right strings. "My marionette," she labeled him over her shoulder, lips curling at the though as she rested on her elbow and knees. She could practically see the taunt string from the wrist of her occupied hand, stretching underneath her to aid where he'd refused, to where it disappeared into the zipper of his artfully tailored pants.

"Your finger puppet."

"My dummy."

Her wrist flexed, returning his competition to its position within her once again, and tugging on the string to jerk him closer. "I told you to shut up. Now you're going to get it," he threatened, turning her blank stare turned into a self-satisfied smile, one that almost simpered at how predictable he was. Sebastian never wanted her to shut up. And so she complied: "Get what?"

He clearly understood she needed no more foreplay than she'd provided for herself. The removal of his clothes was done without artistry or sexuality, but rather with an air of annoyance. Not annoyance with them, annoyance with her. She didn't notice; her attention had returned forwards, dismissing his presence until he decided to join her. The self-pleasing motion she'd adopted continued, but the vocalization was significantly absent. Or at least those were the terms until his set of hands snatched her toy away roughly, with little regard for her insides; Sebastian had never learned how to share. It landed beside her knee with a thud dulled by the heavy comforter, and the bed sank slightly behind her as he chose his position.

Kathryn wasn't left wanting for longer than it would have taken to snap her fingers. His personal replacement was forced inside her as abruptly as the plastic variety had been removed. The sudden entrance pushed its way through her entire body and finally emerged from her Reddish Fetish painted lips as a very audible and very high-pitched exclamation. Another thrust and she had both elbows supporting her forward-tilting body once again. Another thrust and her body was silent, lips parted slightly as she gasped into the bed spread.

Their first time together had been habit forming. When he'd touched her his hands had fumbled in the attempt to assert his superiority, to claim his "prize," and she'd laughed as he bobbled like a pre-teen with pimples. The insult had braced him—no man enjoyed being laughed at—and so he'd bent her over without any more hesitation, touched her until she'd asked for it, and still left her wanting more. Sebastian Valmont had obsessed Kathryn Merteuil since his father had slipped a ring on her mother's finger. Playing out his fantasies had been more vivid and extensive than she'd anticipated.

Raven hair spilled into her face. She shook her head to send it backwards, and then used a hand to unglue the pieces stuck in her lip gloss as she began to turn her head back around to smirk at him; she never doubted she would get her way. But the motion was stopped abruptly by one of Sebastian's hands. Instead of allowing her to look at him, he forced her forehead down until it touched the comforter. He maintained his grip as his hips continued to move her body. "Fuck you," she complained, then regretted opening her mouth at all; loosening her tongue allowed space for small whimpers to form. Soon, her lips were tasting the embroidery of his bedspread as she moaned her approval, louder than the theatrics that had begun the meeting. Soft spoken lady, indeed; she voiced her one-word instructions through door-piercing moans. "Harder, Valmont," she demanded of the comforter, eyes closed against the red and gold coloring.

Her step brother was the best fuck of her life. Kathryn wondered what that meant about her family.