When it takes me more than a second to get on the desk, Adrian loops his hands around my waist, lifts me up, and sets me on it.

I’m now in direct view of his unforgiving gaze. I want to scream and yell, to hit and scratch. I can feel a tantrum or a meltdown—or both—building at the back of my brain, but I rein them in as I stare at the wall behind him.

“Lift your legs and open them,” he orders.

I do as he says, my heels planted on the edge of the desk. My movements are mechanical at best and I’m thankful for it. I wait for the numbness to take me over, because that’s what I need right now.

If I’m numb, I won’t feel the sharp edges digging into my heart. If I’m numb, I won’t hate a dead woman because she still lives through me. Because she’s still alive for Adrian while I don’t exist.

“Look at me.”

I don’t, my gaze stolen by the white wall behind him.

“Lia.”

I’m not Lia. Stop calling me Lia. But I don’t say that, because it doesn’t matter. Not to Adrian.

“That’s nine.”

I remain silent. He can do whatever he likes with my body. He already thinks it’s Lia’s instead of mine, anyway.

“Ten.” He stares at his watch. “The count will go up with every minute you don’t fucking look at me.”

My gaze slides to his, and I hope it’s as dead as I feel. I hope he sees the cruelty of what he’s doing to me, of the way he’s erasing my identity. But would he even care if that were the case? Would he take a second of his precious time to think that the woman he brought from the street feels?

He doesn’t.

Adrian brings the glass of cognac to his lips, and most of the ice has melted away. I want a sip of it more than anything in the world. It’ll erase my feelings and make me numb again. If I’m drunk, it won’t hurt that he’s seeing another woman through me.

Seeming to notice my concentration on his drink, Adrian pauses before he stands. “Stay there and lift your dress up.”

I do as he says, watching as he heads to a minibar and fills his glass with more ice and some alcohol.

By the time he returns, I’m holding the dress to my stomach, sitting on the table, half-naked, with only my white lace panties covering my pussy. He slides to his chair and takes another sip of his cognac as if he’s taunting me. When he releases his lips from the glass, he rolls something in his mouth before he leans over and presses his cold lips to my inner thigh.

I gasp and brace myself back on one hand. He kisses his way up my thigh, running the tip of the ice over my heated skin. It melts in a matter of seconds, leaving chilling hot and cold trails in its wake. Adrian picks up another one, with his teeth this time, and paints a new trail, picking up from where the first one stopped.

I momentarily lose sight of the cognac, all my attention honed in on where the ice meets my skin, to how his lips slightly graze my thigh, his stubble creating unbearable friction.

My head rolls back and I bite my bottom lip as I try to close my legs.

“Keep them open,” he orders, with the glass halfway to his mouth. “How many?”

“W-what?”

“You forgot how to count, Lenochka?”

Oh, so this is his sick version of punishment today. I prefer the searing pain. At least then I can think of him as a perverted psycho I should hate.

“Lia…”

“T-two.” My voice trembles and I hate that name and him and the way he’s making me feel invisible.

He wets his lips and glides two more ice cubes up my inner thigh before moving to the other one, giving it the same tormenting attention. I’m delirious by the eighth one. He always stops right before his lips or the ice cube touches the hem of my panties, as if he’s doing it on purpose, torturing me on purpose, turning me into a version of myself I don’t recognize on purpose.

I’m a panting mess, my heart beating in and out of synch, as he lowers my underwear down my legs, then throws them to the ground. He’s deliberate, slow, like he knows exactly the effect of what he’s doing to me.

“How many, Lia?”

“Eight…” I breathe out.

He takes a sip of the cognac and puts another cube of ice between his teeth. I suck in a sharp breath at the view of it wetting his lips, dripping down his stubbled chin. But that’s all the view I get before he disappears between my legs. He places the ice against my soaking folds and I jerk on the rigid surface.

It doesn’t matter how much I anticipated the contact, the moment it happens, it’s like all the fireworks and explosions I never thought would be possible.

Adrian grabs hold of my thighs, imprisoning me in place as he thrusts the cube against my most sensitive spot. The cold temperature is supposed to drown my libido, but it only gets stronger. It could be because my hot temperature melts it in a second or because of Adrian’s deliberate touch or his tongue against my clit.

As soon as the cube is gone, he takes another one and abandons his glass on the table. I should seize the chance and take a drink, but I can’t move. I’m caged in place and it’s not because of his fingers digging into my thighs. If I remove my hand, I feel like I’ll somehow fall.

Adrian thrusts the ice against my entrance and I squeal before I bite my lip to hide the sound. He doesn’t stop there, though.

His tongue nibbles on my clit as two of his fingers thrust the ice deep inside me. My back arches and the tip of my heel nearly falls off the edge of the table.

He laps at me roughly, diligently, as if he’s punishing and rewarding me at the same time. As if he’s worshipping my body and teaching it a lesson all at once.

I can feel the ice melting inside me, and that only heightens the pleasure I can feel through my clit. His teeth are sending electric shocks to my core. He sucks, nibbles, then flicks his tongue against that secret part of me he shouldn’t know so well.

My head bumps against one of the curved monitors as I come with a muffled cry. Unable to hold the dress, I let it fall, covering his head as I ride the wave. My legs give up the fight of staying upright and fall down, shaking and dangling from the edge of the desk.

Adrian emerges from underneath my dress, licking his lips. I stare away from him as I catch my breath. I don’t want to look at him, at the arrogance etched across his face, at the way he’s so smug about owning me. About how I’m his fucking Lenochka.