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Sophia hadn’t realized it, until the live started.
The moment she’d sat down and opened her legs slightly under the coffee table, as Megan and Yoonchae teamed up against Lara and Daniella, their constant bantering getting louder by the second—she felt it.
That aching absence.
The lack of fabric.
The harsh air from the cold-ass AC hitting her bare core.
No… no, no, no. Shit.
How could she have not noticed?
She was wearing no underwear.
Her core was bare.
Sophia crossed one leg over the other carefully, trying not to shift too much as her eyes flicked sideways.
And there it was.
Manon’s grin. Her gaze low and slow, dark with knowing, locked on Sophia. Locked on her skirt, specifically.
Her smile was lazy. Crooked.
Like she knew exactly what Sophia had just realized.
Sophia narrowed her eyes, shifting in her seat, trying to pretend she wasn’t dying inside. She adjusted her posture in some desperate attempt at modesty.
Manon lifted a hand. Softly, deliberately, she brushed Sophia’s bangs aside. Her fingers were gentle. Too gentle.
Sophia’s breath hitched, her heart thudding against her ribs. She glanced at the phone camera across from them, praying the fans were too distracted by Daniela’s rant to notice anything else. She forced a polite smile.
Then Manon let her hand fall. Slowly, deliberately, she slid it to Sophia’s knee. Her fingers crept upward.
“Missing something?” she whispered, voice mock-innocent, leaning back again with a grin.
Sophia bit her lip, trying not to show the urge to strangle her.
Not in a kinky way.
Okay, maybe in a kinky way.
She forced a laugh, swatting Manon’s hand off her thigh in a way that could pass as friendly, maybe even flirty. But in her head, she was already imagining dragging her out by the collar.
Because seriously:
What the fuck was she doing?
The entire hour was torture. Lara had barely blinked, happily chatting away to the camera. Daniela's bantering sounding more and more like a mosquito buzzing in the background. Worst of all Megan and Yoonchae being all sweet and calm. Meanwhile, Sophia sat perfectly still, hyper-aware of every breath, every shift, every inch of her skin.
Not at all enjoying herself.
Because of one single person.
Manon would glance at her, never sweetly. Never innocently. Her gaze was slow and calculating, like she was watching Sophia fall apart in real time.
Every time Sophia said something, Manon would tilt her head and smile like that, like she was cataloguing the tremble in Sophia’s voice. When Sophia scooted an inch away, Manon followed. When she batted her hand away, Manon grinned.
She was enjoying this.
She had to keep pushing Manon’s hand away so many times her wrist cramped.
This bitch.
I swear to God. You’re so dead.
She was watching Sophia unravel.
Every touch, on her wrist, her thigh, her fingers—was slow. Intentional.
When Sophia jerked away, Manon only smiled wider. Laughed under her breath. Touched her again.
Oh, she thinks this is funny? I’ll show her funny. I will absolutely—
It was like Manon could see the heat building on her chest, the faint sheen of sweat betraying her. Her fingers trailed too close to Sophia’s thigh again. The laughter from the others only grew louder, covering everything—everything except the pulse pounding in her ears.
And the worst part?
Her underwear really was gone.
She remembered exactly where she’d left it, tucked beneath her flared shirt in their studio dressing room.
And now? Gone.
Vanished.
Stolen.
This bitch.
As soon as the live ended, Sophia didn’t wait. Didn’t care about the others’ glances.
She grabbed Manon’s arm the second the camera light blinked off.
“Come here.”
Manon followed without protest, barely stifling a laugh as they turned down the hall.
“Oh wow. Somebody’s mad,” she teased, her voice sweet and low. “You look so fine right now, giving MILF.”
“You know, ‘Mother I’d like to fuck’?” she clarified, catching up to Sophia’s fast dragging pace.
Sophia rolled her eyes.
At this point, just call me old and get it over with.
“Shut up.”
Manon grinned. “Aww. Or maybe you just missed me.”
Sophia didn’t answer.
She shoved open the supply closet door, pushing Manon inside hard enough to rattle a coat rack.
The door slammed behind them.
Dust floated in the air. The old fluorescent lights buzzed above. Manon hit the wall with a muted thud.
She didn’t flinch. Just looked at her. Calm. Slightly breathless. That same damn grin curling on her lips.
Sophia’s hands shook as she ran them through her hair.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” she said, voice low but sharp. “But whatever that was—” she waved a hand around vaguely,
“It can’t happen again. Like, just because of that one night we got drunk, and you kissed me just to mess with my head for a week, doesn’t mean you can start treating me like I’m your personal toy.” She rambled.
Manon tilted her head slightly. Calm. Steady.
“You done?”
Sophia stepped closer. Her jaw clenched.
“You think this is a joke—”
Her voice cracked. She swallowed it.
But then Manon’s eyes dropped—trailing slowly down Sophia’s legs, then back up.
Her words faltered.
Manon bit her lip, gaze sultry and amused. She reached up again, gently brushing Sophia’s arm.
“Keep talking, please,” she teased, eyes gleaming.
Sophia flinched at the spark that ran down her spine.
She narrowed her eyes. “Okay, Manon. Quit acting like a brat—seriously, how old are you?”
“Old enough for you, mommy!” she exclaimed in a whiny voice.
This bitch was older than her.
Sophia chose to ignore it. “Anyway. Just stay out of my way,” she said, searching Manon’s teasing eyes in wait of an answer.
Then, like someone flipped a switch, Manon’s weird behavior dropped.
“Oh? Is that right?”
That’s when it happened.
Manon didn’t touch her. Not really.
She just lifted her thigh—slow, and deliberate. She nudged it forward, slotting it between Sophia’s legs.
Sophia froze.
Her breath caught. Sharp. Instant.
Her voice? Gone.
Her willpower? Barely hanging on.
The soft press of her inner thighs against Manon’s warmth sent a bolt of heat through her.
No barrier. No protection. Just the flex of muscle and the slow slide of friction where she was already too sensitive.
Then Manon nudged her thigh back and forth; light, and teasing—before pressing firmer into Sophia’s core.
Sophia’s eyes fluttered closed. A breath escaped.
Pressure built, and Manon leaned in slightly.
“You sound breathless,” she whispered, before giggling at her own dumb pun.
Sophia’s throat tightened. “Manon, I swear—”
“Do you want this?” Manon asked, low and clear, her doe-eyed expression never wavering.
Sophia didn’t answer.
Manon’s hand rose, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I know you do,” she murmured.
Sophia’s lips parted. Her jaw tightened like she wanted to argue, but she didn’t move.
And Manon stayed still. Thigh pressed firm. Letting her choose.
Sophia’s breath hitched. Her skirt had ridden up, exposing more than she’d meant. But the second she shifted, the heat met her bare skin again. Direct. Intimate.
God.
Manon was wearing those tiny jean shorts. Bare thighs. Solid muscle. Everything pressed perfectly, right where Sophia was losing herself.
“You should leave,” Sophia whispered—mostly to herself.
“Please,” she added, barely audible.
Then Manon giggled. Soft. Mean.
“Oh, Soph—weren’t you the one who dragged me in here?” she pouted.
Sophia hesitated, mouth slightly open, chest heaving.
Manon moved a strand of hair again, her voice mockingly gentle.
“Now you have to deal with me, sweetheart.”
Her body didn’t move. But her thigh lifted slightly.
And Sophia… sank.
Just enough pressure to feel it. Not too much. She could still back away. She told herself she would. Any second.
Her fingers gripped Manon’s shoulders—purely for balance, she told herself.
Manon exhaled, amused.
“There she is,” she murmured. “So sweet when you stop pretending.”
Sophia’s jaw tensed.
“Shut up,” she muttered, but it was barely there. Weak.
She moved. Instinctively.
A slow, shameful drag of her hips forward. In the process—a light gasp escaping her breath.
Manon’s hand wrapped tight around her waist.
“Slow,” she murmured, voice dipped low and rich like velvet. “Don’t rush it, sweetheart.”
Sophia nodded, barely. Hands curling tighter, nails clawing at Manon’s back.
She tried. Really.
But the aching pulse between her legs was getting sharper, and hotter.
Her skirt bunched up with every motion, friction making her lose sense of rhythm or grace. She tried pressing down harder, just a little. Grinding faster, seeking that edge.
That’s when Manon moved.
Her thigh dropped lower, denying her. Cutting off the pressure entirely.
Sophia gasped. “Wait—”
“I said,” Manon’s voice darkened, a low rasp that curled against Sophia’s ear, “go slow.”
Sophia whimpered, chest heaving, trying to catch her breath. Shame blooming in her chest.
Can’t believe she was doing this.
Can’t believe she was acting like Manon’s fucking dog.
At that point just make her get on all fours.
(We aren’t that kinky yet—maybe next time though!)
She nodded quickly at Manon’s words, but her hips still stuttered forward, just a little too fast.
Manon tsked softly.
“Ah ah ah,” she whispered, sliding her hand higher up Sophia’s back. “Not so fast, baby. That’s not how we do this.”
Sophia forced herself to slow down.
Slowly she rolled her hips. Her skirt bunched at her waist. The friction, painful—but in its way, hitting right where she needed it most.
Her head dropped to Manon’s neck. Pants and quiet hisses spilled against her jaw.
Another painfully slow roll.
“That’s it,” Manon whispered, tilting her head. “Just like that.”
Sophia froze mid-kiss, shaking her head once.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she said, voice thin.
“No,” Manon agreed easily. “Just you, using me.”
Another slow grind. Deliberate. Then another.
“Such a good girl,” Manon breathed. “Keep going.”
A soft whimper escaped Sophia’s lips.
One of her knees buckled. She caught herself with a hand on the wall, hips moving in slow, aching circles. Uneven. Desperate.
“Don’t stop,” Manon whispered. “You’re doing so good.”
Sophia’s breath was ragged now.
The pressure grew. The rhythm stayed slow—but sharper. Deeper.
And then, finally, Manon moved—just her hand. Lifting it to the back of Sophia’s neck.
She didn’t push. Just held her there. Thumb brushing slow, steady circles.
“That’s it,” she whispered. “Let it happen.”
And Sophia broke.
A quiet gasp. A tremble. Her mouth pressed to Manon’s neck as her hips stuttered against her thigh. Heat flared and burned through her. Her fingers clung to Manon’s tank top. Her thighs shook.
Then silence.
She slumped forward, forehead to Manon’s shoulder, body stilling.
And Manon—finally—wrapped her arms around her.
Gentle. Warm.
No teasing. No grin.
Just her chin resting on Sophia’s shoulder. A soft hum against her skin.
“You did good,” she whispered. “Really good for me.”
Sophia didn’t answer.
Her breath was shaky. Her muscles were tight.
But she didn’t pull away.
She stayed there, buried in Manon’s hold, as the lights buzzed faintly overhead. Arms wrapped around her, steady.
And for the first time in weeks, Sophia had nothing left to say.