CHAPTER 161: STRIKING

The shift was subtle but striking—her face now carried a surgical precision, focused, almost clinical.

Her plain tunic and skirt still clung to her curves, but there was a new edge to her, like a tool honed for purpose.

And her hands—sheathed in sleek black latex gloves, the material stretched taut over her fingers, snapping faintly against her wrists as she flexed them.

The sound was sharp in the quiet cottage, a small, deliberate punctuation.

She didn’t sit.

Didn’t kneel.

She stopped a single step from him, towering over his seated form, her icy gaze pinning him in place with that same unblinking calm.

The herbal scent from the rafters mingled with the faint, sterile tang of the gloves, and the air seemed to tighten around them.

"Strip," she said, her voice as cold and steady as the blade of a scalpel.

Lor’s brows twitched upward, a flicker of surprise he quickly smothered.

Her command wasn’t laced with seduction or hesitation—it was as flat and certain as an order to fetch water.

He didn’t argue, though the weight of her gaze pinned him like a specimen.

His fingers moved to his belt, the muted click of the buckle breaking the silence.

He unbuttoned his trousers, the fabric whispering as it slid down his legs, pooling at his ankles.

The cottage’s cool air kissed his bare skin, sharpening the sudden vulnerability of being half-exposed—shirt still on, boots still laced, his cock already half-hard from the moment those sleek black gloves snapped onto her hands.

Ameth didn’t react.

Her icy blue eyes stayed locked on his face, ignoring the thickening length between his thighs as if it were irrelevant.

Her high ponytail swayed faintly as she stepped past him, moving to the low table against the wall with the same brisk efficiency she’d shown in the market.

Lor’s gaze followed, catching the subtle shift of her hips, the way her plain tunic clung to the full curve of her breasts, bouncing slightly with each step.

She reached for a small glass bottle, its amber liquid glinting in the warped light from the window.

Unscrewing the stopper, she poured a slow, viscous ribbon of oil into her gloved palm, the scent of warmed spice—cinnamon edged with pepper—curling into the air, heavy and intoxicating.

Her fingers worked the oil into the latex, each motion smooth and practiced, the glossy sheen spreading evenly as the gloves caught the light.

The faint snap of the material against her wrists sent a jolt through Lor’s core, his pulse kicking faster.

He’d been with plenty of women—soft, rough, eager, reluctant, shy, embarrassed—but none like this.

None who moved with such clinical precision, like a butcher preparing a perfect cut, her focus as sharp as a blade.

She stepped back toward him, her ponytail bouncing lightly, the motion drawing his eye to the way her breasts shifted beneath the taut fabric of her tunic.

"Sit," she said, nodding to the spot on the floor where the ritual’s coin still lay.

Lor obeyed, lowering himself to the boards, leaning back on his hands.

His legs spread instinctively, his cock now fully erect, flushed and heavy, the tip glistening faintly in the dim light.

He couldn’t help it—the images in his head were relentless, fueled by the sight of her, the scent of the oil, the snap of those gloves.

Ameth knelt before him, close but not touching, her knees hovering just shy of his thighs. The warmth of her presence radiated toward him, a contrast to the cool air.

Her gloves shimmered with oil, but her eyes stayed fixed somewhere above his, never dipping to his straining erection.

The detachment in her gaze only stoked the heat in his veins, a paradox that made his breath catch.

Then, without preamble, her hand closed around him.

Lor sucked in a sharp breath, his hips twitching upward.

The oil-slick latex was a revelation—smooth yet textured, the faint drag of the glove blending with the slick warmth to create a sensation that was both precise and overwhelming.

Her grip was firm, controlled, her fingers wrapping around his shaft with a confidence that felt almost mechanical.

The oil amplified every touch, the heat seeping through the latex, making his cock pulse hard against her palm.

Her strokes began slow, methodical, the heel of her hand brushing the base as her fingers glided upward, teasing the sensitive tip with a fleeting twist.

The sound was subtle but maddening—a wet, rhythmic slide, like secrets whispered in the dark.

Lor’s mouth parted, his eyes narrowing as a low groan rumbled in his chest.

His hips rocked slightly, chasing her touch, the motion involuntary but desperate.

"You’ve done this before," he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them, half-teasing, half-awed.

She didn’t respond.

Her face remained an unreadable mask, her movements steady, almost hypnotic, as if she were performing a task rather than stoking pleasure.

She switched hands seamlessly, her second glove just as warm, just as slick, her fingers curling with the same perfect grip.

The sight of her—kneeling in her plain clothes, ponytail swaying with each motion, her breasts jiggling faintly under the tunic—sent a fresh surge of heat through him.

The clinical detachment in her eyes, paired with the relentless skill of her hands, was a torment all its own, making his cock throb harder with every stroke.

The oil’s warmth sank deeper, her strokes growing firmer, the latex gliding over his skin with a precision that bordered on cruel.

Lor’s breathing deepened, his thighs tensing as he fought to keep control.

He’d been with skilled hands just the previous night, but this was different—calculated, cold in its execution, yet so perfectly tuned to his body that it felt like she was unraveling him thread by thread.

The way her ponytail bounced, the subtle jiggle of her breasts with each stroke, the glistening black gloves working him with unyielding focus—it was too much, too fast.

"Fuck..." he exhaled, his head tipping back for a moment, the ceiling blurring as pleasure coiled tighter in his gut.