Liesa's Night (III)

Andy waited by the door, counting the seconds after the elevator pinged, and still Liesa managed to take him by surprise. She appeared in the entryway in a blur of motion, as if afraid she might evaporate if she paused long enough for the world to catch her. She wore, by his count, a record seven garments: pale blouse with pearly buttons, a midnight-blue skirt pleated so sharply it might have doubled as armor, thick stockings, white ankle socks with pink stripes, and beneath all that, lines showing through that promised at least two more layers—bra and panties, probably doubled up for good measure.

She clung to the stack of her wardrobe like a parachute, barely able to carry herself across the threshold. She dropped her duffel and perched on the far end of the sectional, every joint locked, hands folded over her knees.

“Hey, schat,” she said, her voice bright enough to ring false in the echo of the high ceilings.

Andy offered a small wave from the kitchen’s island. “You made good time,” he said, then watched as she arranged and re-arranged her hands, her skirt, her posture. She tugged at her blouse’s hem, then at the skirt, then at the hem again, in a nervous cycle.

“I wanted to get here early,” Liesa said. “I didn’t want you to wait up. Not like last time.” She glanced around, as if expecting some camera crew to burst in and announce her for the audience at home.

It was impossible not to notice the outfit, the way it pressed her into place and set her apart from the more casual dress code the Suite usually inspired. Andy considered easing into the real conversation, but she was already dissolving under the weight of it. Better to let the bomb go off now.

He set down his mug and sat beside her, careful to leave a neutral buffer zone. “We need to talk about the ribbon,” he said.

Liesa flinched so hard her knees knocked together. She pinched the fabric of her skirt and twisted, mouth flattening to a colorless line. For a second, he thought she might bolt.

“Do we have to?” Liesa asked, barely above a whisper.

Andy waited a beat, then nodded. “We do.”

Liesa’s gaze bounced from the fireplace to the floor, never once risking contact. “I was hoping we could just… enjoy the night?” She made a shaky attempt at a smile. “I missed you. That’s all. And with the challenges, and the way things ended last week—maybe we could just talk about, you know, not that?”

Andy didn’t budge. “I get that it’s hard,” he said, gentle but not yielding. “But it’s not going away. And if you don’t talk about it, Sam will. Or I will. I can’t protect you from it.”

Liesa swallowed. “You don’t have to protect me,” she said, but the words had no weight. “I can handle it.”

Andy folded his hands, studied her posture, and dropped his voice. “You haven’t told them, have you.”

The line of Liesa’s jaw trembled, a hairline fracture. “I just…” Her fingers twisted the pleats of her skirt until they warped. “I can’t stand conflict, Andy. I want to pretend it never happened.”

Andy exhaled slow. He didn’t want to push her, but he had promised Sam—he’d promised himself—he would end this.

“You’re not doing anyone favors by hiding,” he said. “Sam knows. And Dawn, she’s not stupid. Norah pretends not to care, but it’s going to burn her when she finds out.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s already hurting you.”

For a while, there was only the slow whirl of the ceiling fan. Liesa’s knees bounced with every beat of her heart. When she spoke, her accent thickened, vowels melting together. “Ik haat het dat ik het heb gedaan,” (I hate that I did it) she said. “Every time I think about telling, my stomach turns. I want to claw out of my own skin. So I just… don’t. I wait for it to go away, but it never does.”

Andy leaned closer, careful not to spook her. “You’re not a bad person, Liesa. But you have to fix it yourself. You have to be the one who tells them.”

Liesa pressed her hands over her face. The tips of her ears went pink, then red. “What if I do, and they never forgive me?”

He shook his head. “Then you’ll know. But at least you’ll stop making it worse every day you wait.”

Liesa said nothing, hands locked in place. Andy watched the tremor run through her, the fight between shame and survival. He wanted to reach out, but it was clear: she had to cross that gap on her own.

After a minute, Liesa pulled her hands down, streaks of moisture running down her cheeks. She wiped at them, furious and embarrassed.

“Het spijt me,” (I'm sorry) she said. “Am such a mess.”

Andy softened. “You’re human,” he said. “That’s all.”

She nodded, but her eyes were far away.

They sat in silence, the air heavy with all the things that hadn’t been said.

Liesa’s silence wasn’t empty. It was packed full of kinetic misery, every limb and joint caught in perpetual motion. She stared at the floor, at her own knees, at the ridged texture of the upholstery, until her vision blurred. Her hands picked at invisible fuzz, her heels bounced in small, rapid arcs. At one point, she muttered something in Flemish, quick and low, then said, “God, ik haat mezelf hiervoor,” (God, I hate myself for this) in a voice so thin it might have been the wind.

Andy didn’t move. He let her ride the wave, knowing from experience that trying to soothe too soon would only drive her deeper into the undertow.

Liesa squirmed, legs folding up tight, and bent to peel off one of the socks. She balled it in her fist, then the other, and tossed them both onto the coffee table with a huff. It was a small rebellion, but Andy saw the immediate effect: with two items gone, the flush rose up her neck, brightening her cheeks, her breathing changing ever so slightly.

She seemed to notice at the same time. She clamped her knees together, skirt rucked up high on her thighs, and wrapped her arms around her shins, burying her face in the blue cotton.

Andy watched her ride out the transformation’s aftershock. The spike of arousal was visible—her skin prickled, her breathing stuttered, her hands trembled more than before.

Liesa spoke into her knees. “I want to tell them. I do. But when I think about it, I get so hot, like I’m burning. Is not just the embarrassment, is…” Her voice faltered, catching on the memory of the challenge, of what she’d done and the way she’d failed to make it right. “It makes me want to run away.”

He put a hand over hers, anchoring her, skin to skin. “You’re not a bad person,” Andy said. “But hiding this is hurting the people who care about you. Liesa, it was a small incident. You can fix it—but you have to choose to.”

For a long moment, she didn’t move, as if the contact between them had shorted her nervous system. Finally, Liesa nodded, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

“I’ll tell them tomorrow,” she whispered. The words seemed to cost her something, and Andy heard the terror rattling just below the surface.

He squeezed her hand. “That’s all anyone can ask.”

Liesa hugged her legs tighter, but some of the frantic tension had drained away. She rested her cheek on her knee, eyes damp, face still burning with the transformation’s heat. She didn’t look up, but the promise hung between them, fragile and alive.

The silence stretched, but it was a new kind: not the brittle quiet of shame, but a warmth thickening at the edges. Liesa sniffed once, twice, then released her knees and let her legs drop to the floor. Her hands stayed locked together for a heartbeat, then one wandered up to push hair behind her ear, lingering at the nape of her neck. Her breathing was uneven, a flutter caught on the updraft of something she couldn’t name or wouldn’t admit.

Andy kept his hand in hers, not squeezing, not steering, just present.

After a minute, Liesa shifted sideways, so her shoulder lined up with his. She rested her head against his upper arm, as if testing whether she was allowed to lean, to need. Her whole body trembled—not the way she did when she was nervous, but as if her skin had grown too small to contain her. The heat from before had returned, more insistent now, radiating through the fabric and the thin shield of distance between them.

Andy let his own head tip, just barely, so their cheeks brushed. He smelled the warmth of her skin, the faint trace of rosewater from her morning shower, and underneath it, the wild electric tang of adrenaline and sweat.

Liesa spoke without lifting her face. “It gets worse, every time I try to fight it.”

He knew she meant the transformation. He also knew she meant herself.

“You don’t have to fight,” Andy said, voice low and steady. “Not with me. Not here.”

She shuddered, then, a quick full-body spasm, and her left hand drifted up to his chest, the touch so tentative he almost missed it. But the effect was immediate: she jerked, startled by her own boldness, and tried to pull back. Andy caught her fingers, held them in place, and said, “You’re safe. I promise.”

Liesa’s eyes glimmered with something like fear, but she didn’t retreat. She exhaled, long and shaky, then slid her hand up again, this time to the collar of his shirt. The second her fingers made contact, a wave seemed to crash through her, and she moaned—quiet and shocked, as if the sound had escaped against her will.

She clamped her hand over her mouth, mortified, but Andy gently pried it away. “It’s okay,” he said, and meant it.

Liesa’s face was on fire now, the flush traveling down her neck, blooming across her chest. She pressed her forehead to Andy’s shoulder and let out a noise that was half-laugh, half-cry.

“I can’t stop,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to,” Andy replied. He put his arm around her waist, drawing her in.

The rest was almost chemical. Liesa’s hands, now fully liberated, found their way to his ribs, his neck, his jawline. Each new point of contact fed the transformation’s cycle, dialing up her arousal until she could barely speak. She made small, **** sounds, the kind a person makes in a fever dream.

Soon, she was tugging at the buttons of her blouse, popping them one by one with frantic, shaking fingers. When she reached the last, she shucked the blouse entirely, tossing it somewhere behind the couch. She wore a plain, pale bra underneath, and the effect was devastating: with only three layers left—bra, skirt, panties—her restraint frayed to nothing.

She straddled Andy’s lap, moving with an urgency that was almost violent, and crushed her mouth to his. The kiss was all teeth and hunger, and her hands roamed, always searching for new territory.

Andy let her set the pace, but he held her steady, grounding her with the pressure of his hands at her hips. He could feel her heart racing, her breath gone to shallow, panting gasps. She pressed her body against his, **** for friction, for more sensation, for anything to drown out the shame and leave only the want.

When Andy pulled back for a second, Liesa whimpered, a wordless plea, and chased his mouth with hers. She rocked against him, skirt riding up, the soft fabric barely a suggestion of modesty now.

“You’re so good,” Andy murmured, voice thick with awe and something close to reverence. “I wish you could see yourself.”

Liesa shook her head, but the denial was more reflex than conviction. She ground harder against him, every movement a declaration of need.

The heat between them built until Andy thought he might ignite from proximity alone.

The night shattered into a blur of sensation: silk, heat, the rasp of skin over skin, the rhythm of ****, animal need. Liesa gasped Andy’s name, the syllables dissolving into helpless whimpers as she ground herself against him, every inch of her vibrating with the transformation’s intensity.

“Please—” Liesa stammered, her voice unrecognizable. “Don’t leave me like this. Please—Andy—”

He kissed her, and whatever was left of her control broke, flooding the space between them with hunger so sharp it hurt to witness. She fumbled at the clasp of her bra, finally ripping it open and flinging it aside. The brief, stunned stillness as her breasts bounced free was obliterated by the next wave: her hands yanked up her skirt, writhing in Andy’s lap, the air thick with the scent of her arousal.

He let her take what she needed, but didn’t let go of her wrists, not fully. Every time she shuddered or tried to shy away from her own reaction, he brought her back with a squeeze, a whisper, a thumb tracing the edge of her palm. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, over and over, as if the words alone might anchor her to the present.

When she finally lost the skirt, it was as if her whole body combusted. She clawed at his shirt, dragged her nails down his sides, bit his shoulder to stifle her moans. Andy returned every touch, every urgent grasp, with a measured pressure—kissing the line of her jaw, cupping the swell of her ass, pulling her down to grind against him harder. He loved her the only way he knew how: by refusing to let her drift away, even when she begged for release.

She was incoherent by the time her panties came off, sobbing with pleasure and humiliation, tears streaking her cheeks as she clung to Andy’s body like a lifeboat. He slid his hand between her legs and found her drenched, her hips bucking at the lightest touch. Every nerve in her body seemed tuned to his presence. When he finally entered her, she screamed his name, the sound raw and shattering, then collapsed into a shaking, sweaty heap against his chest.

But even as she rode the high, Andy kept whispering to her—soft, relentless, the truth she’d tried so hard to avoid.

“You can fix it,” he said, voice low in her ear. “Sam deserves better than silence. Dawn deserves to hear it from you, not someone else. You have to stop hiding.”

Each word landed like a stone in the river of her pleasure, slowing the current just enough that she could breathe, could think.

Liesa clung to him, panting, her body still wracked with aftershocks. “Tomorrow,” she managed, the word wet with tears and sweat. “I promise.”

He stroked her hair, kissed the salt from her temple, and held her until her trembling slowed.

For a long time, they said nothing. The only sounds were their breathing and the faint hum of the Suite's utilities. Andy reached for her discarded clothes, helping her dress with careful movements. Each item seemed to restore a piece of her composure—panties, skirt, the torn bra she fastened with trembling fingers, and finally the blouse with its missing button. Once dressed, Liesa curled against him, tucking her face under his chin, her hands balled in the fabric of his shirt.

After a while, she whispered, "I don't want Sam to hate me."

Andy kissed her forehead, gentler this time, and said, "Then don't give her a reason to. Be brave enough to face this. That's all it takes."

She nodded, the movement barely more than a shiver. She didn't speak again, but she didn't let go, either. The transformation's heat had receded with each layer of clothing, leaving her clear-headed enough to hold him without the ****, animal need returning.

Eventually, her breathing evened out, exhaustion taking over. She slipped into sleep, still pressed against him, a last murmur of "tomorrow" on her lips.

Andy stayed awake a while longer, feeling the weight of her promise settle in his own chest. He knew it wouldn't be easy, that the real work was still ahead. But tonight, at least, Liesa had stopped running.