Morning Reflection

The light streaming through the sheer curtains was merciless.

Kiara — Kieran — groaned into the silky pillow, lifting a hand to shield his eyes, nails (still perfectly manicured in a soft pink) brushing clumsily across his forehead.

His body felt like lead, heavy and slow, the lingering fog of champagne and adrenaline mixing into a thick, dreamy haze.

Then it hit him.

Last night.

His eyes snapped open, mascara-smudged lashes fluttering instinctively.

He fucked Seraphina.

For a stunned moment, Kieran just stared at the ceiling, lips parting slightly, the memory slamming into him with the **** of a freight train.

A bark of laughter — breathless, disbelieving — escaped him.

He did it. He fucking did it.

That whole week of simmering, aching tension, of sneaking off to jerk himself off in the shower while picturing her perfect tits, her thick thighs, that sweet laugh — and then last night he had just taken it.

Pinned her. Kissed her.

Slid his cock up into that gorgeous, warm body, right there in the locked accessibility washroom.

No one had seen.

No one had caught them.

And God, cumming inside her—that heat, that primal pulse—it was the best thing he'd felt in months.

He grinned lazily into the pillow, stretching, the tight satin camisole he slept in slipping down one smooth shoulder with the movement.

It was only after a few euphoric seconds of wallowing in the memory that the cold hand of panic gripped his chest.

Wait.

His body stiffened under the covers, corset hung over a chair, skirt still folded neatly where he’d peeled it off hours earlier.

What if she remembered?

Kieran sat bolt upright, heart hammering — a soft whump of the mattress and the rustle of sheets loud in the silent bedroom.

What if she remembered not the kissing, not the drunken fumbling, but him?

The cock she was so happily taking last night.

The cock that was very much not supposed to exist if Kiara Laurent, golden heiress to Euphorica Industries, was supposed to be real.

Shit. Shit. SHIT.

He dove across the bed with a clumsy, practiced swish of his hips — even panicking, he moved like a girl now — and snatched up his phone from the pink leather case Celeste had **** him to start using.

“If you’re going to pass, Kiara, every detail matters. Even the phone.”

The screen lit up instantly with a little chime — ding! — and he flinched.

There it was. A text from Seraphina. The notification hovered like a guillotine.

His heart was in his throat as he tapped it open with a trembling, perfectly manicured hand. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second before daring to peek.

And then —

Seraphina: omg my HEAD is killing me! tell me we didn’t do anything too embarrassing last night lol. still the best night ever tho <3

For a long moment, Kieran just stared at the screen.

And then he exhaled — a low, shuddering breath that made his corsetless ribs expand painfully.

Okay. She didn’t remember. Or if she did, she wasn’t letting on.

No mention of cocks. No mention of washroom sex.

No mention of ruined panties or anything else that would make Kiara Laurent's carefully-constructed façade collapse like a house of cards.

Just... two girl friends after a wild night.

The kind of sweet, goofy message girls sent each other after throwing up in an Uber.

He dropped the phone onto the duvet and flopped back against the pillows, a hysterical laugh bubbling out of him.

Safe. For now.

But even as his mind buzzed with relief, another memory slithered back in — vivid, dangerous, so real he could almost feel it.

Seraphina’s whimper as he pushed inside her.

The heat of her tight, soaked pussy gripping him greedily.

The little gasp she let out when he came, hips jerking helplessly, his seed spilling deep inside her.

The image made his cock twitch under the silky fabric of his panties — thick and heavy against the soft material, half-hard already.

Kieran bit his lip, fingers ghosting down his flat stomach — still lightly marked from the corset’s pressure — and he let himself remember.

The way her thighs had trembled.

The way she had clung to him like he was the only thing keeping her upright.

He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. Because God, he wanted it again. He wanted her again.

Even though he knew it was stupid, reckless, suicidal.

Even though he knew it would destroy everything.

He wanted to grab her by the waist, push her into a wall again, lift that tight little skirt she always wore to work and ram himself back inside where he belonged.

He rolled onto his side, curling up instinctively — his thighs brushing together delicately, another trained **** habit — and pulled a pillow to his chest, breathing hard.

He was supposed to be Kiara. Soft. Poised. Controlled.

Instead he was lying in a sea of pink bedding with a throbbing erection, **** to fuck his assistant again. The thought sent another guilty, perverse thrill through him.

With a frustrated growl, he buried his face in the pillow. He needed to get it together.

His mom would wake up soon and probably demand a full report on the charity event. Celeste would ask too.

And Seraphina...Seraphina would come into the office Monday morning looking gorgeous and bright-eyed, probably still thinking Kiara was just her pretty, perfect best friend.

Kieran needed to be ready.

Needed to be Kiara again.

But for now...

He let his hips roll lazily against the mattress, the thin panties doing nothing to hide the shameful friction as he rubbed himself against the sheets, biting down on whimpers.

For now, he could just remember.

For now, he could pretend she was his.

The electric buzz of the toothbrush vibrated through Kieran’s hand as he stood barefoot on the cool marble floor, still blinking blearily against the bathroom lights.

Minty foam built at the corners of his mouth as he methodically brushed — small, neat circles, just like Celeste had drilled into him — while his mind wandered.

Last night.

It clung to him like a second skin, impossible to shake.

Every flicker of memory from that forbidden, intoxicating encounter with Seraphina sent a ripple through his chest and a low throb between his thighs.

Even now, toothbrush in hand, hair tied in a loose, messy bun (so used to gathering it up without thinking), Kieran was plotting.

How could he fuck her again? How could he taste that again?

He spit into the sink, rinsed, and glanced up at himself in the wide mirror.

Kiara’s face stared back.

Softened angles. Long dark lashes. Naturally pink lips.

Even without a stitch of makeup yet, the training had been merciless — from the diet, to the corseting, to the subtle ways Celeste had taught him to carry tension differently in his cheeks, his jaw, his brow.

The "Kiara" effect lingered now, even when he wasn't trying.

He tapped a towel off the counter — white, plush — and patted his mouth dry with the softest movements.

Another habit.

Another bit of **** performance drilled into his bones.

He stepped back and dropped the towel onto the counter, then padded toward the shower, hips swaying slightly with each barefoot step without conscious thought.

The sleek glass door swung open with a whisper.

Inside, hot steam immediately enveloped him, kissing his bare skin, frizzing the baby hairs around his hairline.

He ducked under the spray, hissing softly at the shock of heat, and let the water sluice over him.

As he lathered shampoo into his scalp — fingers working in delicate circles, nails grazing lightly — his mind kept slipping back to Seraphina.

How drunk she’d been.

How easy it had been to tip her head back, kiss her senseless, slide his hands down the generous curves of her body.

How good it had felt to have something, someone, to sink into — to lose himself in.

Could he do it again?

God, he wanted to.

He turned and tilted his head back into the stream, eyes closed.

The water hammered down his back as he rinsed, then reached automatically for the delicate, rose-scented body wash he was supposed to use — another Celeste mandate.

No harsh scents.

Nothing "manly."

Only subtle, clean, luxurious aromas that matched the image of Kiara Laurent.

He scrubbed gently, hands moving across his chest, down his sides, over his hips — careful, always careful, not to leave angry red marks or tug at the delicate areas where the corset had pinched.

When he finally shut the water off, the bathroom was a sauna, steam curling in thick tendrils from every surface.

Kieran grabbed his towel and wound it around himself without thinking — over the chest, tucked carefully under the arm — the way Celeste had barked at him a dozen times during training.

"Towel goes over the chest, Kiara. Always. You're a woman, not a locker-room jock"

He caught a glimpse of himself as he padded back to the mirror, still damp and pink from the heat, towel tucked tight.

And then, slowly, he undid the tuck and let the towel fall. It pooled at his feet.

He stood there naked, water dripping lazily down his skin, and stared.

The body that stared back at him was a strange, unsettling paradox. Long legs, slim hips, a flat, taut stomach.

No curves. No breasts. Nothing but a plain canvas — smooth skin, slender frame — shaped and dressed and sculpted into a lie every day.

Except for one thing.

Kieran’s gaze dropped to his cock — thickening even now under his own inspection, twitching slightly in the cool air.

The forbidden piece of him. The truth he could never show.

He dragged his eyes back up, studying the fine details. His hair — long now, grazing just past his collarbones, still damp and heavy. His lashes — still absurdly thick and feminine, even with no mascara. His mouth — that same soft, full shape he had spent weeks learning how to enhance, how to smile with.

And then his hands — delicate, narrow fingers, wrist bones that looked fragile, painted nails still glossy from last week's appointment.

On the outside, Kiara Laurent. On the inside...still Kieran.

Still a man who wanted to fuck.

Still the man who had pinned Seraphina against a wall and used her like a toy while dressed like a porcelain doll.

A wave of conflicting emotion rolled through him — pride, guilt, hunger, shame, excitement.

God, he could feel the tension thrumming under his skin, the way his cock twitched as he remembered Seraphina's sweet, drunken whimpers.

How easy it would be to slip. How close he'd come already.

And yet...he couldn't help himself.

He liked the game. The power. The secret.

He smirked at his reflection — a cocky little tilt of the mouth that looked almost comically out of place on such a delicate, feminine face.

He was going to have to be careful. Very, very careful.

He bent to pick up the towel — moving instinctively with that same soft, hip-swaying motion Celeste had drilled into him until it was muscle memory — and began to dry himself off.

Today was another day. Another opportunity.

Seraphina would come into work Monday, sweet and giggly and gorgeous.

And Kieran would sit there, looking every inch the picture-perfect heiress, smile sweetly, and pretend he hadn’t bent his assistant over in a dirty bathroom stall and fucked the brains out of her.

And maybe — just maybe — he'd get a chance to do it again.

He smiled to himself.

Yes.

Today was another day.