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The dress was a calculated risk.
Black silk that clung like wet shadow, cut to the base of her spine and slit high enough on both thighs that every step threatened to finish the job. The neckline plunged in a deep V that forced her breasts together and left almost nothing to the imagination. Rey had chosen it because the First Order’s charity gala, ostensibly raising funds for “reconstruction,” was actually a thinly veiled weapons bazaar and the biggest social event of the year. Every general, every arms dealer, every soft-handed senator who still pretended the war was someone else’s problem would be there. The thing she needed was supposed to be in the private vault behind the main ballroom: a data crystal containing the new hyperspace-lane coordinates the First Order had been using to smuggle experimental ordnance.
Bait. She knew that now.
She had known it the second the Force had gone still and heavy the moment she stepped through the grand entrance.
The ballroom glittered. Crystal chandeliers, black marble floors reflecting a thousand gold lights, champagne flutes and low laughter and the soft scrape of expensive shoes. Rey moved through it like she belonged, spine straight, chin lifted, the little smile of a woman who had every right to be admired. Her hair was half-up, soft waves tumbling down her back. Makeup sharp. Perfume dark and expensive. She looked like sin poured into silk.
She felt him before she saw him.
Kylo Ren stood near the far colonnade, half in shadow, half in the warm spill of light. No mask. No cloak. Just a black suit cut so precisely it looked painted on with its high collar, clean lines, the barest suggestion of the scar that still bisected his face. His hair was longer than the last time she’d seen him, darker, falling in loose waves that somehow made the hard set of his jaw worse. He looked… better. Sharper. Like something that had finally stopped apologizing for what it was.
And he was watching her like he’d been waiting all night for this exact second.
Behind him, the Knights of Ren were scattered with casual precision. Vicrul near the main doors. Cardo by the service corridor. The others at the secondary exits and the terrace. Not obvious. Not yet. Just tall dark shapes that made the crowd unconsciously flow around them. They weren’t supposed to be here. Neither was he. Intelligence had been certain.
Rey’s pulse kicked hard against her throat.
She kept walking. Kept the smile. Reached for a glass of something sparkling from a passing tray and took a slow sip like her blood wasn’t already running hot and wrong.
The Force brushed her mind. Cool, possessive, and amused.
Pretty dress.
She didn’t answer. She turned toward the side corridor that led to the vault access, moving with unhurried purpose. Two steps later the nearest Knight shifted just enough to block the clean line of the hallway without ever looking at her. Another drifted into place near the terrace doors. Quiet. Efficient. Friendly, almost—like they were doing a favor for a brother rather than trapping prey.
Rey’s stomach dropped.
She pivoted, still graceful, and found Kylo already closing the distance. The crowd parted for him without being asked. People looked once and looked away. He stopped close enough that she had to tip her chin up. Up close he smelled like clean skin and something darker underneath—leather, ozone, the faint metallic edge of the Force when it was coiled tight.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, low.
“Neither are you.” His voice was rougher than she remembered, lower. Confident in a way that made her spine want to lock. “But here we both are.”
She lifted the glass again, a shield. “I’m a guest. Same as everyone else.”
“You’re bait.” He said it softly, almost kindly. “And you walked right into the trap wearing that.” His gaze dragged down her body once, slow and open, then back to her face. “It suits you.”
Rey’s mouth went dry. She tried for disdain. “If you’re going to monologue, at least do it somewhere less crowded.”
Something like a smile touched the corner of his mouth. Not kind. “Gladly.”
He didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. The Knights tightened the circle by half a step each, and suddenly the only path left was the one he wanted—toward a private antechamber off the ballroom, doors already open, the soft gold light inside waiting. Rey walked because the alternative was making a scene she couldn’t afford, and because some traitorous part of her wanted to see what he would do when the doors closed.
They shut with a quiet, expensive click.
The room was smaller. Low couches. A long table with more champagne. One wall of tall windows looking out over the city lights. The music from the gala became a distant throb. Kylo turned the lock without looking. Behind the door she felt the Knights settle into place like loyal dogs who knew the hunt was over.
Rey set the glass down. Straightened. Tried to remember how confidence felt when it wasn’t faked.
“You’re looking well,” she said. “Darker. Meaner. Did someone finally tell you the mask was overcompensating?”
He stepped into her space. Not rushed. Certain. One gloved hand came up and caught a loose curl of her hair, winding it slowly around two fingers until the tension tugged at her scalp.
“I missed this mouth,” he said. “The way it lies.”
“I’m not—”
He pulled. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to tip her head back and force her eyes to his. The air left her lungs in a soft, involuntary sound.
“There it is.” His voice dropped. “That little crack. You walk in here looking like every filthy thought I’ve ever had, and the second I touch you, you fold.”
“I don’t fold.”
He smiled for real this time—slow, dark, almost fond. “You will.”
The kiss was not gentle. He took her mouth like it already belonged to him, tongue and teeth and the iron press of his body backing her into the edge of the table. Rey made a sound against his lips that she hated and arched into him anyway. His free hand found the high slit of her dress and shoved the silk aside, palm rough on the bare skin of her thigh, climbing until his fingers dug into the soft flesh just below her hip. She was already wet. Humiliatingly, immediately wet. He felt it when his knuckles brushed the thin lace of her underwear and made a low, satisfied noise into her mouth.
“Already?” he murmured. “For me?”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s the plan.”
He spun her. Bent her over the table with one firm hand between her shoulder blades. The silk whispered as he rucked it up over her hips. Cool air hit her bare ass. He tore the lace aside like it offended him. Two thick fingers stroked through her folds, gathering slick, and then pushed in without warning—deep, deliberate, curling until her knees nearly buckled.
Rey choked on a moan.
“Quiet,” he said against her ear, hair still fisted in his other hand. “Unless you want the entire gala to know how easily the Resistance’s golden ticket takes my fingers.”
She bit her lip hard enough to sting. He fucked her with those fingers slow and filthy, thumb circling her clit just enough to make her hips push back for more. Every time she got close he eased off. Every time she tried to straighten he tightened his grip in her hair and pressed her cheek to the polished wood.
“Look at you,” he said, almost wonderingly. “Dripping down my hand. All that fire and you melt the second I put you where you belong.”
“I’m not—” Her voice broke when he added a third finger. “—yours.”
“No?” He pulled free. She heard the soft sound of his belt, the rasp of a zipper. The blunt, hot head of his cock dragged through her soaked folds once, twice, notching against her entrance. “Then tell me to stop.”
She didn’t.
He thrust in to the hilt in one brutal, careful stroke—stretching her open, filling her so completely the air punched out of her lungs. Rey’s hands scrabbled at the table. He held still for one long second, buried deep, letting her feel every thick inch, then pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in.
The pace he set was relentless. Deep. Controlled. Each thrust jolted her forward; each pull dragged a broken sound out of her throat. He kept one hand fisted in her hair, using it as leverage, the other locked on her hip hard enough to bruise. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the small room. Somewhere beyond the door the gala continued—laughter, music, the clink of glasses—while Kylo Ren fucked her like he’d been starving for it.
“You feel that?” he growled, bending over her back, mouth at her ear. “That’s me inside the Resistance’s perfect little hope. Their golden child. Bent over a table at a First Order gala taking my cock like she was made for it.”
Rey whimpered. She hated how good it sounded. Hated how her cunt clenched around him at the words.
He laughed, low and dark, and fucked her harder.
Her comlink chirped.
The soft, insistent pulse from the tiny device still clipped inside the bodice of her dress. Once. Twice. Resistance check-in. Right on schedule.
Kylo didn’t stop. He reached around, found the device with unerring fingers, and pressed it into her hand even as he kept driving into her.
“Answer it.”
“I can’t—”
He yanked her hair, forcing her spine into a deeper arch, and snapped his hips forward so hard she saw stars. “Answer it. Tell them everything’s fine. Tell them you’re still on mission. Lie to them while I’m deep in this perfect cunt.”
Rey’s fingers shook. She activated the channel with a trembling thumb. Static, then Poe’s voice, bright and worried and so far away it felt like another life.
“Rey? You copy? Status.”
Kylo’s thrusts turned filthy and deep, grinding against that spot inside her that made her vision blur. She bit down on a moan and forced her voice steady.
“Copy. I’m—ah—I’m fine. In position. Target’s still secure. No complications.”
A soft, vicious chuckle against her neck. He reached around and found her clit with two fingers, rubbing tight, mean circles in time with his thrusts.
Poe again: “You sound off. Everything okay?”
“Perfectly fine.” Her voice cracked on the last word as Kylo slammed home and held, grinding. Pleasure coiled white-hot at the base of her spine. “Just… crowded. I’ll check in after extraction. Rey out.”
She killed the channel.
Kylo made a sound like he’d just come himself—raw, triumphant—and started fucking her in earnest. Hard, deep strokes that shoved her up the table. The hand in her hair tightened until her scalp burned. The other stayed merciless on her clit.
“That’s it,” he snarled. “Lie to them. Come on my cock while you do it. Be my good little traitor.”
Rey shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her so hard her knees gave out. She clenched around him in helpless pulses, sobbing into the wood, silk dress rucked up, thighs shaking, completely wrecked. Kylo fucked her through it without mercy, chasing his own release, and when he came it was with a low, guttural groan and her name like a curse—hot pulses flooding her, claiming her, painting her insides while he held her impaled and trembling.
He stayed buried for a long moment, breathing hard against the back of her neck. Then he slowly pulled out. She felt the immediate, filthy trickle of him down her thigh. He straightened her dress with almost tender hands, smoothed the silk back down over the mess he’d made, and turned her to face him.
Her lipstick was smeared. Her eyes were glassy. Her hair was a ruin from his fist. She looked thoroughly, beautifully used.
She could still feel him between her thighs—hot, slick, undeniable—when he stepped back.
Kylo straightened his cuffs like he hadn’t just fucked the Resistance’s hope over a gala table. The Knights remained outside, silent shadows at every exit, but he made no move to bind her, no order to drag her to a ship. He simply watched her with that new, unshakable calm.
“You’re free to walk out,” he said. Voice low. Certain. “No one will stop you. The data crystal was never in the vault. It was never the point.”
Rey’s legs were unsteady. Silk clung to the mess cooling on her skin. She hated how wrecked she still sounded. “Then what was?”
“You.” He stepped close again—not grabbing, not forcing. Just near enough that the heat of him pressed against her front. One hand rose, slow, and cradled her jaw. Thumb brushed the smear of her lipstick. “I don’t want you in chains tonight. I want you to choose it. Walk back to your people if you need to. Lie again. Tell them the mission failed clean. Then come to me.”
Her breath caught.
“Willingly,” he continued, darker now. “On your knees or on your back, I don’t care. But you come because you can’t stop thinking about how hard you came while you lied to them. Because you felt how right it is when I pull your hair and fill you and call you mine. Because the golden child is tired of pretending she doesn’t want the monster.”
Rey’s pulse hammered. She should shove him away. Should reach for a weapon, the Force, anything. Instead her fingers curled in the front of his jacket.
“And if I don’t?”
A ghost of a smile. Not cruel. Confident. “Then I’ll wait. And every time you close your eyes you’ll still feel me. Every check-in with Dameron will make you wet. You’ll last a week. Maybe two. Then you’ll find me.”
He leaned in, mouth brushing her ear.
“Surrender, Rey. Not because I trapped you. Because you want to be trapped by me.”
He released her. Stepped back fully. The lock clicked open under a flick of his fingers. Beyond the door the gala still glittered, music and laughter oblivious.
“Go,” Kylo said softly. “Before I change my mind and keep you anyway.”
Rey held his gaze one second longer—ruined makeup, trembling thighs, pride cracked wide open—then walked past him on unsteady legs. The Knights parted without a word. None touched her. Vicrul even tipped his helmet a fraction, almost respectful.
She didn’t look back.
But the Force between them stayed taut, a living wire, and she already knew the truth he wanted:
She would come back.
Willingly.