NOVEL WEB Chapter 15: The Pact
Below is Chapter 15 of *Mismanaged Sex*, written in first-person POV from Sasha's perspective, targeting a word count of 3500 as requested. It adheres to your plot outline, focusing on Sasha meeting Mara in a hotel to strike a deal to share Julian while exploring their own chemistry, culminating in a slow, luxurious night in bed. The key theme, "alliances shift in the dark," shapes the narrative, with silk sheets and deliberate touches as the central erotic elements, creating a dance of equals. Here's the continuation:
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### Chapter 15: The Pact
The hotel lobby gleams under soft golden lights, all polished marble and hushed voices, a world apart from the chaos I've been drowning in. My heels click against the floor, a sharp, steady rhythm that keeps me grounded as I head for the elevator, Mara's text burning in my mind: *Room 1408. 8 p.m. Don't be late.* It's 7:58 now, and my pulse is a wild thing, thumping against my ribs, a mix of nerves and anticipation I can't shake. Last night's call—her voice whispering through the phone, pulling me apart while I touched myself—left me raw, restless, and here I am, walking into her game because I said yes.
The elevator doors slide shut, trapping me in a mirrored box, and I catch my reflection—black dress hugging my curves, hair loose and wild, lips painted a deep red like armor. I look like I'm in control, but inside, I'm a mess, still reeling from the threesome with Julian and Lena, still feeling their hands on me, their betrayal in my bones. Mara's different—cool, calculating, a shadow I can't read—and that's what's got me hooked, the promise of something steadier, something I can hold onto. The ding of the fourteenth floor jolts me, and I step out, the carpet muffling my steps as I find her door.
I knock, sharp and quick, and it swings open almost instantly, Mara standing there in a silk robe the color of midnight, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, gray eyes locking on mine with that quiet intensity that undoes me every time. "Right on time," she says, her voice smooth, a faint smile curling her lips as she steps aside. "Come in."
The room's a suite—sprawling, luxurious, all soft whites and deep blues, a massive bed dominating one wall, silk sheets gleaming under the low light. A bottle of champagne sits on a tray, two glasses already poured, bubbles rising lazy and slow. It's a stage, meticulously set, and I feel the shift already—her domain, her rules—but I'm not here to lose. I drop my purse on a chair, meeting her gaze head-on. "So," I say, crossing my arms, "you want to fix this. How?"
She doesn't answer right away—just hands me a glass, her fingers brushing mine, deliberate and warm, sending a shiver up my arm. "Sit," she says, nodding to the plush couch by the window, and I do, sinking into it, the fabric cool against my thighs as she settles beside me, close enough that her knee grazes mine. "I heard about your little reckoning," she starts, sipping her champagne, her eyes never leaving me. "Quite the power play. I'm impressed."
I laugh, sharp and dry, swirling the glass in my hand. "Impressed? Or pissed that I fucked your husband again?" My voice is steady, but there's a challenge in it, testing her, and she doesn't flinch—just tilts her head, her smile sharpening.
"Neither," she says, setting her glass down, leaning closer, her robe slipping just enough to hint at the curve of her breast. "I told you—I've known about Julian's games forever. Lena, too. What I care about is you." Her hand rests on my knee now, light but firm, and my breath catches, heat pooling low despite myself. "You're the wildcard, Sasha. The one who keeps this mess spinning."
"Me?" I snort, but it's weaker than I mean it to be, her touch distracting, creeping higher up my thigh. "I'm just trying to survive it."
"No," she murmurs, her fingers tracing slow circles, silk against skin. "You're driving it. And I want in." Her eyes are molten now, a dare and a promise, and I feel the shift—power tilting, not hers or mine, but ours, if I let it happen. "We could share him, you know. Julian. Keep him in line together. But this—" her hand slides higher, brushing the hem of my dress—"this would be ours."
My mouth's dry, the champagne forgotten as I set it aside, her words sinking in, her touch igniting me. "A pact," I say, voice low, testing the weight of it. "You and me, calling the shots?" It's insane—allying with the wife of the man I've been fucking, the woman who's been pulling strings I can't see—but it's tempting, a lifeline in this chaos, and fuck, I want her, too.
"Exactly," she whispers, leaning in, her breath warm against my cheek. "No more fighting over him. No more Lena's games. Just us, taking what we want." Her lips hover over mine, not touching, waiting, and I'm the one who closes the gap—kissing her slow, deliberate, tasting the champagne on her tongue, the cool control she wields like a weapon. It's different from Julian's desperation, Lena's fire—steady, luxurious, a dance I can match.
She pulls back, just enough to stand, offering her hand, and I take it, letting her lead me to the bed. The silk sheets are cool as I sit, watching her shed the robe, revealing smooth skin, curves that catch the light, and I'm struck by how composed she is—naked, vulnerable, but still in charge. "Lie back," she says, soft but firm, and I do, kicking off my heels, my dress riding up as I stretch out, the fabric whispering against my thighs.
Mara climbs over me, her hair brushing my face, and I feel the shift again—equals, not rivals, testing this new alliance. Her hands find the zipper at my side, sliding it down with a slow, deliberate rasp, and I lift my hips, letting her peel the dress off, leaving me in black lace, my breath shallow as she takes me in. "Beautiful," she murmurs, her fingers tracing the edge of my bra, dipping beneath it to graze my nipple, and I arch, a soft moan slipping free.
She smiles, a flicker of triumph, and leans down, kissing me again—this time deeper, hungrier, her tongue teasing mine as her hands roam, unclasping my bra, tossing it aside. Her mouth follows, lips closing over my breast, sucking slow and firm, and I gasp, my hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer. It's not rushed, not frantic like with Julian or Lena—this is a dance, deliberate, every touch a step we're learning together.
Her fingers slide lower, hooking into my panties, and I lift again, letting her strip me bare, the silk sheets cool against my back as she settles between my thighs. "Tell me you want this," she says, her voice husky, her breath hot against my skin, and I nod, too caught up to speak at first, then force the words out.
"Yes," I whisper, and it's all she needs. Her mouth finds me, soft at first, a tease of lips and tongue that makes me squirm, then harder, deeper, sucking until I'm trembling, my hips rocking against her. My hands grip the sheets, silk bunching under my fingers, and I'm lost in it—the slow, luxurious build, the way she knows exactly where to press, to lick, drawing moans I can't hold back.
I'm close, teetering, when she pulls back, climbing up to kiss me again, her taste on my lips, and I groan, needy, tugging at her hair. "Not yet," she murmurs, smirking against my mouth, and shifts, straddling my thigh, her own heat pressing against me. She's wet, slick, and the feel of her rocking there, slow and deliberate, sends a fresh jolt through me. "Together," she says, and I nod, my hand sliding between us, finding her, mirroring her rhythm.
It's a dance now, truly—our bodies moving in sync, her fingers inside me, mine inside her, slow thrusts building to something urgent, luxurious still but edged with desperation. Her moans are soft, controlled, but they break as we push harder, faster, silk sheets sliding beneath us, the headboard tapping the wall in a quiet, steady beat. I feel her tighten, her breath hitching, and it's enough—enough to tip me over, my cry sharp and raw as I come, shuddering against her, her own release following, a low, trembling sound that vibrates through me.
We collapse, tangled, her weight warm and solid atop me, our breaths mingling as the aftershocks fade. She doesn't pull away—just rests there, her forehead against mine, and I feel it—the alliance forming, fragile but real, sealed in this quiet, dark moment. "Julian's ours now," she whispers, her voice soft but certain, and I nod, my hand tracing her spine, silk-smooth under my fingers.
"Ours," I echo, and it's strange—comforting, terrifying—knowing we've shifted the game, redefined it. She rolls off, pulling me with her, and we lie side by side, the sheets cool against our overheated skin. The champagne's still there, untouched, and she reaches for it, pouring fresh glasses, handing me one with a smile that's less guarded now, more real.
"To us," she says, clinking her glass against mine, and I drink, the bubbles sharp on my tongue, grounding me. We talk then—quiet, easy, about Julian, about Lena, about how this might work—and it's not just sex anymore, not just a pact. It's something deeper, something I didn't expect, and as the night stretches on, we drift back to the bed, hands exploring lazily, kisses soft and lingering.
She takes me again, slower this time, her tongue tracing every curve, her fingers deliberate, drawing it out until I'm begging, a quiet plea that makes her laugh, low and warm. I return it, tasting her, learning her, and it's hours before we're sated, curled together, silk clinging to our damp skin. The dark hides us, shifts us, and I feel it—alliances changing, power balancing, a new thread in this tangled mess I've woven.
When I wake, she's still there, her arm draped over me, breath steady against my neck, and I don't move—just lie there, letting the quiet hold us. Julian's ours, yes, but this—this is mine, hers, a pact forged in silk and longing, and for the first time in weeks, I feel steady, anchored, even if it's only for now.