My phrase seems to have no effect on her. She stands before me with the same unchanged, slightly mocking expression, as if I have said something completely ordinary. Her bright, penetrating eyes show neither surprise nor curiosity—only a slight confusion, as though she has heard it a thousand times before. The buzz of conversations and music fills the air, creating an invisible barrier between us.
"Then we need more tequila, and lime with salt," she adds with a slight smile.
When the order arrives, we head to the plastic tables in the corner. It is noisy around us, and the bright lights create a fake festive atmosphere. There are no chairs, and we, slightly flustered, stand there, nervously exchanging glances. The plastic tables creak slightly, and the glances of passersby sometimes linger on us, creating the feeling that we are part of something bigger, accidental observers of the evening.
"Let's drink first, and then move on to tequila, okay?" she suggests.
I nod, confirming that this plan suits me. The tension slightly eases, but there is still a chill in her gaze, something unspoken that goes beyond ordinary conversation. With her usual dexterity, Katrin pours the liquid into plastic cups, glancing at me. Her movements are quick, but graceful. We drink a few cups, and the alcohol begins to take effect, dulling the senses but enhancing the moment. Inside, anticipation flares up, slowly but surely heating my interest in what is happening.
"Alright, let's begin," her voice sounds slightly tense, as always when she is ready for something bolder and more uncertain.
The girl skillfully picks up the knife and starts slicing the lime thinly. Her movements are quick and confident, like a true rebel. The blade slides through the fruit with precision that any chef would envy. There is something mesmerizing in these simple actions, and I watch, not taking my eyes off her, trying to understand what is happening in my mind.
"From which part of the body will you lick the salt?"
I don't immediately find an answer, but instinctively grab her hand. Gently, I run my finger along her collarbone, feeling a slight warmth under her skin. There is something intimate in this touch that makes my heart beat faster. She looks at me. Her eyes are burning—playful, provocative, but with an interest that can't be hidden. I know she knows exactly what she is doing.
"Alright, I'll prepare everything, and then I'll explain the rules. You just do what I tell you," she says, beginning to pour lime juice on the salt, mixing it slightly to get the right consistency. Every movement is measured, yet done with special care, as if she is trying to create the perfect blend where every element takes its place. I watch as the lime drops blend with the salt crystals, forming a thick, slightly transparent liquid. At that moment, the salt ceases to be just a substance—it becomes something alive, with its own rhythm, and its merging with the lime feels like an act of magic.
"To make the salt stick better to the body," she explains, not taking her eyes off her task. "Usually, the salt is licked from the palm or shoulder, and there's no point in mixing it. Although some just sprinkle salt on the body part and lick their partner. As for me, it doesn't stay long, especially if the partner keeps moving."
Her words sound like a revelation, as if she knows all the nuances of this process. I feel all my attention focused solely on her and her actions, while the space around us seems to recede, making the atmosphere even thicker and more intimate. Her fingers slowly smear the paste of salt and lime juice across the surface of the table, carefully adjusting the amount of mixture. The tension grows—not only in the air but also inside me.
"Is it okay here?" Katrin asks, starting to spread the paste on herself, carefully drawing a line along her shoulder.
This movement is smooth, almost hypnotic, and it feels confident. Her skin gleams from the mixture, and I can't tear my eyes away from the way her hands move across her body, as if creating her own ritual, one that needs no explanation.
"Yes," I answer, not taking my eyes off her.
I am absorbed by her actions and feel how they are pulling me into a world where there is no room for thoughts or doubts. She nods, as if satisfied with my answer, and her face becomes more focused.
"Now listen carefully," her voice becomes a bit more serious, and there is a subtle threat in it, as if she is warning me. Each word sounds like an instruction I have to follow.
"There's a rule: 'Lick, Drink, Bite.' You lick the salt off me, then drink, and then bite the lime. I'll hold the lime with my lips. Anything unclear?"
"I thought we should drink first, and then lick. You're doing it the other way around," I can't hide my confusion.
My words aren't condemnation, but there is a light irony in my voice, as if I am trying to understand what lies behind her game. She looks at me with a slight smirk, not hurrying to respond. Her gaze is a mix of mockery and care, as if she is testing if I am ready for these games.
"If you really want, you can lick a little, drink, and then lick whatever's left and eat the lime. I'm not particularly opposed to changing the combination. People drink however they want."
Her words sound like an invitation to experiment, as if she is inviting me to join in this strange alcohol ritual. There is so much freedom in her words, so much confidence, that she can change the rules of the game at any moment, and this freedom begins to affect me, turning what is happening into something exciting and dangerous.
"Alright, I understand. Let's begin."
I take a step closer, leaving only minimal space between us. My breath becomes erratic when I am next to her, and her presence again drives me crazy. Everything inside seems to freeze, and I can't understand what she is feeling. Her gaze is meaningful, but I can't decipher it. It feels as if we are both standing on the edge of something, but I don't know what exactly.
I think she would dismiss me if I suggest something like that. But she agrees. Why? I can't understand her reaction. Her indifference to boundaries and rules surprises me. Or maybe she really doesn't care who she drinks with or how? Or maybe she doesn't even see me as a man? I dismiss the first option, remembering how she tries to break free from Ivan's embrace — she's definitely not like the others.
I carefully push aside her swimsuit, not letting it fall, so no one will see more than I want. My movement is slow, almost ticklish, but I know exactly what I want to achieve. Despite the inner anxiety, I try to respect her space.
My gaze involuntarily slides downward, and I feel the tension rise. The view is already captivating — her swimsuit provides a magnificent view of her slender legs. But I quickly return to the task at hand, not allowing myself to lose control. I gently move her hair to the other side, so it won't get in the way. Suddenly, I discover the luxurious view of her neck, and I feel how the closeness of this moment envelops me entirely.
I take the glass in my left hand, and place my right hand on her back, feeling how her body gently yields to my movement. I pull her closer, and she doesn't resist. Her left hand is on my head, and she lightly grips my hair. This gesture is unexpected but incredibly intimate, as if she is telling me that she is ready to continue, that she wants it as much as I do.
Her smile is confident and slightly defiant. It is something new, something that makes me tremble inside, as if I have encountered something both dangerous and enticing at the same time. I am overwhelmed by her determination but can't resist — I don't know how to fight her magic.
"Let's go," her words are full of impatience, and I feel how the thirst for continuation takes over me.
I lean toward her clavicle and lick the salt, feeling its taste on my lips. It is strange, but so mesmerizing that I can't hold back. Immediately after that, I take a sharp shot of tequila, feeling how the alcohol pierces me from within, making my whole body tense. The sip is fiery but irresistibly attractive. I pull Katrin even closer, as if afraid that after this shot, she will disappear, dissolve into the air, and I will be left alone, in emptiness.
As I drink, I slowly lift my gaze and meet her eyes. She looks at me with a smile full of admiration, like a victor whose victory is sweet and elusive. But what exactly has she won? I don't know, and I don't want to know. All I feel is her gaze, her smile, the thin thread connecting us, and I can't walk away from her or break it.
Without breaking eye contact, I lean in again and start licking the remaining salt from her skin. My tongue gently glides across her neck, clavicle, and I feel her warmth, as though with each movement, I am uncovering a new world. It is something more intimate than I could have imagined—every inch of her skin is a new discovery that I am getting lost in.
When I finish the glass, she is already holding the lime with her lips, waiting for me to be ready to eat it. I raise my head, find her lips, and without hesitation, press against them, eagerly taking the lime, feeling its sour-sweet taste, but inside me, the thirst for more remains—it is just an obstacle. I want to kiss her, feel her breath, her taste, but the lime stays between us, like a barrier that only fuels the desire.
After she hands it to me, I lean in again, continuing to lick the salt from her clavicle, occasionally nibbling her shoulder, which makes her breathe heavily beneath me. Each of her breaths is like a whisper, which I catch and feel with my entire skin. I hear how she is losing control too, and it arouses me even more.
But suddenly, Rebel Girl begins to push me away. I pull my head back and look at her, not understanding what is happening. My lips are still wet from the kiss, but she gently places a finger on my lips, stopping me. Her touch is like a command, yet there is so much tenderness in it that I can't help but obey.
"Don't be greedy," she says with a light, playful tone. "I want some tequila too."
I step back, releasing her from my embrace, and the cold air immediately touches my skin, making me shiver. She has prepared everything for the next stage of the game and gestures with her finger for me to come back. I approach, and her figure is so close that I can feel her breath; its heat touches my skin, making my heart beat faster.
She takes off my shirt, carefully lays it on the table, and starts rubbing salt on my neck. It is so intimate and delicate. The line of salt stretches from the bottom of my neck almost to my ear, and her fingers slide across my skin with such softness that I can hardly believe this moment is real. I can feel her hands caressing me, and emotions overwhelm me—a mix of excitement and anticipation.
The girl is standing on the ground, but her movements are so confident that she can reach everything she wants without standing on tiptoe.
Rebel Girl takes a glass in her left hand, and her right hand runs through my hair. It feels strange, but I like how her fingers tighten around my hair, how she uses me to feel in control. This gesture is small but powerful, and I can't resist its strength. It speaks volumes—about her cruelty and passion, her ability to make me lose control. This is her world, strange and unpredictable, and I am ready to follow her.
I hold the lime between my lips, feeling its sour taste, which seems strangely sweet in combination with the heat growing inside. I watch her, waiting for what she will do next. She doesn't make me wait. Pulling her hand up, she makes me lift my head, giving herself more access to my neck. My vision blurs as her hot tongue touches my skin. Its movements are tender but full of passion. She slowly moves upwards, and each of her touches makes me freeze, feeling how her tongue smoothly slides across my body, awakening a fire that can't be extinguished.
But instead of continuing, she suddenly tips the glass over, yanks the lime from my lips, and bites into it so swiftly that I barely understand what has happened. Her movements are precise and confident, but this unexpected acceleration throws me off balance.
Questions start spinning in my head: why so fast? Is something wrong? Or… do I not appeal to her? I try to hide my confusion by putting on a serene mask, but inside, a light wave of unease spreads.
"Stop drinking, I want to dance." These words take me by surprise, as if she knows exactly how to disarm me in a second.
I look at her, trying to understand what lies behind this phrase, but instead of an answer, I remain silent, mesmerized. Without hesitation, she grabs my hand and pulls me toward the dancing crowd. Her grip is firm, warm, and there is something irresistibly magnetic about this touch. I follow her like a hypnotized fool, feeling my heart race with every move she makes.
When we stop, she turns to face me and looks at me with a slight smirk, as if testing how far I am willing to go for her. Her eyes shimmer from the light of the lights, and her smile is bold and confident, like someone who knows exactly they're in control of the situation.
"Or do you want your Rebel Girl to dance alone?"
She stands in front of me, her gaze penetrating deep, straight into my doubts and fears. And I suddenly realize: she's testing me. Testing whether I can handle her rhythm, her fire, her rules.
I slightly shake my head, smiling, as though this decision is the easiest one of my life. Katrin grabs my hand again and pulls me into the heart of the crowd, where the music thunders, and people move like a single living organism.
I follow her like a complete fool, smiling at how effortlessly she turns this moment into a game where I am just a player. My heart is pounding in my chest, but now I know one thing: with her, I am ready to lose control, no matter what dance she chooses.