A direct strike.
She watches me for a moment longer, then takes a step closer. Then another. No hesitation. No caution. This isn’t how prey moves.
“What do you want?” she asks.
“You know,” I say.
“Say it, anyway.”
She’s close enough now that I can see the shift in her breathing.
“I want you,” I say.
For a moment, we hang in the space between invitation and punishment. Her dress is a scabbard for secrets, and what I want is not hidden. She wants something from me, too, but hers is not a mystery anyone else could solve.
She wants to know the edge of things, the line between pleasure and loss. She wants to know if I’ll break her on purpose or by accident.
The second system runs hot between us. Faster than the calculus of the business.
“Show me what you want,” she finally says.
I want her to be on her knees. I want her to relish it.
But tonight, I want her hungry.
I glance at the chair by the window, the expensive one no one’s ever used. “Sit.”
She takes a half-step, then another, black silk moving like a slipstream over thigh and calf. She sits, back straight, hands folded. Like a razor waiting for a wrist.
I move in front of her, close enough that my slacks brush her knees. My belt buckle gleams at eye level to her. Her gaze drifts over my waist, the flat line of my stomach, the bulge below.
Her mouth opens just slightly, tongue flicking out to wet her lower lip. Nothing demure about it. Calculation? No. Ritual.
“Unzip me,” I say.
Her hands unfold, deliberate in how they approach. Precise, but not cautious. Her knuckles graze the inside of my thighs, and I hold in the shiver. She finds the zipper, tugs it down. Her cool hands slip inside, loosen me, pull me through.
The black silk of her new dress is so precise, it makes every movement underneath it count for more. Her hair falls forward in a glossy ink curtain as she bows her head, then flicks her eyes up, waiting for my order.
“Open your mouth,” I say.
She does. No hesitation. No primness or the mock performance of submission. Lips part, tongue slick and pink against the flush inside her mouth. She’s not waiting for me to hesitate, so I don’t.
I slide my cock against her cheek, marking her, smearing pre-come on her skin like a sign. Her pupils don’t widen; her whole face narrows to focus. She angles her jaw, the way she must have learned to keep from gagging, and lets me push to the limit she controls.
“You use teeth, and I’ll take your tongue out,” I tell her, and that darkens the electric blue of her eyes into something desperate.
She nods, lips stretched around the base of my shaft, and swallows as if pulling me deeper is something she needs, not something owed.
Her lipstick stains my skin. I move her rhythm with my hands, one at the crown of her head, the other on the hard ridge of her perfect jaw. She takes the pace, corrects it, beats it back at me with a little flattening of her tongue, a pressure I can’t unlearn after feeling.
She’s greedy without losing her elegance, a contradiction that cracks something at the base of my spine. I’m supposed to be in control, but this is a physics lesson: for every action, the equal reaction is her, swallowing me whole.
Her hands tighten on my hips, not to steady or plead, but to tell me she can take more. I push, and she lets me, throat fluttering as I bottom out, and the wet sounds she makes drive more blood to my cock than I thought possible.
I want to see her break. I want to see her win.
Both things are true.
