It’s the truth. Confidence isn’t just a costume I wear—it’s the skin I live in.
He shuffles the cards again and places the deck back between us. We draw.
He wins.
Again.
Smug confidence settles across his face like it belongs there. The fire paints him in bronze and shadow, his dark hairgleaming at the temples, his mouth curled into something self-satisfied—and fucking dangerous.
A new song spills into the room, slower and deeper. Something sultry and bass-heavy. The kind of beat you feel first in your chest—then lower.
It seems to inspire him.
His eyes flick lazily over me, then he leans back in his chair with a single word etched into the heat between us.
“Dance.”
God, that smile. That smirk. That challenge.
I start slow.
Just a sway of my hips, a ripple of my spine. My hands glide over my own skin, circling my breasts, down my sides, between my thighs. I drag a finger through the slick of my pussy—hot and soaked from nothing but tension—and lift it to my mouth, parting my lips to taste myself.
The moment I suck my finger clean, his jaw tightens.
It looks like it physically pains him not to touch me.
So I straddle him, slow and fluid. His hands smooth up to my ass the moment I settle. He squeezes—hard. His cock strains against his slacks, thick and ready beneath me, and I grind to the rhythm of the music, rolling my hips until we’re moving together like the beat is our pulse.
He’s enjoying my ass immensely.
He should. I’ve worked hard on it. No shots. No surgery. Just hours of effort and the occasional good fuck for inspiration.
I lean in, lips barely brushing his ear. “Is it okay if I make a mess on your pants?”
He groans under his breath. His grip tightens.
“I mean . . .” I purr, rocking a little harder now, dragging my pussy along his clothed length, “you’ve got me soaked, Dante. I think you’ve earned the cleanup.”
His reply is immediate. Low. Hungry.
“I want you to make a mess of me.”
That earns him a moan, just soft enough to pass for breath. It’s like getting a Christmas bonus when my clients are good at fucking.
And I can tell Dante is a goddman pro.
I keep my hips moving, circling. I don’t stop as we draw again.
The cards flip.
I win.
A slow smile spreads across my lips, and I don’t bother hiding the pleasure that comes with it. Not just the sensual kind—but the strategic one. The kind that sinks its teeth in deep and knows it’s earned.
I keep grinding, slower now. A tease.
Then I ask—voice close to his ear, warm and wicked:
