For mine.
For what we’ve built here in the shadows.
But damn…
There’s a part of me that aches to let her in.
To strip away the mask, not only the one I wear in this room, but the one I’ve worn for years.
The one that hides the man behind the fame, the brutality, the blood on his hands.
So I give her a sliver. “A professional athlete.”
She hums, thoughtful. “Ah. That doesn’t surprise me.”
That catches me off guard. “No?”
“No. I mean, I haven’t seen your body without clothes on, but I can tell you’re muscular. I can feel how powerful your body is. I…enjoy it.”
My mouth twists nearly into a smile, and my cock jumps at the compliment. “You enjoy it, do you?”
“I’d enjoy it more if I could see more of it,” she says shyly, almost a question.
“Perhaps another day,” I answer. “In the meantime, if you’re in pain, we can stop. I won’t be angry.”
“No,” she says. “No, I want to keep touching you.”
“You lead, then.”
And so she does.
She resumes her movements.
Her hand on my skin, her pussy’s wet and hot as her hips move rhythmically against my length. It’s messy and intoxicating.
When I murmur, “Can I taste you?”
She gasps a soft, “Please.”
I start with her jaw, my lips trailing down her neck, across her clavicle.
She arches beautifully, surrendering to every kiss.
I nip at her nipples through the sheer silk of her chemise, and she whimpers at the attention.
But I need more.
We’re running out of time. I can feel the edge coming.
So I lift her—small and perfect in my arms—and carry her to the red velvet chaise.
Lay her out like a feast.
Spread her thighs wide.
And then I drop to my knees. The mask still hides me, and I taste her. She’s soaked. Sweet. Fucking divine.
My tongue slides over every slick fold, circling her clit until her hips buck.
