It’s still warm. I bring it to my lips and inhale—slow, steady, pretending my hand isn’t shaking. I’m not a regular smoker, but I’m not a coward either. He watches me from the corner of his eye.
I offer it back. He takes it…and then cages me in with one arm, his body crowding mine against the railing as he brings the cigarette to his mouth and takes another drag. I feel his chest brush mine. Just enough to tease. The embers glow. His breath fogs the air.
“You don’t smoke,” he says, low.
“I do sometimes,” I mutter.
He huffs—amused or annoyed, I can’t tell. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“Then throw me out.”
He doesn’t move.
We pass the cigarette back and forth. Quiet. Tense. Like a standoff. Each time I raise it to his mouth, his eyes drop to my lips. Like he’s remembering the last time he had his mouth on them. Like he’s wondering how much longer he can keep pretending he doesn’t want to do it again. When it burns down to the filter, I press it out on the ledge and flick it into the ashtray beside us.
I expect him to step back. He doesn’t. His hand comes up to my throat—not choking, just holding. Just claiming. His thumb brushes the edge of my jaw.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again.
But he leans in anyway. His mouth hits mine hard. Hot. No hesitation. No warning. It’s not a question. It’s a claim. His tongue slides deep, slick and obscene, and a moan slips out from me before I can stop it. He growls when he hears it.
His hands go to my waist, dragging me closer. I feel the railing against my back, the steel cold under my fingers as he grinds against me. His cock’s already hard, straining through his pants, and he’s not even trying to hide it.
His hand slides under my shirt. Skin-to-skin. He palms my thigh, then pushes higher. I bite down on his bottom lip when his fingers brush the edge of my panties.
“Tell me to stop,” he mutters.
I don’t. He slips a finger under the fabric and finds me soaked.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “This what you came in here for?”
I nod.
He slides one finger inside me, slow and deep. Then another. My head drops back with a gasp. My hands fly to his shoulders, digging in for something to hold onto. His fingers curl inside me, thick and rough, and he kisses me again while he works me open.
I moan into his mouth. Loud. Desperate. He eats every sound I give him.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine. “So fucking wet for me.”
His thumb circles my clit and I buck against him. The railing digs into my back. My hips grind down on his hand like I’ve forgotten what shame feels like.
“I can’t…” I whisper.
“You will,” he says and curls his fingers harder.
I come with a cry I can’t swallow. My pussy clenches around him, wet and pulsing, and I shake against his chest. He holds me up, fingers still working me through it, coaxing more out of me with every filthy stroke.
“Again.”
He doesn’t wait. He drops to his knees, pushes my panties aside, and eats me out right there on the balcony with the stars above and the Castello’s soft lights below.
I come again. Harder. One hand in his hair, the other braced on the railing while I fall apart on his mouth. He doesn’t stop until I’m shaking. Until I’m soaked. Until I’m leaning on him like he’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Then he stands and wipes his mouth, staring at me like I’m the problem and the solution all at once.
He says nothing. Neither do I.
The call startslike any other. A flicker of blue light cuts across my face as my phone screen lights up, the familiar buzz dragging me out of my half-sleep. Duchess grumbles from the pillow beside me, unimpressed.
