The air feels electric against my bare skin. I can feel his gaze tracking every inch of me, cataloging,devouring.
Then I see it.
His hand moves to his lap, pressing against the obvious bulge straining his pants. He doesn't try to hide it. Just strokes himself through the fabric, while watching me stand half-naked before him.
"The rest." His thumb traces his length. "Take it off."
My hands shake as I reach behind my back and unclasp my bra. It falls away, and the cool theater air tightens my nipples instantly.
Dmitri makes a sound low in his throat. Almost a growl.
I hook my thumbs in my underwear and pause, meeting his eyes.
I slide the lace down my thighs and step out of it.
Now I'm standing in nothing but my heels, completely bare, while Dmitri Baganov watches me from his velvet throne and strokes his cock through his pants.
Dmitri
My cock strains against my pants as I stroke myself. Watching her standing there, stripped bare except for those heels, is the most exquisite torture I've ever experienced.
"Bozhe moy," I breathe, my hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes. "Do you have any idea what you look like right now?"
She shivers but doesn't cover herself. Good girl.
"Your skin..." I let my gaze travel from her face down to her breasts, peaked from the cold air of the empty theatre. "And those curves—" My voice goes rough as I take in the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. "Made for my hands."
My grip tightens on myself. If I keep this up, I'll come in my pants. That's what she does to me.
I force myself to stop stroking, my breathing ragged. Standing from the velvet seat, I close the distance between us. Each step echoes in the empty theatre like a heartbeat.
She watches me approach, her chest rising and falling faster now. But she doesn't step back. Doesn't try to cover herself. My little sun has a spine of steel beneath all that soft skin.
I stop close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body.
"Turn around."
She hesitates for just a second. Then she turns, giving me her back. The curve of her spine, the dimples just above her ass. I bite back a groan.
"The cuffs," I say, my voice barely controlled. "Where are they?"
"My purse." She gestures toward where she dropped it near the first row of seats. "Inside pocket."
I retrieve the rose gold handcuffs. When I return to her, I let my fingers trail across her shoulder blade. She shivers.
"Walk to the platform."
Vittoria moves toward the stage, her heels clicking against the worn wooden floor. The spotlight I arranged earlier catches her as she steps onto the platform, bathing her in golden light. Like she belongs there. Like she was made to be displayed for me.
A single chair sits center stage. Antique. Red velvet cushion. I had Igor bring it from a dealer who owed us money. Cost me nothing but a forgiven debt.
"Sit."
Vittoria lowers herself onto the chair, her back straight, her chin lifted. Even naked, even following my commands, she looks like a queen on a throne.
I climb the three steps to the stage, the handcuffs dangling from my fingers. The metal catches the spotlight, glinting like a promise.
Kneeling before her feels right. Like worship. Like prayer.
