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When I’m in position, I look up at him.

I have to tilt my head back to see his face. I find him watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes. The streetlights catch the white in his hair, the thick silver of his beard. He looks like a wolf in Brioni.

He looks like a villain from a wet dream. No, a wet nightmare. Is that a thing? It is now.

He’sold. That’s the thing I can’t stop noticing from down here. The lines around his eyes, the weathered hands with their network of pale scars, the gray threading through everything. He’s lived entire lifetimes I’ll never know about. Made fortunes. Buried secrets. Buriedpeople.

And I’m less than half his age, on my knees in the back of his Maybach, wearing nothing under my dress simply because he told me to take it off.

Everything about him screams money. Power.Experience.

Everything about me screams,What are you doing down there?

I get my answer when his chin dips. A single, almost imperceptible nod toward his lap.

The instruction is clear.

My hands shake as I reach for his belt. The leather is butter-soft, the buckle cool against my fumbling fingers. I work it loose with the coordination of someone who’s never operated basic hardware before, then move to his zipper.

I reach inside. My fingers brush hot, hard flesh through silk boxers, and I hear his breath catch—just the tiniest bit, but enough to know I’m affecting him. It’s an intoxicating feeling.

Then I pull him free.

He springs out… and hits me square in the face.

I jerk back on instinct, my cheek stinging from the impact, and find myself staring at?—

Oh.

My.

Lord.

He’s huge. I knew that already, since I felt it pressed against me in the grotto, grinding into my hip while he pinned me to that olive tree. But seeing him like this, flushed and rigid, curved slightly upward like it’s straining toward me, is something else entirely.

A bead of pre-cum wells at the slit, threatening to spill over. I watch it, mesmerized.

I could’ve probably sat there for hours, watching it, and maybe I would have—if Lukas’s hand hadn’t slid into my hair.

His fingers thread through slowly until he has a firm grip at the base of my skull. He doesn’t have to yank to remind me of exactly who’s in control here.

With the slightest pressure, he guides me forward.

I let him press the head of his cock against my closed lips. The taste hits me immediately—salt and musk. My eyes flutter closed.

“Stick out your tongue,” he says.

I obey without thinking and, going by pure instinct, flicking the tip against his slit, lapping up that bead of pre-cum like I’ve been waiting my whole life to do exactly that.

His thigh tenses at once beneath my braced hand. It feels so addictively good to affect him like this. He’s ice all the time, twenty-four-seven—but when I put my mouth on him, he crumbles.

“Good girl.”

The praise sends a bolt of heat straight between my legs, to that empty, aching place where my underwear used to be. I squirm on my knees, desperate for friction I’m not going to get.

But if he won’t touch me, I’ll earn more of his praise. That’s almost as good.

I hollow my cheeks and take him a little deeper. Just the head. My lips have to stretch around his girth, and I feel the corners of my mouth strain to accommodate him.