Natasha
For a heartbeat the room holds its breath.
He’s sprawled against the pillows, mask still gleaming. His command lingers in the air between us — sit on my face and let me make you come, then ride my cock like the queen you were always meant to be.
I want to laugh it off, I want to tell him he’s insane, but the words won’t come. My whole body is shaking with a heat I can’t name.
Then he reaches up, unhooks the mask from his face, and sets it aside on the nightstand.
The sight of him steals my breath. High cheekbones, dark eyes, a faint scar running along his jaw. Everything he’s ever hidden from the ballroom laid bare just for me. The mask was power. This is something else entirely.
“No more masks,” he murmurs. “Not between us.”
My breath catches. Something inside me shifts. This isn’t a performance anymore. This isn’t a predator playing a game. This is a man giving me the one thing no one else gets. The truth.
He crooks a finger at me, his voice a low growl. “Let me taste you, Natasha.”
My hands tremble as I let the sheet fall from my body.
Cool air brushes my overheated skin. I crawl up his chest, palms skimming over the hard planes of muscle, feeling his heartbeat under my fingers.
His eyes track me the whole way, dark and steady, like a man watching a storm he’s been waiting for all his life.
By the time I reach his face I’m trembling, but not from fear. With want. With the sense that something irreversible is about to happen.
I straddle his shoulders, knees sinking into the mattress, the position indecent and powerful at once. His hands slide up to my hips but don’t guide me; they just rest there, heavy and waiting, like he’s offering me the choice.
For a heartbeat our eyes lock. No masks, no lies, nothing left but skin and breath.
Then I lower myself onto his mouth.
The first stroke of his tongue makes me gasp, my fingers curling in his hair as heat floods me. He groans into me, the sound vibrating against my sensitive skin, his hands tightening on my hips to steady me.
Every flick, every slow circle pulls me further out of my head and deeper into him. My hips start to move on their own, rocking against his mouth, chasing the rhythm he sets.
I’m the one on top, but it feels like he’s worshipping me. Like he’s writing a vow with his tongue, one slow stroke at a time.
My breath comes faster, thighs trembling as he drags me higher and higher.
My breasts are swaying and my fingers find their way to my nipples, squeezing and plucking at the hard peaks, sending electric currents straight down to where his tongue is circling me reverently.
All the noise about ethics, about stories, about what the world will think blurs into static until there’s nothing left but his mouth and my pussy and the terrifying, glorious thought: he’s crowning me.
“God…” I moan, my voice breaking. “I can’t—”
He answers by sucking harder, dragging his tongue over the spot that makes my vision white out. My hips roll, his hands slide around to the globes of my ass and squeeze, hard. I’m lost. Totally, helplessly lost.
When the climax hits, it rips through me like a storm, tearing a cry from my throat. I arch against him, trembling, maskless, bare, for the first time all night.
I collapse forward against the headboard, gasping, hair spilling around us. And somewhere beneath me, I hear him chuckle, dark and pleased, like a king who’s just watched his queen take her throne.