Chapter 22
Lorenzo
T he weight of the cigar feels significant between my fingers. The dim light of the alcove catches on the cellophane wrapper, making it gleam like something precious, something forbidden.
We’re ten feet from Washington’s elite. The champagne flows freely out there, but here, tucked away in this darkened alcove, Piper and I have our own intoxication brewing. The distant murmur of political small talk forms a perfect soundtrack for what I’m about to do to her.
Piper’s breath hitches in her throat as I hold the cigar in front of her, showing it off. “What are you going to do with that?” she asks, her tone filled with wonder.
“Do you really have to ask?” I smirk, pressing a kiss to her throat.
“You’re not serious,” she whisper-hisses, but there’s no real protest in her voice, just the thrill of discovery hovering at its edges.
“Oh, but I am,” I rasp.
I run the Cohiba Behike down her chest, between the valley of her tits. Lowering her dress, I tease her beaded nipple with the end of it.
“You want it?” I ask, letting the question hang between us, heavy with implication.
She looks at me over her shoulder, and I watch the war play out on her face—defiance versus desire, restraint versus desire. She nods once, then finds her voice. “Yes.”
With a low growl, I place the cigar between my teeth. Then I gather the hem of her dress, inch by inch. It slides through my fingers until I’ve exposed just enough; the creamy expanse of her thighs, and the lace of her panties.
“Someone could walk by…” she breathes, but doesn’t finish the thought.
“Then they’ll see exactly who you belong to,” I finish for her, voice low and certain. “They’ll see that this cunt,” I press my palm against her, feeling the heat radiating through the thin barrier, “answers to me.”
She shivers with anticipation as I hook one finger under the edge of her panties, sliding them to the side rather than removing them completely. I take the cigar from my mouth, examining it. Then I press it against her soaked entrance.
Her lips part in a silent gasp, and I cover her mouth with my free hand before the sound can escape. Her breath scorches my palm in quick, shallow bursts.
“You’re going to take this inside you,” I tell her, my voice unnervingly calm even as desire rages through me. “And you’re going to stay perfectly quiet while I fuck you with it. Do you understand?”
She nods against my hand and lets her head fall back against me. I can feel her trying to control her breathing, trying to maintain composure even as her body betrays her with slick desire.
The cigar slides in easier than I expected, her cunt already soaked and yielding.
I watch her face contort with the strange new sensation—the firmness, the slight resistance as her body accommodates the foreign object.
She’s tight around it, fighting the intrusion at first, then gradually accepting each inch as I work it deeper.
“That’s it,” I murmur against her ear, close enough that my lips brush the delicate shell. “Taking it so well for me. Such a perfect little toy.”
Her eyelids flutter at the praise, and I feel a tremor run through her body. I push the cigar in to the halfway point, then pull it back slowly, watching her face for every micro expression of pleasure. When I push it back in, I twist it slightly, and her knees nearly buckle.
“You like that? Being filled like this where anyone could see?” I release her mouth briefly to let her answer, my thumb tracing over her lower lip.
“Yes,” she whispers, the word barely audible. “P-please, don’t stop.”
Moving my hand to cover her mouth again, I press harder this time. “I won’t stop until you come all over this cigar,” I rasp, fucking her slowly with the rolled tobacco, watching as her juices make it glisten in the dim light.
“Yes,” she moans from behind my hand.
“I want you to remember this every time you see a fucking ashtray. Every time you smell smoke.”
Her eyes roll back slightly, and I can feel her rolling her hips, trying to press against my hand, seeking more friction, more pressure.
I give her neither, maintaining the torturously slow pace.
She pants against my hand now; the rhythm frayed and erratic.
There’s the vibration of a moan my toy’s desperately trying to suppress.
“Please… Enzo,” she begs.
The sound of my name on her lips makes a growl build in my throat. “Say it again,” I demand.
“Enzo,” she gasps. “Please fuck me harder. Deeper.”
The sounds of the party grow louder—someone’s giving a toast, glasses clinking in celebration. The contrast between the civility just beyond the corridor and the depravity in our shadowed corner makes my cock throb painfully against my tailored pants.
I press myself against her thigh, letting her feel what she does to me, but never losing my focus on the cigar sliding in and out of her cunt.
“Look at you,” I whisper, letting my voice drop an octave. “Taking it so deep. Are you pretending it’s my dick, Toy?”
Her muscles tense, and I feel her clench around the cigar. The fear of discovery, the risk of being seen—it’s all part of what’s driving her to the edge. I exploit it mercilessly.
“Maybe I should let them see,” I continue, picking up the pace slightly. “Bend you over that bar out there and let them all watch while I fuck you.”
Her eyes widen, pupils blown with lust. She’s close—I can feel it in the way her body tenses, in the wetness coating my fingers as I work the cigar in and out of her. I press it deeper, angling it to hit that spot inside her that makes her see stars.
“Enzo!”
“Come for me,” I command. “Come right now, with all of them just steps away. Let me feel you fall apart.”
As if her body is bound to my words, she shatters. Her entire body trembles against mine, and I hold her firmly against my chest, supporting her weight as the orgasm tears through her. It’s a violent, beautiful thing—watching her come undone by my hand, by my command, by my fucking cigar.
She collapses against me, chest heaving, eyes unfocused. I just hold her there, letting her float in the aftermath while I memorize the way she feels.
This wasn’t just about getting her off. It was about claiming space inside her memory—staking something permanent. She’ll think of this every time she’s in any building I own, when someone lights a cigar. And when she hears my name.
When the tremors subside, I slowly withdraw the cigar, now slick and glistening with her juices. I don’t take my eyes off hers as I bring it to my lips, inhaling deeply. Her eyes widen at the gesture, a flush spreading across her cheeks.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, tucking the cigar into my inner jacket pocket. I keep it uncovered—I want to feel her wetness seeping through the expensive lining, a delicious reminder of just how pliable and perfect my toy is.
I turn her to face me, cupping her face with one hand. She’s still catching her breath, lips parted and chest rising with each shallow inhale. I reach for the long black ribbons trailing from her choker, wrapping them once, twice around my fist until the slack disappears.
The fabric is warm from her skin, and when I give a gentle tug, her chin l ifts automatically, exposing the elegant line of her throat.
“Get on your knees.”
Her eyes hold mine for one second—the defiant fire in her burning bright. Then she smiles while gracefully sinking down, her dress pools around her like spilled blood. What a fucking sight.
From this angle, she seems both vulnerable and powerful. The choker sits like a collar around her neck, the ribbons still wrapped around my hand connecting us physically, a manifestation of the invisible chains I’ve been forging since the first day I saw her.
Her lipstick is smeared slightly—evidence of her pleasure, of my palm pressed against her mouth as she came undone minutes ago. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips when I notice her gaze traveling up my body, taking her time, savoring the sight she’s been denied until now.
She’s felt me, tasted me, had my fingers and tongue in her wet cunt—all without seeing. The blindfold has been my tool, my way of controlling what she knows, what she experiences. Removing that barrier is significant, a privilege I’m granting her.
“See something you like?” I smirk.
Blinking, she catches herself, baring her teeth. “How would I know? You’re the one hiding behind a mask,” she sasses.
“Undo my pants,” I instruct, watching her hands move to comply.
Her fingers tremble slightly as they find my belt buckle. Is it nervousness? Anticipation? I study the slight furrow between her brows, the way she bites her lower lip in concentration. No—it’s not fear. It’s hunger.
She works the leather through the buckle methodically, then moves to the button and zipper of my tailored pants. Each movement is deliberate, almost reverential. When she finally frees my cock from its confines, I’m already hard, straining toward her warmth.
I allow her a moment to look, to process. Her eyes widen slightly, her tongue darting out to wet her lips unconsciously. My length twitches under her scrutiny, and I see a small smile tug at the corner of her mouth—pleased at the reaction she elicits, at the power she wields even on her knees.
She wraps one hand around the base. Her stroke is slow, measured, and her eyes fixed on the movement as if memorizing every vein, every ridge.
The other hand cups my balls gently. “Mhmm,” I groan, tightening my grip on the ribbons. “Open your mouth.”
She complies without hesitation, her lips parting. The sight of her like this—willing, waiting, wanting—sends a surge of possessiveness through me so intense it’s almost painful.
Piper’s lips seal around the head. Warm. Wet. Fucking perfect. She starts slowly, testing depth, tongue flicking just beneath the ridge. Her eyes fluttering closed as she concentrates on the sensation, on pleasing me .