Chapter 15 – Viviana
Velvet Vice pulses beyond the curtains. Low brass drifts through, thick and mournful, like jazz doesn’t give a damn if I’m swaying or breaking. It just keeps playing.
I step through the velvet drape. Black silk clings to me, cool against my skin, a dare I wear like a second pulse. The hem skims the tops of my thighs. No straps hold it up. No armor shields me. Just soft fabric tracing the sharp line of my spine, colder than it ought to be.
I didn’t wear things like this before. Not when I arranged roses behind glass, hands stained with petals and promises. But I wear it now. Because I can. Because I choose to.
He’s already here.
Dario leans against the bookshelf, one shoulder braced on the wall. His shirt hangs half-open, a careless invitation, dark jeans slung low on his hips. Tattoos ripple with every breath, black ink curling over a chest I’ve felt bare against mine—hot, alive, unyielding.
His gaze lifts as I enter. He doesn’t shift. Doesn’t speak.
I like that. The way he holds power in stillness. The way he waits for me to move first.
I close the curtain with two fingers. It slides shut with a soft hiss, sealing us in.
“You’re not Dario,” I say. My voice comes out lighter than usual, edged with a command I didn’t know I owned until tonight.
His brow arches slightly. “No?”
“No.” I cross the room. My heels click once on the hardwood, then sink into the thick rug. “Tonight, you’re a stranger. You saw me across the bar. I told you I was taken.”
He watches me, eyes tracking like a predator savoring the chase. “Then I’m the kind of bastard who doesn’t care.”
“You don’t.”
I move past him. Don’t touch. Let him feel the space where I could’ve brushed him. I reach the side table, where a bottle of red sits, beads of condensation gleaming on the glass. I pour two servings, the liquid dark and heavy. I don’t look at him as I set one glass within his reach.
He doesn’t take it.
Smart. He’s already in the game.
I sit first. Cross my legs. Tilt my chin up. The silk shifts, riding higher on my thigh, and I feel his eyes catch there.
“I’m drunk,” I say, running my tongue along the rim of my glass, tasting the faint bite of wine. “You caught me in a moment of bad judgment.”
“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “I caught you in a moment of honesty.”
My pulse kicks at my throat. I don’t let it show. I keep the glass steady, fingers curled around the stem.
“Sit,” I tell him, nodding to the chair across from me.
He does.
The space between us hums. The wine sits untouched on the table. My nerves don’t rest. They crackle under my skin, sharp and alive.
“You know,” I say, tracing the base of my glass with one finger, “I used to think power was in knowing everything. Now I think it’s in knowing when not to ask.”
He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Then you’re dangerous.”
“Only to men who forget the rules.”
His tongue slides along the inside of his cheek. He’s chewing on my words, tasting them down to the marrow.
I rise.
Walk behind him.
Breathe slow, deliberate, close enough that he hears every inhale.
“Don’t move,” I whisper into his ear, my lips brushing the shell of it.
His hands tighten on his thighs. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t glance back.
Good.
I press one palm to his chest from behind. His heart thuds beneath my fingers, steady but fast, pushing through ink and muscle. My other hand slides lower, resting over his abdomen. It’s taut, coiled, waiting for me.
He inhales sharp as my mouth grazes his jawline. Not a kiss. A promise.
“You wanted this,” I murmur, letting my breath warm his skin.
He nods once, a small jerk of his head.
“Say it.”
“I want this,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges.
I smile against his neck. “And if I said I don’t?”
His breath stumbles. “Then I’d wait. Right here.”
“Liar.”
He laughs, soft and ragged. “I’d suffer. But I’d wait.”
I step around him. Kneel between his legs, the rug soft under my knees. My fingers find the remaining buttons of his shirt. I undo them slow, one by one, dragging my fingertips across each exposed inch of skin—scarred, inked, alive.
His hand twitches toward me. I slap it away, light but firm.
“Not until I say.”
He growls low, a sound that vibrates through his chest. But he listens.
I spread his shirt wider, baring him fully. My nails trace the lines of his tattoos, following the curve of a dagger etched over his ribs, the faded burn mark near his collarbone. His skin prickles under my touch, goosebumps rising where I linger.
“You’re beautiful like this,” I say, voice steady. “Caught.”
He shifts, just a fraction, testing me. I press my hand to his chest, pushing him back.
“Stay,” I warn, eyes locked on his.
His throat works as he swallows. His hands grip his thighs harder, knuckles paling.
I lean in. Let my breath brush his chest, then lower, hovering over the line where his jeans meet skin. My fingers undo the button, slow, deliberate, the zipper rasping loud in the quiet.
He exhales rough, head tipping back slightly.
I tug the denim down, just enough to free him. His cock’s already half-hard, thickening under my gaze. I don’t touch it yet. I want him aching first.
“Look at you,” I murmur, running a single finger along the edge of his hip, teasing the sensitive skin there. “So eager.”
“Viviana,” he breathes, voice strained.
“Shh.” I press a finger to his lips. “You’ll speak when I let you.”
His chest heaves. He nods again, submitting.
I slide my hands up his thighs, spreading them wider. My nails dig in, leaving faint red marks, and he tenses, a low sound catching in his throat.
“You feel that?” I ask, leaning closer, my hair brushing his stomach. “That’s me owning you.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, barely audible.
I smirk. “Not yet.”
I rise slightly, still kneeling, and peel the silk dress up my thighs, higher, until it bunches at my waist. The cool air hits my skin, but I’m burning inside. I straddle his lap, hovering, not touching yet.
His hands flex, itching to grab me. I catch his wrists, pin them to the chair arms.
“No,” I say, voice sharp. “You wait.”
He groans, head tipping back fully now, exposing his throat. I lean in, drag my tongue along the pulse there, tasting salt and heat.
“You taste like surrender,” I whisper, biting lightly.
“Viviana,” he rasps again, desperate.
I pull back. Look at him. His chest rises fast, sweat beading at his temples, dark hair sticking to his forehead. He’s unravelling, and I’ve barely started.
“Beg,” I say, voice low, commanding.
“Please,” he says, quick this time. “Touch me.”
I smile. Slow and dangerous. “Good boy.”
My hand slides down his chest, nails scraping, until I reach his cock. I wrap my fingers around it, stroking once, slow and firm. He bucks beneath me, a sharp groan breaking free.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “More.”
“Patience,” I say, squeezing tighter, thumb brushing the tip where he’s already leaking.
His hips jerk again. I release him, letting him feel the absence, and he curses under his breath, low and ragged.
I shift back. Kneel again. My hands spread his thighs wider, and I lean in, my breath hot against his cock.
“Tell me you need it,” I say, voice husky.
“I need it,” he grits out. “Fuck, I need you.”
I lick him, slow, from base to tip, tasting him fully. His whole body tenses, a deep groan rumbling through him.
“Like that?” I ask, flicking my tongue over the head.
“Yeah,” he pants. “Fuck, yeah.”
I take him in my mouth, slow at first, lips stretching around him. He’s thick, heavy, and I hum, letting the vibration sink into him.
“Shit,” he groans, hands gripping the chair arms hard. “Viviana, please.”
I pull off, teasing, and blow a cool breath across him. He shudders, hips lifting, chasing me.
“Not yet,” I say, standing.
I step back. Watch him squirm, chest heaving, cock hard and glistening from my mouth.
I move closer again. Straddle him once more, my thighs framing his, silk still bunched at my waist. My pussy brushes his stomach, leaving a faint wet mark, and he groans loud, feeling it.
“You’re killing me,” he mutters.
“Good,” I say, grinding against him, slow and deliberate. “Suffer for me.”
He does. His breath staggers, hands twitching, fighting to obey.
I lean in. Kiss his chest, slow, open-mouthed, tasting sweat. My nails drag down his sides, hard enough to mark, and he arches into it, a rough sound breaking free.
“Viviana,” he pleads. “Let me touch you.”
“Not yet,” I say, biting his collarbone lightly. “You’re mine to play with.”
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked.
I shift higher. Press my chest to his, my breasts brushing his skin through the silk. I grind harder, feeling him tense beneath me, every muscle coiled tight.
“You want more?” I whisper, lips brushing his ear.
“Yes,” he rasps. “Please.”
I smile. Slide off him. Kneel again. My hands find his cock once more, stroking slow, then fast, watching his face twist with need.
“Beg again,” I say, voice low.
“Please,” he groans, hips bucking. “Fuck, Viviana, please.”
I lean in. Take him in my mouth again, deeper this time, sucking hard and wet. He groans loud, a sound that echoes in the room, and I keep going, relentless, until he’s trembling beneath me.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re too good.”
I pull off. Look up at him. “I know.”
His chest heaves. Sweat slicks his skin. He’s a mess—beautiful, undone, mine.
I rise. Step back. Adjust my dress, letting it fall back into place, smooth and cool against my thighs.
He watches me, eyes dark, hungry, locked on every move.
“Good,” I say, voice steady.
His shirt hangs open, buttons half-undone, dark jeans riding low on his hips. Muscles flex under the dim red glow. His throat tightens when my nails drag down his chest, light but sharp.
“This isn’t for you,” I say.
I kiss him. Quick. Hard. It knocks the breath out of him, a rough exhale like I’ve hit him square. My tongue traces the edge of his mouth. I don’t go deeper. I want him starving for it.
My lips move down his neck. I map him out, rewriting every line in my own hand. I kiss the scars—the faint one near his ribs, the raised one under his collarbone, the fresh pink mark by his hip. My fingers follow, pressing, learning.
He shudders when my mouth brushes the taut skin of his stomach.
“Viviana,” he says, voice tight, fraying.
I stop. Look up. “Did I say you could speak?”
He swallows hard and shakes his head.
“Good.” I reach back. Undo the zipper of my dress. The black silk splits, sliding down my arms, pooling over my hips. I straddle him, bare except for thin lace, completely in charge.
His hands twitch at his sides. I don’t hurry. I move slow, deliberate, like heat spreading through veins. I lean in, my breath brushing his ear. “You’re mine tonight.”
He groans, low and restrained.
I ride that sound, letting it fuel me.
His chest rises fast. I lower myself, skin brushing skin, the contact sharp and electric. His head tips back.
“Do you want me?” I ask, voice steady, though I already know.
“Yes,” he rasps, barely a whisper.
“Then stay still.”
I grind against him, slow, teasing, never giving it all. Each roll of my hips is a leash I tighten. Each breath I draw is mine to command.
He’s always been a storm of muscle and violence. Tonight, he’s my captive—knees spread, lips parted, pulse hammering under my hands.
“Fuck, Viviana,” he mutters, voice cracking.
“Quiet,” I snap, pressing a finger to his mouth. “You speak when I tell you.”
His fists clench beside him. I feel the tension ripple through him, and it sets me ablaze.
I want him broken open. Begging. Ruined by my hands, my mouth, my will.
I stand and slide the lace down my thighs, kicking it off. My fingers find his jeans, and I pull them down, rough, leaving him bare beneath me. His cock springs up, thick and hard, already leaking at the tip.
I smirk. “Look at you. So ready for me.”
He groans again, hips shifting.
I grab his wrists. Pin them to the chair. “Don’t move,” I warn, voice low.
I lower myself, hovering over him, my pussy brushing his stomach, leaving a wet trail. His breath catches, loud and jagged.
“Feel that?” I whisper, grinding against his skin. “That’s what you do to me.”
“Fuck,” he chokes out, fists tightening.
I slide lower. My thighs frame his hips, but I don’t take him in yet. I drag my nails down his chest, hard enough to leave faint red lines, and he arches into it, blind and desperate.
“Please,” he says, voice raw.
I lean in. Bite his earlobe. “Beg harder.”
“Please, Viviana,” he groans. “Touch me.”
I do. My hand wraps his cock, stroking slow, firm, thumb circling the head. He bucks beneath me, a sharp sound tearing from his throat.
“Like that?” I ask, squeezing tighter.
“Yeah,” he gasps. “Fuck, yeah.”
I pump him faster, watching his chest heave, his muscles strain against the urge to move. Sweat beads on his brow, trickling down his temple.
“You’re so hard,” I say, voice husky. “All for me.”
“Yours,” he grits out. “All yours.”
I shift. Slide down his body. My mouth hovers over his cock, breath hot against the tip. He tenses, feeling it, knowing what’s coming.
“Tell me you want it,” I say.
“I want it,” he rasps. “Fuck, I need your mouth.”
I lick him, slow, from base to tip, tasting salt and heat. He groans loud, hips jerking, and I pin him down with my hands.
“Stay still,” I order, then take him in, lips closing around him, sucking deep.
“Fuck, Viviana,” he moans. “Right there.”
I work him, tongue swirling, taking him to the back of my throat. He’s thick, filling my mouth, and I hum, letting the vibration hit him hard.
“Shit,” he gasps. “You’re killing me.”
I pull off, slow, dragging my lips along him. “Good,” I say, then dive back, sucking harder, messier, spit dripping down his shaft.
“Please,” he begs again, voice wrecked. “Don’t stop.”
I don’t. I bob my head, fast then slow, teasing the head with my tongue, then taking him deep again. His thighs shake under me, every muscle locked tight.
“Fuck, I’m close,” he warns, voice breaking.
“Not yet,” I say, pulling off. I climb back up, straddling his chest now. “You don’t come until I say.”
He groans, frustrated, blind and helpless.
I grab his hand. Guide it between my legs. “Feel me,” I tell him.
His fingers brush my pussy, slick and hot, and he curses under his breath. I press his hand harder, letting him feel how wet I am.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re dripping.”
“For you,” I say, rocking against his fingers. “Make me come.”
Two fingers slide inside me, rough and deep, curling just right. I gasp, hips rolling, riding his hand.
“Right there,” I moan. “Fuck, yes.”
“Like that?” he asks, pumping faster, thumb finding my clit.
“Yeah,” I pant. “Harder.”
He gives it to me. His fingers thrust deep, relentless, rubbing my clit in tight circles. I’m trembling now, heat coiling low, and he feels it.
“Come for me,” he growls, voice thick with need.
I do. My pussy clenches around his fingers, soaking them as I cry out, sharp and raw. He keeps going, drawing it out until I’m shaking, breathless.
I pull his hand free. Bring it to my mouth. Lick his fingers clean, tasting myself, and he groans again.
“My turn,” I say, sliding back down.
I straddle his hips again. Line him up with my pussy, but don’t sink down yet. I tease him, rubbing his cock against me, slick and slow.
“Viviana,” he pleads. “Fuck me.”
“Beg,” I say, circling my hips, letting the tip brush my entrance.
“Please,” he rasps. “I need you. Fuck me. Now.”
I give in. Sink onto him, slow at first, feeling him stretch me wide. He’s thick, hot, and I take him inch by inch, savoring every groan he makes.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re so tight.”
“Yeah?” I say, rolling my hips. “Tell me.”
“So wet,” he grunts. “So fucking perfect.”
I ride him, hard and steady, thighs burning as I set the pace. His hands grip the chair, knuckles white, fighting to obey me.
“Look at you,” I say, voice low. “All mine.”
“Yours,” he chokes out. “Fuck, I’m yours.”
I lean forward. Press my chest to his, skin sticking with sweat. I grind deeper, slower, dragging it out.
“Feel that?” I whisper against his neck. “That’s me owning you.”
“Fuck, yes,” he moans. “Take it. Take me.”
I do. I ride him faster, hips slamming down, the chair creaking loud beneath us. His breath staggers, hips lifting to meet me, and I feel him tense, so close.
“Come for me,” I say, voice sharp. “Now.”
He does. His cock pulses inside me, spilling hot and deep, a rough shout tearing from his throat. I keep moving, drawing it out, then tip over my own edge, shuddering hard, nails digging into his chest.
We collapse. Breathless. Wrecked.
I lean back. He blinks up at me, eyes wide, dazed.
He looks ruined. Beautifully so.
I feel unstoppable.
My fingers trace his cheek, the rough scruff, the split on his lip from days ago. He doesn’t flinch. Just lets me touch.
The jazz den hums beyond the curtains—muted brass, soft drums, a low pulse threading through the room.
I break the quiet. “I’m not scared of you anymore.”
His chest rumbles. “Good. I need you dangerous.”
I tilt my head. Meet his gaze. His eyes are unguarded tonight. I see everything—the scars of his past, the uncertainty ahead, and me, carved right into the middle.
“That was…” he starts, then stops.
“A claim,” I finish.
He huffs a laugh. “Felt like it.”
We settle together. The quiet wraps us, thick with something more than lust.
Power. Trust. Something forged in blood and fire.
His hand strokes my side, tracing my ribs, my hip, like he’s learning me back. I let him. Not for comfort. For the power it gives me.
“I’ve never let anyone take me like that,” he says, voice low.
I press my lips to his chest. “Good. I’m the only one who gets to.”
His nose brushes my temple. “What if that’s not just a game?”
I meet his eyes. “Then you saw me. All of me.”
And he did.
Tonight isn’t pretend. It’s truth. I took him not to prove something, but to own it—us, this, the danger we’ve become.
No masks. No roles. Just us—raw, real, unbreakable.
The jazz fades as the record stops.
I rise. Slip the silk dress back on, zipping it slow. Step into my heels, one then the other.
He watches, sprawled out, shirt open, jeans still undone. Doesn’t move. Just stares like I’m a vision.
I pause at the curtain. “Tomorrow, we plan.”
“Yes we do,” he says, voice steady.
I nod. “But tonight—”
“You ruled me,” he finishes, eyes locked on mine.
I smile, small and sure. “No. I ruled us.”
And I mean every word.