Page 72 of Veil of Smoke

“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.

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