Page 73 of Veil of Smoke

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.”

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