The house is a tomb, silent and still, save for the frantic drumming of my heart against the stiff boning of the leather corset. One week. Seven days of stolen glances across the dinner table, of his knuckles brushing mine when passing the salt, of me sitting in my room upstairs, aching, while he slept down here. The memory of his taste is a ghost on my tongue, a persistent, hungry ghost.

The new outfit he bought me is a second skin of sin. The black leather corset is laced so tight my breath comes in shallow, exciting little gasps, pushing my chest up and out. The matching panties are a mere whisper of lace against my skin, and the severe black heels make my calves ache in the most delicious way. I am his creation. His secret.

My door opens without a sound; I’d spent an hour earlier oiling the hinges. The hallway is pitch black, a river of shadow leading to his room. I move like smoke, each step a practiced, silent click on the hardwood, my sheer stockings a faint whisper. His door is slightly ajar. Does he sleep like that? Hoping?

I slip inside. The room is dominated by the sound of his deep, even breathing. A sliver of moonlight cuts across the bed, illuminating the powerful line of his shoulder, the corded muscle of his bare arm resting outside the sheets. The rest of him is a mountain under a thin blanket.

My mouth waters. Now.

I sink to my knees beside the bed, the cool hardwood a shock against my nylon-clad knees. The musky, clean scent of him—soap and pure, sleeping male—fills my head, intoxicating me. I nuzzle my face against the sheet, tenting his hip, feeling the firm, warm shape of him beneath the cotton. A low groan rumbles in his chest, a sound of deep sleep. Not enough.

I gently pull the sheet down, revealing the worn gray cotton of his boxer briefs. The outline there is already impressive even in repose. Is he dreaming of me? I lean in, pressing my glossed lips against the cotton. I breathe him in, hot and damp through the fabric, and feel him stir. A twitch becomes a thick, hardening pulse against my mouth.

That’s it. Wake up for me.

I don’t wait. I hook my fingers into the waistband and pull them down, just enough. His cock, half-hard and heavy, springs free into the cool air, then into the devastating heat of my waiting mouth.

I take him in whole, my lips stretching around his girth, my tongue flattening against the velvety underside. The effect is instantaneous.

“Christ!”

His whole body jerks awake. A hand flies down, not to push me away, but to fist in the auburn wig, his fingers tangling in the synthetic strands. He tries to sit up, his abs clenching, but I press a firm hand on his hip, holding him down, refusing to relinquish my prize.

“What the hell are you—?” he rasps, his voice thick with sleep and shock.

I answer by hollowing my cheeks, sucking hard, drawing a long, slow pull that makes his thighs tremble. I look up, meeting his wide, stunned eyes in the semi-darkness. A tear of mascara might be tracking down my cheek; I hope it is. I want to look utterly debauched for him.

“You little…,” he breathes, but the rest of the curse dissolves into a guttural moan as I swirl my tongue around the head, lapping at the drop of salt already beading there. His grip on my hair tightens, not painfully, but possessively. Yeah. That’s it. Claim me.

I set a ruthless rhythm, bobbing my head, using my hand to twist and pump the base of his shaft in time with my mouth. The sounds are obscene, wet and sloppy, and they seem to amplify in the silent room. His hips begin to move, a shallow, helpless thrusting he can’t control. Every muscle in his abdomen is taut, his free hand gripping the sheets until his knuckles are white.

“God, your mouth,” he grunts, his head thrown back against the pillow. “It’s too good. You’re a damn natural.”

The praise floods me with a warmth more intense than the arousal. I’m a natural. His natural slut. I take him deeper, relaxing my throat until my nose is buried in the coarse thatch of hair at his base. He gasps, a raw, shattered sound.

“Stop, wait… I’m too close,” he warns, his voice strained.

I ignore him. I want him to lose control. I want to feel him come apart in my mouth. I suck harder, faster, my own need a throbbing, damp pulse between my legs, amplified by the tight grip of the corset.

With a strangled cry that he tries to muffle in the pillow, his body arches off the bed. His release hits the back of my throat, hot and sudden, and I swallow eagerly, milking him with my lips and hand until the last shudder racks his powerful frame. I don’t stop until he’s sensitive and twitching, until his hand falls from my hair and lands limp on the bed.

I slowly release him, wiping my lips with the back of my hand, looking up at him. He’s panting, staring at the ceiling as if he’s seen a ghost. The moonlight glistens on the sweat on his chest.

After a long moment, he turns his head. His eyes are dark pools of awe and something else—something like reverence. He reaches out a trembling hand and traces the line of the leather corset, from my hip to the swell of my breast. His touch is electric.

“No one,” he whispers, his voice rough with spent passion. “No one has ever….” He shakes his head, seemingly unable to finish.

He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his nakedness bold and magnificent in the moonlight. He looks at me, kneeling before him in my lingerie and heels, a portrait of submission. But his expression holds no dominance, only raw, stunned wonder.

“Get on the bed,” he says, his voice low and intent, all traces of sleep and uncertainty gone.