Chapter 2 _The First Taste

Mira pov

His hands found the hem of my dress. Slow. Deliberate. The black fabric gathered in his fists as he lifted it higher, baring my thighs to the cool air of the penthouse.

I watched him through half-lidded eyes. Elias on his knees. A billionaire at my feet.

The sight sent heat spiraling through my chest.

"You have no idea," he said, his voice rough, "what I've been thinking about for the past seventy-two minutes."

"Show me."

His smile was sharp. Devastating. Then his hands slid up my bare thighs, pushing the dress higher, exposing the black lace beneath.

My breath caught.

He leaned in, his mouth pressing against the inside of my thigh. Not quite a kiss. A promise. His stubble scraped my skin, and I felt it everywhere—a phantom friction that made my fingers grip the glass behind me.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

"I don't."

His tongue traced a line higher. Slower. The heat of his breath against the lace made me tremble.

"Elias…"

"I told you," he murmured against my skin. "I want to hear my name when you're not pretending."

His teeth grazed the edge of the lace. I gasped, my hips pressing forward without permission.

He chuckled. Low. Dark. The sound vibrated through me.

"Desperate," he said. "I like it."

Then his fingers hooked the waistband of my panties, pulling them down inch by inch. The fabric slid over my hips, my thighs, past my knees. I stepped out of them, and he pocketed the lace like a trophy.

"You'll get those back," he said. "Eventually."

"Bastard."

"Frequently."

He spread my thighs with his hands, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin of my inner thighs. The position—exposed, open, vulnerable—should have made me feel weak.

It didn't.

It made me feel powerful. Watching a man like this kneel before me, his mouth inches from where I wanted him most, his eyes dark with hunger.

"Look at you," he said. "Wet. Ready. And I haven't even touched you yet."

I couldn't form a response. My throat had closed.

His breath ghosted over my center, warm and teasing. I bucked against nothing, and he smiled.

"Patience."

"I don't have any."

"I know." His tongue flicked out, just once, barely a graze.

The sound I made wasn't human.

He did it again. Longer. Flat of his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path from entrance to clit, and my knees buckled. His hands caught my hips, holding me steady, keeping me open for him.

"That's it," he murmured against me. "Let me feel you."

His mouth closed over me.

I stopped breathing.

The world tilted. The city lights blurred. There was only his tongue—circling, pressing, teasing—and the low sounds he made that vibrated through my core. He worked me with a patience that bordered on cruelty, drawing out every sensation, building a pressure that coiled tighter with each stroke.

My fingers tangled in his hair. Dark, thick, perfect to hold onto.

He groaned when I pulled, and the vibration sent a shockwave through my system.

"Yes," I gasped.

He doubled his efforts.

His tongue found my clit and stayed there, circling with precision, alternating pressure until I was gasping, trembling, the edges of my vision going white. I could hear myself—broken sounds, breathless pleas—but they came from somewhere distant.

He pulled back.

"Not yet."

"Elias, please—"

"Soon." His voice was wrecked. Hoarse. "But I want you to watch."

He stood, his hands finding my waist, spinning me to face the glass. The city spread beneath us, a sea of lights, and I saw us reflected—my dress bunched around my hips, his suit still pristine, his jaw dark with my wetness.

He pressed against me from behind. I felt him, hard through his trousers, against the curve of my ass.

"You see that?" He pointed at the reflection, his mouth at my ear. "That's you. Open. Waiting. Beautiful."

I couldn't breathe.

His hand slid down my stomach, between my thighs, finding me slick and swollen. Two fingers pressed inside me, and I cried out, my palms flat against the glass.

"You're so tight," he said, his voice a growl. "So wet. I could stay here all night, just feeling you clench around me."

He curled his fingers. I saw stars.

"Elias—"

"Say it again."

His fingers moved faster, deeper, his palm pressing against my clit with every stroke. The pressure built—immense, unstoppable—and I was falling, shattering, my cry swallowed by the glass as my body convulsed around his hand.

He didn't stop.

He worked me through it, slow and relentless, until I was slumped against the window, gasping, my legs trembling.

Only then did he withdraw.

He turned me around, his hands framing my face, his storm-gray eyes burning.

"That," he said, his voice low, "was the first."

I couldn't speak. Could barely stand.

He lifted me.

I wrapped my legs around his waist as he carried me away from the glass, past the sleek furniture, toward a hallway I hadn't noticed. The bedroom was vast—dark sheets, more windows, the city still glittering beyond.

He laid me on the bed like I was something precious.

Then he stood, loosening his tie.

"Now," he said, his eyes never leaving mine, "I'm going to take off every piece of this suit. Slowly. And you're going to watch."

I propped myself on my elbows, my thighs still slick, my heart still racing.

"Then what?"

His smile was a blade in the dark.

"Then I'm going to finish what I started."

He pulled the tie free. Dropped it.

His fingers found the first button of his shirt.

He worked the buttons one by one, taking his time. The shirt fell open, revealing the cut of his chest, the trail of dark hair disappearing into his trousers. I watched him—the way his muscles shifted, the confidence in every movement.

"You're staring," he said, not looking up.

"You told me to watch."

He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders. It hit the floor. His hands went to his belt, the metal clinking as he loosened it, slow and deliberate. The sound was obscene in the quiet room.

"And are you enjoying the view?"

My mouth was dry. "Come here and find out."

He paused. His eyes met mine, dark and amused. Then he pulled the belt free in one swift motion, the leather sliding through the loops with a whisper.

He didn't drop it.

He wrapped it around his fist, twice, and stepped closer to the bed. His knees pressed into the mattress as he leaned over me, the belt still coiled in his hand.

"I have a question," he said, his voice low, his face inches from mine. "And I want you to answer carefully."

He pressed the cool leather against my throat—not tight, just present. A reminder.

"Do you trust me?"