Descent

Roman

The cabin lights were dim, casting a soft golden glow over the jet's sleek interior. I sat reclined in the wide leather seat, my laptop open in front of me, the screen filled with charts, numbers, and projections I had read twice already. The numbers were good. Better than good. My return to New York was set to make waves. Still, my focus was scattered.

A quiet chime came from my phone. I glanced down.

VelvetMistress is live.

I shouldn’t have clicked. I had a flight to finish, a city to land in, and a thousand meetings to prepare for. But my finger moved before my mind caught up. One tap. The screen filled with her.

Red.

She was draped in it tonight. Lace. Straps. Fire. Her voice was the same, low and teasing, curling through the speakers like smoke.

"Look at my good little boys," she purred, lips glossy, eyes hidden behind the familiar velvet mask. "All eager and waiting for me."

I shifted in my seat. My shirt suddenly felt too tight across my chest, I shifted in my seat, trying to hide the evidence of just how much she affected me. I leaned back and loosened my collar with one hand.

The camera framed her perfectly. A flash of thigh. A curve of her waist. Her fingers trailed slowly down her stomach, stopping just above the lace hem of her panties. She knew what she was doing. Every movement is calculated. Every word designed to provoke.

I let her talk. Let her tease. Let her string her viewers along like a goddess playing with worshippers. And I watched.

I wasn’t the only one watching, of course. The chat was flooding with messages, hearts, and money flying in from every corner of the screen. I sat silent.

And then I tipped her.

No message. No need.

Her eyes lingered on the camera for a beat. Just long enough to make me wonder if she knew. If she could feel the weight of my attention from half a world away.

She knew exactly what she was doing. The way her fingers trailed over her lips, slow and deliberate, before slipping down her throat and into the dip of her cleavage—it wasn’t just for show. It was for me. Her eyes, locked on the lens like she could see through it, through me, made my pulse jackhammer. Every movement was a promise she didn’t have to say out loud. When she arched her back, letting her robe slip off one shoulder, revealing the bare swell of skin underneath, my breath caught. I was already hard—aching, straining, completely at her mercy—and she hadn’t even touched herself yet. Hell, she didn’t need to. That smirk, that slow, sultry sway of her hips as she adjusted the camera… it was enough to unravel me.

She sat back in her chair like she owned the damn screen, legs parting just enough to make my jaw tighten. Nothing explicit yet—she was a tease, not a performer. Every gesture felt personal, like a secret meant only for me. Her fingers ghosted over her inner thigh, drawing idle patterns while her other hand toyed with the tie of her robe. My fist curled around the edge of the desk as I leaned in, caught somewhere between restraint and craving. I wasn’t mindless with it—just sharp, aware, completely dialed into her rhythm. She didn’t need to rush,And she knew it.

She smiled. Not a sweet one. Not kind. But powerful.

She leaned forward and whispered, "Only kings get my time. Everyone else is just noise."

I closed the laptop. My palm rested over the lid for a moment, as if holding it shut would keep her from crawling any deeper into my head.

The pilot's voice came through the intercom. "Landing in ten, Mr. Astor."

I sat up straighter, adjusted my cuffs, and glanced out the window. The skyline shimmered below, Manhattan glowing in soft golds and deep shadows. Home. It looked the same. But tonight, it didn’t feel like mine.

We touched down smoothly. The wheels kissed the tarmac. The jet rolled into its private hangar, and by the time the stairs unfolded, Celeste was already waiting.

She held out my coat, eyes flicking briefly over my face. "Rough flight, sir?"

"Productive," I said. My voice was calm, measured. My body said otherwise.

The cold night air hit me as I descended the steps. Crisp and heavy. Manhattan always carried weight in the air. Expectation. Pressure. Power.

I slid into the back seat of the town car without a word. Celeste sat in front, tapping into her tablet. The driver pulled away from the hangar.

We merged into traffic like a shadow. The buildings stretched high above, flashing with advertisements and headlines, but I didn’t look up. My thoughts were elsewhere.

VelvetMistress.

I opened my phone again. The stream had ended, the screen now dark and quiet. But her voice lingered. That mouth. Those words. The way she moved like she owned the air itself.

She didn't beg. She demanded. She didn't giggle. She commanded. And I had watched her. I had paid to watch her.

My phone buzzed.

Jonathan: You land yet?

I typed back quickly.

Roman: Just did. Let’s grab drinks later this week. Thursday?

A few seconds later.

Jonathan: Thursday’s good. Same place.

I was about to put the phone away when another notification came in.

VelvetMistress: Want a private show?

I stared at the message. Just that one sentence. No emojis. No pleasantries. Straight to the point.

A smirk tugged at my mouth.

She had no idea who I was.

And I had no idea who she was.

But we were already playing a game neither of us was ready to lose.