The only light in the room came from the single strand of Halloween lights on her headboard, casting long, dancing shadows across the walls. It painted her in shades of gold and obsidian as she swung a leg over his hips, settling her weight onto his lap. The worn denim of her cutoff shorts rasped against the fabric of his jeans. She wasn’t smiling. Her expression was one of cool, detached focus, her dark-rimmed eyes holding his with an intensity that made the air feel thick.

“You’ve been watching me all night,” she murmured, her voice a low, smoky thing. “Following me with your eyes while I moved around the room. Like a hungry l*ttle moth.”

Her fishnet top was a web of shadows against her skin, the bl*ck lace of her bra stark and tempting beneath it. An intricate gold necklace glimmered at her throat and her gold anklets sparkled with each slow, deliberate shift of her body. She leaned forward, her palms flattening on his chest, bringing her face close to his. He could smell her perfume—patchouli and night-blooming jasmine.

“I know what you want,” she whispered, her breath warm against his lips. “But you have to ask for it properly.”

She didn’t kiss him. Instead, she straightened up, rolling her hips in a slow, grinding circle that made him suck in a sharp breath. Her hands trailed down his torso, fingers deft and sure, until they found the button of his jeans. The pop of it undoing was loud in the quiet room. The rasp of the zipper being drawn down, tooth by tantalizing tooth, was excruciating.

He groaned, his hips lifting involuntarily. A sharp tsk from her stilled him.

“Ah, ah. Not yet.” Her eyes never left his as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his jeans and briefs, pushing them down just enough. He sprang free, already hard and aching, the cool air a shock against his heated skin.

But she didn’t touch him with her hands.

With a grace that was purely predatory, she shifted back, sliding down his thighs until she was sitting between his knees. She lifted one foot, bringing the sole of her bare foot to rest, warm and faintly damp, against his inner thigh. She traced a maddeningly slow path upward with her toes, skirting the very edge of where he needed her.

“Please,” he ch*ked out, the word torn from him.

“Please what?” she asked, tilting her head. Her toes finally, finally brushed the base of his shaft. A full-body shudder racked him. “You have to be specific, my love.”

“Touch me.”

“I am touching you.” She dragged the b*ll of her foot up his length, a feather-light, delicious pressure. The sensation was utterly foreign, unbearably intimate. The softness of her skin, the subtle strength in the arch of her foot—it was nothing like a hand. It was slower. More deliberate. More hers.

She settled into a rhythm, using both feet now. One foot cradled him from below, a warm, supporting cradle, while the other moved over the crown, sliding from the head down the sensitive ridge on the underside. Her movements were sinuous, a dance of muscle and tendon he could see flexing with each p*ss. Precious wetness gathered at his tip, and she used it, smearing it with a slow, slick drag of her arch that made his vision blur.

“Is this what you wanted?” she purred, watching the desperate tension coil in his abdomen. “To be played with? To be worshipped by something other than my hands?”

He could only nod, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. Every nerve was alive, focused entirely on the exquisite friction of her skin on his. She varied the pressure—sometimes a firm, milking stroke that made his toes curl, sometimes a whisper-soft graze that was pure, unadulterated tease. The gold anklet on her right foot jingled softly with each movement, a tiny, mocking melody to his ragged breathing.

She leaned back on her hands, extending her legs, giving him a full view of her work. The sight was devastatingly erotic: her pale feet, with their bl*ck-painted toenails, enveloping him, gliding over his swollen flesh in the candlelight. She curled her toes around him, creating a tight, hot ring, and pulsed.

“G*d... f*ck,” he gasped, his hands f*sting in the comforter.

“Not G*d,” she corrected, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “Just me. And you’re not allowed to come until I say.”

The command sent a new jolt of desperate arousal through him. The pressure was building, a tight, hot coil in his gut, but she was an expert. The moment his breathing hitched, she changed tactics, slowing to a near-stop, just holding him in the warm vise of her feet, applying the b*rest, most tantalizing tremble of movement.

“I can feel you,” she whispered, her own breath coming a l*ttle faster now. “I can feel how close you are. It’s beating against my skin. But you have to beg for it. I want to hear you beg.”

He was beyond pride. Beyond anything but the need for release. The words spilled out in a broken, husky stream. “Please... please, let me come. I need it. I need to come for you. Please, b*by, please.”

A low, satisfied hum vibrated in her throat. “Good boy.”

Her pace quickened, not to a frantic rush, but to a deep, relentless, rhythmic motion. Her feet became one seamless instrument of pleasure, the top foot applying pressure to the most sensitive spot just below the head, the bottom foot stroking the full, throbbing length. The slick, wet sounds filled the room, mingling with his ch*ked gasps and her soft, encouraging whispers.

“That’s it... give it to me. All of it.”

The coil snapped. Pleasure, white-hot and blinding, ripped through him. His back arched off the bed as he cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound of utter surrender. Wave after wave pulsed from him, spilling hotly over her arch and toes. She didn’t stop, working him through every last shuddering contraction, her movements gentling only as the final tremors subsided.

For a long moment, the only sound was their mingled, heavy breathing. She finally lowered her feet, her own legs trembling slightly from the exertion. She looked at the mess glistening on her skin in the candlelight, then back up at his blissfully wrecked face.

Slowly, she brought her foot up, her eyes locking with his as she extended her leg, her toes brushing his parted lips.

“Clean it up,” she whispered, her voice dripping with dark, velvet promise. “Then we start over.”

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