When the elevator opened, Sienna didn't know what to expect. Luca had said nothing on the ride up—only placed his hand on the back of her neck like a quiet claim, fingers brushing the soft skin just below her hairline.
The doors parted to a space unlike any she'd ever seen.
Red velvet draped the walls, the light low and golden. A thick rug spread across dark wood floors. There were no windows. No clocks. Just time, and heat, and the scent of sandalwood, leather, and desire.
And in the center of the room: a plush, wide chair—deep crimson, armless, made for spreading. A low table beside it held silk rope, oils, feathers, and something glinting in gold she couldn't identify.
She turned to him.
Luca watched her, slow and quiet. "This is where I bring the women I want to worship."
Her breath hitched. "Worship?"
He stepped behind her, slid his arms around her waist, and kissed the side of her neck. "Pleasure that doesn't just take, Sienna. It gives. Deep. Slow. Until you forget your name and remember only mine."
She shivered.
He led her to the chair.
"Lie back. Legs apart."
Sienna sat, heart thundering. As she leaned back, Luca gently lifted her thighs and draped them over the wide arms of the chair. She was open, exposed, her lips already wet, glistening. Her clit swollen with need.
And he hadn't even touched her yet.
He sank to his knees between her thighs.
"Do not ask me to fuck you," he warned softly. "You won't get it. Not until you beg like it's the only thing you've ever wanted."
Sienna nodded, her chest rising.
He kissed her inner thigh.
Then again, higher.
He didn't rush. Didn't lunge for her. He worshipped—mouth grazing her skin inch by inch. His breath was heat. His tongue, slow torture. He licked from the inside of her knee to the crease of her thigh. Again. And again.
Never her core.
She writhed. "Luca—"
He gave her a look that made her fall still.
Then he pulled something from the table.
A feather.
He dragged it over her breasts. Circling each nipple until they peaked, sensitive and aching. She gasped. Her hips rolled.
"You like to be teased," he whispered. "But your body? It's begging for more already. Let's see how long you can hold out."
The feather brushed between her thighs, up her slick folds. Still no touch. Just a whisper.
She bit her lip hard.
Then his mouth.
Finally—his tongue dragged slowly up her center, splitting her open. He groaned against her.
"So sweet," he murmured. "You're already dripping. I haven't even taken you apart yet."
He licked her—slow and deliberate. Not chasing her orgasm. Drawing it out. Tongue flat, then pointed, alternating pressure. Circling her clit without mercy, then retreating just before she could climb over the edge.
Again.
And again.
She clawed at the arms of the chair. Her legs trembled. Her body tried to chase the orgasm, but he pulled away every time, watching her unravel.
"Please," she gasped. "Please—"
"Not yet."
He slid two fingers inside her, slow and deep.
She cried out. Her walls gripped him, needy, greedy. He curled them just right. Found that spot that made her sob.
His tongue returned to her clit.
Now the rhythm.
Now the pressure.
And Sienna broke.
She came with a scream, her body arching, thighs locking around his head. She didn't care. She lost everything but sensation—wet, pulsing, endless.
He didn't stop.
Another orgasm followed.
Then another.
Until she was slumped in the chair, lips parted, moaning softly with every aftershock.
Then he rose.
His cock was rock-hard. Veined. Leaking.
But he didn't take her yet.
He kissed her.
Deep. Tongue slow. Letting her taste herself in his mouth.
"You still want worship?" he asked, his voice like gravel and thunder.
"Yes," she whispered.
He lifted her again—effortless—and carried her to a low padded bench in the corner.
Bent her over.
Then—at last—slid inside her with one long, brutal thrust.
She cried out his name like a prayer.
And he gave her everything.