Behind the mask, Luka’s eyes narrowed, cutting through the latticework of shadows.
He grazed his thumb over my clit, pressing in slow, deliberate circles. The contact was light—testing—but the sensation flared hot and immediate, my body tightening around it.
“Are you sure?”
I tried to answer, but the friction shorted out my words, turning them into a breathless whimper instead.
Luka thrust two fingers inside me, deep and sudden. My back arched off the bench, a cry tearing loose before I could stop it. The stretch, the invasion, the way he knew exactly where to press—my control shattered almost immediately.
A rumble—low, appreciative—rolled through the front row. I felt them watching, listening, waiting.
Luka worked me with his hand, each thrust purposeful, engineered to wring reactions out of me, to make my body answer when my voice couldn’t.
He held the knife up, blade gleaming—not as a threat but a mirror. He angled the blade toward my face.
“Look at yourself.”
The curved steel caught the image—the mask, my mouth open, the flush of my blood-heated skin, every line and strain and need impossible to hide.
“Look at what they see.”
He lowered the blade, and the reflection shifted—my body spread open, his gloved fingers disappearing inside me, the glistening pink smeared across metal.
I wondered if he’d cut me, mark me, leave a tally of the moment on my skin.
Instead, he snapped the blade closed and pocketed it.
“That’s what they want,” Luka said, voice aimed at the gallery. “Everyone in this room would kill to get a taste of this cunt tonight.” He tilted my chin up with a finger. “But you want me?” His eyes held mine, cold and searching. “Only me?”
“Yes.”
He pressed his palm to my throat, thumb flicking at the collar.
“If I take this off”—Luka slipped a finger under the leather—“you belong to the room.”
The pressure at my neck eased just enough to make the absence feel dangerous.
“You can have every single one of them.” His voice was soft, almost intimate. “Is that what you want?”
I shook my head, a quick, frantic motion that sent my hair clinging to the sweat at my nape. “No.”
At the edge of the pit, a man leaned forward, elbows braced on knees. His mask was a glossy midnight that erased his face. The overhead lights caught a sweep of iron-gray hair. “Take it off,” he called, his voice polished and loose with drink. “Beautiful thing like that shouldn’t go to waste.”
A dry, expectant laugh rippled through the other spectators.
Luka pumped his fingers faster, the heel of his palm grinding my clit. My body reacted instantly, betraying me again, the heat and attention collapsing into one unbearable current. With his other hand, he toyed with the buckle at my throat, testing it, lifting the leather slightly away from my skin.
His voice rose just enough to carry. “You heard him.” He loosened the collar, cool air sliding against the sweat at my neck. “If you want to see what this place really offers,” Luka said, calm and merciless, “I’ll take this collar off and set you free.” His fingers paused on the buckle. “You’ll have the fuck of your life. Anyone you want.” He stilled his hand, then rolled his wrist, grinding hard against my clit. “Isn’t that what you came for?”
“No,” I gasped, and despised the whimper in my voice.
Luka gripped my jaw and forced my head back, locking my gaze to his. “Say it.” The words were quiet, precise as a garrote.
“I’m yours,” I choked. “I want you. Only you.”
The gallery’s noise shifted—disappointment or amusement, I couldn’t tell.
The man who’d spoken earlier stood and shook his head. “What a shame.” Then he left.