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pulling at his zipper, and Blaise looked down at her hands. Her nail polish was mica-red and chipped. It turned him on, though he couldnt for the life of him say why. For once, he didnt care. He freed his cock with quick inattention, and there it was, Mister Trouble- upthrust and insistent, demanding action. "Oh, fuck," she whispered, running her hands over her breasts, caressing them through the weathered fabric. "Youre huge. Youre fucking huge." Blaise saw a blur of lights and smelled her- not just her, but her- perfume, hair, pussy- all of it. She wanted him. It was in the air. Thick with her need. His cock felt hot to the flesh of his palm. He released it and grasped the backs of her thighs with his hands, raising her up, back against the glass, high above the city, until she was right where he wanted her. He regarded the demure perfection of her shell-pink pussy, glistening like a new kind of diamond. It seemed too precious to assail without first breaking the ice with gentler endeavors- but its owner was of a different opinion, taking his head in her hands, shuddering, moaning, begging. Blaise went in for the kill. Violetta spread her thighs, breathing out, and he pushed into her like an earthbound rocket, heat-seeking, unstoppable. He exhaled in silent relief. Being inside her was sweet and sour, tart with the bliss of stayed fulfillment, but delectable somehow. She was tight, responsive; she fucked him back, her body reflexive and serpentine in the face of his steady pumping. Her wetness diffused over his thighs like hot mist, slicking him with her essence. The warm smell of her musk- god, it drove him insane. Blaise felt her hands on his biceps, clutching. His skin felt electric, skimming her body with each stroke. He looked down at her face, her open mouth. He took his finger and touched her bottom lip, her jaw, lingeringly. He smeared her black eyeshadow downward, deconstructing her, aware of her beauty and surprised at himself. Blaise rarely surprised himself anymore. But this was not Pauline. God, no. This was nothing like Pauline. Her eyes opened, hectically bright in the semi-dark, against the shadowy stain of passion-smudged kohl. "Fuck me, you bastard. Fuck me like you mean it." "I do mean it," he murmured, menacingly. She smiled, salacious. "Fuck me like Im your type," she purred. Blaise drove into her, slower, more forceful. Deliberate. Her mouth fell open as if she had seen something wonderful. Speechless. "Am I yours?" He demanded, thickly. Violetta gave a little shiver at something, something her body was doing. "Yes," she said. "Yes, what?" She let her head fall back, ecstatic, reverent. He took her by the hair, gentle but firm, as sensation coursed through his loins in bullet-like pulses. "My name." Violetta eyed him with a cool solemnity that her body betrayed. "Your name?" she said, softly, tilting her head. "Yes, I want to hear you say it-" "Blaise," she whispered, and her eyes shone, with lust, with amusement- he didnt fucking care. "Your name is Blaise." "Yes," he said. "It is." He stroked her hair as


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he fucked her, his mouth by her ear. "Blaise Benjamin Braidon." He whispered, darkly. "I want to hear it from your lips while Im inside you." "Is this some kind of trigger for you? Some fetish?" "You could call it that. Its my fetish with you." "Blaise," she said, deliberately. "Benjamin. Braidon." "Violetta." "Yes?" "Im going to do something else now." He pulled slowly out of her, and she moaned at the loss of him, sinking down against the glass in half-satiated stasis. "Lie down," he said. She stretched out languid beside the window, looking up and outward at the starless sky. Her reflection lay beside her in the glass, hovering over the city streets. Blaise pulled off his shirt and moved toward her. She gazed at his torso, reaching out to touch his stomach as he neared her, almost as if she were entranced. Why not, he thought. Shes used to fucking art-nouveau shitheads who slather themselves with cream cheese and honey and act as the buffet centerpiece at their own parties- whose primary exercise consists of running to the bathroom to purge. Too late, it vaguely dawned on Blaise that he was also describing Paulines most cherished daily regimen. "Accustomed to wan ennui?" he asked, his lip curling slightly in something that was not quite a smile. "You arent the first yuppie Ive fucked," she said, but her eyes continued to roam his contours in an endless circuit. Her eyes held a kind of odd wonder- and for a fleeting moment he wondered if his own eyes had ever looked like that- even as a child- or if theyd always been like the ones he saw in the mirror; flat shields of cool predatory guile- dead, sexy. Blaise put his mouth on her skin, at the knee, watching her indolently with his silver dollar eyes as he kissed his way down the inside of her thigh. Her knees eased open, outward, even further, like the wings of a butterfly, and he aided this with an affirming hand on the other thigh, as he began to kiss it too, slowly following the curve of her leg to the delta of her loins. Her black lashes crushed violently together as she sighed, and then her eyes opened once more, staring upward, past the vaulted ceilings of his apartment. Blaise pushed aside his own desire with practiced detachment, and leaned forward, curving his arms under, around her thighs, pulling them apart, crucifying her pussy before him. Now she was at the mercy of his mouth, and he was pleased by that, the idea of it. He lowered his head and kissed the smooth, shaven skin there, feeling a tremor overtake her at the presence of his lips. Violettas eyes swept shut as her head turned to the side, and her fingers rolled and clenched in the lush white carpet, which was more like fur than fiber. Blaise touched down on her warmth, and she first tensed, then melted against his mouth. He traced meaningless figures over the lips of her pussy with the tip of his tongue, pausing, taunting,