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Chapter Text

Vera Farmiga had always been good at pretending.

In the glass-and-steel office tower on the 34th floor, she was the sharp-tongued senior analyst who could shred a flawed report in front of the entire department without raising an eyebrow. 

People respected her. Feared her a little. 

Patrick Wilson, her direct superior and the company’s golden boy, absolutely fucking loathed her. He called her “insubordinate” in performance reviews. She called him “a walking erectile dysfunction in a Tom Ford suit” to his face exactly once and somehow didn’t get fired, because the quarterly projections she delivered were flawless and the clients loved her.

They had been circling each other like angry cats for three years.

Nobody in the office knew that every Saturday night, Vera drove forty-five minutes out of the city to a windowless adult bookstore with blacked-out windows and a handwritten sign on the back door that simply read PRIVATE. 

Nobody knew she paid twenty dollars for a key to Booth #3, locked the door behind her, and knelt on the worn cushion in front of the waist-high hole in the wall like it was church.

She hated the taste of cum. Hated the sticky-salt bitterness, the way it clung to the back of her tongue for hours afterward no matter how many mints she chewed. She hated precum even more. Thin, metallic, sometimes sour. 

But God. 

She loved the act. 

Loved the anonymous weight on her tongue, the loss of air when a cock slid deep enough to block her throat, the way her eyes watered and her pulse hammered in her ears while some stranger’s fingers curled against the wall in helpless pleasure. 

The suffocation was the drug. The surrender. The fact that she could make a man lose his mind with nothing but her mouth and then walk away without ever knowing his name.

Most nights she swallowed anyway, grimacing, then drove home and brushed her teeth until her gums bled.

Tonight was different.

The cock that pushed through the hole was thick, cut, a shade darker than the others that usually appeared. The man on the other side didn’t thrust impatiently or slap the wall like some frat boy. He just… Waited. Almost hesitant.

Vera leaned in. The first slow lick across the head made her freeze.

It didn’t taste like anything she’d had before.

Warm. Slightly sweet, like salted caramel with a faint trace of something citrusy. Clean. Addictive. She dragged her tongue along the underside again, chasing the flavor, and heard a low, stunned groan from the other side of the wall.

“Jesus Christ” the voice muttered, rough but educated. East Coast. Familiar in a way that made the hair on her arms stand up, but she couldn’t place it.

She took him deeper. The precum kept beading, perfect, delicious, and she swallowed greedily, humming around him. Her hands braced on the wall as she worked him with filthy, worshipful pulls of her mouth, hollowing her cheeks, letting him bump the back of her throat until her lungs burned and black spots danced in her vision. 

She didn’t pull off. She never pulled off once she found a rhythm, but this... This was something else. She was dripping into her panties, thighs clenched, desperate for friction she wouldn’t allow herself.

On the other side, Patrick Wilson had his forehead pressed to the cool plaster wall, eyes squeezed shut, trying to remember how the hell he’d ended up here.

His buddy Mark, obviously.

“Trust me, man, you need to blow off steam. Two drinks, then the best head of your life. No strings” Patrick had rolled his eyes. 

He had never been big on blowjobs, always felt awkward, teeth and performance anxiety. But the whiskey had loosened something in his chest, and he was tired of jerking off to faceless porn after another screaming match with Vera fucking Farmiga in the conference room that afternoon.

So he let Mark drag him here.

And now some anonymous woman was sucking his soul out through his dick, doing things with her tongue he didn’t know were possible. Wet, swirling, relentless. Every time he thought he was close, she backed off just enough to ruin him, then took him deep again until his knees shook. When she gagged, soft, involuntary, filthy, he nearly came on the spot.

He didn’t. She wouldn’t let him. She controlled it completely.

When he finally spilled down her throat with a broken curse, she swallowed every drop like it was the best thing she ever tasted, milked him through the aftershocks with gentle licks until he had to pull away because it was too sensitive.

Then... Silence.

He was zipping up, brain still offline, when her voice came through the wall. Low, amused, a little hoarse.

“I’m here every Saturday. Same booth. If you liked that… Come find me”

He laughed, breathless. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be back”

He stumbled out into the neon-lit hallway, past the smirking clerk, into the cold night air, tasting mint gum to hide the whiskey, wondering what the hell had just happened to him.

On the other side, Vera wiped her mouth, thighs trembling, absolutely certain she would never taste anything that good again in her entire life.

Neither of them had any idea that Monday morning, they would be in the same boardroom again, tearing each other apart over budget projections while secretly replaying the weekend in their heads like a fever dream.

Chapter Text

Vera walked into the open-plan floor with the same predatory confidence she always carried, but today there was an extra edge, something restless, almost feral, under her skin. 

Her throat was still slightly raw from Saturday night, lips tender, jaw aching in that delicious way that made her clench every time she swallowed. She tasted him constantly. 

Not just the memory, she tasted him. Clean, perfect, addictive. She brushed her teeth four times yesterday and still caught the ghost of his flavor when she licked the back of her tongue.

Patrick was already at his corner office glass wall, phone to his ear, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he gestured sharply at whoever was on the line. When he saw her, his eyes narrowed instantly, like her mere existence was a personal insult.

Good.

It was good to see Patrick being mad at her. She liked it.

“Farmiga” Patrick barked the second she got within range “My office. Now”

Vera smiled sweetly. 

“Aw, missed me, boss?”

He didn’t answer, just turned on his heel and stalked inside.

She followed, hips swaying, enjoying the way his shoulders went rigid like he could feel her stare on his ass.

The door shut with a soft click that somehow sounded like a gunshot.

Patrick rounded on her immediately. 

“Your reports are garbage, they're... You changed everything I wrote! This is a complete different idea! Are you trying to make me look incompetent in front of the board tomorrow?”

Vera dropped her tablet on his desk with a loud smack. 

“No, Patrick, I’m trying to make us look competent. Your original deck was so conservative it was basically a suicide note. I fixed it”

He stepped closer, towering over her, voice dropping into that low, dangerous. 

“You don’t fix things, Vera. You sabotage. You rewrite, you override, you undermine every goddamn thing I do and then act like I’m the problem for noticing”

She didn’t back up. She leaned in until they were sharing breath. 

“Maybe if you weren’t so fucking perfect, you would notice that my ‘sabotage’ closed Meridian deal last quarter. Or the one before that. Or the one before that one. But sure, keep screaming at me like it’s foreplay, Wilson. We both know you love it”

His pupils blew wide, black swallowing the blue. For one electric heartbeat his gaze dropped to her mouth. Swollen, red, parted, and his hand twitched at his side like he wanted to fist her hair and shove her to her knees right there on the marble floor.

Vera felt it like a physical touch between her thighs.

Patrick’s voice came out gravel-rough. 

“Get out of my office”

Vera licked her lower lip slowly, watching his jaw clench so hard she heard the pop. 

"Sure, boss" she smiled. Patrick's eyes went down again. Vera's pussy clenched.

She walked out slow, letting the door shut softly behind her.

Her panties were soaked through.

Patrick had to sit down at his desk and palm himself roughly through his slacks just to calm the raging hard-on that had sprung up the second she’d said his name like that.

He hated her so fucking much.

Patrick arrived shaking.

He spent the entire week leaking into his boxers at the worst moments.

Every time Vera leaned over the conference table and her blouse gaped just enough to show lace. 

Every time she snapped 'Wilson' in that filthy, amused tone like she knew exactly what she did to him.

He locked the booth door with trembling fingers, jeans already undone, cock throbbing so hard it hurt.

The cushion on the other side creaked almost immediately.

She was waiting.

No words. Never words. That was the rule.

Just the slow, worshipful drag of her tongue from his heavy balls all the way up the underside of his shaft, slow enough that Patrick’s knees buckled instantly.

She started at the base, licking broad, flat strokes, wet and filthy, coating every inch until his cock glistened with her spit. She took one ball into her mouth gently, sucking, rolling it with her tongue, humming low in her throat like she was savoring the taste of his skin. 

Patrick’s head fell against the wall with a thud, hips jerking forward involuntarily.

She moved to the other, sucking harder, tongue swirling, then pulled off with a soft pop that echoed obscenely loud in the tiny booth.

Then she licked a long stripe up the vein, tongue pressing hard enough to feel his pulse hammering against it. When she reached the head she didn’t take him in, just fluttered the tip of her tongue against the slit, flicking quick and light. Over and over, collecting the thick beads of precum that were already dripping steadily. 

She moaned like his taste was the best thing she’d ever had on her tongue.

Patrick’s hands scrabbled for purchase on the wall. 

“Jesus fucking Christ—”

She finally sealed her lips around just the crown and sucked.

Hard.

Not gentle. Not teasing.

A brutal, rhythmic pull that hollowed her cheeks and made her throat click wetly as she swallowed around the head. She pulsed, suck, release, suck, release, until Patrick’s thighs shook uncontrollably. 

Saliva spilled from the corners of her mouth, dripping down his shaft, over her chin, soaking the collar of whatever shirt she wore tonight.

She took him deeper.

Inch by agonizing inch, lips stretching wide, tongue pressed flat underneath, until the head breached her throat and she gagged. Soft, wet, filthy choke that went straight to Patrick’s balls. 

She didn’t pull back. She forced forward, nose grinding against the wall, throat convulsing in spasms around his cockhead while tears streamed down her face.

Patrick could hear her struggling for air, the tiny, desperate little whimpers vibrating through his shaft. Her hands slapped the wall on either side of the hole like she needed something to hold onto while she suffocated herself on him.

She held there for ten full seconds, throat working, swallowing around him, milking him with every convulsion, before ripping back with a gasp, strings of thick saliva connecting her swollen lips to his glistening cock.

Then she did it again.

Deeper.

Longer.

Gagging louder, messier, spit pouring down her chin and dripping onto the cushion in wet patters. She started bobbing. 

Slow at first, then faster, relentless, fucking her face on him with brutal slams that made the whole wall shake. Every time she took him to the root her throat bulged, neck visibly distending, and she held until her lungs had to be screaming, gagging so hard her whole body shook.

Patrick lost track of time.

He was flying.

Her hot, wet mouth, the obscene wet sounds of her choking herself, the way her tongue stroked the vein every time she pulled back only to slam forward again. 

She edged him mercilessly, bringing him right to the brink with deep, punishing sucks, then pulling off to lick kitten-soft at the slit, fluttering, teasing, denying him until he was punching the wall and growling curses.

When she finally let him come it was catastrophic.

She took him all the way down, nose flush to the wall, throat spasming wildly as he flooded her with thick, heavy ropes. 

She swallowed greedily, throat working around his pulsing cock, milking every drop while her own body shook with aftershocks of near-suffocation. When he tried to pull back she followed, lips sealed tight, sucking him through it until he was oversensitive and had to physically yank away or lose his mind.

Silence.

Then the soft sound of her licking her lips clean, long, thorough strokes of tongue cleaning every inch of him like she couldn’t bear to waste a single drop.

Patrick slid down the wall, jeans around his ankles, chest heaving, brain offline.

On the other side Vera stayed on her knees long after he left, face pressed to the cool wall where his cock had been moments before, thighs clenched so tight they trembled, tasting him on every inch of her tongue and hating how much she needed the next Saturday already.

She hated needing anything this badly.

Especially when she had to sit across from Patrick Wilson five days a week and pretend she didn’t want to drop to her knees every time he opened his arrogant mouth.

Chapter Text

The elevator doors slid open on the 34th floor and Vera stepped out already tasting him.

She hadn’t brushed her teeth enough times, she still caught faint traces of semen whenever she licked the corner of her mouth. It made her thighs clench under the navy sheath dress she’d chosen because it was armor, because it was professional, because it did illegal things to her ass and she hated how much she hoped someone noticed.

Patrick was already at the coffee station, sleeves rolled high, tie perfect, the same arrogant posture that made her want to bite him and apologize at the same time.

Their eyes met across the open-plan floor.

For one heartbeat the memory of Saturday flashed between them: Her on her knees, him helpless, the wall shaking. Then the moment shattered. They wiped it because obviously Vera couldn't be that woman with heaven in her mouth and Patrick couldn't be that man with the most delicious cock she ever tasted.

“Farmiga” he said, voice clipped “My office. Now”

Vera lifted her chin. 

“Of course, Mr. Wilson. Someone has to explain the Meridian revisions to you”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He turned on his heel and walked away.

She followed, pulse already racing.

The door closed with a soft click that sounded too loud.

Patrick didn’t sit. He stood behind his desk, arms crossed, looking like he wanted to strangle her or bend her over the desk; she wasn’t sure which and the uncertainty made her wet.

“You rewrote the entire Meridian media plan without looping me in” he said, voice low and dangerous.

“I improved it” she answered, stepping closer than strictly necessary “Your version was timid. Mine closed the deal”

He leaned forward, palms flat on the desk. 

“You don’t get to decide that alone”

Vera mirrored him, leaning in until they were inches apart. 

“I decide what wins, Patrick. You just sign the paperwork”

His eyes dropped to her mouth for a fraction of a second. When they flicked back up they were darker.

“Watch yourself” he warned.

“Or what?” she whispered “You’ll write me up? Spank me? Fire me and explain to the board why their star analyst suddenly vanished?”

His nostrils flared. She saw his fingers curl against the wood like he was imagining them somewhere else.

Neither of them moved.

The air between them crackled, thick with everything they refused to say.

Finally Patrick straightened. 

“Get out”

Vera smiled, slow and sharp. 

“Yes, sir”

She turned and walked out without looking back, hips swaying just enough to make him suffer.

Patrick watched the door close and had to adjust himself before he could sit down.

They reached for the same box of markers at the exact same moment.

Their fingers brushed.

Both froze.

The closet was tiny, barely room for two people and years of unspoken tension.

Patrick’s hand closed over hers, pinning it to the shelf.

“Careful” he said, voice rough.

Vera’s breath caught. 

“You first”

They stood like that, trapped between shelves of paper and the scent of dry-erase ink, hearts hammering.

She could feel the heat of him through his shirt, the way his grip tightened involuntarily.

He could see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, the way her pupils had blown wide.

For five endless seconds the world narrowed to the place where their skin touched.

Then Vera pulled her hand free and walked out without a word.

Patrick stayed in the closet long after she left, forehead pressed to the cool metal shelf, trying to remember how to breathe.

Patrick locked the booth with shaking fingers, jeans already undone, cock heavy and leaking the second the cold air hit it. He stepped forward and pushed through the hole, a low, involuntary groan rumbling out of him the moment the cushion on the other side creaked.

She was waiting.

The first thing he felt was wet heat, her tongue sliding slow and filthy from his balls to the tip, lapping up the precum that had been dripping since Thursday. She moaned softly, the vibration sinking straight into his spine, and then she swallowed him whole.

Patrick’s head slammed back against the wall, a raw, helpless sound tearing loose from his throat.

She didn’t ease him in tonight. She took him straight to the root in one slick glide, nose pressed tight to the wood, throat fluttering wildly around him. Spit poured out of her immediately, thick ropes dripping down his shaft, coating his balls, running in messy rivulets onto the floor.

He couldn’t stay quiet. He never could with her, but tonight the sounds ripped out of him like they had a mind of their own.

“Fuck… fuck… Oh God—”

She pulled back just enough to breathe, strings of saliva stretching from her swollen lips to his cock, then slammed forward again. The wet choke that came out of her when he hit the back of her throat made his hips jerk hard enough to rattle the partition.

She set a brutal rhythm. Deep, punishing strokes that ended with her gagging hard, throat spasming around him, then ripping back with a filthy gasp before plunging down again. Every time she took him to the hilt her neck bulged visibly and she held it, swallowing in waves that milked him like a fist.

Patrick lost it.

His moans spilled out loud and wrecked, one after another, echoing in the tiny space.

“Nngh… Fuck yes… Take it… Just like that—”

His hands clawed at the wall, knuckles white, hips snapping forward helplessly, fucking her mouth through the hole like he couldn’t stop himself. Spit splashed everywhere, her chin, his thighs, the wood, obscene wet slaps mixing with the raw, broken noises pouring from his chest.

She started twisting her head on every upstroke, tongue pressing hard against the vein, swirling around the head, sucking so hard her cheeks hollowed until his knees nearly buckled. Then she sank down again, throat convulsing, gagging herself on him over and over until tears ran and her moans turned desperate around his cock.

He tried to warn her when he got close, but all that came out was another wrecked moan.

She didn’t pull off.

She took him deeper than ever, nose grinding against the wall, throat working in rapid, greedy swallows.

Patrick came with a hoarse shout that cracked in the middle, hips jerking violently as he flooded her mouth in thick, endless pulses. She swallowed everything, moaning around him, throat milking him through every spasm until his legs shook and his voice broke into ragged sobs.

Even then she didn’t stop.

She kept him buried in her throat, licking softly, gently, cleaning every drop with slow, possessive strokes until he was whimpering and had to pull away because it was too much.

Patrick slid down the wall, chest heaving, cock twitching against his stomach, moans still spilling out of him in soft, broken aftershocks.

On the other side Vera stayed on her knees, face soaked, thighs trembling, tasting him everywhere.

She had no idea the man shaking apart on the other side of the wall was the same one she spent her weeks trying to destroy.

She only knew she was already addicted to the way he sounded when he lost control.

Chapter Text

It started with the seating chart for the Meridian client dinner.

Patrick had sent the final version around at lunch. Vera placed at the far end of the table, between two junior account managers who still blushed when she spoke.

She appeared in his doorway five minutes later, tablet in hand, eyes glittering like broken glass.

"You buried me at the kids' table" she said, voice low enough that only he heard the razor in it.

Patrick didn't even look up from his screen. 

"It's strategic seating"

"It's a punishment" she answered, stepping inside and letting the door drift shut behind her. "Because I told the client last week their old campaign was dated. You didn't like that I was right in front of them"

He finally met her eyes. 

"You were rude"

"I was honest" she walked forward until her thighs brushed the edge of his desk "And now you're making sure I sit as far away from the decision-makers as possible so I can't steal your spotlight again"

Patrick leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest, the white shirt pulling tight over muscle that flexed with every controlled breath.

"You think everything is about you" he said, voice velvet and venom.

Vera leaned down, palms flat on his desk, close enough that her perfume (jasmine and something darker) curled into his lungs.

"Right now" she whispered "Everything is about the fact that you're terrified I'll outshine you at your own dinner"

Patrick's gaze dropped to the open neckline of her blouse where the lace edge of a black bra peeked out, then dragged slowly back up to her mouth.

His voice dropped to a growl. 

"Keep pushing, Vera"

She smiled, slow and lethal. 

"I plan to"

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

Patrick's fingers drummed once on the armrest, the only outward sign that he was barely holding it together.

She could see the pulse hammering at the base of his throat, the way his pupils had swallowed the blue, the faint flush riding high on his sharp cheekbones.

He could see the way her chest rose too fast, the hard points of her nipples pressing against silk, the faint tremor in her lower lip before she bit it.

Neither of them moved.

Ten seconds that felt like a lifetime.

Patrick's hand lifted half an inch off the armrest, fingers curling as if he could already feel the heat of her skin.

Vera's thighs pressed together under the desk, the seam of her skirt dragging across suddenly sensitive flesh.

Patrick's voice, when it finally came, was rough enough to scrape skin.

"Get out of my office"

Vera straightened slowly, deliberately, letting him watch every inch of the movement.

"Your dinner" she said softly "Is going to be very interesting"

She walked out, hips swaying just enough to make the promise lethal.

Patrick didn't move for a full minute after the door closed.

Then he locked it, leaned back in his chair, and pressed the heel of his hand hard against the front of his slacks, breathing through his teeth.

They arrived like thunderstorms colliding.

Patrick slammed the booth door so hard the walls shook, the metallic clang echoing down the empty hallway.

The air inside was thick with bleach, old sex, and the sharp, electric scent of rage barely contained.

He didn't wait. Belt buckle clinking, zipper rasping down, jeans shoved to mid-thigh, cock flushed dark and already dripping a steady stream that splattered the dirty floor before he even reached the hole.

She was already on her knees, breathing hard enough that he heard the soft, hungry pants through the wall.

The second he pushed through, her mouth was on him, scalding, wet, merciless.

She swallowed him to the root in one savage glide, throat opening with a wet, greedy click, gagging instantly but forcing herself deeper until her nose mashed against the wood and her throat bulged visibly around him.

Spit poured out of her in rivers, thick and filthy, sliding down his shaft in hot, messy rivulets, coating his balls, dripping off in heavy strands that slapped wetly against the cushion beneath her.

Patrick's moan was loud, raw, animal, echoing off the concrete like a roar.

She set a punishing rhythm from the first second. Hard, fast, sloppy strokes that ended with her choking herself on purpose, the broken, wet sound of her gag making his hips jerk violently forward.

Every time she took him deep, her throat spasmed around him, milking him in waves, tears streaming down flushed cheeks, mascara running in black streaks that dripped off her chin with the saliva.

Patrick's hands clawed at the partition, nails scraping paint, hips snapping forward like he wanted to fuck straight through the wall and into her.

His moans spilled out constantly now, louder, filthier, wrecked.

"Fuck, yes, take it, fucking choke on it, just like that—"

She moaned around him in answer, the vibration sinking into his balls like teeth, her own thighs soaked and trembling as she ground against nothing, desperate for friction.

She edged him five brutal times, dragging him to the brink with deep, punishing suction, cheeks hollowed, throat fluttering, then ripping off completely, letting him throb in the cold while she licked lazy, teasing circles around the head, tongue flicking the slit until fresh precum beaded and she lapped it up like cream.

Each denial made him louder, made the wall shake harder under his palms.

On the sixth round she changed everything.

She took him deep and stayed there, nose grinding against the wall so hard the wood creaked, throat working in rapid, greedy swallows that felt like a fist wrapped around him and squeezing.

Her hands braced on either side of the hole, nails digging into paint, she fucked her face on him in short, vicious thrusts: gagging, choking, spit bubbling out the corners of her swollen lips, tears mixing with saliva and dripping off her chin in thick strands.

Patrick lost language completely.

All that came out were wrecked, desperate moans, one after another, louder, dirtier, echoing in the tiny booth and spilling through the hole like a confession.

She could feel him swelling against her tongue, could taste the salt of his skin, the faint citrus edge that made her mouth water and her clit throb in time with her pulse.

She pulled back just enough to breathe, hot, wet, open-mouthed pants against his slick cock, strings of saliva stretching and breaking, then slammed forward again and held.

Patrick came like the world was ending.

His shout cracked in half, hips punching forward as he flooded her throat in thick, violent ropes that kept coming and coming. She swallowed greedily, moaning through every pulse, throat milking him in waves until his legs buckled and he had to brace both palms on the wall to stay upright.

She didn't let him finish gently.

She kept him buried, licking softly through the aftershocks, tongue tracing every vein, sucking gently until he was whimpering and shaking and trying to pull away because the pleasure bordered on pain.

Only then did she release him, slow, deliberate, with one final filthy swipe of her tongue across the head that collected the last trembling drop.

Patrick slid down the wall, chest heaving, cock raw and twitching against his stomach, moans still spilling from his lips in soft, broken aftershocks.

Vera stayed on her knees, face soaked with spit and tears and him, thighs drenched and trembling, tasting him everywhere, breathing him in like oxygen.

She had no idea the man shaking apart on the other side of the wall was the same one whose breath had ghosted over her lips twelve hours ago, whose fingers had hovered an inch from her skin like he was already touching her.

She only knew that when he lost control like that, something inside her cracked open and never closed again.

Chapter Text

The private room shimmered under low crystal chandeliers, the long mahogany table dressed in crisp white linen and gleaming silver that caught every flicker of candlelight, twenty-four seats already filled with the low murmur of conversation and the soft clink of wine glasses when Vera stepped through the arched doorway. 

She had chosen the black silk dress like a weapon.

backless, held together by two whisper-thin straps that crossed the delicate line of her spine and plunged so low the dimples above her ass were barely hidden, the fabric skimming every lethal curve and stopping mid-thigh, dangerous and impossibly elegant. 

Every head turned at once, conversations faltering for a single heartbeat, because she looked like sin poured into silk and wrapped in jasmine, and the only person whose expression didn’t soften was Patrick at the head of the table, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass until the crystal threatened to crack.

She walked the entire length of the table slowly, letting the dress shift with each step, letting every eye follow the movement, letting Patrick watch the way the silk clung and released, clung and released, a silent promise and a threat all at once. 

Her assigned seat was exactly where he had buried her, the far end, between two junior account managers who instantly flushed scarlet and forgot the English language, and directly beside Luca Rossi, Meridian’s new creative director, thirty-four, unfairly beautiful, dark curls falling over his forehead and darker eyes that locked onto her like she was the only person in the room.

Luca rose before she reached the chair, pulling it out with a slow, deliberate smile that promised trouble in three languages. 

His fingers brushed the bare skin of her lower back as he guided her in, lingering a fraction longer than necessary, the heat of his palm searing through the thin silk straps and making her breath catch just enough for Patrick to notice from thirty feet away. 

“You must be the legendary Vera Farmiga” Luca murmured, voice low and warm with a Roman accent that curled around her name like velvet, leaning in so his thigh pressed firmly against hers beneath the tablecloth from the very first second. Patrick’s fork scraped his plate hard enough to leave a permanent mark.

The first course arrived, but Luca never stopped talking to her, asking about her favorite campaigns, laughing at every sharp remark she fired off, refilling her wine before it was half empty, his hand drifting to the back of her chair so his thumb could trace small, secret circles on the naked skin between her shoulder blades. 

By the time the main course was served, Luca’s knee rested permanently against hers, and every time Vera laughed ,really laughed, head thrown back, throat exposed, Patrick’s jaw flexed so hard the muscle jumped, his eyes burning straight through the candlelight to the far end of the table.

When dessert finally appeared, Luca leaned in until his lips almost brushed the shell of her ear and whispered, 

“You’re completely wasted down here, bellissima. After this, come with me. I’ll show you Milan never sleeps” and Vera tilted her head, smiled slow and wicked, and answered loud enough for half the table to hear.

“Tempting. Very tempting”

Patrick stood so violently his chair screeched backward and nearly toppled. 

“Vera. A word” he snapped, voice slicing through the room like a blade, and he was already walking out before anyone could pretend not to notice the storm in his eyes.

The heavy door slammed shut behind them, sealing them into the dim corridor lit only by a single red EXIT sign that painted everything in blood-colored light. 

Patrick had her against the wall in two strides, forearm braced beside her head, body crowding hers until she could feel the heat and the tremor of pure rage rolling off him in waves, their mouths so close she could taste the wine on his breath. 

“What the fuck was that performance?” he snarled, close enough that every word brushed her lips, the scent of cedar and fury wrapping around her like smoke. 

Vera lifted her chin, refusing to give an inch, her back arching just enough that her breasts grazed his chest with every furious inhale, nipples tightening instantly against silk. 

“You put me at the far end of the table like a child,” she hissed, voice low and lethal “So don’t you dare complain when someone actually treats me like I belong in the room”

Patrick’s hand slammed the wall beside her head hard enough to rattle the frame, his other hand hovering an inch from her waist, fingers curled like he was already feeling the heat of her skin. 

“You were letting him touch you, letting him undress you with his eyes in front of twenty clients while I had to sit there and watch” he growled, the words scraped raw, jealousy bleeding through every syllable. 

Vera heard it, heard the possession he was trying to dress up as professional outrage, and something vicious and triumphant bloomed inside her chest. 

“Oh my God” she whispered, a slow, cruel smile spreading across her face, stepping forward until their lips almost, almost touched “You’re jealous. You’re actually jealous because another man looked at me the way you pretend you don’t”

Patrick’s eyes went black, pupils swallowing the blue, his breath ragged against her mouth. 

He opened his mouth to deny it, but the words never came, because she was right and they both knew it, and the truth hung between them like a live wire, sparking, dangerous, ready to burn. Vera laughed, soft and cutting, the sound brushing his lips like a touch. 

“You can’t stand it, can you? Knowing someone else wants what you’ve spent months pretending you hate” Patrick’s control fractured, his face got closer to hers until they breaths combined.

"Stop talking"

She shoved him back a step, chest heaving, eyes blazing. 

“Stop acting like a child and start acting like you want me” she spat, voice shaking with fury and triumph, and walked away without looking back, hips swaying, leaving him alone in the red light with his hands clenched and his cock aching.

They arrived like opposite poles of a magnet, furious, starving, and still completely blind to who waited on the other side of the wall.

Patrick slammed into the booth first, the door crashing so hard the partition shook, jeans shoved down in one violent motion, cock flushed dark and already dripping with rage and need onto the filthy floor. 

She was already on her knees, breathing hard enough that he heard the soft, hungry pants through the wood, but tonight she didn’t attack, tonight she decided to win.

The first touch was barely there. One slow, deliberate lick from root to tip, tongue flat and warm, tasting every vein like she was savoring the power she finally held after Thursday’s victory. 

Patrick’s moan cracked in half, raw and helpless, hips jerking forward before he could stop himself, but she pulled back completely, letting him throb in the cold air, then licked a lazy circle around the crown that made his thighs tremble. 

“Slow tonight” she whispered against his skin, voice muffled through the wall “You don’t get to rush me” Patrick growled, hands clawing at the partition.

He tried to thrust, but she controlled every inch, taking him deeper only when she decided, inch by torturous inch, until her nose pressed to the wall and her throat fluttered around him like a heartbeat.

She edged him six times, bringing him to the brink with long, worshipful pulls and soft humming vibrations that sank into his bones, then easing off to lick delicate patterns until he was babbling please in a voice he didn’t recognize. 

Each denial tasted like revenge for every second he’d made her feel small, every seat at the far end of the table, every jealous glare across a candlelit room. On the seventh round she changed everything. 

Slow, sensual, almost tender, like she was making love to him with her mouth, tongue stroking the underside with devastating precision while her own thighs dripped with the victory of having him completely at her mercy. 

Patrick’s anger cracked open into something rawer, he closed his eyes and let the fantasy take over. 

Vera in that black dress, on her knees in the restaurant corridor, lipstick smeared, looking up at him while she swallowed him whole, and the image was so vivid his voice finally shattered.

“Fuck… Please… Just like that… Don’t stop…” the pleas spilled out broken and desperate, filthy and reverent, but never her name, never the truth.

Vera smiled around him, tasting victory, tasting power, and took him deeper than ever, throat working in slow, possessive waves until he came with a hoarse shout, hips punching forward as he flooded her mouth in thick, endless ropes that kept coming and coming. 

Vera felt her own pussy throb, she was coming too. Her walls pulsing on their own in that delicious way only the person behind the wall could make her feel.

She swallowed greedily, moaning through every pulse, throat milking him until his legs buckled and he had to brace both palms on the wall to stay upright. She kept him buried through the aftershocks, licking softly, gently, cleaning every drop with slow, possessive strokes until he whimpered and had to pull away because the pleasure bordered on pain. 

Only then did she release him, slow, deliberate, with one final filthy swipe of her tongue across the head that collected the last trembling drop.

Silence fell, thick and trembling.

Patrick slid down the wall, chest heaving, cock raw and twitching, brain blissfully blank, still tasting the phantom of her mouth and having no idea he’d just handed her everything. 

Vera stayed on her knees long after he pulled away, lips swollen, thighs soaked, heart pounding with the knowledge that she had won tonight, completely and utterly, and he still didn’t know it was her.

She knew the war was far from over.

But tonight, the victory tasted like him.

Chapter Text

The copy room was almost dark, lit only by the red glow of the machine warming up. Patrick had followed her in "for the Meridian originals." The door clicked shut behind them and the lock engaged with a soft, final snick.

They were alone.

Vera leaned over the machine to grab the tray, skirt riding high on the backs of her thighs. Patrick's gaze locked on the strip of bare skin above her stockings and the faint shadow of lace beneath the fabric.

She knew he was looking. She stayed bent a second longer than necessary.

When she straightened, their bodies were inches apart. The air smelled of hot toner, jasmine, and the sharp edge of want.

Patrick's voice came out rough. 

"You've been doing that all week" 

"Doing what?" she asked, tilting her head, letting her hair brush his shoulder.

"Walking around like you want me to lose my fucking mind" his hand lifted, hovered beside her waist, fingers trembling in the air between them.

Vera's breath caught. She could feel the heat of his palm without being touched.

"Maybe I do" she whispered. His eyes dropped to her mouth and stayed there.

Ten endless seconds of silence. Neither moved. Neither breathed.

"Just think about what I told you" she said. Patrick wanted to eat her, he really did.

She walked out first. He stayed in the copy room long after, cock throbbing against his zipper, her scent still wrapped around him.

Patrick entered shaking, the memory of Wednesday's almost-touch branded on his skin. He locked the booth, jeans shoved down, cock flushed dark and already dripping a steady silver thread.

She was waiting.

The first thing he felt was her breath, warm and teasing, ghosting over the head. Then her tongue, soft, slow, reverent, tracing every vein like she was learning him by heart.

Patrick's moan was long, broken, helpless. 

"Jesus... Fuck, that's perfect..."

She hummed, the vibration sinking into his balls, and took just the crown between her lips. She sucked gently, cheeks hollowing, tongue fluttering in delicate circles until his thighs trembled.

"Please... Take more... I need that mouth deeper tonight, baby..."

She sank down inch by inch, slow enough that he felt every ripple of wet heat, every soft flutter of her throat opening for him. Her lips stretched wide, glossy with saliva, sliding down his shaft until her nose pressed flush to the wall.

Patrick's head fell back with a cracked groan. 

"God, yes... Just like that... You feel so fucking good..."

She began to move, long, liquid pulls that coated him in slick, tongue stroking the thick vein underneath, pausing at the head to swirl and suck and drink every bead of precum like it was the only thing she'd ever wanted.

He kept talking, voice wrecked and filthy. 

"You have no idea what you do to me... All week I've been hard thinking about this mouth..."

She edged him for what felt like hours.

Slow, worshipful strokes that brought him to the brink, then easing off to lick delicate patterns over the crown until he was begging in a broken whisper.

When she finally decided to let him come, she pulled back slowly, lips sealed tight, until only the head rested against her swollen bottom lip. She opened her mouth wider, tongue out, waiting.

Patrick's voice cracked. 

"I need something of you... Please... Anything... I have to feel you when I come..."

Silence.

Then the soft rustle of lace.

A scrap of soaked black panties appeared beneath the hole, trembling in her fingers before she pushed them through.

Patrick snatched them, brought them to his face, and inhaled. Her scent hit him like a drug, warm skin, jasmine, pure liquid want, so drenched the lace dripped.

His cock jerked violently, untouched, a thick rope of precum spilling down the shaft under Vera's eyes.

He pressed the soaked crotch to his mouth and licked, one long, desperate swipe across the fabric, tasting her slick, tangy, sweet, filthy.

He came instantly.

He came just by tasting her.

The first thick rope shot straight across her waiting tongue, hot and endless. More followed, painting her lips, her chin, dripping in heavy strands as she kept her mouth open and ready.

Vera shattered at the first taste.

She came hard on her knees, thighs clenching, back arched, a raw, filthy moan pouring from her throat as her cunt spasmed violently. Fresh slick gushed down her legs in hot waves, soaking the cushion, splattering the floor in soft, rhythmic drops.

Her moan, loud, desperate, hungry, spilled through the hole and wrapped around Patrick like a second orgasm.

He kept coming, hips jerking helplessly, painting her tongue, her lips, her face in thick, endless ropes while her voice dragged the pleasure out until his vision whited out and his knees finally buckled.

When it ended, Vera stayed on her knees, lips glossy and dripping, tasting him, thighs trembling with aftershocks.

Patrick slid down the wall, chest heaving, her ruined panties pressed to his face, licking them clean with slow, reverent strokes, still moaning softly into the lace.

Neither knew the person on the other side of the wall was the same one they almost touched on Wednesday.

They only knew they were already ruined for anyone else.