I kept her pinned to my lap, my hands moving to the single knot at her waist. I didn't rush. I wanted her to feel the weight of the moment—the silence of the penthouse, the hum of the city outside, and the cold, judgmental eyes of the man in the gold-framed portrait watching us from the wall.

​"You said he likes to watch, Lana," I whispered against her skin as I slowly pulled the silk cord. "Let's give Michael a masterpiece to look at."

​The emerald wrap fell open, pooling around her hips on the velvet sofa. Lana let out a shaky breath, her head falling back as I exposed her to the room—and to the painting. Her skin was flawless, her body a testament to the highest standards of the industry, but right now, she wasn't a legend. She was a woman shivering under my touch.

​I began to mark her, my lips and teeth trailing across her collarbone and down to the swell of her breasts. I made sure to be slow, possessive, and loud. Every soft moan she uttered echoed in the vast, quiet living room, directed right at the man on the wall who wasn't there to stop me.

​"Look at him, Lana," I commanded, my hand sliding up to cup her throat gently, forcing her eyes toward the portrait. "Tell me... does he ever make you feel like this? Does he make your heart race just by looking at you?"

​"No," she gasped, her fingers digging into my shoulders, her eyes unfocused as they darted toward the painting and then back to me. "Never... oh god, Druski..."

I realized quickly that Lana wasn't like the others. Even as she moaned, there was a part of her—the veteran, the "Queen"—that remained anchored in her own pleasure. She had spent decades perfecting the art of the performative climax, and her mind was a steel trap of professional detachment.

​I teased her, pulling back just as her breath hitched, but she didn't crumble. Instead, she let out a low, throaty laugh, her eyes snapping open to meet mine with a sharp, lucid intensity.

​"Nice try, Druski," she whispered, her voice steady despite the flush on her chest. "But I've had the best in the world try to make me lose my mind. I've shot a lot of scenes. I know exactly how to stay in control. You're good... but you're still playing checkers while I'm playing chess."

​She reached up, her hand closing around the back of my neck with surprising strength, pulling me down until our noses touched.

​"You want me to be your 'play toy'?" she challenged, a mocking spark in her smoky eyes. "You'll have to do better than a few missed kisses and a hand between my legs. I've felt every rhythm, every trick. My body knows the cues better than you do."

She leaned in, the scent of her expensive champagne and vanilla-laced skin filling my senses, but just as I tilted my head to meet her, she pulled back by a mere inch. A playful, arrogant spark danced in her eyes. She was testing the "Rising Icon," trying to see if I'd fold and beg for it like the hundreds of men before me.

​"Cheap shot," I smirked back, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a chase.

​She let out a low, throaty laugh, her chest rising and falling against mine. "Game recognizes game," she whispered.

​Then, she committed. She leaned in and captured my lips, and I realized instantly why she was the Queen. It wasn't just a kiss; it was a masterclass. Her lips were soft but firm, moving with a calculated pressure that seemed to map out my entire nervous system. She tasted like luxury and heat, her tongue dancing with a flicking, teasing rhythm that beckoned me to follow. It was a kiss that felt like an invitation and a challenge all at once—deep, wet, and echoing with the experience of a woman who knew exactly how to make a man lose his mind.

​I kissed her back, playing the part of the reluctant student for only a second before the heat surged. I met her passion with a raw, dominant hunger, my tongue tangling with hers as I claimed her mouth as my own territory.

​As our breath hitched in unison, Lana reached down. Her manicured fingers found the pulsing heat of my cock, her hand closing around me with a grip that was expertly calibrated. She began to jerk me with a slow, rhythmic friction, her thumb tracing the crown with a precision that only comes from five hundred scenes of practice.

​The sensation was electric. She kept her eyes locked on mine while we kissed, her hand moving in a steady, hypnotic pace that threatened to bypass my defences.

​She pulled back from the kiss, a string of saliva connecting us for a brief moment. Her breath was ragged, but she was still smiling—that same dangerous, "Final Boss" smile. Her hand didn't stop, the friction intensifying as she felt me grow even harder in her grasp.

​"You're holding up well, Druski," she panted, her voice dripping with genuine interest. "Most 'specialists' would have finished by now just from the way I look at them. But you... you're still standing."

​She held my gaze, her eyes shimmering with a mix of challenge and something much more predatory. Her hand didn't slow down for a second; if anything, the rhythm became more technical, more demanding.

​"Have you ever had athletic sex before?" she asked, her voice steady even as her breathing sharpened.

​I let out a short, dry laugh, my hands tightening on the velvet of the sofa. "Huh? You mean rough sex?" I said, my voice dropping into that low, horny growl.

​Lana smiled—not a sweet smile, but the smile of a professional athlete about to step onto the field. "No, Druski. I mean athletic. I mean the kind of sex where your heart rate hits 160 and stays there. The kind where we use every muscle in our bodies until we're both shaking. I've spent twenty years perfecting the mechanics of pleasure. I don't just want 'rough.' I want high-performance."

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