Chicago’s skyline glitters beyond the frost-etched windows of this crumbling manor, but inside, it’s all shadows and silence. I’m Nora, a sculptor who carves pain into stone, my hands steady even when my heart isn’t. The Iron Garden, they call this place—a relic of wealth turned mausoleum, rented for tonight’s illicit gathering. I’m here to escape the ghosts in my head, the ones that whisper of betrayal and loss. My dress, black velvet cut low, clings like a warning, and I’m Robert Greene’s Siren, luring danger to drown my past.
The room hums with strangers, their eyes hungry behind masks of silk and steel. I feel him before I see him—a prickle on my neck, like a blade’s edge. He’s leaning against a pillar, his suit sharp, his mask a slash of iron that hides everything but a jaw carved for sin. He’s the Rake, all predator and promise, and when his gaze locks on mine, it’s a chain tightening. I should walk away; I’ve been burned before. But my pulse betrays me, thudding low, and I’m already imagining his hands on me, breaking me open.
He crosses the room, each step deliberate, and stops too close. “You look like you’re running from something,” he says, voice a gravelly caress. I tilt my head, letting my hair spill, defiant. “Or toward it,” I counter, and his lips twitch, a flicker of something dark—lust, maybe, or worse. “Careful, Nora,” he murmurs, my name a theft from the air. “Some things bite.” My breath catches. How does he know me? Suspense coils tight, but desire’s louder, drowning out the warning.
We don’t talk long. Words are a prelude, and we’re past that. He leads me down a corridor, past locked doors, to a greenhouse—glass walls fogged, vines curling like secrets. The air’s thick, earthy, and I’m trembling, not from cold. He shuts the door, and it’s just us, the city a distant hum. “Tell me to stop,” he says, his fingers grazing my throat, finding my pulse. I don’t. Instead, I step into him, my lips crashing against his, hungry and reckless. His kiss is a bruise—hard, claiming, teeth scraping my lip until I taste copper. I’m clawing his jacket off, nails digging into his shoulders, needing skin, needing more.
He spins me, my back against a glass pane, cool and unyielding. The dress rips under his hands, velvet tearing like paper, and I’m bare, my breasts heavy, nipples tight in the humid air. His mouth is on me—sucking, biting, a sharp sting on my collarbone that makes me gasp. I’m not gentle either; my fingers yank his belt free, palming the hard length of him through his pants, thick and straining. “Fuck,” he growls, and I smirk, stroking him, feeling him pulse. He’s not in control—not yet.
My thighs part as he lifts me, pinning me against the glass, my legs wrapping his waist. His fingers find me first, sliding through my slick heat, circling my clit with a precision that makes my head tip back. “So wet,” he murmurs, two fingers plunging deep, curling, and I moan, loud and shameless, my hips grinding against his hand. It’s not enough—I need him, all of him. I fumble with his zipper, freeing his cock, heavy and hot in my grip. I guide him, teasing my entrance, slicking his tip with my arousal, and his eyes darken, a storm behind the mask.
He thrusts in, one brutal stroke, filling me so deep I cry out, pain and pleasure blurring. He’s thick, stretching me, and I clench around him, greedy for every inch. He doesn’t pause—his hips snap, relentless, each thrust slamming me against the glass, the greenhouse trembling with us. My nails rake his back, drawing blood, and he hisses, fucking me harder, his hand gripping my throat, not choking, just holding, anchoring. “Look at me,” he demands, and I do, our eyes locked, his mask a cruel reminder he’s a stranger who knows too much.
Sweat beads on my skin, my breasts bouncing with each drive, his mouth finding my nipple, sucking hard until I’m whimpering. I’m close, the pressure building, my clit throbbing as his pelvis grinds against it. His fingers dig into my ass, spreading me wider, and he shifts, hitting a spot inside that makes stars explode behind my eyes. “Come for me,” he rasps, and I shatter—my orgasm a scream, my body convulsing, milking him as waves crash through me. He’s relentless, pounding through my climax, and then he’s there, a guttural groan as he spills, hot and endless, deep inside.
We slump, my legs shaking, his mask pressing my cheek. The greenhouse is silent but for our breaths, and that question—how does he know me?—slithers back, cold and sharp. He pulls away, adjusting his mask, and I see it—a glint of something familiar in his eyes, a ghost from my past I can’t place. “This isn’t over,” he says, and I’m left, naked and reeling, wondering if I’ve just fucked my salvation or my ruin.