It started with a late delivery.
Cassandra hated after-hours disruptions, but when the text came from her private art broker, she made the exception. Something rare. Something unfinished. A piece with no name—just desire in oil.
She waited alone in her gallery, heels echoing on marble, glass of white wine sweating between her fingers. The lights were low, golden, casting long shadows over a half-nude painting behind her desk.
At 7:43 PM, the front doors swung open. No knock. No bell.
Tyrese stepped in, wearing a dark hoodie, gray sweatpants, and that crooked, heat-stirring grin.
"Delivery for Cassandra," he said, holding a flat crate with one hand, his biceps flexing under the box.
She stood still.
"You're not with the regular courier," she said smoothly.
"Nope," he said, placing the package on her desk like it weighed nothing. "Special request."
She arched a brow. "I didn't request you."
He tilted his head, eyes dropping to her chest—her blouse was unbuttoned just enough for the edge of cleavage to peek, the fabric hugging the natural weight of her tits.
"Well," he smirked, "maybe I requested you."
Cassandra's lip twitched, amused but cautious. She stepped closer, clicking across the floor until they were just a breath apart.
"You've got a bold tongue," she murmured.
Tyrese leaned in, voice low. "I've got a bold everything."
Silence crackled between them. The kind of silence that stripped layers.
He stood tall—at least 6'3"—and close enough that she smelled leather, musk, and the faint bite of weed. She didn't flinch. She let him look. Let him drink her in.
Then she turned.
"Come," she said over her shoulder, "I'll show you where the piece goes."
He followed her down the back hallway, past shuttered displays, past portraits with eyes that followed. She knew he was watching the sway of her ass under that pencil skirt. Knew the slit in the back was too high. She wanted it that way.
When they reached the private room, she paused.
"This piece isn't for public display," she said, flicking on the dim lights.
The room was lined with more personal work—classical nudes, erotic statues, a chaise lounge covered in velvet.
Tyrese let out a low whistle.
"Damn," he said. "Didn't know art could be this... wet."
She looked over her shoulder. "Wet?"
He shrugged. "Every painting in here feels like it's about to moan."
Her body sparked at the word.
"You really have no filter."
"I really don't."
She watched him peel off his hoodie. His arms were huge. Skin rich and smooth. Tattoos peeked under his sleeves.
"I didn't catch your name," she said.
"Tyrese."
"Mm. You seem like trouble, Tyrese."
He stepped closer.
"You seem like the kind of woman who likes it."
Her nipples hardened under her blouse. Her pulse ticked louder in her ears.
She turned fully to him. "Are you always this forward?"
He leaned on the velvet couch, cock thick against his sweats.
"Only when I see something worth risking it for."
His eyes dropped again—right to her chest. She didn't cover them. Instead, she stepped into his space.
"Tell me," she said, voice like honey, "what exactly are you risking?"
He reached out—slow, deliberate—and touched the edge of her blouse.
"Getting fired. Getting slapped. Or getting what I want."
She stared at his hand.
"Which is?"
He grinned. "Your tits. In my mouth."
She exhaled—slow, hot, shaken but turned on beyond belief.
"I should kick you out," she whispered.
"You won't."
Her chest rose.
He touched the first button on her blouse.
She didn't stop him.
"Do you know what happens when you touch things in a gallery without permission?" she asked.
He unfastened one button.
"No," he said. "But I'd like to find out."
Another button.
Her bra was lacy. Black. Her breasts pushed against it, full and heavy.
"I could sue your ass," she said.
"You won't."
Her blouse slid off her shoulders.
Tyrese took a step back and just stared.
"Goddamn," he murmured. "They don't make art like this."
Cassandra moved to the chaise and sat slowly, letting her breasts settle, legs crossed.
"Then appreciate the masterpiece," she said.
Tyrese dropped to his knees before her, his hands on her thighs.
"Say less."
He reached up, cupped both breasts in his palms, and kissed the valley between them.
She hissed through her teeth.
"Easy, boy."
"I'll be as gentle or rough as you want."
He mouthed over the lace, sucked one nipple through the bra, then switched to the other. His tongue was warm, greedy.
She leaned back, closed her eyes, fingers threading through his short curls.
"You've done this before."
"Big tits make me talk fluent."
She laughed—then moaned.
He pulled her bra down, exposed one nipple fully, and latched on. Cassandra gasped.
He sucked deep.
Long, wet, slow.
Her hand gripped his wrist. Her thighs opened instinctively.
"Just your mouth," she warned, breath shaking.
"For now," he said, switching sides, sucking even harder.
He didn't stop for minutes.
By the time he pulled away, her breasts were glistening, nipples hard, lips swollen.
She looked wrecked. But still in control.
Barely.
"You're good," she said softly.
He sat back on his heels, licking her taste from his lips.
"I'm better when there are no rules."
She smiled.
"Oh, baby," she whispered, "in this gallery… there never were."