Chapter 1: The Wrong Door, The Right Woman
The bass from the party downstairs was a dull, persistent throb in the floor, a heartbeat Rio could feel in her molars. She pushed away from the balcony railing, the cool night air doing little to cut through the champagne haze. Dave’s “congrats on passing the bar” party was in full, obnoxious swing, but the penthouse was a maze of sleek, dark surfaces and identical looking doors.
“Bathroom, bathroom,” she muttered to herself, squinting at the shadowed hallway. She’d picked a door at random.
This was not a bathroom.
The air here was still and perfumed, something expensive and smoky that wrapped around her senses. The only light came from a galaxy of votive candles flickering on a low dresser and the insane, sprawling view of the city through floor-to-ceiling windows. It silhouetted the woman lounging on the vast, platform bed.
Rio froze, her hand still on the cool doorknob.
Agatha was propped against a mountain of black silk pillows, one knee bent. A robe of the same dark silk was tied loosely around her, gaping open to reveal a lace so sheer it was a shadow against her skin. It was barely there, a strategic web of black that hinted at the curve of a breast, the dip of a waist, the smooth plane of her stomach. Her skin glowed in the candlelight, pale and perfect.
A slow, knowing smirk curled Agatha’s lips. Her eyes, dark and unreadable, travelled the length of Rio’s body—from her stupidly high heels, up her bare legs, over the tight cocktail dress, to finally lock onto her startled gaze.
“Lost, little lawyer?” Agatha’s voice was a low, smooth pour of scotch. It didn’t rise above a murmur, but it cut through the distant party noise like a blade. “Or just finally ready to play with fire?”
Rio’s brain short-circuited. Embarrassment warred with a sudden, sharp kick of attraction low in her gut. “I was looking for the bathroom,” she said, the words coming out defensively. She didn’t move. Couldn’t.
“Mm. You’ve found something else.” Agatha didn’t stir from her lazy repose. Her fingers played with the silk tie of her robe. “Dave’s new graduate. The one with the mouth on her. I heard you eviscerating that broker by the shrimp tower. It was… amusing.”
“You were listening?”
“I observe. It’s more interesting.” Agatha’s eyes dropped to Rio’s mouth. “You talk a big game. I wonder if you follow through.”
The challenge was clear, coated in silk and sex. Rio’s usual bratty retort died in her throat. This woman was older, utterly controlled, and she looked at Rio like she was a cocktail to be sipped slowly. It should have been insulting. It was electrifying.
“You don’t know what game I’m playing,” Rio managed, finding a shred of her bravado. She let the door click shut behind her. The seal of the sound was profound, shutting out the world.
“Don’t I?” Agatha finally moved, unfolding herself from the bed with a panther’s grace. The robe slipped from one shoulder as she stood, revealing the full, elegant line of her neck, the delicate strap of the lingerie. She took two steps forward, stopping just inside Rio’s personal space. The perfume was stronger now, intoxicating. “You’re playing at being grown. In your little dress. With your little degree. But you’re in over your head tonight.”
Rio’s breath hitched. “You’re presumptuous.”
“I’m accurate.” Agatha’s hand came up, not touching, just hovering beside Rio’s jaw. Rio could feel the heat from her skin. “You’re curious. It’s written all over you. That smart, sarcastic mouth is quiet for once. You want to know what happens in this room.”
Rio’s heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. She should leave. This was a mistake. Some mysterious, gorgeous older woman in a private bedroom at her somewhat boyfriend’s party. It was a cliché waiting to happen.
But Agatha’s gaze was holding hers, and the candlelight was catching in her eyes, and the silence was so thick and heavy Rio felt she could lean against it.
“So tell me,” Rio whispered, the defiance bleeding back into her voice, laced now with a raw need she didn’t bother to hide. “What happens in this room?”
Agatha’s smirk returned, triumphant and wicked. The hovering hand finally made contact, fingers sliding firmly along Rio’s jaw to cup the back of her neck. Her touch was decisive, possessive.
“You learn,” Agatha said, and then her mouth was on Rio’s.
It wasn’t a question. It was a takeover. Her lips were soft but demanding, her tongue sweeping in to claim Rio’s mouth with a confidence that stripped every thought away. Rio gasped into the kiss, her hands flying up to clutch at Agatha’s silk-covered arms. The taste of her was dark wine and mint and pure, undiluted power.
Agatha walked her backward, never breaking the devastating seal of their mouths, until Rio’s shoulders hit the cool, polished wood of the door. The shock of the surface against her bare skin made her moan. Agatha swallowed the sound, her body pressing close, a lush, warm weight against Rio’s front.
One hand kept its firm grip on Rio’s neck, guiding the angle of the kiss. The other slid down, over the frantic beat of Rio’s heart, over the fitted fabric of her dress, to grasp her hip hard enough to bruise. The possession in that grip made Rio’s knees weak.
When Agatha finally pulled back, Rio was panting, her lips swollen and wet.
“See?” Agatha murmured, her own breath slightly uneven. Her thumb stroked the pounding pulse in Rio’s throat. “You don’t know the first thing about control.”
She turned, taking Rio’s hand, and led her toward the bed. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command. Rio followed, her blood roaring in her ears.
Agatha pushed her down onto the silk duvet. It was cool and slippery beneath her. Before Rio could process it, Agatha was crawling over her, knees bracketing Rio’s thighs, the sheer lace of her lingerie now a transparent barrier. Rio could see everything—the taut peaks of her nipples, the dark shadow between her legs.
“This,” Agatha said, looking down at her, “is where you listen.”
She leaned down and kissed her again, slower now, deeper. Her hands went to the thin straps of Rio’s dress. She pushed them down, followed the line of the fabric with her mouth, tracing the upper curve of Rio’s breast with her tongue. Rio arched off the bed, a broken sound escaping her.
“So responsive,” Agatha whispered against her skin. She tugged the dress down to Rio’s waist, exposing her breasts. The air was cool, but Agatha’s mouth was hot. She took a nipple into her mouth, sucking hard, her tongue circling the stiff peak until Rio was writhing, fingers tangling in the dark silk of Agatha’s hair.
Agatha switched her attention to the other breast, her hand taking over where her mouth had been, pinching and rolling the wet nipple. The dual sensations were overwhelming, a sharp, sweet torment that coiled tight in Rio’s belly.
“Please,” Rio heard herself beg, the word torn from somewhere she didn’t recognize.
“Please what?” Agatha lifted her head, her lips glistening. Her hand slid down Rio’s stomach, over the fabric of her dress still gathered at her waist, and pressed firmly against the aching heat between her legs.
Rio cried out, bucking against the pressure.
“You want this?” Agatha’s voice was a dark caress. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of Rio’s panties and the bunched dress, pulling them both down in one rough, efficient motion. The night air hit Rio’s wet skin, and she shuddered violently.
Agatha settled back between her thighs, her gaze raking over Rio’s nakedness with a look of open hunger. She didn’t speak. She just lowered her head.
Her tongue was a flat, hot stroke through Rio’s folds, slow and deliberate. Rio jerked, a strangled gasp ripping from her throat. Agatha’s hands clamped on her hips, holding her down against the bed with immovable strength.
“Stay still,” Agatha ordered, her breath ghosting over Rio’s sensitized flesh.
Then she did it again. And again. Licking into her with long, languid passes that built a devastating, slow-burning fire. She explored every inch, learning her taste, her texture, until Rio was a shaking, pleading mess. Her hands fisted in the sheets, her hips trying to twist for more friction, more pressure, anything.
Agatha gave it to her. Her mouth closed over Rio’s clit, sucking firmly, while two fingers slid inside her without warning. They curled, finding a spot that made Rio see white behind her eyelids. The rhythm was brutal, perfect—the relentless pull of her mouth, the deep, curling thrust of her fingers.
“Oh, god… Agatha…” Rio chanted, the name a prayer and a curse. The coil inside her was winding impossibly tight, a screaming tension in every nerve.
Agatha added a third finger, stretching her, filling her utterly. The slight burn was consumed by the sheer overwhelming fullness. She sped up, her fingers fucking Rio hard and deep, her tongue circling faster.
It broke. A tsunami of sensation crashed through Rio, wave after wave of raw, blinding pleasure that clenched around Agatha’s fingers and tore a ragged, sobbing scream from her lungs. Her body bowed off the bed, held down only by Agatha’s relentless grip.
Agatha worked her through it, gentling her mouth, slowing her fingers, until Rio collapsed back onto the silk, boneless and shuddering.
For a long moment, the only sounds were Rio’s ragged breaths and the distant, mute thump of music. Agatha finally lifted her head, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked utterly composed, only the flush on her cheeks and the dark heat in her eyes betraying her.
She slid up Rio’s body, her lingerie rough against Rio’s oversensitive skin. She kissed her, deep and filthy, letting Rio taste herself.
“Lesson one,” Agatha whispered against her lips.