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The September Foundation annual gala is the one night that Toni doesn’t hate her last name.
In honor of her mother, Toni started it as a way to turn excess into something useful, and to carry on Maria Stark’s impressive legacy as an art collector. The idea is simple: invite the world’s wealthiest, put underrated artists in the same room, and let boasting masquerade as generosity. The guests buy art by donating their winning bid to the foundation, and that money goes directly into their youth programs — support for education, science, art, and much more. All the things Maria believed could keep a city alive, and often, things Howard scoffed at.
Then Stark Industries matches every dollar raised, and that matched sum goes straight to the participating artists themselves. Everyone wins: the foundation raises funds, the artists get paid, and Maria’s legacy keeps its pulse.
Tonight, the room glows with polished gold; strings in the corner, waiters gliding between clusters of people, fake smiles softened by candlelight. Toni knows her role. She just has to look pretty in her black gown — laugh, shake hands, and make donors feel good about themselves. But for a moment, she steps out of the routine when something on the far wall stops her.
The painting isn’t flashy. Just a single figure — a human, winged, not quite fallen but not yet free. The wings curve inward, edges darkened, while light breaks through the smoke around them. The tone is quiet, almost reverent.
She tilts her head, half a smile tugging. “That’s... familiar,” she murmurs. “Reminds me of a late Rembrandt — that half-shadow, half-light thing he loved.”
A voice answers from beside her. “Chiaroscuro, that’s right.”
She turns, surprised to find the speaker already watching her.
He’s strikingly handsome, not in the glossy, moneyed way most men here are, but solid and grounded. Broad shoulders in a suit that fits well enough to make him blend in but clearly isn’t tailored to his body. There’s a trace of nerves in how he stands and a light flush high on his cheeks, but his voice is steady.
“You’re the artist?” she asks, knowing the answer but maintaining decorum nonetheless.
He nods. “Yes, ma’am. Steve Rogers.”
“Toni Stark.”
She offers her hand, aware of how men tend to react to that, but Steve just shakes it, smiling.
“I know,” he says, then grimaces at his blunt tone. He glances back at the painting. “You were right about Rembrandt. I was studying his light handling, trying to find that balance between revelation and restraint. But I wanted it to feel like he chose to step into it.”
“So, that’s what makes him a fallen angel,” Toni says, sipping her champagne. “Having the courage to make choices.”
Steve looks surprised. “Yeah, that’s—yes, exactly.”
There’s a pause, the kind that feels easy rather than awkward. Around them, the room buzzes with polite conversation and the sound of money being well spent, but Toni feels tied to this moment, right now.
“Do you always work in oil?”
“Mostly,” Steve says. “I like the time it takes to dry. Forces you to sit with your mistakes.”
“That’s either poetic or masochistic,” Toni comments.
He smiles. “Do I have to choose?”
“Depends on how expensive your mistakes are,” she jokes.
Steve laughs quietly, and his blue eyes sparkle in the light. “Fair. I don’t think this room’s used to hearing that word.”
“Mistakes? Or fair?”
“Both.”
She grins, and for a moment, she forgets that Pepper’s somewhere across the ballroom, timing her next introduction.
“So,” Steve says, clearing his throat and gesturing toward the canvas. “Do you think anyone will bid on it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I know I shouldn’t say it,” Toni lowers her voice to a whisper, “but it’s by far the most interesting painting here. But don’t read too much into it. I just have great taste.”
“I won’t,” he promises, though the look in his eyes says otherwise.
She finishes her champagne, considering him, and notices that Steve isn’t holding a drink of his own. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I’m honored to have been invited,” he says simply.
She arches a brow, thoroughly impressed by his media training. “Good answer.”
Across the room, she catches movement — Pepper giving her the discreet signal that it’s time to make the rounds.
“Well,” Toni says, setting down her glass, “I hope you get a good bid tonight, Mister Rogers.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, smiling. “And... thanks for noticing the painting. I think most people walked by.”
“That’s because they don’t know art. They’re just here to flex their wallets.” She gives him a slow, suggestive look, taking in his entire body. “You should stand next to it, instead of hiding in the shadows. Use your assets to your advantage.”
Steve looks vaguely hurt at the joke, perhaps even offended, but before he can say anything, a group of expensive-looking women starts to close in.
“Good luck,” Toni whispers.
“Thanks, Miss Stark.”
She winks then slips back into the crowd, Pepper falling into step beside her with quiet efficiency. But even as she returns to the practiced rhythm of handshakes and compliments, her thoughts keep circling back to the richness of that one painting, and to the man who spoke about fallen angels like they were something he understood deeply.
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
The morning after the gala, Toni’s reviewing a design proposal in her office when Pepper barges in.
“Antonia.”
“Uh-oh. What am I being accused of? I swear I didn’t do it.”
Pepper crosses her arms. “You put a bid on a painting from our event.”
“Ah,” Toni says, leaning back in her chair. “Yes, that I did do.”
Pepper stares at her. “Toni, you can’t just do that.”
“I didn’t use company money,” Toni replies. “That was for my personal art collection. And from my personal bank account.”
“That’s not the point,” Pepper says, stepping closer. “You can’t bid at your own gala, and definitely not that amount. It looks—”
“Generous?” Toni offers.
“Improper. Partisan.”
Toni sighs, picking up her coffee. “Pep, c’mon, it was a private donation.”
“It was a million dollars,” Pepper says, each word sharp. “And I already canceled it.”
Toni’s eyes snap up. “You what?”
“I canceled it,” Pepper repeats, matter-of-fact. “Someone else got it instead.”
Toni sets her cup down carefully. “Who? Tell me it’s not that lunatic, Adriano.”
Pepper hesitates. “Second-highest bid was Mrs. Von Otis.”
Toni’s brow lifts. “The one who thought Van Gogh painted the Mona Lisa?”
“The very same.”
Toni huffs. “She doesn’t deserve him.”
Pepper blinks. “Him?”
There’s a pause, heavy and telling, and Toni knows she fucked up.
“Oh my God,” Pepper says, appalled. “You were trying to buy him, not the art. That’s terrible on so many levels, Toni.”
Toni huffs, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Potts.”
Pepper sets the tablet down. “You’re thinking about contacting him, aren’t you?”
Toni pretends to pick a fluff from her sleeve.
“I’m thinking about nothing of the sort.”
“Toni.”
“Fine,” Toni says. “I’m thinking about contacting him. Happy?”
Pepper pinches the bridge of her nose. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“Come on, he’s not like, a client or something. He’s not under contract with us. There’s no HR clause for having dinner with someone who paints angels.”
Pepper gives her a look. “You can rationalize anything, can’t you?”
“It’s a gift,” Toni says, smiling faintly.
Pepper mutters something about plausible deniability and walks out. Toni waits until the door closes before spinning her chair toward the window, staring into the skyline. She doesn’t like being told no, least of all when she decided that yes was the only possible answer.
She turns to her computer, pulls up the artist registry from the gala, and finds the contact entry marked Rogers, Steven. There’s a phone number.
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
By lunch time, her office smells faintly of espresso and the cheeseburger she inhaled right before her guest arrived. She considered changing clothes, but she’s wearing one of her favorite suits today — a gray one with a cinched waist and a deep neck line, paired with bold, gold jewelry. She fixes her ponytail and reapplies lipstick, and tries not to think of her father making fun of her for being girly.
When JARVIS lets Steve in, Toni is immediately aware that he steps through the glass door like someone expecting bad news.
“Miss Stark,” he starts, unsure. “You said there was a problem?”
“No problem,” she says, standing. “Just an urgent question. And you can call me Toni.”
Steve looks different wearing regular clothes; softer and more comfortable, and somehow, even more beautiful. The hair Toni wanted to mess up so badly is now fluffy instead of carefully combed, and in the daylight, she can see the faintest trace of a five o’clock shadow.
He blinks. “A question?”
“Yeah,” she says, a little helpless herself. “That sounded smoother in my head. Look, I’m just going to say this — I wanted to ask you out.”
His mouth parts slightly. “You—what?”
“I wanted to invite you on a date,” she says, tone brisk, like she’s making a business proposal. “And I know that’s unprofessional, and you can absolutely file a complaint if you want, but I had to ask you and didn’t wanna do it over the phone and put you on the spot.”
He stares, still processing. So much for not pressuring him. “So there’s nothing wrong with the sale?”
“The sale? No, no. Well, besides the fact my lovely assistant decided to cancel my bid, so you’re stuck with sixty grand instead of a million—”
Steve chokes on air. “A million?! And—and, ask me out? Why?”
“Why not? You made an impression.”
“We talked for maybe five minutes,” Steve splutters.
“Six,” Toni says. “I’m quick.”
He lets out a surprised laugh and rubs his eyes. “You’re serious.”
“Very. You can say no, of course. But if you say yes, I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
He hesitates. “You really don’t half-ass things, do you?”
“Have you seen my ass? Of course not.”
He shakes his head, smiling now. “Hard to miss. Okay. Yeah. Sure.”
“Great,” she says. “Tonight? No, I have a thing. Tomorrow, then. I’ll text you the details.”
Steve’s still stunned as he leaves, half-turning at the door like he’s checking if this actually happened.
When the door closes, Toni giggles to herself.
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
Toni waits in the car outside Steve’s building, engine low, windows tinted. The car isn’t one of her usuals — not the sleek vehicle the paparazzi know. This one’s understated, a little older, still polished but forgettable. She doesn’t want their attention, not tonight. Tonight, she only wants Steve’s.
When Steve steps out of the building, he hesitates for half a second before spotting the car and cutely waving. His tie is simple, cerulean to match his eyes, and his button-up a little snug across the shoulders. The black pants seem to be from the same suit he wore at the gala, and Toni tries to push away exciting thoughts about buying him new clothes.
She lowers the window, smiling. “Get in before someone thinks you’re being kidnapped.”
He laughs, slips into the passenger seat. “Didn’t realize CEOs did their own pickups.”
“We do when the cargo is this precious,” she says. “And a driver attracts cameras.”
They drive mostly in silence at first, city lights sliding over their faces. Steve smells faintly of soap and subtle deodorant, and she’s acutely aware of it. Eventually, he clears his throat.
“So... this place we’re going. Do I need to know which fork to use?”
“Probably,” she says, grinning. “But I promise not to watch you panic.”
The restaurant sits on the corner of a quiet street, tucked between a boutique and a florist that’s still open at dusk. Inside, the air is infused with basil and lemon oil. The lighting is low and warm, and the walls are lined with dark wood. It reminds Toni of someone who knows what they are and don’t need to prove it.
They’re led to a private room at the back. A single round table with white linen and crystal glasses. They sit across from each other, Toni resting her elbows lightly on the table as Steve’s are folded politely in his lap. He looks around, taking it in the way someone used to different kinds of rooms does. He looks good here; not out of place, just like he’s getting used to it.
“This is beautiful,” he says finally.
She nods. “They make the best risotto in the city. I’ll ruin it by talking about work halfway through.”
“I’ll stop you,” he says. “Tell me about something else.”
So she does.
She tells him about her mother, how she grew up loving art, how Rhodey has been her best friend since MIT, how difficult it is to be a female CEO, despite all the progress.
He tells her about how he became an artist, how he paints in the mornings when the light comes in soft from the east, how he also has a long-term best friend called James, how much he loves dogs. Toni listens, genuinely interested, occasionally nudging the conversation with small questions.
When the waiter brings their food, she tears off a piece of bread and dips it in olive oil slowly, listening as he talks about his first exhibition. “I didn’t sell anything,” he admits. “My friend bought a painting just to make me feel better. She still calls it an investment.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Toni says. “Emotional blackmail disguised as support.”
“And you? What made you stay in the family business?”
She swirls her wine, thinking. “I don’t know if it was a choice. I used to think I could be an engineer and not a Stark, but turns out the name comes with its own gravity. You stop fighting it eventually.”
Steve takes a bite of his food. “Do you miss building things with your hands?”
“All the time,” Toni says quietly. “But I build different things now — programs, foundations, projects. I’m very involved in the R&D. It’s still engineering, just... people instead of circuits.”
He nods, impressed. “That’s a nice way to put it.”
They chit-chat about the food for a few minutes, Toni taking the time to explain different flavors and being delighted with Steve’s focus. There’s so much she could show him, introduce him to, if only he gave her the chance.
“You know,” he says, after a sip, “I thought you’d be different.”
“How so?”
“Colder, maybe? Or scarier.”
Toni smiles faintly. “And you’re disappointed?”
“No,” he says, and she hears the truth in it. “Just surprised. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you were, I mean, you said it yourself. Being in your position isn’t easy for a woman. But you manage to be so down to earth, somehow. It’s nice,” he finishes, pink coloring his ears.
They eat. The conversation drifts to music, movies, the worst job interviews they’ve ever done. She admits she once accidentally called a senator sir and dad in the same sentence. “Talk about daddy issues,” she says, and Steve nearly chokes laughing. She laughs with him, head tipping back, genuinely at ease.
When dessert comes, she sits back, a little softer now. “I’m really happy you said yes,” she admits.
“So am I,” he replies.
For a while, there’s just the quiet sound of spoons on porcelain. But now that she made up her mind about Steve being the right guy for her, she decides to ruin that peace.
Toni reaches for her bag, then slides a box across the table.
Steve blinks. “What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Inside is a silk tie, custom-made from the same material as the red dress Toni is wearing tonight. He picks it up carefully, awe evident on his face.
“I was going to send it beforehand, so we’d match,” she says, leaning on her hand. “But I figured it would feel better to give it in person. Even if this ends up being our only date, at least you’ll remember me when you wear it.”
She doesn’t tell him the whole truth, which is that she needed to see his face and understand how he reacts to gifts, because she’s dated men who can’t handle being spoiled by a woman, and she’s trying to avoid a repeat of that.
Steve’s fingers brush the fabric. “It’s beautiful. It’s… the exact same shade as your dress.”
“Good eye,” she says.
He looks up again, slower this time. “And your lipstick. And your nails. It’s identical.”
Toni grins. “Of course an artist would notice. Took forever to match all of it.”
She chooses that moment to stand from the table. On her way to the ladies’ room, she leans close enough for her perfume to blur the space between them, and for her chest to be exposed.
“I also have lingerie in the same shade, but I decided to go commando tonight.”
She straightens and catches his expression — utterly dazed, flushed all the way.
Toni smirks. “Aww, look at that. Your blush matches my signature shade,” she exclaims, tapping his cheek softly. “I have to tint my nipples to get that color, and yours is au naturel.”
Then she walks away, leaving him staring after her, stunned, the red tie still in his hands.
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
The drive back feels different. The city hums outside, blurred by rain on the windshield. Inside the car, they’re both a little astounded by how easy the night felt, how it never once dragged or felt uncomfortable.
Toni parks in front of his building, engine idling low. “This is it.”
“Yeah,” Steve says, glancing up at the entrance. He unbuckles the seat belt slowly, fingers lingering on the clasp like he’s buying himself a second. “Thanks for the ride. And the dinner. And the gift.”
She smiles, soft and a little shy, despite herself. “You don’t have to thank me for spending time with you. I had a lovely night.”
He hesitates, hand on the door handle. There’s something unfinished between them, too much energy left in the air. He looks in her eyes, voice quiet. “Do you want to come up? Just for a while? Not—” he stops himself, shaking his head, “not like that. Just… to keep talking.”
Her first instinct is to laugh, but the pure honesty in his face stops her. “You really mean that.”
“I do,” he says. “You said you had a good time, and so did I. Honestly, I don’t want to call it a night.”
She leans against the seat, studying him. The easy confidence she wears in meetings isn’t here now; this feels different, real and scary. “I wasn’t planning to,” she admits. “I had this whole plan to take things slow, prove to you that I’m serious about this. But tonight’s been—” she searches for the word, “—nice.”
He smiles at that understatement. “Nice.”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “And I don’t want it to end yet, either. But Steve,” she starts, unsure how to voice her thoughts, “if you’re just looking for a good time, I mean, I can give you that, it most definitely wouldn’t be a hardship. But I hoped—”
“This isn’t that, I swear, Toni. I still don’t understand what you see in me, but no, I would, I’m not here for—”
“I believe you,” she says softly, relieved at the sincerity in his eyes.
He nods then opens the door, stepping out into the faint drizzle, then looks back, waiting. She kills the engine and follows him out.
Inside the building, the entryway hums with the low buzz of old fluorescent lights. When the elevator arrives with a soft groan, they step in, and the doors close them into a small pocket of silence. Their shoulders brush once, lightly, neither pulling away. The air between them feels steady and expectant, like neither wants to speak first and ruin the calm they’ve built.
He leads her down the hall and unlocks the door. Steve’s apartment is small, but not in a bad way. It smells like paint and fabric softener and something faintly fresh, like he actually opens the windows. The space is open, one room leading into another, canvases leaned against the wall, brushes drying in jars near the sink. There’s a single lamp throwing soft yellow light over the floorboards, and it makes the whole place look like it’s been caught mid-afternoon, even though it’s nearly midnight.
He shuts the door behind them, a little flustered. “Sorry for the mess,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
She looks around. “Mess is relative.”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I keep telling myself that. It’s not much, I’m not exactly struggling, and definitely not now that my painting sold for more than I’ve made in years, but I’m not…” he gestures vaguely at Toni.
“You mean a Stark?”
He hesitates, grimacing. “Yeah. Something like that.”
She steps closer to a canvas half-finished by the window. This one is watercolor, with layers of red and blue under smoke-gray. “You really work in every medium, don’t you?”
“Mostly painting and sketching,” he says, moving to stand beside her. “But I’ve been experimenting with sculpture too. Clay, sometimes metal. The building superintendent hates it when I start welding.”
She grins. “You weld? That’s something we can actually bond over.”
He shrugs, smiling. “A little. Not well enough to show you.”
She studies the shelves: framed drawings, some abstract, some raw, all alive with a kind of imperfection she loves. A handful of charcoal portraits sit unframed, stacked behind a canvas. There’s a sketch of a hand, smudged at the knuckles and shining as if made of metal.
Steve moves toward the kitchen, opens the fridge, and pulls out two bottles of flavored water. “Want one? Don’t have anything stronger, sorry.”
“Sure.” She takes it, and manages to only lightly frown when she reads aloe vera and yuzu on the label. “You know,” she says, glancing around again, “this place feels really honest and not curated. A reflection of you. I like it.”
He smiles. “That’s one way to say small.”
“Nah. Reminds me of my own workshop. My favorite place in the world, so.”
Steve nods, then scratches his neck right above his shirt collar.
“Hey, do you mind if I change into something more comfortable?”
Toni raises an eyebrow, because that’s the most obvious line in the world — but then again, this man just sounds so sincere all the time.
“That came out wrong! I just, this is not my usual type of clothes, I don’t know how much longer I can—”
She laughs. “Don’t worry, that makes sense. I can tell that tie is suffocating you. Go on, get cozy, I’ll wait.”
“Sorry,” he says, blushing, but disappears into his bedroom.
While he’s away, she finds herself cataloguing the walls in her mind. She’s already thinking about what she could send him. Pieces sitting in storage from the September Foundation and his own collection — priceless one-of-a-kind works that have been locked away for years without someone deserving being able to admire them. She imagines them here: a Rothko above the window, a sculpture tucked near the easel, a Kandinsky study in the hall.
It’s ridiculous, she knows. Too much, too fast. Pepper would kill her for even thinking it. But she can’t help it. Gifting things is how she loves — not to impress, but to share her wealth with others.
Steve’s voice pulls her back. “You look miles away.” He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt, looking far more comfortable than before. He also smells far more citrusy now.
She smiles faintly. “You showered?”
“The shirt is synthetic,” he starts to explain, clearly embarrassed. “And I was nervous, so I ended up sweating a little. Once again, I know what it looks like but—”
“It’s okay, hot stuff, you don’t see me complaining, even if it was what it looked like.”
Steve stares at her, mouth slightly open.
“If you don’t want—”
“I want,” Steve rasps out. ”Oh, how I want.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” Toni says, and before she can add anything else, Steve is kissing her, hard and full of want.
With this being their first kiss, and the night of their first date, she expected slow and romantic from sweet, nice Steve. The way he’s gripping her waist is everything but that, and Toni couldn’t be happier.
It only takes a few minutes before they’re both stripped bare and tangled together on Steve’s bed, Toni straddling him. She kisses her way across his skin, half in awe of how unreal his body feels beneath her. There’s a flicker of frustration at the clean scent of shower gel instead of the warm musk she wanted, but it’s a small price to pay for having him like this, gorgeous and trembling, breath catching under her hands.
When she gets to his cock, hard and leaking, she feels herself getting wetter at the sight alone. She wastes no time getting her mouth on it, but manages to restrain her own impulses. Instead of swallowing him to the tilt as she can expertly do, she teases him by kissing it slowly and gently, just a drag of lips.
“You should see how pretty red lipstick looks on your cock.”
Steve moans above her, and Toni feels drunk on the sound, on the control. She trails her nails across his chest just to draw out more of those helpless, beautiful noises. Then, she folds his legs up for a better angle, and pauses when his ass is on display, a spark of mischief flickering in her gut.
“Has anybody ever touched you here?” she asks, dragging a finger slowly over the tight ring of muscle.
“I—no,” he stammers, looking torn between fear and sheer, overwhelming want.
“How does the thought make you feel?”
Steve swallows hard. “I think there’s nothing you could suggest doing to me that wouldn’t be hot as fuck right now.”
Toni laughs, delighted. “Good boy.”
She takes him into her mouth properly now, one hand working the length she can’t reach while the other continues to pet and tease at his rim. Steve’s whole body trembles beneath her, his body quivering, caught between relief and restraint just like his painting, and Toni wonders if he’s already close — if he wants it so much he could come just from this.
“So, you gonna fuck my ass or what?” he manages to choke out. Toni would laugh if she weren’t so utterly undone by how eager he sounds.
“Maybe another time, handsome. My nails are too long right now.” She gives him a wicked smile. “But don’t worry — I’ve got plans for you.”
Turns out, Steve’s little impromptu shower provides the perfect opportunity for something Toni hadn’t even dared to consider before. The thought alone makes her pulse quicken. She wastes no time spreading his thighs and nudging him up just enough to slide a pillow beneath his hips.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she murmurs. Then, parting his perfect cheeks, she wets her lips and leans in.
It’s been a while, but muscle memory takes over, instinctive, hungry, and precise.
She feels him tense under her hands at the first touch, his breath catching like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the feeling. Toni slows down, easing him through it with quiet confidence. Her palms steady his thighs, her movements careful but assured, every lick meant to draw another sound from his throat.
He gasps, tries to speak, but the words fall apart halfway through. The trust in his voice when he finally breathes her name nearly undoes her. Toni’s heart nearly rabbits out of her chest; there’s something intoxicating about being the first, about teaching his body what it means to be wanted this way.
She keeps going, sucking and kissing and getting lost in the feeling, learning the rhythm of Steve’s breathing, the trembling in his muscles, the way he starts to lose control. When she takes his cock into her hand again, Steve shouts as if electrocuted.
“Stop, I won’t last—”
“That’s okay,” Toni whispers into his skin. “Just let go, handsome. Just let go.”
Steve tries to protest, but the words dissolve into a sound somewhere between a moan and a gasp, bucking his hips up and coming all over Toni’s fingers, thick streaks of white painting his stomach.
“Oh my god,” he pants, voice rough and breathless. “That was—that’s—come up here.”
Toni shifts, sliding up his body, her hair brushing his chest as she moves, no doubt sticking to his come. He’s still trembling, eyes wide and dazed, like he can’t quite believe what just happened.
“I don’t think you can kiss me after—”
“If your mouth can be on my ass, my mouth can too,” Steve says, pulling her in before she can finish.
“Would love to see that,” she murmurs, then captures his mouth with hers.
The kiss is hungry and desperate, all teeth and heat and the faint taste of laughter.
“God, I’m sorry,” he manages between kisses. “It’ll take some time—”
Toni only smiles against his lips, her breath mingling with his. “I knew what I was doing when I told you to let go,” she says softly. “There are other things you can do for me.”
Steve looks up at her, still catching his breath, eyes bright and unguarded. “Yes,” he says, the word a vow. “Anything.”
Toni smiles, a slow curve of satisfaction and warmth. “I love how obedient you are.”
“Not necessarily my style,” he admits, voice low and a little hoarse. “But it’s natural with you.”
Her heart gives a strange, quiet twist at that. “Good. I need someone who can handle all of me, and take charge when I want to be taken care of.”
“Absolutely,” Steve whispers, like it’s a prayer and a promise in one.
Toni leans down to peck him again before shifting to settle herself higher. His breath stutters as she moves, hands instinctively finding her waist before moving up to squeeze her tits.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. ”And so wet. I can feel you dripping all over me.”
“How could I not?” she teases.
Steve looks at her, wide-eyed and flushed. “Please tell me you’re about to sit on my face because I don’t think I can live without it now that it’s an option.”
Toni laughs. “Warning that I can come many, many times.”
Steve’s answering smile is bright and boyish, full of reverence. “I got all night, ma’am.”
When Toni finally sits down and feels the first lick, she vaguely remembers thinking this is worth way more than a million dollars. After that, coherent thoughts don’t stand a chance.