The gallery smelled of varnish and secrets.
It was a place for the rich to sip wine and pretend they understood brushstrokes—but behind closed doors, it was a sanctuary for temptation. Cassandra had curated both art and men with the same ruthless elegance. At 48, with hips like sculpture and breasts too proud to hide, she made no apologies for the way she walked through her world: slow, sharp, and dripping with unspoken hunger.
But that day, the boy arrived.
Not a boy in age—Tyrese was all man—but in the way he smirked, the way he stared at her tits like they were gods, the way he didn't call her "ma'am." He called her "Cassandra," like he owned the right.
And she didn't stop him.
She let him come back. Again and again. Sometimes with packages. Sometimes just with that heavy bulge in his pants and an excuse to linger.
There were no rules in that space. Only glances, grinding tension, whispered filth. And Cassandra? She'd been aching to have her breasts worshipped like the masterpieces they were.
She just didn't expect Tyrese to be so damn good at it.