Felicia Hardy - Midnight Heist of Hearts (354 photos) (Patreon)

Felicia Hardy never stole for the money. The jewels, the art, the guarded tech—those were just excuses to feel the rush, the electric pulse of danger sliding over her skin like the latex she wore. But tonight, in the high-security penthouse vault of a corrupt tech mogul, the prize wasn't on the manifest.

She'd cased the place for weeks, mapping laser grids and guard rotations from the shadows of New York's rooftops. Her black catsuit—custom-fitted, second-skin tight—clung to every curve as she dropped silently from the skylight, white fur cuffs brushing her wrists like a lover's whisper. The zipper at her chest was already tugged low, a deliberate tease for the security cams she knew he'd be watching. Let him look, she thought, blue eyes glinting behind the mask. Let him want.

The mogul—Victor Kane—wasn't like the others. He didn't just collect treasures; he craved the chase. And Felicia? She craved being craved.

She found the vault empty of guards. Odd. Then the lights dimmed to a sultry violet, and there he was—leaning against the console, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the hard lines of his chest. "Black Cat," he said, voice low, "I've been expecting you."

Her lips curled. "Then you know I always get what I came for."

But when she moved to the pedestal—where the rumored quantum diamond should have been—there was only a single black rose and a note: Catch me if you can.

The game was on.

She tracked him through the penthouse's hidden passages, heart pounding harder with every step. The chase led to his private lounge—leather couches, neon accents, a wall of screens cycling through her greatest heists. He'd been studying her. Memorizing the way she moved, the sway of her hips when she vaulted a railing, the arch of her back when she landed.

He was waiting on the couch, legs spread, eyes dark with hunger. "You're even better in person," he murmured.

Felicia stradded him without hesitation, thighs clamping his hips as she pinned his wrists above his head. The latex squeaked against his skin. "Flattery won't save you," she purred, but her body betrayed her—nipples hard against the unzipped suit, heat pooling between her legs where she ground against him.

"I don't want saving," he said, and flipped her.

Suddenly she was beneath him, back arched over the armrest, ponytail spilling like moonlight. His hands were everywhere—tracing the fur at her cuffs, sliding up to cup her breasts, thumbs circling until she gasped. The zipper gave way completely, cool air kissing her flushed skin as he peeled the suit down to her waist.

"You planned this," she accused, but her legs were already wrapping around him, heels digging into his back.

"From the moment I saw you on the rooftop," he admitted, mouth hot against her throat. "I wanted to see how far the Cat would go."

All the way, she decided.

She took control again, shoving him back and straddling his face—latex peeled aside just enough. His tongue found her like he'd mapped her body years ago, and she rode him with the same precision she used to crack safes. When she came, it was with a snarl that echoed through the penthouse, nails raking his shoulders.

Later, sprawled across the couch—suit half-off, his shirt gone, both of them slick with sweat—she traced the bite mark on his neck. "The diamond?" she asked lazily.

He smirked, producing it from... somewhere. "Insurance. In case you tried to leave without a souvenir."

Felicia laughed, low and throaty, and tucked it into her cleavage. "Who says I'm leaving?"

Some heists, she decided, were worth getting caught for.

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