I pause outside the hotel room, heart pounding like it knows what's coming. Every message. Every tease. Every quiet confession--it's all led here. I wasn't entirely sure I would make it to this stage. But I have.
One knock.
He opens the door just a crack. Enough. Enough for me to see his deep blue eyes.
He doesn't say anything. He looks at me--his face is unreadable, and there is something in the silence between us. I hesitate for half a second, then step inside.
The moment I do, his hand finds my hip. Not rough. Just certain. Steady. Like he's been waiting for this exact moment and isn't about to let it slip.
The door clicks shut behind me.
His other hand comes up, fingers wide as they rest on my neck--not squeezing, just... claiming.
That touch sends a jolt straight through me. Sharp. Hot. It shoots down my spine, curls low in my belly, and pulses between my thighs.
I'm already wet. Just from that. From him. Though, honestly, I'd probably been wet the moment I slid into these red, lacy panties this morning. The ones tucked beneath my black zip-up dress, hidden but never far from my thoughts, always teasing at the edges of my mind.
He backs me up against the wall, and my breath catches. Still no words. Just his thumb brushing the side of my throat like he's checking I'm real. His body's close, but not quite touching. The tension is brutal. Electric.
Then he shifts--just barely--and I feel it. Him. Hard and heavy, pressing against my hip like a promise waiting to break. And God--I'd forgotten what that could do to me. That rush of knowing I caused that. That he's thick and aching because I walked through that door.
His eyes narrow. There's something feral there.
"You're shaking," he says, his voice low, rough, as if the words are being dragged from him.
His thumb strokes my throat again, slower this time. His jaw twitches. I see it--watch the effort it takes to stay still.
"Fuck," he mutters under his breath. "I wanted to go slow."
He leans in, forehead resting against mine for a heartbeat. But his hands? They've already betrayed him--one gripping my hip harder, the other twisting in my hair.
"You show up like this," he breathes, "trembling... looking at me like..." His voice breaks. "How the fuck am I supposed to hold back?"
Before I can speak, he kisses me. No--devours me.
It's not soft. Not sweet. His lips crash into mine, mouth hot and unrelenting. There's no space left to think. Just sensation. I melt. Moan. Can't help it. And the way he growls in response--deep and wrecked--makes my knees nearly give out.
His grip tightens--one hand tangled in my hair, the other digging into my hip, dragging me into him. I can feel his cock, hard and demanding, pressing into me, and the friction is unbearable.
I gasp into his mouth as heat blooms low and fast. I'm soaked. Pulsing. I can feel myself dripping down my thighs. My body is already his.
He kisses like a man starved. Like I'm the first breath he's had in years. My hands fist in his shirt, desperate to anchor myself to something. His control's slipping.
Mine's already gone. This isn't what I expected.
He'd said he'd go slow. That our first time would be a slow burn, he'd promised to learn me with his hands, mouth, and voice--draw it out until I begged.
But this? This is urgent. Frenzied. Like something inside him snapped the second he saw me.
He tears his mouth away, panting against my cheek.
