It was the kind of Brisbane night that made the air feel thick with want. The kind of heat that settled low in your body and made everything feel like foreplay.
We’d spent the afternoon by the river—just enough breeze to lift the hem of my sundress and flash the bare curve beneath. I caught him watching more than once. He pretended not to stare. But I saw his jaw flex every time I leaned forward without a bra, nipples hard under thin fabric.
I liked knowing what I was doing to him.
By sunset, we were two drinks deep at a rooftop bar in Fortitude Valley, golden hour melting over the city. I pressed my thigh to his under the table, slowly dragged my fingers along his inner leg and whispered, “I’ve been wet since lunch.”
His knuckles whitened around his glass.
We didn’t stay for a third drink.
Back at his place, the air-con buzzed softly, but my skin was already hot. I pushed him onto the couch, slid my dress off in one smooth move, and straddled him in nothing but my perfume and a smirk.
He reached for me like a man starved, but I pinned his wrists to the couch.
“Not yet,” I whispered. “I want you to watch first.”
I dragged my fingers between my legs and spread the slickness across my inner thighs. His eyes locked on the glisten. His cock pulsed hard against his pants.
“You feel how hot I am for you?” I moaned, just loud enough for the neighbours to hear.
He begged to taste.
I let him—only once I was already dripping. He devoured me with his head thrown back between my thighs, sweat pooling where our skin touched. When I came, it was loud, wet, and glorious.
Then I climbed on top of him and rode him slow, sticky, raw.
It wasn’t pretty. It was hot. Ferocious. The kind of fucking that left you sore in the best way.
We collapsed onto the tiles afterward, still slick with each other, ceiling fan spinning lazily above.
“You ruin me,” he whispered.
I kissed the sweat off his collarbone and smiled.
“That’s what Brisbane heat does to me.”