Brisbane winter doesn’t bite—it lingers. Crisp evenings and soft sweaters. The kind of cold that makes you crave warmth, not from the heater, but from skin, from breath, from being pressed under someone until you forget the temperature completely.
I wore a knit dress—fitted, long-sleeved, with nothing underneath. No bra. No panties. Just skin beneath fabric and a body already aching to be touched.
He met me for drinks at a wine bar tucked away in West End. Dark wood, candlelight, red wine. My boots clicked softly across the floor as I slid into the booth beside him. Close. Closer.
He leaned in, breath warm on my ear. “You look like trouble.”
I smiled as I placed his hand just under the hem of my dress.
“I feel like it too.”
His fingers grazed my inner thigh—bare, smooth, so close to where I was already throbbing. I leaned into him, whispering exactly how wet I was, how easy it would be to fuck me if I just straddled him right there.
We didn’t finish the bottle.
Back at mine, the windows fogged up fast. He pressed me to the kitchen bench, my dress still on, my thighs spread. The knit pushed up just enough for his fingers to slide through slick folds and feel everything I’d been craving since we sat down.
“Still cold?” he asked, teasing.
“Not even a little.”
He dropped to his knees right there on the tiles, face buried in my pussy, tongue slow and deliberate while the city whispered outside. I came with one leg over his shoulder, head thrown back, dress bunched around my hips.
Later, we curled up on the couch, limbs tangled under a blanket, wine forgotten. He slid inside me again, slow, deep strokes—like we had all the time in the world to build the heat.
And in that moment, winter didn’t exist. Only the sound of our bodies, the ache between my thighs, and the way he moaned my name like a prayer.