The city was humming—alive with lights, music, and the electric undercurrent of possibility. I felt it in my heels as they clicked along the marble floor of the hotel lobby. I felt it in the way my silk dress clung to every curve, backless, slit high, no bra.
He was already at the rooftop bar when I arrived.
Tailored suit. Whiskey in hand. That look in his eyes like he wanted to devour me right there, against the glass overlooking the skyline.
We didn’t kiss hello. Not yet.
We let the tension build—talking, laughing, drinking something expensive and dry while the lights of the city flickered around us like a thousand tiny voyeurs.
Every time I shifted in my seat, I could feel the wet heat between my thighs. I crossed my legs slowly, knowing his eyes were on them. Letting him imagine what wasn’t underneath.
When he finally leaned in, his hand brushed the inside of my thigh under the table. Just enough to remind me I belonged to the night—and to him.
“Let’s get out of here,” I whispered.
The elevator ride back down was silent, except for our breath and the thrum of wanting.
By the time we reached the suite, he had me pressed against the wall, my dress bunched around my waist, his fingers inside me before I could even kick off my heels.
“You’ve been soaked since dinner,” he growled, his mouth on my neck.
“Since the valet,” I corrected, moaning.
He dropped to his knees right there in the entryway, tasting me like a man starved—tongue slow, patient, relentless. When I came, it was with my hands tangled in his hair, one heel still on, my back arched like worship.
But he wasn’t done.
He laid me across the velvet chaise by the window and entered me slowly—facing the city, fucking me deep and unhurried like we were putting on a private show for every light in every window.
The wet slap of skin. The way he held my hips. The moans he drew out of me like music.
I rode him later—champagne still bubbling in our glasses—my dress finally peeled off and discarded. Just me, sweat-slicked, straddling him as we came together with the city glowing beneath us.
Luxury isn’t the car or the view. It’s being wanted like this—touched like time has stopped. Loved like lust is the only language.