Wet dreams

You slide into the velvet booth at Eclipse, the city’s best-kept secret, and the second your ass meets the cool leather, the air changes. The bass from the hidden speakers thumps low through your ribs, and every head in the room turns—not because of your outfit, but because you’re the only one who looks like you belong here. Black lace bralette, matching thong barely covering anything, thigh-highs with a slit up the side, and a long coat you haven’t bothered to button. Your nipples are already tight against the lace just from the heat of the place. The bartender sets a fresh champagne in front of you before you even order. “The usual, sir?” he asks, voice low and rough. You don’t correct him. You never do. You’re not here to be addressed as a person. You’re here to be wanted. Across the dim room, a man watches you with that same hungry stare. Tall, dark hair, tailored suit that costs more than most people’s rent. He’s been watching since you walked in. You meet his eyes and let your lips part just enough to promise everything. Slowly, deliberately, you cross your legs so the slit parts and the edge of your thong peeks through. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t look away. He waits exactly three minutes. Then he’s there—towering, scent of expensive cologne and something darker—leaning one hand on the table beside your glass. “Drink?” he asks, already sliding it across to you. You take a slow sip, letting him watch the way your throat moves. “Depends. Are you buying me another or just watching me?” A low laugh. “Both.” The rest of the night is a blur of heat and hunger. He doesn’t speak much at first. He just watches you sip, watches you uncross your legs so the lace brushes your inner thigh, watches you let the coat slip just enough to show the curve of your breast. Every time his gaze drops, you smile—small, wicked, knowing. By the time the champagne is empty, his hand is resting high on your thigh under the table. His thumb strokes the bare skin above your stocking, slow and lazy, like he’s deciding how far he’s allowed to go. “Hotel?” you whisper, leaning in so your lips almost brush his ear. He nods once. The driver doesn’t speak when you climb into the back of his car. You stay pressed close to the man you just met, one hand sliding up his chest while the other slips between your thighs and gives a lazy little stroke through the lace. He growls, low and hungry, and his hand finds your breast, thumb circling the tight peak until you arch against him. The hotel is a blur of marble and mirrors. The second the door clicks shut, clothes come off in a trail. Your coat hits the floor. His shirt. His belt. The rest of you follows until there’s nothing left but skin and heat. He lifts you onto the bed like you weigh nothing. You’re on your back, lace thong still on, and he’s already kneeling between your spread thighs, eyes dark with lust. He hooks two fingers into the fabric and drags it down your legs slowly, watching every inch of skin he uncovers. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough. “So fucking wet already.” You don’t deny it. You’re dripping, aching, the lace of your bralette the only thing still covering your tits. He leans down and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard while his fingers slide through your folds, teasing, not yet pushing inside. You moan, hips lifting, chasing his hand. He pulls back just enough to grin. “Patience.” Then he’s on you—mouth on your cunt, tongue sliding through your slick folds while two thick fingers curl inside you. You grab his hair, back arching, moaning his name like a prayer. He eats you like he’s starving, relentless, sucking your clit until your thighs shake and you come hard, clenching around his fingers with a broken cry. Only then does he stand, stripping the rest of the way. His cock is thick, heavy, already leaking. He strokes himself once, twice, eyes locked on your flushed face. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he growls. He climbs over you, lines up, and pushes in slow—inch by thick inch—until he’s buried to the hilt, stretching you wide. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. He starts to move, deep, steady strokes that hit every spot inside you. The bed creaks. Your moans get louder. He fucks you like he’s trying to brand you, one hand pinning your wrist above your head while the other slides down to rub your clit in tight circles. You come again, clenching around him, and he follows right after—groaning your name as he spills hot inside you, hips stuttering. After, he collapses beside you, both of you panting. He pulls you against his chest, fingers lazily tracing your spine. You kiss his collarbone, already thinking about round two. Because tonight? This is just the beginning. You look up at him, smile slow and filthy. “Round two’s in the shower.” He laughs, dark and delighted, already rolling you beneath him again. And the night is far from over.