“Brie.”A warning or a prayer, I can’t tell.
He hitches my panties further aside, his fingers brushing where I’m aching, and positions himself at my entrance.I feel his crown pressing against me—not in, just there, the promise of him—and my knees lift involuntarily.
With his mouth close to my ear, voice wrecked: “Next time, everything comes off.All of this.I want to see you properly.Taste every inch.But right now—” He presses forward slightly, just the tip, and we both gasp.“Right now I can’t wait.”
“Then don’t.”I’m frantic, nodding against his face, my hair silk between our cheeks.“Don’t wait.”
“Look at me.”Not a command—a plea.Like he needs proof I’m real, that this is happening.
Our eyes lock.His are nearly black, pupils blown wide, and I see myself reflected there—flushed, desperate, completely undone.
He thrusts hard and fast, filling me in one brutal stroke, and we both cry out.The stretch, the sudden fullness—it borders on too much and not nearly enough.
He stills, shuddering, a great rushing gasp escaping.His forehead falls to mine.“Fuck.Fuck, you feel good.”His voice cracks on the last word.
His biceps strain beside my head, muscle taut, as he holds himself perfectly still.I can feel him throbbing inside me, fighting for control he doesn’t want, that neither of us need.
I can’t stay still.My feet hook onto his legs, urging him deeper.“Adrien.”His name breaks on my lips.“Move.Please move.”
He withdraws—not all the way, just enough that I feel the loss—then drives back in.Testing.The angle.The depth.The friction.
“Yes,” I whimper, and he does it again.Harder this time.Again.Finding a rhythm that has me making sounds I don’t recognize—soft mewling noises, desperate gasps, his name over and over.
His pace builds.Faster.Harder.The couch creaks beneath us.Somewhere in my fractured awareness I know the windows overlook the city, that anyone could see, but I don’t care.Can’t care.
He reaches between us, fingers finding my clit, and the dual sensation—him inside me, hitting something deep that makes me see stars, his fingers circling with practiced precision—breaks me.
“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice strained.“Let go.Give it to me.”
My body obeys before my mind can catch up.The orgasm slams through me—violent and complete—my back arching off the cushions, legs gripping him in a vice.I’m aware of crying out, of my internal muscles clenching around him in waves.
A jagged moan tears from his throat.He thrusts twice more—deep, desperate—then stills, pulsing inside me.His whole body shudders with release, and I feel it, feel him emptying into me, hot and deep.
We lie tangled together, breathing hard.My skirt is bunched around my waist.His shirt hangs open.My bra is still shoved down beneath my breasts.The sudden oddness of what we’ve done—half-clothed, frantic, a bed awaiting upstairs in multiple rooms—crashes over me.
Windows overlooking the city glitter with apartment lights, possible voyeurs.From somewhere below—maybe the street, maybe the building’s ventilation—I catch a thread of music.That amber-lit room.The dancer’s controlled abandon.All those people acknowledging desire without shame.
We just did the same.But worse.Because they had boundaries.Rules.We have none.
My hold on him loosens and he shifts.Wetness seeps between my legs—his and mine, mixed—and the sensation grounds me in awful clarity.He pushes up, and his absence feels like loss and relief in equal measure.
Then it hits me.Really hits me.
He said he rarely brings women here, and suddenly I need that to be true.I need it in a way that terrifies me because it means thismatters, means I’m not just scratching an itch or breaking professional protocol for meaningless sex.
This is what unnerves me—not the physical act but this: the way my chest constricts when he moves away.The way I want to pull him back.On that yacht, I walked away because it was fantasy, controlled, contained.This is real.And this—this is Manhattan where he’s my client, where I’m assigned to protect his interests, and I just?—
No condom.
The realization arrives cold and sharp.I should care more than I do.Should be calculating STI risks, pregnancy possibilities—none, thank you IUD, professional consequences.Instead, all I can think is how right it felt.How completely I lost myself.How I’d do it again right now if he touched me.
That’s the most frightening part.
No exit strategy.No performance.
Just me, stripped of every defense I’ve mastered.
He lives in a world of beautiful women on display, many available on request.I’m the one who disappeared.The one who became unattainable.Now that I’ve surrendered so completely, now that he’s had me again—without barriers, without planning, without the mystery?—
