I cry out again. I've never been fucked like this—hard and desperate and absolutely relentless.
"You feel that?" he growls against my neck. "You feel how deep I am?"
"Yes—"
"Good." His thrusts get harder, faster. "You walk into my world wearing that dress, looking at me with those eyes, and you think I'm just going to let you walk away?"
"Adrian—"
"I'm going to fuck you until you can't remember your own name. Until the only thing you know is how good this feels."
The filthy words should shock me. Instead, they push me higher, coiling heat low in my belly.
"I'm close," I gasp. "Adrian, I'm?—"
"Then come." One hand wraps around my throat—nottight, just enough pressure to make me hyper-aware of him. "Come on my cock."
The orgasm hits me harder than the first one. I scream, actually scream, my body clenching around him as pleasure tears through me in waves.
He follows immediately after, his rhythm faltering as he drives deep one last time. I feel him pulse inside me, feel the warmth as he comes, and something about it feels impossibly intimate.
For a moment, we just breathe. My back against the window, legs wrapped around him, his forehead pressed to my shoulder.
"Fuck," he says finally.
"Yeah."
Slowly, carefully, he sets me down. My legs are shaking. I can feel him dripping out of me, warm and wet between my thighs.
He tucks himself back into his pants, watching me with an expression I can't read.
"Bedroom's through there," he says, gesturing to a doorway. "You should clean up."
It's the first awkward moment we've had. Like neither of us knows what to do now that the heat has faded.
I find my underwear and bra, pull them on with shaking hands. The dress is still on the floor by the window. I pick it up, holding it against myself like armor.
"I should go," I say.
"It's late. Stay."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Wasn't asking." Something flickers in his expression. "Besides, it's not safe for you to travel alone at this hour."
There's something in his tone—not quite a command, but close. And part of me wants to argue, wants to insist I can take care of myself.
But I'm exhausted. And the idea of getting dressed andfinding a subway and making my way back to my tiny apartment feels overwhelming.
"One night," I say.
"One night," he agrees.
He leads me to the bedroom. It's as impersonal as the rest of the apartment—all black sheets and modern furniture, no photos or personal touches. I slip under the covers still in my underwear, suddenly self-conscious.
He strips down to his boxers and slides in beside me.
For a moment, we just lie there in the dark.
