"Sweat, skin and secrets"
(Emily's pov)
The hallway was dim, the soft overhead lights flickering like they couldn’t decide whether to glow or die. There was a buzz in the air, faint and electric, like tension caught between walls. My heels dangled from two fingers, my bare feet whispering across the cold marble as I climbed the stairs—slow, unhurried, slightly off balance from champagne and lust.
My gown, sleek and black, hugged every curve like it had been sewn straight onto my skin. Backless. Dangerous. Designed to seduce. It moved around me like liquid shadow with every step I took, and I knew—I felt—that I was being watched.
His gaze was fire licking up my spine. I didn’t need to turn around to know it.
“Why do I feel like you’re staring at my ass?” I asked over my shoulder, letting my voice drip with the playfulness that gets girls in trouble. Sweet. Slow. A little slurred.
“Because I am.”
Just three words, but his voice was a flame against my skin. I didn’t get to respond.
In one quick motion, I was spun, grabbed, turned, and pinned. My back hit the wall with a soft thud, cool and jarring. His body pressed into mine, tall and broad and hot, his arms braced on either side of my head, caging me in.
My heart slammed against my ribs. Not from fear—but from the rush of being seen. Touched. Wanted.
“Did I tell you how f*****g beautiful you look?” he murmured, breath brushing the shell of my ear. “You smell like temptation.”
A shiver rolled through me. His lips touched my neck, and I melted. Just like that. One kiss. Then another. Then another—each one slower, deeper, hungrier.
My fingers curled around his shirt. My breath hitched.
“Stop,” I whispered, but it was a lie. A weak one. “We’re still outside. Someone might see us...”
But I didn’t move away. I didn’t even try.
He wasn’t like Damon. Damon was calculated. Safe. Controlled. He was the kind of man who cared too much about appearances, about timing, about keeping everything quiet. I was his secret.
But this man—this stranger with dangerous eyes and hands like fire—he didn’t care about rules. Or appearances.
He wanted me.
And he was willing to show it.
“I don’t care,” he said, dark eyes burning into mine. “Let them see.”
I wanted to protest. I wanted to be rational. But instead, I said, “Kiss me.”
And he did.
God, did he.
His hands pulled me close, one sliding down my spine, the other gripping my waist like he couldn’t get enough of me. His mouth crashed into mine—hot, deep, tasting of something expensive and forbidden. Our tongues collided. I moaned into him, melted into him. I had never been kissed like that. Not by Damon. Not by anyone.
And then his hands dropped.
He cupped my ass—firm, possessive—and pulled me tighter. I felt him against my thigh: hard. Thick. Ready.
He broke the kiss, eyes wild and lips wet. His fingers tangled in my curls.
“Tell me you want me,” he growled. “Tell me you want me now.”
I didn’t even think. I didn’t have to think.
“I want you, Daddy,” I breathed. “I want you so badly… Please, f*** me like the bad girl I am. Punish me.”
His reaction was instant.
He turned me around, my back to his chest, and ground his thick length against me through his jeans. I gasped, grabbing at the wall for balance.
Then his mouth was on my neck again, lower this time. His lips traced fire down my spine. His hands found my breasts through the thin fabric of my gown, squeezing until I cried out.
“Ahh… Please…” I whimpered. “Don’t stop…”
He didn’t.
He grabbed my wrists, pinned them to the wall. I was completely his—barefoot, breathless, aching. My gown had ridden up, baring my thighs, my soaked lace panties the only barrier left between us.
His fingers slid between my legs. Teased. Stroked.
“You’re soaked,” he whispered, voice thick with hunger. “You want this more than you’re letting on.”
I couldn’t lie. Not now.
“Yes… Yes, baby…”
I forgot where I was. Forgot that anyone could come around the corner at any moment. The idea only made it worse. Hotter. Wilder.
Then he bent me forward. My hands hit the wall again. I arched my back, spreading for him without a word. The gown slipped even lower, my breasts bouncing free, n*****s tight with arousal and cold.
Smack.
His hand struck my ass, and I moaned—a sound I didn’t recognize.
And then, finally—he was inside me.
I gasped.
He filled me like he was made for me—every thick inch a perfect fit. He gripped my hips and rocked into me, slow at first. Deep. Controlled.
I could barely hold myself up. The wall was my anchor. The only thing keeping me from collapsing.
His pace quickened, and so did my breathing. His hand wrapped around to cup my breasts again, thumb flicking over my ni**le. My moans got louder. Desperate.
“F***, yes…” I cried. “Right there—don’t stop…”
He didn’t stop. He slammed into me, deeper, harder, faster. Our skin clapped with each thrust, echoing down the empty hall.
And then—
Footsteps.
Below us. On the stairs.
Someone was coming.
I froze.
He didn’t.
“Please…” I whispered, eyes wide. “Don’t stop… F*** me harder…”
He growled low behind me. And obeyed.
The thrill—the risk of being caught, the stranger inside me, the shame, the hunger—it all exploded into a release so sharp and complete I thought I might pass out.
We came together, gasping, tangled in heat and sweat and satisfaction.
I tugged my dress up, tucked my breasts back inside. My chest heaved.
A voice echoed from the stairwell. “Hello?”
We looked at each other. And laughed.
Wild. Breathless. Unashamed
The Room, the Silence, the Fire
The lock clicked behind us.
That soft mechanical sound echoed like a promise. Or maybe a warning.
The door swung shut with a heavy thud, sealing us inside—alone, private, drenched in the kind of silence that comes after a storm… or just before another. The only sound left was our breathing—ragged, uneven, thick with everything we hadn’t said but had already done.
My gown clung to me, damp with sweat, molded to every curve like a second skin. The air was warm, but my flesh prickled with heat—not from the room, but from memory. From what had just happened out there in the corridor. Against that wall. Under those dim lights. My body still tingled. Still throbbed.
And his eyes—God, those eyes—never left me. Not once. Not since we stepped inside.
He watched me like I was the beginning and the end of every wicked thought he’d ever had.
He reached behind me, fingers unfastening the delicate clasp of my gown. Then, with one smooth motion, I stepped out of it. The silk dropped around my feet like spilled sin, pooling at my ankles. I didn’t break eye contact.
There I stood—bare, barefoot, and still trembling from the raw pleasure he’d just pulled from me like a confession.
He moved toward me like a man possessed, like he was chasing a dream he knew would vanish if he blinked. No words. Just hunger. Fierce. Focused. Familiar.
When his lips touched mine again, the kiss was different.
Slower.
Heavier.
Not rushed like before—no need to rush now. Now, he had me. All of me.
His fingers traveled down my sides, mapping the curves of my waist like he was relearning them, memorizing them. His touch was reverent—like I was something sacred.
Or maybe dangerous.
The space between us pulsed with heat, thick like static right before lightning strikes.
“I want more,” he whispered, his mouth brushing mine.
“Then take it,” I breathed, barely able to speak past the ache building again.
He lifted me without effort, carried me across the room like I weighed nothing. My back hit the bed, the cold sheets a sharp contrast to the firestorm of his body as he climbed over me. He was hot. Solid. Heavy.
And mine.
His hands spread my legs, eyes devouring every inch of skin before his lips followed—down my throat, across my chest, my stomach, lower. And then—
His tongue.
A gasp tore from my lips as he found me, licked into me, worshipped me. He moved with purpose—no hesitation, no mercy. Slow, teasing flicks. Deep, wet circles. His moans were vibrating through me like thunder. I arched. Clutched the sheets. My legs shook.
“Don’t stop…” I begged, voice cracking under the weight of need.
And he didn’t.
He stayed right there, between my thighs, feasting like he was starving and I was his last meal. When I came, I broke apart—loud, wild, ruined.
And he just looked up at me.
Smug. Tender. Almost reverent.
Like he’d just made a goddess out of my moans.
Then he climbed over me again, and I felt him—thick, hard, pressing into me with that same stretch, same fullness that left me breathless. But this time… this time, it wasn’t just s*x.
It was slower.
Deeper.
More intimate. Like every stroke was a secret. A vow.
His hands found mine, fingers lacing together above my head as he moved inside me. His forehead pressed against mine.
He didn’t need to say it.
But I felt it in his kiss. In the way he held me. In every careful, desperate thrust.
He was falling.
And for once, I didn’t stop him.
