He opened the door, kissing me as he walked us toward the bed.
The room was vast. It smelled amazing—like him, like cedar and something clean and male, a scent that was already woven into my memory. I could see men's clothing draped over a leather chair, a heavy watch on the nightstand, a wallet tossed carelessly beside it.
His room. Definitely his room. Every detail screamed him—controlled, expensive, intensely private. And I was in it.
"W-why are you shaking?"
His voice was low, rough against the skin of my neck. Then it sharpened—a blade wrapped in breath.
"You should be shaking when I'm on you."
He pushed me.
The bed caught me—soft, huge, a cloud of silk and memory foam that swallowed my weight and my breath.
Before I could think, his hands were on my gown. Not untying. Not unzipping. Pulling. Tearing. The fabric gave way with a sound like a sigh, like surrender. My bra followed—a sharp, definitive rip, cold air hitting my skin, and then… nothing.
Just me. Exposed.
