Chapter 4: I Want You To F*ck Me

Kiara's POV

The room was dim.

Only a small lamp in the corner cast a soft glow across the space. The hotel suite was massive and expensive. Everything about it portrayed wealth and power.

He carried me inside, his arms strong around me. I felt weightless against his chest, my head resting on his shoulder.

The alcohol was taking its toll now. Everything felt fuzzy and disconnected. My head spun. The room tilted and swayed even though I wasn't moving.

He walked across the room and placed me on the bed gently.

The mattress dipped under my weight, so incredibly soft. My body just sank into it, going limp.

I shivered as my wet dress clung to my skin, cold and uncomfortable. Water dripped from my hair onto the sheets.

He stepped back, looking down at me. His eyes swept over my trembling form, taking in the way I hugged myself, trying to get warm. His brow furrowed.

Then he turned and walked to the wall, adjusting the thermostat.

Warm air began to filter through the vents.

"You can't sleep in those wet clothes," he said, his voice rough. "You'll catch pneumonia."

I nodded weakly, too dizzy to argue.

He left me for a moment. I heard a closet door open, the sound of hangers moving.

Then he returned holding a large white shirt.

"Take off your clothes," he placed the shirt on the bed beside me. "Put this on."

I tried to stand, but my legs wobbled beneath me.

I reached behind my back, fumbling for the zipper of my dress. My fingers wouldn't cooperate. They kept slipping, missing.

I giggled, slightly embarrassed.

"This stupid zipper... I swear it has a personal vendetta against me."

I tried and failed again.

"Maybe if I... no, that's not it either." I giggled, the alcohol making everything feel lighter and funnier than it should be.

He cursed under his breath.

"Come here."

I wobbled toward him, almost falling. He caught me just in time, his hands gripping my waist, possessively.

"You know," my words slurred slightly, "you're very good at catching me. Do you practice that? Catching drunk girls?"

"Be quiet."

Then he turned me around.

His fingers found the zipper. He pulled it down and the dress loosened, falling away from my shoulders.

"There we go," I burst out cheerfully. "See? Teamwork."

I stepped out of it.

Standing there in my underwear and bra. Nothing exotic, just plain cotton. They didn't even match. One was black, the other nude. I hadn't thought I'd end up naked in a sexy stranger's hotel room tonight.

His eyes darkened as they raked over my body. They traced the curve of my waist, the swell of my hips, lingering on the simple black bra that cupped my breasts. His gaze dropped lower to the nude cotton underwear sitting low on my hips. Despite their plainness, the way he looked at me made them feel like the most erotic thing in the world. His pupils dilated, his breathing grew heavier. Hunger flickered in those dark depths, raw and primal.

My skin heated under his stare.

"Your bra," he said, his voice thick.

I reached back, fumbling with the clasp. But my fingers were too clumsy and uncoordinated.

"These things should come with instructions," I muttered. "Or maybe buttons are easier."

He moved closer. His fingers brushed against my back as he unclipped it with practiced ease.

The bra fell away.

Despite the alcohol, despite my earlier boldness at the club, shame flooded through me suddenly. I clasped my hands over my breasts, covering myself.

He scoffed.

"Now you're shy?" His voice held dark amusement. "You weren't shy when you walked into my VIP section. When you kissed me like you wanted me to fuck you right there in front of everyone. So why the sudden modesty?"

Heat flooded my face. My core clenched at his words.

"I'm not shy..." I stuttered. "Just... this is different. That was... I don't know what that was. This is... this."

"Then let go."

I hesitated. My hands trembled.

The moment I started to lower my hands, he stopped me.

"Wait."

I froze.

"Put the shirt on first," his voice was darker now.

"But..."

"Now."

"I can't."

My hands clutched the discarded bra against my chest, fingers gripping the fabric with unsteady determination.

He exhaled, then reached for the white shirt. "Lift your arms."

I obeyed, raising them awkwardly while still trying to keep myself covered.

He pulled the shirt over my head. The fabric was soft, enormous on me. It fell to mid-thigh, swallowing my frame. His knuckles grazed my shoulders as he tugged it down. Then his hands smoothed the material over my sides, adjusting it. The gesture was careful, almost tender. My breath hitched. The intimacy of him dressing me, taking care of me, made my body respond in ways I didn't expect. My nipples hardened beneath the thin cotton. A flutter started low in my belly.

"Now," he ordered, his voice low and commanding. "Take off your underwear."

I wobbled, trying to hook my thumbs into the waistband.

He stopped me. "Don't."

Before I understood what he meant, he knelt before me.

My hands gripped his shoulders for balance. His muscles flexed beneath my touch, solid and warm. My fingers dug in, steadying myself as the room swayed.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of my underwear.

He sucked in a deep, ragged breath, as though my scent affected him. As though being this close, kneeling before me, tested every ounce of his control.

Then, inch by inch, he slid them down.

His knuckles brushed against my thighs. Heat followed his touch. My body tingled. Every nerve ending came alive.

I wiggled slightly, trying to steady myself and ignore the sensation building between my legs.

But his touch... his touch did things to me. Things I couldn't control.

Wetness seeped between my legs. A shiver ran through me.

The fabric slid past my hips, down my legs.

His eyes stayed locked on mine. Dark. Intense. Burning.

I stepped out of them.

Completely naked under his shirt now.

My thighs clenched together, trying to ease the ache. But it only made it worse.

"Go to bed," he said, his voice rough. Strained.

I walked to the bed on shaky legs. My body felt like it was on fire. Every step sent sparks of need through me.

I climbed onto the mattress.

"Get in," he ordered.

I slid beneath the covers. The sheets were cool and smooth against my bare, heated skin.

Then he tucked the blanket around me. His fingers brushed against my shoulder. Brief. Fleeting. But enough to make me gasp softly.

"Where will you sleep?" I asked quietly.

"That's none of your business." His tone was firm, final. "Sleep now."

He turned and walked away.

I closed my eyes, trying to sleep. But my thoughts were fuzzy, jumbled. The room kept spinning even with my eyes shut.

A thought crept into my hazy mind.

What if I had this one night? One night to live a little. To forget everything. By tomorrow, I'd forget it all anyway. The alcohol would erase it. Make it feel like a dream.

Minutes passed.

Then I heard water running. The shower.

More minutes.

Then the bathroom door opened. Steam filtered out into the room, warm and humid.

He came to bed.

I felt the mattress dip. Felt his heat radiating across the space between us. He smelled clean now. Soap and shampoo and masculine underneath.

I lay there, restless. My body felt hot despite the cool sheets. The alcohol made everything feel heightened, intense. That ache between my thighs wouldn't go away. It only grew stronger. More demanding.

More steam drifted from the bathroom.

I couldn't sleep. Couldn't think straight.

His eyes were closed. His breathing even. Steady.

A wild thought formed.

Gently, carefully, I took the duvet. Slid it down.

His chest came into view.

Bare.

God.

Six pack. Toned. Every muscle defined. His skin looked smooth, warm. I wanted to touch it. Wanted to trace every ridge, every dip with my tongue.

I trailed my fingers softly across his chest. He didn't stir.

Then I moved.

Threw my leg over him. Straddling him.

My hands pressed against his chest. His skin was warm. Firm. I felt his heartbeat beneath my palms.

His eyes flew open, wide with shock before narrowing into dangerous, feral intensity.

His hands shot up, gripping my wrists. Hard. Bruising.

"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was rough, almost a growl.

I leaned closer. My hair fell around us like a curtain. My breath mingled with his as my lips brushed against his. I whispered:

"I want you to fuck me. Just this one night. Just once. By morning, I'll forget everything anyway." My hips rolled against him, feeling him harden beneath me. "So why don't you make it memorable?”