Heat of the Night

Zara

I stood there in the center of the room, the soft lighting of the hotel casting a golden haze over everything, like a dream I was desperate to wake up from but couldn’t.

The air felt thick, oppressive, almost intimate. My heart thudded violently in my chest. Every beat echoed in my ears like a drumroll leading to something I could never reverse.

He hadn't moved. He just stood there, a few feet away, staring at me like he could see straight through the skin I was still wearing like armor.

And then, without blinking, his lips parted.

“Take off your clothes.”

Three words.

Three devastatingly calm, commanding words.

My throat dried instantly. My hands trembled. I wasn’t sure if it was fear, shame… or the fact that my thighs clenched at the sound of his voice like it was a command I’d obeyed my entire life without knowing.

I should’ve felt disgusted. Should’ve wanted to run. But I didn’t.

Because something in his tone didn’t give space for refusal. Not like a threat more like inevitability.

I reached behind my neck and tugged at the zipper of my gown. It slipped down in slow motion, the sound loud in the silence between us. The fabric glided off my shoulders like a whisper. I caught his gaze and saw it darken, his jaw clenched ever so slightly. Heat crept over my cheeks, down my throat, between my breasts.

The dress fell to the floor, pooling at my feet like liquid sin. I stepped out of it, bare now except for the thin lace underwear I’d stupidly worn to feel somewhat human tonight.

I reached behind and unclasped my bra, letting it fall. My nipples tightened instantly in the cool air, or maybe it was the heat in his stare. When I hooked my thumbs into my panties, I hesitated again.

“Look at me while you do it,” he said.

God, that voice. That command. 

I obeyed.

His eyes dropped, trailing over every inch of exposed skin with quiet possession. I’d never been looked at like that. Not by my ex. Not by anyone. He didn’t just want to touch me. He wanted to own the moment. Own me.

He walked forward, slow and deliberate. My breath caught.

When he reached me, he didn’t touch me. Not right away.

Instead, he leaned in, lips grazing the shell of my ear.

My knees nearly buckled.

His fingers finally brushed my waist, slow, hot, and reverent in a way that made my eyes flutter closed. I gasped as he dragged them down to my hips, then up again to the swell of my breasts, never fully touching, lust hovering like he wanted me to beg.

I hated how much I wanted him to.

Still holding back, he stepped behind me. His hand moved my hair to one side, then he kissed the curve of my neck, soft at first, then harder, as if tasting me with growing hunger.

I didn’t want him to stop.

His mouth found the base of my neck again, lips warm, tongue deliberate. He kissed lower, down the slope of my shoulder, and I tilted my head to give him room to offer myself, without a word.

I could feel how hard he was against my back. My body betrayed every instinct to flee and melted instead under the weight of his presence.

He turned me around, his hand at my waist. I was breathless when our eyes met again. His stare dark and stormy held no kindness. Just hunger. A commanding kind of desire that made me feel exposed in the deepest sense.

And I wanted it. Wanted him.

He took a step back and slowly undid the buttons of his shirt, one by one, without looking away from me. The crisp white fabric parted to reveal bronzed, sculpted muscle beneath, lean and hard, like a man who thrived on control. When he shrugged the shirt off, I let my gaze wander over his chest, down the soft trail of hair leading

God.

He reached for his belt, and I stopped breathing.

When he dropped his pants, his cock sprang free, thick, long, impossibly hard. My mouth parted on instinct. I had seen a man naked before, yes, but never like this. Never with the weight of tension humming between us, never with someone who looked at me like he wanted to ruin me and worship me all in the same breath.

He saw the way I stared, wide-eyed, frozen.

“On your knees,” he said.

I dropped, heat rushing through me, nerves fluttering in my belly. My fingers trembled slightly as I wrapped them around the base of his cock, warm, velvet skin over steel. He hissed at the contact, and it made something flutter deep inside me.

I looked up.

He was watching me, eyes molten, jaw tight.

“Put that mouth to use,” he murmured.

I leaned in, tongue flicking out to taste him first, slow and deliberate. He groaned, a deep, low sound and I felt it echo through me. I wrapped my lips around him, taking him inch by inch, letting myself adjust to the sheer size and weight of him. He rested one hand gently on the back of my head, not pushing, just claiming.

I moved with careful rhythm teasing, slow, and wet. The sounds between us filled the quiet room: his sharp breaths, my soft moans, the sinful sound of my lips working over him.

His body tensed.

“Enough,” he growled suddenly, gripping my shoulders and pulling me up with more strength than I expected.

My legs barely found balance before he was kissing me, hard, consuming. His hands tangled in my hair, pulling, angling me to his mouth like he owned it. Like he needed it.

We stumbled toward the bed, bodies pressed tight, my nipples hard and aching against his chest. He grabbed the back of my thighs and lifted me effortlessly, tossing me onto the bed like I weighed nothing.

My breath caught.

Then he thrust inside me in one deep, claiming motion.

I cried out again not in pain, not really but in overwhelmed sensation. Full. Stretched. 

He stilled inside me, breathing heavy, his hands braced on either side of my head. Our eyes met. For one split second, everything slowed.

Then he began to move.

I didn’t know sex could be like this.

“Say my name,” he growled into my ear.

“I don’t know it,” I gasped.

He stilled.

Then he laughed softly. “Then scream for God.”

And I did. Again. And again.

He moved inside me with slow, deliberate strokes at first, like he was exploring, learning, reading my body as if it were a language only he could speak. Each thrust sent tremors through my spine. I clung to his shoulders, my nails dragging across the taut skin there, anchoring myself to the heat and weight of him.

It wasn’t just the stretch or the friction. It was how deeply he filled me. Like he reached into places I didn’t know were waiting to be touched.

He dropped his mouth to my neck, sucking gently, then biting, marking me with lips that knew just how to tease pain into pleasure. Every movement he made was calculated, rough in just the right moments, tender in the seconds after.

He picked up his pace.

The bed creaked beneath us, the headboard knocking against the wall as our bodies collided again and again. His hands slid down to grip my hips, holding me in place while he thrust deeper, harder. I gasped, my legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him closer, though he was already inside me as far as I could take.

There was no room for thoughts anymore. No mother. No hospital bills. No morning after.

Just heat. Just this man.