I’m sweating as he edges his way in. My wrists ache already. I can tell he’s trying his hardest to hold off for my sake. But, finally, he’s all the way in, and it seems we both pause in sync to marvel at this physiological wonder. He smooths a hand down my neck and back, glossing over my hair and tracing the column of my spine before both his hands come to my hips and grip tightly. When he pulls out of me, he sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth.

‘I wish you could see what I see. Best sight ever. You’re so fucking gorgeous.’

I love that. I’m so exposed for him like this, so I love that he’s getting off on the view. All I can see is the carpet, the city skyline through the bank of windows in front of me and, if I hang my head, Brendan’s knees between mine, his trousers pooling around them. The slivers of thigh are thick and hairy, and it feels so brutish for him to be taking me like this.

I suspect that’s what he is: a big, sexy brute in a beautiful suit.

And now I rhyme, apparently.

He gets into a rhythm—thrusts punishing, balls slapping against my thong and my skin, fingers digging in so hard I suspect they’ll leave bruises—and the fit is so tight, the drag of his dick along my inner walls so fucking amazing, like life-affirmingly amazing. I brace myself as well as I can, but I find myself shunting back to meet him when he bottoms out in me and then rolling my hips before he withdraws.

None of it’s performative. It seems my body knows what to do better than I do, because neither of my previous partners ever took me like this. My moves are instinctive, purely to maximise my pleasure and, I hope, Brendan’s, but on some level I’m aware that I am an active participant in this; I’m bucking and arching and taking every drop of sensation he’s giving me just as he seems to be wringing me for every drop he can take from me.

I chase it and chase it, more shamelessly than I thought I was capable of doing, and the pressure inside me builds as he fucks me and fucks me, because Jesus, this man has stamina. It’s sweaty and messy, and we may not be crying out or screaming, but we’re definitely both grunting and panting in a way that makes me hope no one out there has their ear pressed to the door.

‘You’re going to come, aren’t you?’ Brendan huffs out. ‘You’re so close.’

‘Yeah,’ I gasp. ‘Yeah, I just need⁠—’

‘I know, baby. I’ve got you. Here, take this.’