Anri POV
The man from the bar had been calm.
Careful. Polished like old money and expensive whiskey.
But this one?
This version of him was raw.
His hair was slightly mussed from my fingers, his pupils blown wide, mouth a little red from kissing me too hard. His breathing — ragged. Like the drink, or maybe I, had finally cracked something open in him.
"I'm not gonna rush you," he said lowly, voice hoarse.
"But if you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to lose whatever control I've got left."
That made me swallow.
Not out of fear. Out of thrill.
Because I felt that control. The weight of it. The restraint buzzing beneath his skin like a live wire held too tightly.
I was the one unraveling him.
"Then lose it," I whispered.
His eyes darkened — like a switch had flipped.
He didn't say a word.
Instead, he surged forward, and his mouth found my neck — hot, hungry kisses pressed to the skin just beneath my jaw, then down to my collarbone. His lips were rougher now, a little wild, and I gasped when he bit softly, sucking until the skin tingled under his tongue.
His hand slid up my back, fingers finding the zipper of my dress like it was instinct. One slow pull, and the whole thing loosened. He kissed me as it slipped off my shoulders, guiding it down with strong hands until it puddled at my feet.
I stood there in just my matching white lace bra and panties — not lingerie, not intentional. I hadn't dressed for this. But standing in front of him like this, stripped down, it felt like the universe had planned it for me anyway.
The moment hit me: I was fully exposed in front of a man for the first time.
No hiding. No dim lighting. Just me — my body, bare and real and trembling slightly under his stare.
I was self-conscious. Of course I was.
But I also knew what I had.
Pilates had kept my stomach flat, hips smooth. My breasts were full — real — high and soft under the lace. My skin was clean, bare. No hair below the waist — laser. Every curve was mine. Maintained. Taken care of.
His eyes dragged down slowly — neck, chest, waist, thighs — like he was memorizing every inch.
And then he straightened, pulling his shirt off in one hard motion.
I stared.
His body was... ridiculous.
Thick, broad shoulders. A chest that looked like it belonged to someone who'd never skipped a workout in his life. His abs were cut, deep lines running down into the V at his hips — sharp enough to make me bite my lip. His arms flexed as he tossed the shirt aside, the veins standing out across his forearms, thick with muscle and tension.
He looked like a man who could throw someone across the room — and like he just might if I asked.
His breathing was heavy now, chest rising and falling fast.
When he kissed me again, it was frantic. Messy. Mouth open, breath hot, like he couldn't get enough.
And then he grabbed the backs of my thighs and lifted me up like I weighed nothing — like instinct had taken over.
I barely had time to process it.
One moment I was against the floor-length mirror, the next, I was airborne — his arms hooking under my thighs, lifting me like I weighed nothing.
I gasped as my back hit the wall with a soft thud. My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. And now... now we were really pressed together.
His body was solid heat, caging me in, his erection now perfectly aligned with the aching space between my legs. I sucked in a breath, the contact sending a pulse through me so sharp it nearly made me shake.
"I told myself I'd keep it clean tonight," he muttered, breath ghosting over my cheek. "But fuck... you keep looking at me like you want to be ruined."
My fingers gripped his shoulders, nails lightly digging into the muscle there.
"I do."
I barely recognized my own voice.
His mouth was on mine again, deeper this time — all tongue and need. He kissed like he couldn't stand not to. Like something primal had taken over, and I'd become the only thing tethering him to reason.
He rocked into me, grinding slow, letting me feel how hard he was. And I moaned — low, helpless, my hips chasing his without meaning to.
"That's it," he rasped, pulling back just enough to watch my face. "God, you feel that? You're already soaking through."
I met his eyes, still trying to understand how this was the same man who stood so still and cold earlier at the bar, sipping bourbon like nothing in the room interested him.
My mind flicked, briefly, like a reflex — back to all the textbooks, diagrams, the sterile hospital training videos on sexuality and consent.
After all, I am a nurse. I knew exactly where this pleasure was coming from. I understood what he was touching, what it meant — how and why it worked.
But knowing the theory didn't prepare me for the feeling.
None of it prepared me for the heat of a man's mouth on my neck, or the drag of his thumb just beneath the swell of my breast, or the way my panties were soaked and clinging between my legs like they were useless now.
No class ever taught this.
My back hit the wall again with a soft thud as he adjusted his grip — one strong hand pressing into my hip while the other slid between us, fingers grazing my thigh, then curling around the lace edge of my panties.
He stroked over the lace first — a slow, lazy press of his fingers right where I was soaked — teasing through the thin fabric until I was grinding into his hand. Then he slipped his fingers beneath the waistband and pulled my panties aside — slow and easy — stroking between my folds with one smooth, wet motion that had me gasping.
"Jesus," he muttered, eyes dark and locked on mine. "You're already so fucking wet for me."
I felt bold. Emboldened. My hair a mess, lips swollen from his mouth — but I didn't care.
I wanted more.
His thumb circled my clit — gentle, teasing — and my legs trembled around his waist. I clutched at his shoulders, biting back a moan, but he didn't let up.
"You're sensitive," he murmured, dragging his fingers lower. "Every little touch..."
I was. It was overwhelming. A touch on my neck. His mouth on my nipple. The way his finger dipped just barely inside me and made my breath catch.
It was all too much and somehow still not enough.
And I wasn't embarrassed about it.
He pressed me harder into the wall, then reached behind me, fingers skilled as they unhooked my bra in one quick flick. The lace loosened, slipping between us as he tugged the straps down my arms. It fell away, forgotten.
His head dipped again — this time to my chest, mouth latching around my nipple with just enough suction to make me cry out. I arched into him, and he groaned against my skin like he couldn't help himself.
"Fuck, you feel good," he rasped.
His other hand was still between my thighs, stroking lazy, devastating circles over my clit, and I didn't care how loud I was now. My hips bucked forward, grinding into his palm.
"You like that?" he asked, lips brushing over my breast, wet and warm. "Tell me."
"I—" My voice broke. "Yeah. Yes."
"Yeah, you do."
He kissed down lower — over my belly, hips, thighs. Then he hooked his fingers into the sides of my panties and pulled them down — slow, deliberate — letting them slide off my legs and fall to the floor.
He dropped to his knees.
Just like that.
A man like him — on his knees in front of me, eyes locked on mine like he was about to worship me.
I braced against the wall, breath caught in my throat, legs trembling as he hooked one thigh over his shoulder and dragged his mouth forward.
The first touch of his tongue — warm, slow, deliberate — made me cry out.
And then it got worse.
Or better.
I didn't even know.
Because the way he kissed me there — slow, wet, tongue flattening and curling around every inch of me — had me gripping the edge of the wall like I might float off without it.
And when he sucked on my clit, just right, lips closing around it with obscene precision?
I nearly sobbed.
"Oh my God—"
"Don't hold back," he murmured against me. "Let me hear you."
My head fell back. I couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't think.
It was like my body had been rewired — every nerve ending sharp and awake, pulsing with a new kind of hunger. My thighs tightened around his shoulders involuntarily, hips lifting against his mouth like I couldn't not chase it anymore.
I could feel myself getting close — too fast, too much — the pressure building in my core, thick and electric, like something inside me was about to snap.
"Please," I whispered, and I didn't even know what I was begging for. More? Less? A moment to breathe?
But he didn't stop.
He just groaned into me — that low, vibrating sound that echoed right against my skin — and sucked harder, tongue flicking, precise and merciless.
And that was it.
It hit me all at once — a wave of heat and tension and release that crashed through my body so hard I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming.
My legs locked around his shoulders. My hips jolted. My whole body pulsed, wet and trembling, as pleasure ripped through me like it had been waiting all my life for a chance to be this loud.
And I barely had time to breathe—
He rose to his feet.
My back slammed softly into the wall again as he stood tall between my legs, lifting me higher, his mouth still slick from me. I was shaking, chest heaving, thighs twitching against his ribs.
But he didn't give me a second to recover.
I felt him — bare, hard, thick — pressing right against my entrance.
He'd freed himself in the seconds between, pants shoved low on his hips, cock flushed and heavy, already nudging into me.
"Oh—" I gasped.
"Couldn't wait," he groaned, voice rough and ragged in my ear. "I need to be inside you. Now."
And he pushed in.
No warning. No slow build.
Just the stretch — sudden, sharp, deep — as he sank into me with one hard, deliberate thrust.
Pain shot through me.
Not sharp like a cut — but deep, burning, like I was being forced open in a way my body had never known. My back arched instinctively, breath catching in my throat as my walls tried to adjust around him, too tight, too full, too fast.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek. Hard.
I wouldn't say a word.
He didn't know. Couldn't know.
But he stilled.
His hands tightened just a little on my hips. His head dropped to my shoulder, breath huffing out against my skin — and then he murmured it, quiet, like he felt something I hadn't said out loud.
"You okay?"
I nodded, almost too fast. Forced a sound from my throat that might've been a yes.
He pulled back — just barely — then rocked in again, slower this time. Still deep. Still thick. But with a hesitation that told me he'd noticed. That he was holding back now.
My head hit the wall again, my mouth open in a silent moan. It still hurt — a dull, stretching ache — but my body was adjusting, inch by inch, learning how to take him.
He grunted as he bottomed out, buried completely, holding still for one breathless second as my walls fluttered and clenched around him.
"Fuck," he hissed through his teeth.
"So fucking tight. You're already squeezing me like you want more."
I still couldn't speak.
My nails scraped into his shoulders, clinging. My body was too raw, too overwhelmed — still smarting from the stretch, from the newness of it — and now he was inside me, grinding deep, filling places untouched before now.
I'd never felt anything like it.
Not fingers. Not toys. Not even close.
He was thick — long — and I could feel every inch. Every throb. Every slow drag as he pulled back just a little... then shoved back in, harder.
The wet slap of our bodies echoed between us, filthy and hot, and I moaned, loud this time, legs tightening around his waist as he fucked up into me again.
"You feel that?" he growled, his hand gripping my ass, holding me open for every thrust. "You're fucking soaking. You're dripping down my cock."
And I was. God, I was.
The pain had dulled into something else now — a deep, full ache that pulsed with every stroke, transforming into something hotter, sharper. My body adjusted with each movement, melting around him, craving the next thrust even before it came.
Then his hand moved between us.
His thumb found my clit — slick and swollen — and the second he pressed down, I jerked against him, breath caught in my throat.
"Oh my—fuck—"
"That's it," he murmured, voice like gravel. "Let me feel you come around me."
He didn't stop moving. Didn't ease up. His cock drove deep and steady while his thumb circled tight and relentless over my clit. Every pass of it sent a new shockwave through my core — fast, dizzying, devastating.
My thighs were shaking. I was sweating, writhing against the wall, my nails leaving little half-moons in his back.
"I can't—" I gasped.
"Yes, you can," he growled, kissing me rough, messy. "You're right there. Let go."
And I did.
I shattered around him — every muscle locking tight, my walls spasming around his cock as the orgasm ripped through me. A wave of heat, then light, then nothing but pure, consuming sensation. I cried out, loud and raw, hips bucking helplessly as my climax tore through my body.
He groaned low in my ear, like he could feel every spasm of me squeezing around him.
"Damn!"
He was close. I could hear it. Feel it.
His rhythm faltered. His thrusts turned erratic.
Then he pulled out — fast, desperate — and stroked himself hard, just once, twice.
And then he came.
Hot, thick spurts spilled across my stomach and breasts, streaking my skin in messy, blinding heat. His jaw clenched as he watched it happen — muscles tight, chest rising hard and fast.
And I watched him watching me.
His eyes locked on the sight of me wrecked — flushed, trembling, still twitching from aftershocks, now covered in the evidence of him. His cum painted me: across my chest, over the swell of my breasts, pooling just below my navel.
And he stared like it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
His hand was still wrapped around himself, breath ragged, and he let out a low, guttural sound — something between awe and hunger.
"Fuck," he breathed, eyes dragging over every inch of me. "Look at you."
There was reverence in his voice. Like I wasn't real. Like he couldn't believe he'd done this — that I'd let him.
My chest rose and fell against his. His arms were still around me. My thighs were still shaking.
And for the first time in my life, I knew exactly what it meant to feel completely wrecked — and completely alive.