The loft pulsed with heat, shadows licking the brick walls like a lover’s tongue. Tessa leaned against the rough surface, her dark hair a wild cascade over one shoulder, the emerald silk slip plastered to her skin with sweat. It rode high, barely hiding the slick heat throbbing between her thighs.

She’d sworn off men after Mark—six months of silence after his cheating ass—but Julian’s smirk at the bar had been a dare she couldn’t ignore. Now, across the room, he stood shirtless, his lean frame cut with just enough muscle, hazel eyes pinning her like prey. His jeans bulged with need, and the crooked tilt of his mouth said he knew she was already soaked.

They’d sparred all night—her barbed wit over whiskey, his low, dark laughs that made her nipples ache. The walk to his place had been torture, every brush of his hand sending her cunt into clenched, aching spirals. Now, in his space, the air sizzled. Tessa shifted, breath shallow, thighs pressed tight as Julian prowled closer, barefoot and silent.

“You’ve been fucking with me all night,” he said, voice rough, scraped raw. “What’s your play now?”

Tessa smirked, masking the tremble in her core. “Maybe I’ll leave you hard and begging. See if you can handle it.”

He laughed—low, filthy—stepping in until she felt his heat. “I don’t beg,” he growled, yanking her slip up, exposing her dripping pussy. “I take.”

His fingers barely brushed her folds, and she gasped. Not from shock—from the sharp, unbearable need. She caught his wrist, not to stop him, but to drag him closer, crashing her mouth into his.

Their tongues fought, wet and ruthless, as she clawed his chest, nails scraping over muscle and skin. Julian snarled, shoving the silk higher, his hands grabbing her ass, kneading until she hissed.

They stumbled to the bed, a storm of curses and limbs. Her slip hit the floor, baring her heavy tits and the glossy trail down her thighs. His jeans followed—his cock sprang free, thick and ready, the head shining. Tessa shoved him down, straddling him, grinding her soaked cunt along his length.

He groaned, hips lifting. She pinned his wrists with a wicked grin.

“Think you’re in charge? Watch this.”

His eyes darkened. “Prove it,” he dared.

She slid off him and stood, his cock twitching in the air. For a second, confusion flickered.

“What the—”

“I hope you’re ready,” she said, voice low, wicked, “because I’m about to unleash my secret weapon: the interpretive dance of passion.”

She moved slowly, hips rolling like waves, obscene and hypnotic. Her hands teased her own skin—cupping her breasts, rolling her nipples, then gliding down to part her folds. She spun, bent low, baring her ass, letting him see everything.