To the right?

The hallway felt warmer here, or maybe it was just her skin. The wine. The ache between her thighs.

Emily walked toward the door at the far end—double-paneled, heavy, cracked just enough to spill a faint line of gold across the floor. Music from downstairs was barely a murmur now, muffled by distance and opulence. Her heels sank into the plush carpet, her breathing soft but shaky.

The door creaked when she pushed it open.

Inside it was dim. Velvet drapes drawn. One low lamp lit in the corner, casting shadows across thick rugs and antique furniture. The bed—massive, king-sized, dark wood—was turned down. A suit jacket lay across a chaise lounge. Cufflinks gleamed on the nightstand.

And he was already there.

He sat at the edge of the bed, his shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled back. His face was turned toward the shadows, his jawline visible, the rest blurred in the low light.

Emily’s heart fluttered, but not with fear.

“Mm… someone got here first,” she whispered, voice a little slurred, all teasing warmth.

He didn’t answer right away, just looked up. The shadows clung to him.

But he was hers. He had to be.

“I was going to make you beg for it,” she murmured, letting the door fall shut behind her, the soft click sealing her inside and reducing the light further making it more intimate.

He stood slowly. Tall. Broader than she remembered Jason being. Maybe it was the lighting. The ****. The way her blood had rushed to all the wrong places.

“Emily,” he said, low and certain.

She shivered. “You like the dress?”

He came toward her—steady, without speaking—and his hands found her hips before she could think of anything clever to say. His mouth met hers, rougher than usual, urgent. She gasped against it.

“Mmm, fuck—I missed this,” she groaned, tilting her head back, letting him kiss down her neck, her collarbone, his hands sliding over her ass.

He didn’t reply.

But he didn’t have to.

The straps of her dress slipped down first. His fingers dragged them slowly, exposing her shoulders, then the curve of her breasts. He didn’t pause—not to say anything sweet, not to hesitate. Just tugged the fabric down and leaned in to suck her nipple, teeth catching the sensitive edge just enough to make her cry out.

“Oh God—fuck, yes—” She clutched at his hair, his shoulders, guiding him down as her dress crumpled around her ankles. No bra. No panties. She’d come up prepared.

His palms roamed her back, her thighs, gripped her ass so tight she gasped. Then he pushed her gently, insistently, toward the bed.

She went.

His voice was deeper. She noticed that distantly, abstractly, as he climbed over her, his belt clicking open, zipper whispering down. But the fog in her brain drowned it all beneath sensation.

He kissed her hard, fingers spreading her open.

She was already soaked.

“So wet for me,” he growled, rough and quiet.

She nodded, unable to speak, trembling under him.

He slid into her with one slow, thick thrust.

“Ahh—fuck—!” Her back arched instantly, hands scrambling for the sheets, thighs shaking. He filled her in a way she hadn’t expected. More. Harder. Deeper. Different.

Jason must’ve been drinking, she thought. That had to be it. He was harder than usual, more aggressive. Maybe he’d missed this just as much as she had.

The rhythm started fast. Unapologetic. Each thrust jolted through her, hips pinned beneath his weight. His hand found her throat—not ****, just pressing, holding her still. Her pussy clenched hard around him, her cries swallowed by the velvet silence of the room.

She moaned louder. Shameless. Her legs wrapped around him, dragging him deeper.

“Yes—yes—don’t stop, please, I need it—!”

He slammed into her, again and again, harder than Jason had ever fucked her, but her mind wouldn’t let the thought take shape. It felt too good. She’d needed this for so long.

And when he leaned down, lips at her ear, and whispered her name again—

“Emily…”

She whimpered, clinging tighter. The sound of her name only made her wetter.