Ask David to tell you in detail what he plans to do with you once you get to the hotel room

The taxi rumbles along Brighton's seafront, streetlights casting golden patterns across your faces as you lean into David's warmth. Your emerald nails glint wickedly as you trace them lightly across his thigh, watching goosebumps rise in their wake.

"So," you purr, tilting your head to look up at him through mascara-thickened lashes, "tell me exactly what you plan to do with me once we get to that hotel room."

David's eyes darken, his breath catching as your pointed nail traces higher up his leg. He glances briefly at the taxi driver, then lowers his voice to a husky whisper.

"First, I'm going to watch you walk into that room ahead of me," he begins, his words measured and deliberate against your ear. "Those fucking nails of yours clicking against whatever you touch. Then I'm going to come up behind you, gather all that beautiful red hair in my fist, and pull your head back so I can kiss your neck."

His hand finds yours, thumb stroking over your new bracelet. "I'll unclip that little bikini top of yours—been driving me crazy all day—and feel those perfect tits while you stand there helpless, just taking whatever I give you."

The confidence in his voice makes your pulse quicken. This doesn't sound like shy banker David; this is something else entirely.

"And then?" you prompt, voice breathy.

"Then I'm going to bend you over the nearest surface," he continues, growing bolder as he sees your reaction. "Pull those bikini bottoms down your thighs, and see just how wet talking like this has made you."

His fingers interlace with yours, carefully navigating around your stiletto nails.

"I'll make you beg for it," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "With those gorgeous lips of yours. Maybe I'll have you on your knees first, those dangerous nails wrapped around my cock like they were under the table."

You feel a rush of heat between your legs at his words, surprised by how explicitly he's answering your question.

"And when I finally fuck you," David continues, his voice dropping even lower, "I want those nails digging into my back, marking me. I want to hear exactly what I'm doing to you—how good it feels—in that pretty little voice."

The taxi slows as you approach the hotel, an elegant Victorian building overlooking the marina. David sits back slightly, adjusting himself discreetly.

"That's just for starters," he adds with a newfound confidence that sends shivers down your spine. "We've got all night, and I plan to use every minute of it."

20:00 | Monday 4 August 2025 | The Sandcastle Hotel, Brighton

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