The cab pulls up to the hotel entrance, the neon sign buzzing overhead like a dying insect. Mikha hands the driver a crumpled wad of bills, not even waiting for change, and slides out. She holds her hand out for Aiah.

Aiah takes it, her heels wobbling on the pavement. The world is soft at the edges, the way it gets when the alcohol has settled deep into her bones. The hotel lobby swims past her—marble floors, a chandelier that blurs into a thousand tiny suns, a receptionist whose smile looks practiced.

Mikha's voice is low and steady as she talks to the receptionist. Aiah can't make out the words. She's too busy watching the way Mikha's jaw moves when she speaks, the way her leather jacket creaks when she leans against the counter. She's beautiful in a way that makes Aiah's chest ache.

Then they're in the elevator, and the doors slide shut with a soft hiss. The space is small and warm, and Mikha's hand is on her waist, pulling her close.

The kiss comes out of nowhere. One second Aiah is staring at the floor numbers ticking up, and the next Mikha's mouth is on hers, hungry and demanding. Aiah melts into it, her hands finding their way to Mikha's shoulders, gripping the leather like it's the only thing keeping her upright.

Mikha's hands roam down Aiah's back, grabbing her ass with a confidence that makes Aiah gasp into the kiss. Her fingers dig into the fabric of Aiah's dress, squeezing, kneading, like she can't get enough of the feel.

Aiah pulls back just enough to speak, her voice breathy and teasing. "You really like that, huh?"

Mikha's eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "It's so full. Fits perfectly in my palms." She squeezes again for emphasis, and Aiah's breath hitches.

The elevator dings. The doors open.

Mikha grabs Aiah's hand and pulls her down the hallway. The carpet is thick and muffles their footsteps. Room 412. Mikha fumbles with the key card, cursing under her breath when it doesn't work the first time. The second time, the light flashes green, and the door swings open.

They stumble inside. The room is dark, the only light coming from the city filtering through the curtains. Mikha kicks the door shut behind them, and then her mouth is on Aiah's again, fierce and unrelenting.

Aiah's fingers find the zipper of Mikha's jacket. She tugs it down, pushing the leather off Mikha's shoulders. It falls to the floor with a heavy thud. Underneath, Mikha's wearing a plain black shirt, and Aiah can see the outline of her collarbones, the way her chest rises and falls with quick breaths.

Mikha doesn't waste a second. She hooks her arms under Aiah's thighs and lifts her, carrying her across the room like she weighs nothing. Aiah wraps her legs around Mikha's waist, her heels digging into Mikha's back. Their mouths never separate.

Mikha lowers Aiah onto the bed, gentle despite the hunger rolling off her. The mattress dips under Aiah's weight, the sheets cool against her bare arms. Mikha hovers over her, staring down with an intensity that makes Aiah's stomach flip.

They reach for each other at the same time. Aiah's fingers fumble with the hem of Mikha's shirt while Mikha's hands find the straps of Aiah's dress. There's a moment of clumsy struggle, fabric catching on skin, and then Mikha grips the neckline of Aiah's dress and pulls.

The fabric tears.

The sound is sharp in the quiet room. Aiah looks down at the ripped dress, then back up at Mikha, who's breathing hard, her chest heaving. There's something feral in her eyes, something that makes Aiah's body flush with heat.

"That was my favorite dress," Aiah says, but there's no heat in it. Just a breathless laugh.

"I'll buy you a new one." Mikha's voice is rough, wrecked. Her hands are already moving, pushing the torn fabric aside, revealing Aiah's body inch by inch.

Aiah's not doing any better. She yanks at Mikha's shirt, pulling it over Mikha's head. It gets caught on her elbows for a second, and they both laugh, the sound swallowed by another kiss.

Then Mikha pulls back. She stands at the edge of the bed, looking down at Aiah.

Aiah is a mess. Her dress hangs off her in shreds, exposing her honey skin. She's left in just nipple tapes, a black t-back panty, and her heels. The city lights cast shadows across her body, highlighting every curve.

Mikha lets out a low whistle. "Fuck."

Aiah props herself up on her elbows, a lazy smile on her lips. "Like what you see?"

"You're fucking breathtaking." Mikha's voice is barely a whisper. She reaches down, unbuckling her belt with practiced ease. Her jeans drop to the floor, and she steps out of them, leaving her in just a pair of white boxer briefs.

Aiah's eyes travel down Mikha's body. The red hair, the fair skin, the athletic build. And then her gaze lands on the bulge straining against the white fabric. It's thick, long, unmistakable.

Aiah's mouth goes dry. "Holy shit."

Mikha crawls back onto the bed, her body covering Aiah's. Their mouths meet again, hard and desperate. Mikha grinds her hips down, the friction of her clothed dick against Aiah's clothed pussy sending sparks through both of them.

Aiah moans into Mikha's mouth, her hands wrapping around Mikha's neck, pulling her closer. They move together in a rhythm that's already familiar, already perfect. The dry humping is maddening, the layers of fabric between them a torture Aiah didn't know she craved.

Mikha's kisses trail down Aiah's jaw, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone. Her lips leave a trail of fire in their wake. When she reaches Aiah's chest, she pauses, her eyes locking with Aiah's.

She takes the edge of the nipple tape between her teeth and pulls it off, slow and deliberate. Aiah's breath catches at the sight—Mikha's dark eyes watching her as she works the tape free, the faint sting of it giving way to something else entirely.

Aiah moans, her back arching off the bed. "Fuck."

Mikha repeats the process with the other side, her tongue darting out to soothe the sensitive skin. Once both of Aiah's breasts are free, Mikha latches on, her mouth hot and hungry. Her hand palms the other breast, squeezing tightly, rolling the nipple between her fingers.

Aiah's hands tangle in Mikha's hair, holding her in place. The sensation is overwhelming, a flood of heat that pools low in her belly.

Then Mikha's hand moves lower. It slides down Aiah's stomach, over her hip, and slips beneath the waistband of her panty. She pulls the fabric aside, and her fingers find Aiah's slick heat.

"Fuck," Mikha breathes against Aiah's skin. "You're so wet. And shaved."

Aiah can't form a response. She's too far gone, her hips bucking into Mikha's touch. Mikha's fingers play with her folds, teasing her, circling her clit but never pushing inside. It's maddening, the anticipation building until Aiah is a moaning mess beneath her.

Mikha kisses her again, swallowing her sounds, while her fingers continue their torturous exploration. Aiah's hands grip the sheets, her knuckles white. She's so close, so close—

Mikha pulls back. She sits up, hooking her fingers into Aiah's panty and pulling it down Aiah's legs. Then she stands, shoving her boxer briefs down her thighs.

Aiah's breath catches at the sight. Mikha's dick is thick and long, hard and straining. It's the kind of size that makes Aiah's thighs clench involuntarily.

"That's not going to fit," Aiah says, the words slipping out before she can stop them.

Mikha chuckles, low and dark. "It'll fit. You're soaking wet for me."

She crawls back onto the bed, positioning herself between Aiah's thighs. Their mouths meet again, softer this time, almost tender. Aiah's hands roam across Mikha's back, feeling the muscles shift beneath her skin.

Mikha grinds her dick against Aiah's folds, the underside of it catching on her clit, gathering the slickness. They both moan at the contact, the sensation electric.

"I want to go inside you raw," Mikha whispers, her voice drunk and desperate.

"Just pull out," Aiah breathes back. "Spill it on me."

Mikha nods, her forehead pressed against Aiah's. She positions herself, the tip of her dick pressing against Aiah's entrance. Then she kisses Aiah deeply, swallowing her gasp as she starts to push inside.

Aiah's mouth falls open. Her back arches. Her nails dig into Mikha's back, hard enough to leave marks. Mikha is thick, and the stretch is overwhelming, her body struggling to accommodate the sheer size of it.

Mikha inches in slowly, muttering curses under her breath. "Fuck. Fuck, you're so tight."

Aiah can't speak. She can't think. She just feels—the impossible fullness, the way Mikha fills her completely. It's the first time she's felt a dick this huge, and it's everything she didn't know she needed.

When Mikha is finally fully inside, she stills. She presses soft kisses across Aiah's face, her neck, her shoulder, giving her time to adjust. Her hands cup Aiah's face, thumbs brushing away the tears that have gathered at the corners of her eyes.

"Okay?" Mikha asks, her voice barely a whisper.

Aiah nods, her throat too tight for words. She clenches around Mikha, testing the feeling, and they both groan.

"Move," Aiah finally manages. "Please."

Mikha obeys. She pulls out slowly, almost all the way, then pushes back in, the drag of it sending sparks up Aiah's spine. She sets a slow rhythm, deep and deliberate, each thrust hitting a spot that makes Aiah see stars.

Mikha kisses her again, swallowing her moans, their bodies moving together in a rhythm that's primal and perfect. Minutes pass, or maybe hours, the world outside the room ceasing to exist.

"Harder," Aiah whispers against Mikha's lips.

Mikha pulls back, her hands finding Aiah's breasts. She palms them tightly, using them as leverage, and starts pounding into her. The force of it rocks Aiah's body, her eyes rolling back with the sensation.

Mikha's eyes are dark, full of lust, her curses a quiet litany against Aiah's skin. "Fuck, you feel so good. So fucking good."

Then Mikha's hands move again, grabbing Aiah's thighs and pushing them up, folding Aiah nearly in half. The new angle makes Mikha go even deeper, and Aiah cries out, her hands fisting the sheets.

"Yes, yes, yes—" Aiah's words dissolve into incoherent moans. Her legs start to shake, the pressure building to an unbearable peak.

"Come for me," Mikha grunts, her thrusts becoming erratic. "I can feel you clenching."

Aiah's orgasm crashes over her like a wave, her body convulsing, her moans turning into a sharp cry. Mikha fucks her through it, chasing her own release, and then she pulls out just in time, spilling her cum across Aiah's stomach and chest.

Mikha collapses beside her, both of them breathing hard, their bodies slick with sweat. The room is quiet except for the sound of their ragged breaths and the rattle of the window unit.

Aiah stares at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling. The alcohol is still in her system, fuzzy and warm, but the clarity is starting to break through. She turns her head to look at Mikha, who's already looking at her.

"That was—" Aiah starts, but she doesn't know how to finish the sentence.

Mikha reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from Aiah's face. Her touch is gentle, almost reverent. "Yeah," she says. "It was."

Aiah's phone buzzes somewhere on the floor, forgotten. She ignores it. Right now, with Mikha's hand still warm on her cheek and the taste of sex still on her lips, nothing else matters.