I slid down his body, my knees finding the scratchy carpet, and I didn't have to be told. My mouth found him before I'd even settled, taking him in, tasting myself and whiskey and the salt of his skin all tangled together. He was still slick from me, and the way that hit my tongue made me moan around him.

His hand fisted in my hair, not pulling, just holding. Grounding. "Look at you," he rasped, and the sound of it vibrated through my whole body.

I held his eyes as I took him deeper, letting my throat open for him, and his jaw went tight. The city lights glittered beyond the window, and I could see us reflected there — me on the carpet, him towering above, his hand buried in my curls.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You were made for this. Made for taking me exactly like this."

I pulled off just enough to speak, my lips brushing the head of his cock. "Then stop talking and let me."

His hips moved before he could answer, a shallow thrust that pushed him past my lips, and I took him willingly. I worked him with my tongue, tracing the vein on the underside, feeling his pulse against my mouth. His fingers tightened in my hair, and I heard the groan he tried to swallow.

"That's it," he said, his voice wrecked. "God, Tara. That's it."

I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper, until my nose brushed the coarse hair at his base, and I held there. His hips stuttered, and I felt the tremor run through his thighs. I pulled back slowly, dragging my tongue along the length of him, and his grip in my hair tightened enough to hurt.

"You're going to make me—" he started, and I cut him off by taking him back in, fast and deep, my hand wrapped around what my mouth couldn't reach.

He let me. Let me set the rhythm, let me work him with my mouth and my hand until his breathing turned ragged and his hips started moving on their own. The city watched, indifferent, and I didn't care. I wanted this. Wanted him undone by my mouth.

"Look at me," I said, pulling off just long enough to say it. "I want you to watch."

His eyes found mine, dark and hungry, and I held his gaze as I took him back in. His hand moved from my hair to my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek, and I felt the exact moment his control snapped.

His hips drove forward, and I let him. Let him fuck my mouth with a rhythm that had me gripping his thighs for balance, my eyes watering, my throat taking all of him. He was thick and relentless, and I loved every second of it.

"That's it," he groaned, his voice strangled. "Take all of it. Take all of me."

I did. I took him until his hips lost their rhythm, until his hand fisted in my hair and held me still, and then he was coming, hot and thick down my throat, a sound torn out of him that I felt in my bones. I swallowed every drop, holding his gaze the whole time, and when he finally pulled out, I was breathless and aching and happier than I'd been all night.

He pulled me up by the arms, his mouth finding mine before I could speak, tasting himself on my tongue. "You're going to kill me," he said against my lips.

I smiled, slow and wicked. "Not yet."

He didn't say a word. Just took my hand and pulled me up, his grip sure and warm, and led me through the dim apartment toward the kitchen. The counter was cold granite, and he lifted me onto it like I weighed nothing, my bare ass pressing against the stone, my legs dangling over the edge.

He looked up at me from between my thighs, and the city lights caught the dark of his eyes, the hunger there that never seemed to go out.

I leaned back on my palms, letting my legs fall open for him, and the cool air hit the heat between them. "Then take it."

He didn't need telling twice. His hands found my thighs, rough and calloused, pushing them wider, and then his mouth was on me — no teasing, no slow build, just his tongue flat against my slit, dragging up through the slick and the mess he'd already made of me. I gasped, my hips bucking off the counter, and he pressed me back down with a hand on my stomach.

"Stay still," he murmured against me, the words vibrating through my clit, and I tried. I fucking tried. But he was everywhere — his tongue circling, dipping, pressing into me, and then his fingers joined his mouth, sliding through the wetness and pushing inside me, two at once, curling up in a way that made my vision blur.

He hooked his fingers and found the spot, that rough patch inside me that made my whole body clench, and he worked it relentlessly while his tongue flicked over my clit. I was already close, the night had been hours of this, and my body was raw and open and desperate for more.

"Brian," I breathed, his name coming out broken, and I felt his smile against my skin.

"I've got you," he said, and his fingers curled again, deeper, and his mouth closed over my clit and sucked — hard, rhythmic, relentless — and I came apart. My back arched off the counter, my hand flying to his hair, gripping the short strands as the orgasm ripped through me, my pussy clenching around his fingers, my thighs shaking around his head.

He didn't stop. He worked me through it, his fingers still moving, his tongue still lapping, and when I thought I couldn't take any more, he added a third finger, stretching me, and the pressure built again — sharp, impossible, too much and not enough.

"Again," he said, pulling his mouth away just long enough to say it, his beard slick with me, his eyes dark and fixed on mine.

I shook my head, but he just smiled and put his mouth back on me, his fingers pushing deeper, and the second orgasm rose like a wave I couldn't outrun. It crashed over me, harder than the first, my whole body convulsing, a sound torn out of me that I couldn't name. I heard myself begging, the words falling out of me without thought — "please, please, please" — and he gave me exactly what I asked for.

His fingers fucked me through it, fast and deep, and his tongue kept working my clit until I was sobbing, overstimulated and trembling, my hands pushing weakly at his head.

"Too much," I gasped. "Brian, it's too much."

He pulled back, his fingers sliding out of me slowly, and I felt the emptiness like a physical ache. He stood, his body blocking the light, and his hand came up to my jaw, tilting my face to his. He kissed me, slow and deep, and I tasted myself on his tongue, the salt and the want of it.

"Not too much," he said against my lips. "Not nearly enough."

He pulled back, and I saw him looking at me — wrecked and marked and trembling on the kitchen counter — and something in his eyes shifted. Not hunger. Something quieter. Something that made my chest tight.

"You're shaking," he said, and his thumb traced my lower lip, rough and gentle at once.

I was. I could feel it, the tremor running through my thighs, my hands, the aftershocks still rippling through me. "I know," I said, and my voice was hoarse, used.

He leaned in, his forehead against mine, his breath warm on my mouth. "I'm not done with you," he said, and I felt the promise of it in the way his hands held my hips, steady and sure.

I slid off the counter, my legs barely holding me, and he caught me around the waist before I could wobble. The whiskey bottles from the minibar sat on the granite like they'd been waiting all night, and he reached past me, uncapping one and pouring two fingers into a glass.

"You want one?" he asked, his voice still rough from my mouth, and I nodded, too breathless to speak.

He poured the second glass, handed it to me, and then he was moving, pulling me by the hand toward the couch. The leather was cool against my bare skin as I sank into it, and he settled across from me, one arm draped over the back, his glass balanced on his knee. We sat there, naked and slick and utterly unhurried, the city lights burning beyond the window like they had nowhere else to be.

The whiskey burned going down, warm and smoky, and I watched him over the rim of my glass. He watched me back, his brown eyes dark and patient, and there was something in the way he looked at me — like I was a meal he was savoring, not rushing.

"You're staring," I said, and my voice came out steadier than I felt.

"You're worth staring at."

I took another sip, let the heat spread through my chest, and then I set the glass down on the floor beside the couch. The decision came over me like a wave, slow and deliberate, and I saw his eyes track the movement as I leaned back, my hands finding the edge of the cushion behind me.

"I want you to watch," I said, and I let my knees fall open.

His jaw went tight. The glass in his hand stilled.

I spread myself for him, the cool air hitting the heat between my thighs, and I let my fingers trail down my stomach, slow and teasing, before they found the slick mess he'd left me. I was already wet, swollen from his mouth and his fingers, and I moaned softly as I circled my clit, my head falling back against the couch.

"Fuck," he breathed, and I felt his eyes on me like a physical weight.

I worked myself slowly, deliberately, letting him see everything — my fingers sliding through the wetness, the way my hips rolled into my own touch, the soft sounds I couldn't hold back. His hand moved to his cock, his fist wrapping around the base, and he started stroking himself in time with my fingers, his eyes never leaving mine.

"That's it," he said, his voice low and wrecked. "Show me how you touch yourself when I'm not there."

The thought of it — of me alone in my bed, thinking of him, doing exactly this — sent a spike of heat through me, and I pressed harder, faster, my fingers circling my clit until my thighs started to shake. He matched me, stroke for stroke, his hand moving over his length, and I watched the way his jaw tightened, the way his chest rose and fell.

"I think about you," I gasped, the words falling out of me as the pressure built. "When I do this. I think about your hands. Your mouth."

His fist tightened, a low groan escaping him. "Yeah?"

"I think about you inside me." My fingers moved faster, desperate now, the orgasm rising like something I couldn't hold back. "About how full you make me feel."

"Look at me," he said, and I did, my eyes finding his as my body tightened, the edge so close I could feel it in my teeth. "Come for me, Tara. Let me watch."

I did. The orgasm hit me like a wave, my back arching off the couch, my fingers pressing hard against my clit as I rode it out, my whole body trembling with it. I heard myself moan his name, broken and raw, and he watched me through it, his hand still stroking himself, his eyes burning into mine.

When I finally stilled, my hand dropped to my thigh, slick and shaking, and I saw his cock in his fist, thick and hard, a drop of precum glistening at the tip. He looked at me like he wanted to devour me.

"Is it time?" he asked, his voice rough, measured. "Time to get the toys out and take this night to the next level?"

The words hung in the air between us, and I felt the shift — something new opening, something we hadn't touched yet. My heart hammered in my chest, and I met his eyes, a slow smile spreading across my face.

"I thought you'd never ask."