Zen…

You reach for a glass. So does he. Your fingers brush—just a second, just enough to make your breath hitch. You feel the heat of his skin, the rough drag of his fingertips before he pulls back. Slowly.

Him: You always this warm?

You: You always this close?

He doesn’t move away. Neither do you. The air is tight, charged, humming like a live wire between you.

Him: Should I be?

You: Should you?

His eyes drop to your lips. Just once. But you catch it. He wants you to catch it. Your pulse jumps.

Him: You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

You: I don’t know. Maybe you should show me.

His jaw flexes. His fingers brush yours again, slower this time. No accident.No retreat.

Then he moves. Not fast. Not rough. Just inevitable. His hand finds your waist, fingertips pressing into the thin fabric of your dress. Testing. Measuring how much you’ll let him take.

Him: Say stop.

You don’t. You can’t. Instead, you exhale— unsteady, open. An answer in itself.

His lips find the corner of your jaw, not kissing yet, just breathing you in. His other hand slides up your back, fingers curling at the base of your neck. Holding you there.

The tension isn’t breaking—it’s snapping, folding you into it.

When he finally kisses you, it’s slow.

Heavy. The kind that drags you under. His tongue parts your lips, teasing, tasting, stealing whatever breath you had left. His hands move-down, lower, gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him. Heat on heat. No space, no hesitation. Just need.

You gasp when he lifts you onto the counter, legs parting for him like instinct.

His fingers push up your dress, grazing bare skin, slipping higher, testing the wet heat waiting for him. He groans into your mouth, dark and approving.

Him: You want me here? Or the bed?

You: I don’t care. Just—

You don’t get to finish. He’s already undoing his belt, already pressing himself between your thighs, already giving you exactly what you were asking for.

The first thrust knocks the breath out of you. A stretch, a pulse, a pleasure so sharp it steals thought. You grip his shoulders, nails biting, but he likes it. You feel it in the way he thrusts deeper, the way he catches your lips again—kissing you through every movement, swallowing every sound.

He fucks like he speaks—controlled, deliberate, knowing exactly how to unravel you. And he does. Over and over. Until you’re tightening around him, until your body bows and breaks against him, until the pleasure is too much and not enough all at once.

He groans your name as he follows, hips stuttering, head dropping to your shoulder as he spills into you, hot and shuddering.

For a long second, neither of you move.

Just breathing. Just feeling. Then he leans back, tilts your chin up, and smirks—lazy, satisfied, like he already knows you’re not done with him yet.

Him: You still don’t know if you like me this close?

You laugh, breathless, already pulling him back in.

…