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“Thank you,” I say as he walks me to my door. “For tonight. For making it feel...” I pause, searching for words that won’t reveal too much. “Real.”

“It was real.” His voice is quiet, serious. “Whatever else this is, Kat, tonight was real.”

I don’t think.

I kiss him before I lose the nerve

It starts soft, tentative—a question I’m not sure I want answered. Then his hand grabs my face and he kisses me back, and everything changes.

This isn’t polite or careful or safe. This is hunger unleashed. Weeks of wanting compressed into a single moment of contact. His tongue sweeps against mine and I melt into him, every nerve ending lighting up like I’ve been struck by lightning.

He tastes like wine and ruin and the memory of his tongue between my legs. And I let him kiss me like I don’t already know how filthy his mouth can get.

His hands fist in my dress like he’s seconds from tearing it off, the other slides into my hair. And I let him. I let him take whatever he needs because I’m seconds from giving him everything.

I feel him hard against me—thick and urgent—and it’s everything I can do not to slide my thigh between his and ride the tension until it breaks.

I slide my hands down, fingers already on his belt. He pulls back just an inch, panting. “Kat—”

“I want to,” I whisper, already sinking to my knees. “Don’t stop me.”

His jaw clenches so tight I can see it twitch. His hands hang at his sides like he doesn’t trust them not to grab me.

“Fuck me,” he mutters. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

But he doesn’t stop me.

I tug open his belt, unfasten his pants, and push them low enough. And Jesus—he’s thick, already flushed, heavy against his thigh. Not just hard—hungry.

I wrap my hand around him and the sound he makes punches right through me. No words. Just a sharp breath that breaks into a groan. Like I caught him off guard.

He’s hot in my hand. My fingers tighten and I stroke once, slow, just to watch him fall apart.

“Shit,” he growls. “You’re killing me.”

I lean in, kiss the underside first, then drag my tongue up the shaft. He twitches. His breath catches. When I lick across the head—messy and slow—he shudders like he might break in half.

His hips jerk when I take the tip into my mouth. Then I sink lower, slow and smooth until my lips hit my hand.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters. “You’re not playing fair.”

I hum around him in answer, and the vibration makes his knees lock.

I start to move. Up and down, slow at first, then faster. My hand follows, twisting just right. His cock glides through my lips slick with spit, and the sounds—the wet pop every time I pull off, the thick drag of him over my tongue—drives me wild.

His hand slides into my hair, gripping just tight enough to anchor, not force.

“Just like that,” he rasps. “Don’t stop. You’re—fuck—you’re unreal.”

I take him deep. Let myself go messy. Drool hits my chin as I bob over him, faster now, popping off the tip only to swallow him again.

“Fuck... shit... fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked and barely holding on.

My name leaves his mouth in a growl. “Kat... Jesus, I’m gonna—”

I look up. Don’t stop. Let him see everything I’m giving him.

And that’s when he snaps.