🍺Ruby Boo🚬

The contrast between the quiet hotel and the thumping music still ringing in your ears made your stomach turn, the dreaded hangover already creeping in. As you fumbled with the key, trying to get the door open, you felt hands slide slowly onto your waist, followed by soft kisses pressing against your neck.

“Tommy, what are you doing?” you whispered, still focused on the lock.

“You—in this dress… you look fucking amazing,” he murmured.

You shushed him quickly, glancing down the empty corridor, trying to be respectful to the other guests—especially at four in the morning.

But he didn’t stop. His lips trailed higher, gently moving your long, wavy hair out of the way, giving himself better access. Your fingers finally managed to turn the key, and the door clicked open. You stumbled slightly into the dark room, leaving him just behind you.

Inside, you kicked off your kitten heels, sending them somewhere into the darkness to deal with later. Your head was spinning as you reached for your purse, digging around for your phone.

That’s when you noticed him.

Two jean-clad legs, standing right in front of you.

You hadn’t even heard him come in.

Then his hand found your jaw—slow, deliberate—guiding your face upward until your eyes met his. His thumb brushed across your bottom lip, still slick with red gloss smudging it, before gently pulling it down.

For a second, everything stilled.

Your breath caught, your thoughts slipping away as he held you there, close enough to feel the warmth of him, the weight of the moment settling in.

You were completely speechless.

Not knowing what to do, you let him continue.

Slowly, his hand slipped away—only for the space between you to feel tighter somehow.

“Did you wear that on purpose?” he murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Just to distract me all night… hm?”

Before you could answer, his hand returned—this time firmer—fingers curling lightly at your neck, pulling you up until you were level with him.

Now standing, you felt it fully—the way he was affecting you.

Your legs weakened beneath you, turning to jelly at his words, at the way he looked at you like that. Your breath caught again, your lip caught between your teeth as you nodded, almost without thinking.

Waiting.

Wanting him to do something. Your thoughts blurred, your body answering before your mind could catch up. You rise onto your toes, closing the distance—but he doesn’t let you finish it.

His hand at your neck tightens just enough to stop you there, holding you exactly where he wants you. Close. So close it almost hurts.

Your breath stutters against his mouth.

He watches it happen.

Watches you.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low, steady. “You’re getting impatient.”

Your fingers bunch in his shirt, pulling without thinking, trying to drag him the last inch—He doesn’t move. Not even a little.

Instead, his thumb finds your lip again, pressing in slightly, dragging it down just enough to make your breath catch harder this time.

“There it is,” he says softly, like he’s pleased with himself. “That look.”

Heat floods your face, your chest rising quicker now, your body already leaning into him even though he hasn’t actually kissed you yet—and that’s the worst part.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice?” he continues, quieter now, his forehead almost brushing yours. “The dress, the way you kept looking at me…”

His grip shifts, fingers curling more firmly at your neck—not rough, but grounding. Controlling.

“You’ve been waiting for this all night.”

It’s not a question.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out—just another unsteady breath that gives you away completely.

His mouth hovers closer.

Closer.

Barely there.

Then—just as you lean in again—he pulls back. Only an inch. But it’s enough to make your stomach drop. A soft, frustrated sound slips out of you before you can stop it. And that—that’s what breaks his composure.

A quiet exhale leaves him, almost like a laugh under his breath, his grip tightening just slightly as his eyes flick between yours.

“Say it,” he says, softer now—but firmer somehow.

You shake your head faintly, barely able to think, your body already chasing the warmth he just took away.

“Tommy—”

His thumb presses again, a subtle warning.

“Use your words.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. Your grip on him tightens, desperate now, your balance barely holding as you stay on your toes, still trying to close a gap he won’t let you have.

“I want you,” you manage, breathless, the words slipping out before you can overthink them.

He stills.

For a second—nothing.

Then his jaw tightens, like that was the last thing holding him back.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I know.”

And this time when he pulls you in—he doesn’t stop. The kisses start on your lips then slowly making their way across your face, the cheek and then towards your ear.

His lips drift down your neck, slow and deliberate, like he’s testing just how much you’ll let him get away with. Before you can gather your thoughts, he catches your hand where it rests on his shoulder.

Guiding it.

Your breath falters as he moves your palm down his chest—over warmth and muscle, unhurried, intentional. Every inch feels like a question he’s asking without words. Until it stops on his very warm, very thick bulge.

“You want this?” he murmurs, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your mind feels hazy, caught somewhere between hesitation and want.

He tilts his head, watching you carefully.

“Hm?” he presses, softer this time. “Give me something.”

There’s something almost pleading beneath his confidence now, like he’s holding himself back by a thread.

You swallow, heart racing. Instead of answering, you move.

Slow at first—tentative. Your hand traces back along the path he set, testing, learning. His reaction is immediate; a sharp breath, a subtle shift closer, like he can’t help it.

Encouraged, you let your touch linger, growing more certain.

“You like that?” you murmur, your voice lower now, steadier than you feel.

He nods, but words seem beyond him. Instead, he leans in, capturing your lips again—this time slower, deeper, like he’s savouring it.

There’s a new urgency beneath it.

His hands find you, guiding, and before you fully register it, you’re moving backward. Step by step, until the edge of the bed hits behind your knees.

A gentle push—and you fall back onto the mattress, a soft bounce beneath you.

For a moment, everything stills.

Your hair spills across your face, half-hiding your expression as you look up at him. Your gaze lingers—heavy-lidded, searching.

He stands above you, chest rising and falling, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Then, without breaking that gaze, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it off, revealing inked patterns across his skin—artwork that draws your eyes in without permission.

You don’t look away.

Neither does he.

The air between you feels thicker now. Charged.

Like whatever happens next is balancing on the edge of a single breath.

He kneels between your legs, at the edge of the bed. You smile slowly, putting your feet on his shoulder. He places small kisses on your calf slowly upwards until he gets to your mid-thigh. His big hands slowly make their way up your outer thigh towards your knickers, grabbing the edges and pulling them down.

Throwing them across the room.

“Take the dress off.” That wasn’t a question; it was a statement. You sit up to take it off.

You slide the dress up over your head, the fabric whispering against your skin like a secret finally let loose, leaving you bare under the dim glow of the bedside lamp. The air feels cool against your flushed body, a teasing contrast to the heat building between you, and you toss the garment aside without a second thought, your eyes locked on his as you settle back against the pillows.

He rises slightly on his knees, his gaze raking over you like a predator savouring the hunt, dark and unhurried. Those strong hands return, one palm pressing flat against your inner thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles that send sparks skittering up your spine, while the other cups the curve of your hip, fingers digging in just enough to anchor you.

"Good girl," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, like thunder rolling distant but inevitable, his breath hot against your skin as he leans in closer.

You feel the mattress dip under his weight as he shifts forward, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your navel, planting a trail of open-mouthed kisses that grow bolder, wetter, each one pulling a soft gasp from your throat—ahh, like the sigh of wind through cracked windows.

His tongue flicks out, tasting the salt of your skin, and he nips lightly at the swell of your hipbone, drawing a sharper inhale from you, your fingers instinctively threading into his hair to guide him lower.

But he pauses there, hovering, his eyes flicking up to meet yours with a wicked glint, challenging.

"Tell me what you want," he says, not quite a command but edged with it, his fingers inching higher along your thigh, teasing the edges of where you ache most, the heat of him so close you can feel the promise of it radiating like embers waiting to ignite.

His free hand slides up to your breast, thumb circling the peak until it hardens under his touch, a slow torture that makes your back arch, inviting more.

You bite your lip, the words tumbling out in a husky whisper,

"Your mouth... on me," and he chuckles low in his chest, the sound vibrating against you as he finally descends, lips parting to claim you with a hunger that's all slow burn and building storm. His tongue delves into your clit with deliberate strokes, circling and pressing, drawing out moans that echo in the room, while his hands hold your thighs wide, fingers bruising in the best way, pinning you open for every flick and suck that unravels you thread by thread.