#inhaler

Too close, maybe. His leg pressed lightly against yours, neither of you shifting away. The weed had hit (so did the whiskey), mellow and heavy, and your whole body felt like it was floating. But your mind — your mind was doing somersaults.

You could smell him. That same cedarwood-after-smoke scent he always carried, always just barely there. And you shouldn't notice that, shouldn't care. But the warmth pooling low in your stomach said otherwise.

"You're quiet," Elijah said suddenly, voice low like a secret.

You glanced at him. His eyes were red-rimmed and a little glassy, his curls a mess from when he kept running his hands through them. He looked unfairly good. Not even in a rockstar way — just...him. Familiar and infuriating and heartbreakingly safe.

"Just thinking," you said, blinking up at the stars like they could save you from the daydream you were slipping into.

"About?"

You should've lied. You should've said something dumb — the stars, Lucy's nonsense, or how Josh still couldn't roll a proper joint. But you were too high for that kind of finesse.

"You."

He tilted his head, his expression unreadable in the low light. "Yeah?"

You gave a half-shrug, suddenly feeling exposed. "Dunno. Just...It's weird, isn't it? How we've all known each other forever, but sometimes I look at you and it feels like I'm seeing you for the first time."

He didn't answer right away. He just stared, eyes dropping to your mouth for half a second too long, before flicking back up to your eyes.

The air thickened. Like summer heat before a thunderstorm.

"Eli," you said, voice soft, guilty even. "I probably shouldn't say any more."

"Probably not," he agreed.

Neither of you moved.

The laughter in the background faded to a blur, the music distant. Everything felt underwater. Too slow. Too much.

You imagined his hands. On your hips. On your neck. Tangled in your hair. You imagined saying fuck it and kissing him, right there, while everyone else was too stoned to care. You imagined him pulling you into his lap and whispering the things you wanted to hear but could never ask for.

You looked away,

"God," you muttered under your breath. "I need water or I'm going to say something really fucking stupid."

Elijah laughed. Quiet, low, raspy.

"I'd probably say something worse."

Your gaze snapped back to his, and this time you didn't look away.

There was something unspoken hanging there — thick, heavy, humid — suspended in the summer air and the smoke curling lazily around the two of you.

He leaned in just a little, breath brushing your ear as he whispered, "Tell me later."

Your heart stuttered.

And maybe it was the weed. Maybe it was the years of almosts. Maybe it was everything finally catching up with you.

But in that moment, your daydreams didn't feel so far from reach anymore.

—————————————————

The night had slipped into that dangerous kind of blur — too many joints lit at once, whiskey glasses way too full, everyone too relaxed, too loud, too far gone.

Caoimhe was giggling at something Josh had muttered under his breath, their shoulders pressed against yours like bookends holding you up. But across the fire, Elijah hadn't laughed in minutes.

His eyes were on you. Still.

It was relentless. His stare wasn't subtle, wasn't gentle. It burned. Possessive. Heavy. The kind of look that sank into your skin and didn't let go. He didn't care who saw it. His glass was low in his hand, fingers loose, his star ring catching the firelight — and still, all his attention was on you.

You shifted under it, tried to laugh at something Rob said, tried to focus on Martha gripping Rob's arm while she stared at him like he hung the moon just for her. But it was like Elijah's gaze was pulling at the hem of your linen button up shirt, trailing down the slope of your shoulder, setting fire to the inside of your throat.

You couldn't take it anymore.

"I—uh—water. Need some water," you said, voice too sharp, too fast. You were on your feet before anyone could respond, your steps uneven as you practically bolted into your house.

The kitchen lights were too bright. The cold water from the tap hit your glass in a hiss, and you drank it like it might save you. But it didn't. You slammed the glass down harder than you mean to, chest rising and falling like you'd run a marathon.

Head in your hands. Elbows digging into the marble counter. You squeezed your eyes shut.

"Get a grip," you whispered to yourself. "He's your friend. He's always been your friend. Just your friend."

But your body didn't feel like it got the memo. It was still humming, charged. And your mind — your mind was deeper in the gutter, imagining things that you couldn't un-imagine.

The sliding backdoor squeaked.

You didn't need to look up to know who it was.

He didn't say anything at first. Just walked in and shut the door behind him like it was nothing. Like you weren't about to combust.

When you finally looked up, he was leaning against the wall, hands in the pockets of his black jeans, curls messy, whiskey eyes locked on yours.

"You alright?" he asked. But he knew the answer. You could see it in his stupid, knowing smirk.

You let out a humourless laugh, still breathless. "Not really, no."

He pushed off the wall and walked toward you, slow like he was giving you a chance to run. You didn't.

"You left in a bit of a hurry," he said, voice lower now, almost careful. "Did I... do something?"

His eyes searched your face, softening just enough to make your stomach flip.

"You know you did," you whispered, too honest, too wrecked to lie. "Back there. What you said — how you said it, about me telling you what I was thinking later. You can't just... do that."

He stepped closer. You didn't move.

"I meant it. I always want to know what your thinking. I always have."

That was it.

That was the thing that broke you.

One second you were staring at him — at his flushed cheeks and parted lips, his chest rising slow like he was trying to keep it together too — and the next, your hands were in his shirt and your mouth was on his.

It was messy, immediate. Years of repressed feelings, passing glances, drunken almosts, and high-stoned fantasies crashing into one kiss that was too much and not enough at the same time.

He kissed you like he'd been waiting. Like he'd thought about it every night on every tour. Like he couldn't believe it was actually happening. His hands gripped your waist, pulled you flush against him, and you gasped into his mouth, already dizzy from everything — the weed, the whiskey, him.

His lips trailed down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make your knees weaken. Your hand tangled in his curls, the same ones you'd watched him push back over and over, wondering what they'd feel like between your fingers.

You were halfway up on the counter before either of you realised it — clothes still on, but the tension electric, skin burning. It was like every fantasy you'd buried under years of friendship had broken the surface all at once.

When he pulled back, just barely, his breath hit your lips.

"This isn't just the weed talking, right?"

You shook your head, whispering, "No, it's not."

He nodded, like that was all he needed, and kissed you again — deeper this time. Slower.

The hotel lobby is a haze of low golden lights and marble that echoes every small sound. The night air still clings to your skin—cool, sharp with the smell of cigarette smoke from outside and the faint metallic tang of the venue you just left. Your ears are still ringing faintly from the last chord Elijah ripped out of his guitar twenty minutes ago, the crowd’s roar still vibrating somewhere deep in your chest.

The taxi pulls up under the porte-cochère and before you can even reach for the handle, Elijah’s already moving.

He slides out first, all long limbs and post-show adrenaline, black shirt unbuttoned one too many, sleeves shoved up to show the ink curling around his forearms. His hair is wrecked—sweaty strands falling into his eyes—and there’s still that wild, electric edge to him, like the stage hasn’t fully let him go yet.

But the second his boots hit the pavement he turns back to you, softens just enough.

“C’mere, love,” he murmurs, voice low and gravel-rough from screaming lyrics for two hours straight.

He offers his hand—palm up, fingers spread—and you take it without thinking. His skin is warm, calloused from strings and adrenaline, and he pulls you out of the taxi with that careful strength he only uses when it’s just the two of you. You stumble a little on your heels the same ones that were killing you by the third encore, and he’s right there—other arm sliding around your waist, steadying you against his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Easy,” he says against your temple, lips brushing your hair. “Got you.”

You can smell him properly now: sweat, his cologne that’s mostly worn off, the faint sweetness of whatever beer he stole sips of backstage, and underneath it all that dark, addictive scent that’s just him. Your thighs press together on instinct and he notices—of course he does. The corner of his mouth twitches.

The doorman nods politely as you both step inside, but Elijah doesn’t even glance at him. His focus is locked on you: the way your dress rides up just a fraction when you walk, the flush still high on your cheeks from the heat of the pit and from watching him own that stage like it belonged to him.

He keeps his arm around you the whole way across the lobby—possessive without being obvious, thumb stroking slow circles over the dip of your waist. Every few steps he leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“You were so fucking good out there tonight,” you whisper, because it’s true, and because saying it makes heat coil tighter in your belly.

Elijah huffs a quiet laugh, breath hot against your skin. “Yeah? You liked watching me?”

You nod, biting your lip.

His grip tightens—just enough to remind you he’s still buzzing, still wired, still very much the man who had fifty thousand people screaming his name an hour ago.

“Good girl,” he breathes, so soft only you can hear it. “’Cause I couldn’t stop thinking about this—” His hand slides lower, palm flattening over the curve of your ass for one filthy second before he pulls it back like nothing happened. “—the whole last song.”

Your breath catches.

He guides you toward the elevators, never breaking contact, never letting anyone else in the quiet lobby forget that right now, in this moment, you belong to him.

The gold doors slide open with a soft ding.

Elijah’s eyes flick to yours—dark, hungry, promising.

“After you,” he says, voice velvet and sin, holding the door with one hand while the other stays firm on the small of your back.

You step inside.

He follows.

The doors close.

And the second they do, the gentleman act cracks—just a little.

He crowds you against the mirrored wall, hands braced on either side of your head, caging you in without touching you yet.

You can see both of you reflected everywhere: his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world, your lips already parted, chest rising fast.

He doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

He just looks.

Like he’s memorizing every inch of you before he ruins you.

“Floor twenty-eight,” he says quietly, nodding toward the panel without looking away from your face.

You reach past him, press the button.

The elevator hums to life.

And Elijah finally lets himself smile—slow, dangerous, beautiful.

“Gonna fuck you against that window so hard the whole city’s gonna know who you belong to, baby.”

Your knees almost give out right there.

But he catches you.

Always does.

The elevator dings softly on the twenty-eighth floor and the doors slide open to a long, carpeted hallway lit by warm sconces. It’s quiet up here—almost reverent after the chaos of the show—and the sudden hush makes every small sound feel intimate: the soft click of Elijah’s boots, the rustle of your dress against his thigh as he keeps you tucked against his side, the way your breathing syncs without trying.

He doesn’t rush.

Instead he guides you out slowly, one arm still looped around your waist, the other hand catching yours so your fingers lace together. His thumb strokes over your knuckles in lazy circles while you walk, like he’s savoring the simple contact after hours of being stared at by thousands.

The hallway stretches ahead, doors numbered in elegant gold. Room 2804 is at the far end—private, corner suite, floor-to-ceiling windows facing the glittering sprawl of the city below.

Every few steps he slows just enough to turn his head and brush his lips against your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Not hungry kisses yet. Soft ones. The kind that say I’ve been waiting for this exact second all night.

“You have no idea how beautiful you looked tonight,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and wrecked in the best way. “Standing there in the front row, eyes on me the whole time… fuck, love. Felt like the only person in the room.”

You tilt your head to meet his gaze and he stops walking entirely for a heartbeat, just to look at you—really look—like he’s trying to memorize the way the hallway light catches in your eyes.

He leans in then, presses the gentlest kiss to your lips. Slow. Lingering. When he pulls back it’s only an inch, forehead resting against yours.

“Been dying to get my hands on you properly,” he says, quieter now, almost reverent. “Wanna take my time with you tonight. Wanna kiss every inch. Wanna feel you shake under me… wanna hear you say my name like it’s the only word you remember.”

His free hand slides up your back—fingers splaying wide between your shoulder blades—pulling you closer until there’s no space left. You can feel the steady thump of his heart against yours, still racing from the stage.

Another kiss, deeper this time, but still tender. His tongue brushes yours just once, teasing, before he eases back again. He’s walking you backward now, guiding you down the hall with small steps, never breaking eye contact.

“Wanna lay you out on that big bed,” he continues, voice dropping even lower, “spread you open slow… taste you until you’re pulling my hair and begging. Then I’m gonna slide inside you—inch by fucking inch—so you feel every part of me claiming you.”

He punctuates the last word with a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, right under your ear. You feel his exhale shudder against your skin.

“Not gonna rush it,” he promises, lips trailing up to your jaw. “Gonna make it last. Gonna make you come so many times you forget there’s a world outside that window.”

Your back meets the door of 2804. He doesn’t reach for the keycard yet. Instead he cages you there with his body—hands braced on either side of your head, hips pressing forward just enough that you feel how hard he already is—but he keeps everything else gentle. Worshipful.

One more kiss: long, deep, full of all the things he hasn’t said yet. When he finally pulls away his breathing is ragged, pupils blown wide.

“I love you like this,” he whispers, thumb tracing your bottom lip. “All flushed and mine. Gonna show you exactly how much.”

Only then does he fish the keycard from his back pocket, swipe it, push the door open.

He doesn’t let go of your hand as he leads you inside.

The city lights spill across the dark room like liquid gold.

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft, final sound that feels like the rest of the world just got locked out.

The room is dark except for the city lights pouring in through the massive window—blues and golds and reds from neon signs and traffic far below, painting stripes across the carpet, the bed, your skin. Elijah doesn’t bother with the overhead lights. He never does when he’s like this: still riding the high, skin fever-hot, every movement deliberate.

He kicks off his boots by the door—thud, thud—then reaches behind his neck with one hand and pulls his black t-shirt up and over his head in that effortless way that always makes your mouth go dry. The fabric hits the floor somewhere near the armchair. His chest rises and falls a little faster than normal, tattoos shifting with every breath, the faint sheen of sweat from the show still catching the light

You can’t help it—you giggle, soft and bubbly, the sound escaping before you can catch it.

He freezes mid-step, one eyebrow arching as he turns to face you fully.

“What?” he asks, voice low, amused, already knowing he’s about to get teased.

You bite your lip, eyes flicking from his bare torso to the window and back. “You’re such an exhibitionist.”

The words come out playful, teasing, and you punctuate them with another little laugh, covering your mouth like you’re trying (and failing) to be serious.

Elijah’s mouth twitches—half smirk, half challenge. He takes one slow step toward you, then another, closing the distance until he’s right in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

“Oh, really?” he drawls, voice dropping into that dangerous velvet register he saves for when he’s about to turn the tables. “Exhibitionist, huh?”

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath warm. “Well then… guess that means you don’t want me to fuck you right up against that window, do you? Guess you’d rather we just… crawl into bed, put on The Pitt, and fall asleep like a couple of old married people. Lights off. Pajamas. No funny business.”

He pulls back just enough to look at your face, eyes glittering with mischief. One hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear—gentle, almost sweet—while the other stays loose at his side, like he’s giving you an out.

“Sound good, love?” he adds, all fake innocence. “We can cuddle. I’ll even let you have the remote.”

You burst out laughing again—this time louder, head tipping back against the door for a second before you look at him, eyes sparkling.

“Shut up,” you say through giggles, reaching out to press both palms flat against his bare chest. His skin is so warm it makes you shiver. “Of course I want sex, you silly idiot. I’m just messing with you.”

His grin turns wicked in an instant—sharp, victorious, beautiful.

“Yeah?” He catches your wrists gently, guiding your hands up until they’re looped around his neck. Then his arms slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him so you can feel exactly how much he’s not joking. “Good. ’Cause I wasn’t planning on letting you sleep for a while anyway.”

He dips his head and kisses you—slow at first, still carrying that tenderness from the hallway, but deeper now, hungrier. His tongue slides against yours like he’s tasting the laugh still lingering in your mouth.

When he breaks away it’s only to murmur against your lips:

“Then let’s give the city something to watch, yeah?”

His hands find the zipper at the back of your dress.

He doesn’t rush it.

He never does when he wants to make you feel every second.

The zipper gives way under his fingers with the softest rasp—slow, deliberate, like he’s unwrapping something fragile and priceless. Elijah doesn’t pull it down all at once. He drags it inch by torturous inch, letting the metal teeth part one after another while his other hand stays splayed warm and steady at the small of your back, keeping you pressed against him.

Your breath hitches the moment cool air kisses the newly bared skin between your shoulder blades.

He feels it—the tiny shiver that runs through you—and hums low in his throat, pleased.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear as the zipper slides lower still, past the dip of your spine, down to the curve just above your ass. “Already trembling and I’ve barely touched you.”

The fabric of your dress loosens, the straps slipping off your shoulders on their own, heavy silk pooling at your elbows. He doesn’t let it fall yet. Instead he hooks two fingers under the straps and holds them there, suspended, forcing you to feel every second of exposure.

His mouth finds the side of your neck—open, wet kisses that start soft and turn hungrier. He sucks lightly just below your pulse point, not hard enough to mark not yet, but enough that you feel the pull straight between your legs.

“Turn around for me, love,” he says against your skin, voice rough with want but still velvet-soft. “Wanna see your face when this comes off.”

You obey without thinking, pivoting slowly in his arms until your back is to the window. The city lights hit you full force now—streaks of neon gilding your collarbones, your ribs, the tops of your breasts still half-hidden by the dress he’s barely let go of.

Elijah steps back half a pace—just enough to look.

His eyes rake over you like he’s starving: dark, hooded, pupils blown so wide the green is almost gone. His chest rises and falls faster, the silver chain around his neck catching the light every time he breathes.

“Fuck,” he breathes, almost to himself. “You’re unreal.”

He closes the distance again, slower this time. One hand comes up to cup your jaw—thumb stroking your bottom lip—while the other finally, finally lets the straps slide the rest of the way down your arms.

The dress whispers to the floor in a soft heap around your heels.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear, heels, and the city glowing behind you like it’s putting on a private show just for him.

Elijah doesn’t speak for a long second. He just looks—really looks—taking in the way your nipples pebble under the cool air, the flush creeping down your chest, the way your thighs press together instinctively.

Then his hands are on you again: palms sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, teasing without quite touching where you want him most.

He leans in, forehead resting against yours, breathing the same air.

“Gonna make you feel every fucking second of this,” he promises, voice barely above a whisper. “Gonna touch you until you’re dripping for me… then I’m gonna turn you around, press you right up against that glass, and fuck you so deep you’ll see stars instead of streetlights.”

His fingers dip lower—tracing the edge of your panties, not slipping inside, just ghosting over the lace like he has all night.

Which he does.

He hooks one finger under the waistband and tugs lightly—playful, teasing—before letting it snap back against your hip.

“But first…” He kisses you slow and filthy, tongue sliding against yours in a lazy rhythm that matches the way his hand finally cups you through the thin fabric, pressing just enough to make your hips jerk forward. “First I wanna hear you beg a little. Just for me.”

He pulls back far enough to meet your eyes—smirking, soft, devastating.

“So tell me, baby… you gonna be good and ask for it?”

Then, without a word, he drops.

One knee hits the carpet first, then the other. The motion is smooth, deliberate, almost reverent. He looks up at you from below—green eyes dark and locked on yours, hair falling messily into his face—and the sight of him on his knees in front of you, still wearing nothing but those low-slung jeans and the silver chain that glints against his collarbone, makes your thighs tremble.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, almost lost under the hum of the city outside. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs—slow, possessive—until his palms cup your ass and he pulls you forward just enough that your hips tilt toward his face.

He doesn’t pull your panties down.

Not yet.

Instead he leans in, nose brushing the thin lace first. He inhales deep—slow, shameless—like he’s trying to memorize the exact scent of your arousal through the fabric. His eyes flutter shut for a second, a quiet, wrecked groan vibrating in his throat.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he breathes against you, lips so close you feel the heat of every word right through the damp cotton. “You’re soaked already. Smell so fucking good… like you’ve been thinking about this since the first chord tonight.”

He nuzzles closer, nose pressing firmer against your clit through the lace, dragging up and down in a slow, teasing line that has your hips jerking forward on instinct. He holds you steady with those big hands on your ass, keeping you right where he wants you.

Then his mouth opens.

Soft at first—just parted lips kissing the fabric over your folds, gentle presses that make the wet cotton cling even more. He kisses you there like he’s kissing your mouth: slow, open-mouthed, tongue flicking out to taste the dampness seeping through. The texture of the lace drags against your sensitive skin with every pass, rough enough to tease, soft enough to drive you insane.

He hums against you—deep, appreciative—and the vibration shoots straight up your spine.

“Gonna eat you right through these first,” he says, voice muffled against your cunt, lips moving over the fabric as he speaks. “Wanna feel you get even wetter… wanna taste how bad you want me before I take ’em off.”

Another long, slow lick—flat tongue pressing hard, dragging from your entrance up to your clit, soaking the lace completely now. Your knees buckle a little; he tightens his grip, holding you upright without missing a beat.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you again—lips shiny, eyes glassy with want.

“You taste like heaven, love,” he rasps, pressing one more open-mouthed kiss right over your clit before nuzzling his nose against it again, inhaling like he can’t get enough. “But I need more. Tell me when you’re ready for me to rip these off with my teeth… or I’ll just keep teasing you like this till you’re crying for it.”

His tongue flicks out once more—quick, filthy little kitten licks through the fabric—then he’s back to slow, worshipful kisses, breathing you in like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded after the high of the stage.

The window behind you reflects it all: your body arched toward him, his dark head bowed between your thighs, the city lights turning every wet spot on your panties into something obscene and beautiful.

He’s not rushing.

He’s savoring.

And he’s not stopping until you beg—or until he decides you’ve had enough teasing.

He doesn’t break eye contact.

Not once.

His hands slide up your hips again, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your soaked panties on either side. He tugs them down just an inch—enough to bare the top of your mound—then leans in, lips brushing the newly exposed skin in a feather-light kiss that has you gasping.

“Gonna take these off the fun way,” he murmurs against you, voice so low it vibrates straight through your core. “Keep looking at me, love. Don’t you dare look away.”

Then he moves.

Teeth catch the lace right at your hip—gentle but firm—and he starts pulling. Slow. Torturously slow. The fabric drags down your skin, inch by inch, the wet cotton peeling away from your folds with a soft, obscene sound that makes heat flood your face. He uses his nose to help, nudging the center aside as his teeth work the other side, until the panties are stretched taut between his mouth and your thighs.

He pauses there—panties still caught in his teeth, eyes flicking up to yours with pure filthy mischief—and gives one last, deliberate tug.

They slide down your legs, pooling around your ankles. You step out of them on shaky heels; he lets the lace drop from his mouth like it’s nothing, never once looking away from your face.

Now you’re completely bare in front of him, city lights painting golden streaks across your skin, your cunt glistening and aching right at eye level.

Elijah exhales a shaky “fuck” against your inner thigh—hot breath making you clench—then he finally leans in.

His hands grip the backs of your thighs, spreading you just enough, and he drags the flat of his tongue from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, slow stroke. No teasing now. Just pure, hungry contact.

Your hips buck forward on instinct.

He groans into you—deep, wrecked—and the sound sends a jolt straight up your spine.

Then he looks up again.

Eyes locked on yours through his lashes, pupils blown, green almost black with want. He holds your gaze as he seals his mouth over your clit—sucking softly at first, tongue flicking in quick, precise circles that make your thighs tremble violently.

One of your hands flies to his hair without thinking. Fingers thread through the sweaty strands at the back of his head, gripping tight. You don’t pull yet—just hold on like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

He likes that.

His eyes flutter half-shut for a second in pleasure, a muffled moan vibrating right against your clit, but he doesn’t break eye contact. Not even when he dips lower—tongue sliding inside you, fucking you with slow, deliberate thrusts while his nose nudges your clit with every pass.

You tug harder on his hair—needy, desperate—and he growls against you, the sound raw and animal. His hands tighten on your thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, keeping you spread open for him as he eats you like he’s been starving for it.

“Look at me,” he rasps between licks, voice thick and wrecked. “Wanna see your face when you come on my tongue.”

Another long, filthy drag of his tongue—flat and broad—then he’s back on your clit, sucking harder now, flicking faster, relentless. Your legs shake; your grip in his hair turns punishing. You yank him closer without meaning to, grinding against his face, and he lets you—encourages it—hands sliding up to grip your ass and pull you even tighter against his mouth.

The city reflects in the glass behind you: your arched back, head thrown back a little, mouth open in silent gasps; his dark head buried between your thighs, shoulders flexing as he devours you.

The second your fingers tighten in his hair—pulling him closer, hips grinding shamelessly against his face—Elijah loses the last thread of restraint.

He growls low against your cunt, the sound vibrating straight through your clit, and then he’s devouring you.

No more slow licks. No more teasing.

His tongue lashes fast and relentless—flicking over your clit in sharp, rapid circles while his lips suck hard enough to make your vision blur at the edges. He’s messy with it now: chin slick, nose buried against you, breathing you in between every frantic stroke. One hand stays clamped on your ass, holding you open and pressed tight to his mouth; the other slides up your thigh, two fingers plunging inside you without warning—curling deep, stroking that spot that makes your knees buckle instantly.

You cry out—loud, broken, echoing off the glass behind you—and he doesn’t let up. If anything, he goes harder. Faster. Tongue flicking so quick it’s almost a blur, fingers pumping in and out in perfect rhythm with every suck and swirl.

Your thighs shake violently around his head.

“Elijah—fuck—oh god—”

He hums approval against you—deep, filthy—and the vibration tips you right over.

The orgasm hits like a freight train: sharp, blinding, ripping through you so fast your back arches off the window, head thrown back against the cool glass. You come hard on his tongue, clenching around his fingers, gushing wet and hot while he laps at you like he’s trying to drink every drop. He doesn’t stop—keeps sucking your clit through the aftershocks, fingers still curling inside, dragging it out until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, tugging at his hair to make him ease up.

Only then does he pull back—just enough to breathe—lips swollen and glistening, eyes wild and locked on yours.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Came so pretty for me, love. So fucking wet…”

He doesn’t give you time to come down.

Still on his knees, he reaches down with one hand—fumbling at his belt, ripping it open with a sharp clink. The button of his jeans pops next; zipper dragged down fast and rough. He shoves the denim and his black boxers down in one impatient motion, kicking them off somewhere behind him without looking.

His cock springs free—thick, hard, flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. He wraps a hand around himself once, stroking rough and quick, smearing precum down the length while he stares up at you like you’re the only thing in the universe.

“Turn around,” he says, voice low and commanding now, no room for teasing. “Hands on the glass. Legs spread.”

You’re still trembling from the aftershocks, but you obey—spinning slowly, palms slapping flat against the cool window. The city sprawls out below you—endless lights, cars like tiny fireflies—and anyone looking up from the street far below would see exactly what’s about to happen.

Elijah rises behind you—tall, broad, skin fever-hot as he presses against your back. His cock slides between your thighs, not inside yet, just gliding through your slick folds, coating himself in what’s left of your orgasm.

He leans over you, chest to your back, one hand sliding up to cup your throat—not choking, just holding—while the other grips your hip hard.

“Gonna fuck you right here,” he murmurs hot against your ear, lips brushing your skin. “Gonna fill you up so deep the whole city knows who you belong to.”

The head of his cock notches at your entrance—slow, teasing one last time—then he thrusts in.

Hard.

Deep.

All at once.

You both moan—loud, raw, echoing in the quiet suite.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust.

He starts moving—fast, rough, hips snapping against your ass with every brutal stroke. The window fogs where your breath hits it; your palms slide a little with sweat and desperation.

“Fuck—yes—take it,” he groans, voice breaking on every thrust. “So tight… so fucking perfect…”

One hand stays on your throat, thumb stroking your pulse; the other slides around to find your clit again—rubbing fast circles while he pounds into you from behind.

The city watches.

And Elijah doesn’t stop until you’re both shaking, gasping, chasing the next high together.

The rhythm shifts the second you start giggling—soft, breathless, a little delirious from the high of coming on his tongue and now feeling him buried so deep inside you it’s hard to think straight. Elijah catches the sound against your neck and laughs too—low, rough, happy—like the whole filthy thing is suddenly the most perfect secret between you two.

“God, you’re killing me with that laugh,” he murmurs right into your skin, lips curving into a smile as he presses an open-mouthed kiss below your ear. His hips snap forward again—hard, deliberate, filling you completely—but there’s this new tenderness threading through every thrust. Not softer, exactly. Just… deeper. More intentional. Like he’s trying to carve himself into you in the gentlest way possible while still fucking you senseless.

He presses his chest flush to your back, caging you against the cool glass. The window fogs where your palms are splayed, where your forehead rests for a second when the pleasure spikes too sharp. His arm snakes around your waist—holding you tight, possessive but careful—while his other hand slides down between your thighs.

Fingers find your clit immediately—swollen, sensitive, still throbbing from before—and he starts rubbing slow, firm circles that match the deep grind of his hips. Not frantic. Just perfect pressure. Enough to make your knees buckle again.

“Feel that, love?” he whispers, voice wrecked and warm against the side of your neck. He kisses there—soft, lingering—then sucks lightly, tasting salt and skin. “Feel how deep I am? How much I fucking love being inside you?”

You nod, another giggle bubbling up when he thrusts particularly hard and your body jolts forward, nipples dragging against the chilled glass. The contrast makes you gasp and laugh at the same time—ridiculous, overwhelming, perfect.

He laughs with you—breath hot and shaky—then kisses the spot he just sucked, soothing it with his tongue.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he says, quieter now, almost reverent. His fingers keep circling your clit—steady, loving—while his hips roll in slow, powerful strokes that hit that spot inside you over and over. “All pressed up against the window… giggling while I fuck you… fuck, I could stay like this forever.”

Another thrust—harder this time, making you moan loud and broken—and he presses his forehead to the back of your shoulder, breathing you in like you’re oxygen.

“Love you,” he rasps suddenly, raw and unfiltered, lips brushing your skin with every word. “Love the way you take me… love how you sound… love that you’re mine.”

His hand on your waist slides up—cupping your breast, thumb flicking your nipple gently—while the one between your legs keeps working your clit in those perfect, relentless circles. He’s fucking you hard—deep, punishing snaps of his hips that make the glass rattle faintly—but every touch, every kiss, every whispered word is pure romance wrapped in filth.

You giggle again—half moan, half laugh—when he nips playfully at your earlobe.

“Stop being so cute,” he groans, but he’s smiling against your neck, hips stuttering for a second like your laughter is undoing him. “Makes me wanna go even harder just to hear more of it.”

He does.

Thrusts turn sharper, deeper—still controlled, still loving—while his fingers speed up on your clit, chasing that next edge with you. His mouth stays on your neck—kissing, sucking, murmuring sweet-dirty things between every breath.

“Come for me again, baby… let me feel you squeeze around me… wanna feel you fall apart while I’m buried inside you…”

“Hold on, love,” he murmurs, voice thick with want and something softer underneath. His hands slide to your hips, gentle now, thumbs stroking soothing arcs over your skin. “Wanna see your face.”

He pulls out slow—agonizingly slow—making you both gasp at the loss. The wet sound of it is obscene in the quiet room, his cock slick and glistening from you, throbbing against the small of your back for a second before he guides you to turn.

You spin in his arms—still shaky on your heels, thighs slick, chest heaving—and the second your eyes meet his, everything shifts again.

Elijah’s looking at you like you hung the fucking moon.

Pupils blown, lips parted, hair a total mess from your fingers earlier. He cups your face with both hands—thumbs brushing your cheekbones—and crashes his mouth to yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate, hungry, all teeth and tongue and shared breaths, like he’s trying to pour every unspoken thing into the kiss. You taste yourself on him—salty, sweet—and it makes you moan into his mouth. He swallows the sound, deepens the kiss until your knees feel weak all over again.

When you finally break apart—just enough to breathe—your foreheads rest together, noses brushing, both of you grinning like idiots.

You glance over your shoulder at the window—your bare ass and back fully on display to the entire glittering city below—and a fresh wave of giggles bubbles up, unstoppable.

“Oh my god,” you whisper-laugh, hiding your face against his chest for a second. “The whole city’s staring at my ass right now.”

Elijah laughs too—low, rough, delighted—his hands sliding down to grip said ass, squeezing possessively as he pulls you even closer. His cock presses hot and hard against your stomach, trapped between you.

“Good,” he says, voice dropping into that dark, possessive register that always makes your pulse jump. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then nips lightly at your earlobe. “Let ’em look. Let the whole fucking city know exactly who you belong to.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again—smirking, soft, devastating.

“Mine,” he murmurs, one hand sliding up to thread through your hair, tilting your head back so he can kiss you again—slower this time, deeper, like he’s claiming every inch of your mouth. “All of this—” His other hand squeezes your ass again, hard enough to make you gasp into the kiss. “—is mine. And if they wanna watch, they can watch me fuck you until you can’t stand.”

You laugh against his lips—breathless, giddy, turned on beyond reason—and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down for another messy, giggling kiss.

He lifts you then—easy, like you weigh nothing—your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. He walks you the two steps back until your back hits the cool glass again, but this time you’re facing him: chest to chest, mouths fused, his cock sliding teasingly between your folds without pushing in yet.

“Ready for round two, love?” he whispers, nipping your bottom lip. “Gonna make you come on my cock while the city watches me claim what’s mine.”

Your giggles turn into a soft moan when he finally—notches himself at your entrance and thrusts back in—slow, deep, eyes never leaving yours.

The moment he’s back inside you—slow, deliberate, sinking in to the hilt with one long, controlled thrust—everything narrows to the feel of him stretching you open again, filling every inch until there’s no space left for anything but him.

Elijah exhales a shaky breath against your throat, forehead pressed to your temple, like even he’s struggling to keep it together now that you’re face to face, wrapped around each other, legs locked tight around his waist.

“Fuck… there you are,” he whispers, voice low and wrecked, lips brushing your pulse point. He doesn’t start moving right away. He just stays buried deep, hips flush to yours, letting you feel every thick inch of him throbbing inside. Then—slowly—he pulls back almost all the way out, only to push back in harder, deeper, bottoming out with a grind that makes your eyes flutter and roll back.

Your head tips against the glass, mouth falling open on a silent gasp. The city lights blur into streaks behind your half-closed lids.

“That’s it, love,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw, then down the side of your neck—soft, open-mouthed presses that turn into slow sucks. “Look at you… taking me so fucking perfectly. So deep. So good for me.”

He sets a rhythm then: slow, punishingly deep thrusts. Every time he bottoms out he rolls his hips in a tight circle, grinding against your clit, making sure you feel the drag of him against every sensitive spot inside. It’s not fast. It’s not frantic. It’s deliberate—hard enough that your body jolts against the window with each stroke, but slow enough that you feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse.

Your eyes roll back completely now—whites showing, lashes fluttering, lost somewhere between too much and not enough. A broken little whimper escapes your throat every time he fills you again.

Elijah notices.

Of course he does.

He kisses right under your ear, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin.

“You’re so beautiful when you let go like this,” he breathes, hips snapping forward again—hard, deep, holding there for a second so you can feel him twitch inside you. “Eyes rolling back… mouth open… fuck, baby, you’re my favorite thing in the world right now.”

Another slow withdrawal, another brutal push in.

“Feel that?” he whispers, voice cracking with how much he’s holding back. “That’s all for you. Every inch. Every fucking thrust. You were made for this—for me.”

His hands slide up your sides—palms warm, fingers splaying wide over your ribs—holding you like something precious while he fucks you like he owns you.

“So tight… so wet… god, you’re dripping down my thighs, love. Making such a mess of me and I fucking love it.”

He kisses your neck again—long, lingering, sucking a soft mark just below your collarbone that’ll bloom purple by morning.

“You take me so well… so deep… look how good you are, letting me ruin you against this window. My perfect girl. My everything.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders—hard enough to leave crescents—and he groans low in his throat, hips stuttering for a second before he finds that rhythm again: slow, hard, all the way in, grinding, pulling back, slamming home.

“Gonna make you come like this,” he promises against your skin, lips never leaving your neck. “Slow and deep… gonna feel every second of it. Gonna feel you clench around me when you fall apart… gonna come right with you, baby. Fill you up so full you’ll feel me for days.”

He kisses the hollow of your throat now—soft, reverent—then drags his tongue up the column of your neck until he reaches your earlobe.

“Come for me, love,” he whispers, voice shaking with how close he is too. “Let me feel how much you love this… how much you love me inside you. You’re doing so fucking good… so beautiful… mine… all mine…”

One more deep, grinding thrust—hard enough to make the glass vibrate faintly—and he stays there, buried to the hilt, rolling his hips in slow circles while he kisses every inch of your neck he can reach.

He takes your hands in his—fingers lacing together so perfectly it feels like they were made to fit—and guides them up above your head, pressing your joined palms flat against the cool glass. The city lights halo around your intertwined fingers, turning the moment into something almost cinematic.

“God, look at you,” he whispers, voice cracking with emotion more than effort. His lips find yours again—soft this time, reverent. A real kiss, not just hungry. Slow drags of his tongue against yours, tasting every sigh you let out. When he pulls back it’s only an inch, eyes searching yours like he’s memorizing the exact shade of them in this light.

“I love you,” he says, low and raw, hips rolling deep again. “So fucking much. More than the stage, more than the crowds, more than any song I’ll ever write. You’re everything, baby.”

Another thrust—harder this time, but still controlled, still loving—making you gasp into his mouth.

“I love making love to you like this,” he continues, voice trembling now, forehead pressed to yours again so you feel every word vibrate against your skin. “Slow… deep… feeling every part of you take me. Feeling how wet you get just for me. How your body shakes when I hit that spot right… there.”

He grinds in a slow circle when he bottoms out, pressing right against your cervix, and your eyes flutter shut for a second before snapping open again to find his.

“Love the way you look at me,” he breathes, squeezing your hands tighter. “Like I’m the only man in the world. Like I’m yours. Fuck—I’m so yours.”

His thrusts stay steady—deep, unhurried—but you can feel him starting to unravel. His breathing turns ragged, hips stuttering every few strokes. The chain around his neck brushes your collarbone with every movement, cool metal against fever-hot skin.

“Gonna come, love,” he warns, voice breaking. “Gonna come inside you… wanna feel you come with me. Wanna feel you squeeze around me while I fill you up.”

He kisses you again—desperate now, but still so tender—tongue sliding against yours in the same slow rhythm as his hips. One hand slips free from yours to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking your jaw like you’re something fragile and infinite.

“I love you,” he repeats against your lips, over and over, like a mantra. “Love you. Love you. Fuck—love you so much—”

His rhythm falters—deep, erratic now—and then he’s coming.

Hard.

Deep.

A low, broken groan tears from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt one last time, hips jerking uncontrollably while he spills inside you. Hot, thick pulses that you feel everywhere—flooding you, marking you, claiming you from the inside out. His cock twitches with every spurt, grinding against that perfect spot, and the sensation of him coming so deep, so full, tips you right over the edge with him.

Your orgasm crashes through you—silent at first, then a choked, trembling moan against his mouth. You clench around him so tight he hisses through his teeth, eyes squeezing shut as your walls flutter and milk every last drop from him. Your thighs shake violently around his waist; your fingers grip his so hard your knuckles turn white.

He doesn’t pull out.

He just stays there—still half-hard inside you, hips rocking in tiny, soothing circles while you both come down. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breaths heaving, lips pressing soft, shaky kisses to your neck, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach.

“Fuck… you feel that?” he whispers, voice hoarse and wrecked and full of wonder. “That’s us. All of it. You and me.”

He finally lifts his head to look at you—eyes glassy, soft, completely undone—and kisses you again. Slow. Sweet. Like the world could end right now and he’d still choose this moment.

“I love you,” he says one more time, thumb brushing a tear you didn’t realize had slipped down your cheek. “Always gonna love you like this. Always.”

The city keeps glittering outside the window—uncaring, endless—but right here, pressed together against the glass, hands still linked, bodies still joined, hearts hammering in sync…

It’s just the two of you.