The DoubleTree suite near London Bridge gleams with modern opulence. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city’s glittering skyline, Thames lights pulsing below. I step in, heart racing from the frantic walk, dragging my roller suitcase. Lucas takes my coat, his fingers brushing my shoulders. The room’s hush envelops us—plush king bed, dim bedside lamps casting golden glows, leather armchair whispering luxury.
He stands behind me at the window. ‘Don’t turn. Just watch London.’ His breath warms my neck. Hands slide down my arms, grip my hips, slip under my pullover to caress bare skin. The lace body clings, his palms cup my breasts. Nipples harden instantly. I murmur about my friend hosting me later. He chuckles low. ‘Not all night. Unless you beg.’
Le Privilège
His mouth claims my neck, sucking softly. Fingers trace my skirt’s hem, find the stocking tops, bare thigh flesh. Heat floods my core. In the train, his touch teased. Here, no interruptions. Legs part slightly. He presses the lace against my lips, circling my clit through fabric. Wetness soaks it. ‘Take off your panties,’ he growls. ‘It’s a body. Snaps at the bottom.’ Three pops. Cool air hits my slick folds. Fingers part me, plunge in. ‘So wet already.’
I brace against glass. Skirt pools at heels. Pullover yanked off. Reflection shows me: stilettos, stockings, body gaping open. He strips behind, cock nestling between my ass cheeks. Hands maul my tits, pinching nipples. Fabric bunches at waist. He grinds against my slit. ‘Just your stockings, as promised. City sees you.’
Condom rips open. Gland nudges my entrance. I gasp yes. He sinks in slow, thick, stretching me wide. Rhythm builds—deep, steady thrusts. Body remembers fullness. His chest glues to my back, sweat-slick. Fingers twist nipples. I buck back, impaling deeper. He yanks hair, forces camber. Fingers in mouth—wet them. Saliva smears my asshole. ‘These cheeks since the platform.’ I plead no. ‘Later then.’ Pace hammers. Leg lifted, he pounds brutal. Breath fogs glass. Climax hits him—deep bury, pulsing heat through latex. I tremble, denied.
L’Excès
He spins me, kisses deep. Strips the body. ‘Shower.’ Hand in hand, Italian rain pours hot. His sweat drips down my back. Soap foams under his palms—shoulders, breasts, belly. Then my crack, circling tight ring. Other hand teases my swollen pussy. I lean on tile. ‘More.’ Fingers dance my slit. Mine finds his hardening cock, strokes firm.
He lifts me, carries to bed dripping. On his back, pulls me over face. Tongue devours—lapping folds, spearing inside. Hands knead tits, tweak nipples. I moan loud. He sucks clit, hood between lips. Finger rims my ass, presses without entering. Orgasm rips—waves crashing toes to scalp.
His cock stands rigid. I straddle thighs, swallow him. Salty skin fills mouth. Deep throat, gagging sweet. Hands on thighs, I suck, lick, pump base. He pulls hair. ‘Stop or I cum.’ Eyes lock, I swirl tongue on head, fist flies. Hips buck. He erupts—hot spurts down throat. I swallow every drop.
Head on his belly, we laugh. Legs jelly. My pussy throbs. Secret sealed in glass walls.
