Under the Club Lights

“Harder,” I gasped, my nails digging into the corded muscle of his back. “God, please, don’t stop.”

His low growl was a vibration against my lips, a primal sound that made my entire body clench around him. “You feel too good to stop, Lily. So fucking tight for me.” His thrusts became more urgent, each one hitting a spot deep inside me that made my vision blur.

The world had shrunk to this: the slick, rhythmic slap of our bodies, the sharp scent of sex and sweat, the low buzz of the city outside his apartment window.

It had all started just a few hours ago, with a single, clumsy sentence.

“Is that a Leica M6?”

The bass in the club was a physical thing, a pounding rhythm that made the condensation on my vodka tonic tremble. I had to shout, leaning into the space between us. He turned, his dark eyebrows lifting in surprise. He was older. Considerably older. Maybe mid-thirties to my twenty-one. It was the kind of age gap that would have made my friends raise their eyebrows, but the silver just starting to dust his temples did something to my stomach I couldn’t explain.

He held up the camera he’d been awkwardly trying to tuck under his jacket. “You know your cameras.”

“Photojournalism major,” I yelled back, pointing to my own chest. The black paint, the iconic red dot—it was a thing of beauty, utterly out of place in this sea of strobe lights and thumping house music. “What’s it doing here?”

“Trying to capture the… humanity,” he said, a wry smile playing on his lips. It was a good smile. It reached his hazel eyes, crinkling the corners. “But it’s failing miserably. The lighting’s a nightmare.”

“You need a faster lens,” I said automatically, my photographer’s brain taking over. “Or just embrace the grain. Grain can be beautiful.”

His smile widened. “Spoken like a true purist. I’m Leo.”

“Lily…”

We found a slightly quieter corner near the end of the bar, shouting over the music about aperture and composition, about the raw honesty of street photography versus the staged perfection of studio work. He wasn’t just humoring me. He knew. He spoke about the weight of a well-made camera body, the satisfying click of a mechanical shutter, with a reverence I’d only ever felt alone. The conversation was a spark in the dark, a sudden, intense connection that shut out everything else. The age difference melted away, leaving just two people who saw the world through the same unique, framed perspective.

One drink became two. His hand, resting on the bar, brushed against mine. A simple, accidental touch. My skin prickled with a sudden, sharp heat. Our eyes met, and the technical talk stalled. The air between us thickened, charged with a new, entirely different kind of energy.

“This is a terrible environment for conversation,” he finally said, his voice a low rumble that I felt more than heard.

“The worst,” I agreed, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“My apartment is five blocks away. I have a portfolio I’ve been dying to get a fresh pair of eyes on. A… younger perspective.” The offer hung in the air, blatant and thrilling.

I didn’t hesitate. “Show me.”

The walk was a blur of nervous laughter and stolen glances. The moment his apartment door clicked shut, the pretense vanished. He didn’t reach for a portfolio. He turned to me, his gaze intense, questioning. He cupped my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin. “Is this okay?”

My answer was to surge forward and crush my lips to his.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was pure, unadulterated hunger. His mouth claimed mine with a confidence that made my knees weak. I could taste the whiskey on his tongue, feel the faint scratch of his stubble. My hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel the skin beneath.

He broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “Bedroom. Now.”

He led me down a short hall, never breaking contact, his hands roaming my back, my hips, pulling me flush against him. His room was sparse, masculine. A large bed dominated the space. He turned me so my back was to his chest, his arms wrapping around me, one hand splaying across my stomach while the other came up to cup my breast through my dress.

I let my head fall back against his shoulder with a moan as his fingers found my nipple, pinching and rolling it through the thin fabric. “Leo…”

“I’ve wanted to touch you since I saw you leaning against that bar,” he murmured into my ear, his breath hot. His other hand slipped down, under the hem of my dress, his fingertips tracing a burning path up my inner thigh. “So fucking beautiful.”

He found the edge of my lace panties and slipped his fingers beneath. I gasped as he touched me, his fingers sliding through my slick heat with an assured pressure that told me he knew exactly what he was doing.

“So wet for me already,” he growled, his fingers circling my clit, making my legs tremble. I could only nod, my words stolen by the sensations coilinglowin my belly. He worked me with a devilish precision, his touch firm and knowing, until I was writhing against his hand, my moans echoing in the quiet room.

“I need to be inside you,” he rasped, turning me around and laying me back on the bed. He stripped off his shirt, and my breath hitched. His body was all lean muscle and taut skin, a map of strength that was infinitely more appealing than any boy my age. He hooked his fingers in my panties and pulled them down my legs, his eyes dark with desire as he took me in.

He shed his own pants, and then he was there, his weight a welcome pressure on top of me. He was thick and hard, the tip of his cock pressing against my entrance. He looked down at me, a final, silent question in his eyes.

“Yes,” I breathed, arching my hips up to meet him. “Please.”

He entered me in one slow, relentless thrust that stole the air from my lungs. The feeling of being so utterly filled, so stretched, was overwhelming. He was bigger than anyone I’d been with, and the delicious, burning stretch made me cry out.

“Fuck, Lily,” he groaned, pausing to let me adjust, his forehead pressed to mine. “You’re perfect.”

Then he began to move.

It started slow, deep, each stroke a deliberate claiming. But the pace quickly escalated, fueled by a mutual, raw need. I wrapped my legs high around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting every one of his thrusts with one of my own. The sound of our bodies joining, skin slapping against skin, was obscene and perfect.

He shifted, hooking my legs over his shoulders, and the new angle was devastating. Every plunge of his hips sent shockwaves of pleasure through me. I could feel the tension building, a tight coil ready to snap. I clutched at the sheets, my back arching off the mattress.

“I’m so close,” I panted, my eyes squeezed shut.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough.

I opened my eyes. He was watching me, his gaze locked on mine, his every muscle straining with the effort of holding back. Seeing his own desperate pleasure mirrored in his eyes was my undoing. The orgasm ripped through me, violent and consuming. My body convulsed around him, a silent scream on my lips as waves of pure ecstasy dismantled me.

My climax triggered his. With a guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt inside me, his own release pulsing deep within my core. He collapsed on top of me, his body heavy and spent, our hearts hammering against each other.

We lay like that for long minutes, breathing in ragged unison. Slowly, he shifted his weight, pulling out of me but gathering me against his side. His fingers traced idle patterns on my damp shoulder.

He kissed my temple, his lips gentle against my skin. “The portfolio is actually real, you know.”

A breathy laugh escaped me. “I’d hope so. I’d hate to think you use that line on all the girls.”

He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at me, a playful glint in his eye. “Only the ones who can tell a Summicron from a Nokton.” His expression softened, grew more intense. “Stay.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a hope.

I looked up at him, at the man who had seen a shared passion and turned it into this incredible, unexpected fire. The night felt full of potential, a single frame in a roll of film that was still being shot.

“Okay,” I whispered.