​"Well, this place looks different," Chloe said, the moment we crossed the threshold into my apartment. Her voice was a low exhale of surprise. Her eyes, wide and tracing, swept across the minimalist, high-end expanse—the polished concrete floors, the architectural lighting, the solitary, stark-white chaise lounge. "It looks... clean."

​I let the silent judgement hang in the air for a beat, savoring the shock of contrast against her memory of me. I grinned, a slight, knowing curve that didn't quite reach my eyes. "I told you that you don't know anything about me anymore, Chloe. I'm not the guy you knew."

​"Yes, I can see that," she replied, her voice dropping to a register that was softer, more private. It reflected the sudden intimacy of the space. "There's something clearly different about you, Druski."

​I closed the distance between us, moving with a deliberate, controlled pace that belied the faint ache in my back, yet allowed her to feel the rising heat of my presence.

I lowered my voice to a near-whisper, letting the sound vibrate in the charged air between us. "We didn't come here to talk about me, or the furniture, did we?"

​She shook her head, the movement slight, her focus locked on my mouth. She caught and bit her lower lip, a nervous, beautiful gesture of anticipation. "Certainly not," she breathed.

​"Good," I affirmed. My hands lifted, finding the silk-clad curve of her thighs. I applied just enough pressure—a possessive, thumbing grip—to send a visible shiver tracing up her spine. "You said you wanted to get fucked, right?"

​"That's right, Druski." Her answer was a low, desperate plea. She wrapped her hands around the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair as she pulled my head toward hers. "I want you to fuck me the same way you fuck those girls in your porn sets. Hard. Filthy. Real."

​My lips found hers, a hungry collision of need. She didn't just kiss me back; she consumed the kiss, a taste of forgotten history and immediate, burning desire.

​I pulled back from the kiss, but only by an inch, leaving her breathless and chasing my mouth. I kept my hands on the soft mounds of her thighs, maintaining that firm, anchoring pressure, letting the raw energy of the kiss dissipate into a slow, agonizing burn.

​"In a minute," I murmured, my voice husky, my breath mingling with hers. The urgency in her eyes was a delicious invitation to delay. "You wanted the Druski from the sets, right? The one who controls the pace."

​My right hand broke contact with her thigh and ascended slowly, trailing over the expensive fabric of her tight sweater. I watched her pupils dilate as my fingers reached her hip, then the narrow curve of her waist. She inhaled sharply when my palm finally covered her breast.

​It was heavier, softer than I remembered. A perfect, yielding weight.

​I simply pressed gently, testing the fullness through the wool, letting the heavy fabric only intensify the sensation. She arched her back reflexively, pressing her chest harder into my hand, offering herself to the touch.

​"Beautiful," I whispered, my thumb finding the peak, circling it slowly, gently grinding the nipple against the satin of her bra and the soft resistance of the sweater. Her hands tightened in the hair at my nape, a silent plea for more aggression.

​But I denied her again, shifting my focus. I eased my body away, enough to pivot slightly, and let my other hand sweep lower. It passed over the slight curve of her stomach, lingering for a moment near her belly button, before plunging down, deliberately, to cup the firm, familiar rise beneath the thick denim of her jeans.

​I squeezed, hard this time, gathering the resilient flesh and pulling her tightly against the ridge of my jeans. The rough friction of the denim and my arousal was immediate and shocking, making her gasp against my neck.

​"God, Druski," she managed, her voice cracking with need. "Don't stop touching me."

​"I won't," I promised, my fingers working the curve of her left cheek, then the right, enjoying the resistance of the denim against the weight of her body, the way she molded herself perfectly to my touch. "But we have to move this somewhere more comfortable. Unless you want me to take you down right here on the polished concrete, ripping that sweater off you right now?"

​I leaned in, my lips tracing the shell of her ear, savoring her shudder. "Which is it, Chloe? The floor or the bed?"

​She didn't hesitate. "The bed," she demanded, the word a ragged edge of pure desire. "Now. I want you on me."

​I released her waist only to grip her hand, pulling her back across the sterile, polished floor. The journey to the bedroom—a seamless space dominated by a massive, low-set frame dressed in dark silk—was a blur of shared anticipation.

​As soon as we reached the side of the bed, I pinned her gently against the cool wall. There was no more talking, only the sound of heavy breathing and the rustle of fabric.

​My hands went straight back to the sweater. This time, the touch wasn't playful; it was a mission. I didn't bother with the collar. I grabbed the hem and, in one fluid, powerful motion, dragged the knit wool up her body, over her shoulders, and tossed it toward the floor.

​She stood momentarily exposed in a sheer black bra, the skin of her stomach and shoulders a rich, coconut brown. The change in texture, from rough wool to soft, heated skin, made me groan.

I leaned in, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, trailing down to the valley between her breasts.

​"Jeans next," I murmured against her skin.

​I unbuckled the waistband, the rasp of the zipper a loud, intimate sound in the quiet room. She was practically vibrating. I pushed the denim down her hips, urging her to step out of them. She kicked them aside, impatient, leaving her in the bra and a pair of delicate, stringy black panties.

​I pushed her back onto the silk sheets. The fabric sighed under her weight. I stood over her for a moment, letting my gaze rake over her body—a beautiful, necessary moment of command.

​I climbed onto the bed, settling between her legs, but keeping my weight entirely off her. I placed one hand on the delicate lace of her panties, covering the spot I was about to claim. I held her gaze, my voice dropping to that deep, demanding register.

​"You wanted this, Chloe. Show me how much."

​She lifted her hips slightly, a wordless, irresistible invitation. My fingers slid beneath the edge of the lace, pushing the fabric aside rather than removing it. Her dark, sleek skin was already glistening and wet.

​My index and middle fingers found the slick, hot skin of her pussy. She was already swollen, already wet.

​"Fuck, it's so beautiful," I said, a genuine groan of appreciation escaping my lips.

​I focused on the sensitive nub above, pressing my thumb firmly down through the damp lace, creating an intense, focused pressure that made her hips buck sharply against the silk sheets.

​"Oh, God," she gasped, her hands flying up to clutch the dark silk pillow above her head.

​I watched her face as I began to stroke, slow and deep, dragging my fingers down the length of her wet slit and pressing my thumb against her with a steady, punishing rhythm. I was methodical, ignoring her whimpers for speed, determined to bring her to the very edge of control. I felt the delicious, heavy weight of her fat pussy pulsing under my touch.

​"You're soaking," I breathed out, leaning down to take her mouth again, swallowing her cries as I pushed her further. Her mouth was hot and frantic, mirroring the desperate rhythm of my fingers below. I needed to keep this moment hers, focused entirely on bringing her to climax without rushing to my own release.

​My fingers never stopped. They were slick, efficient machines, mapping the curves and valleys of her vulva. I started adding a small curl to my index finger, dragging it over her lower lips, catching the slippery heat.

​"This is the new Druski, Chloe," I whispered against her ear, breaking the kiss to deliver the taunt. "The one who knows exactly what a sexy woman like you needs."

​Her body began to tremble violently. Her legs squeezed my arms as the rhythm of her breathing fractured. The sounds coming from her throat were no longer pleas, but raw, strangled releases of pressure.

​"Please... I'm going to—" she tried to speak, but the words were stolen by a sharp inhalation.

​I maintained the rhythm, increasing the intensity for just three more strokes, then four. Her back arched off the bed, her hips a frantic cradle against my hand. The climax hit her like a wave, her whole body convulsing, the sheets beneath her damp from the intensity. She cried out, the sound muffled by the silk pillow, and then fell back, spent and trembling, her eyes squeezed shut.

​I didn't stop touching her immediately. I kept my fingers moving, softly tracing the slick, sensitive skin until the last tremor faded, ensuring the pleasure was complete and absolute.

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