The elevator was quiet, carrying us upward with a soft, mechanical hum.
Neither of us spoke. He stood beside me, careful to keep space between us—not distant, just respectful. Considerate.
I could feel his presence like heat, a quiet awareness hovering just beneath my skin. Not nerves, exactly, but a heightened awareness of myself—of the choice I was making and what it meant.
He hadn't touched me yet. Not even a casual brush of his arm against mine. He was careful with boundaries, careful not to assume. A part of me respected that deeply. Another part wanted something a little less careful.
The elevator doors slid open with a whisper, revealing a softly lit hallway. We stepped out together, footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. He paused by a door halfway down, swiping his keycard smoothly and holding the door open without a word.
For a brief moment, I hesitated. It wasn't fear or uncertainty, but something quieter, deeper—recognition that this was new territory. A deliberate choice. My choice.
Inside, the room felt like him—clean, minimal, tasteful without being showy. Large windows showcased the Melbourne skyline, glittering quietly below. A faint amber lamp cast a gentle glow across a neatly made bed. The subtle scent of something expensive lingered in the air, wood and leather mingled with the night.
He moved quietly to the desk, setting his wallet and keycard down in one smooth motion. Still silent. Still calm.
"Do you want a drink?" he asked softly, glancing over his shoulder.
I shook my head. "I think I've had enough."
He nodded, turning fully toward me, waiting. Patient. Eyes searching mine—not rushing, just observing, quietly reading every detail.
And for a long, stretching moment, neither of us moved.
"You seem like someone who thinks things through," he said finally.
I held his gaze. "You say that like it surprises you."
"It doesn't surprise me at all. But it makes me wonder why you're here." His voice was gentle, curious, without accusation. "With someone you don't know."
The honesty surprised me—but pleasantly. No games. Just a direct question, asked plainly.
I took a slow breath, considering carefully. "Because I always think things through. I've spent my entire life being practical and careful. I'm tired of always having to justify what I want. Just once, I'd like to choose something simply because I want it."
He watched me quietly. No judgment. Just genuine interest.
"And tonight," I continued softly, "I want this. I want you."
He stepped forward slowly, closing a little of the careful space between us. "Fair enough."
The air shifted—just slightly. He was closer now, enough for me to notice small details: the clean scent of his cologne, the neat stitching of his shirt collar, the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
"Why me?"
It wasn't said with ego. Just calm curiosity. A simple question hanging in the warm air between us.
I didn't answer right away.
Mostly because the truth was complicated. Or maybe too simple.
I glanced at him again—his quiet presence, the tailored coat slung neatly over a chair, the faint scent of something woody and expensive lingering around him like a whisper. He looked like a man who knew who he was. A man who didn't need to prove anything.
But that wasn't why I was here.
"Honestly?" I said, leaning back against the desk a little, fingers brushing the edge of the wood. "Because you're hot. And high value. And completely my type."
His brow lifted slightly—just slightly—but he didn't speak.
No smugness.
Just that steady, quiet gaze.
I let the silence stretch, the way he did. Because I meant what I said, and I wasn't going to blush my way out of it.
"But mostly," I said, my voice dipping lower, "because you feel like someone who won't ask me to explain why I want what I want."
And right now, I wanted him.
Not in some chaotic, rom-com fantasy way. Not because I was swept up or drunk or lonely.
But because, for once, I was in full control.
Because I'd spent years focusing on survival. On structure. On things that made sense: a degree, a license, a visa, a life that couldn't be taken from me. I didn't have the luxury of fucking around in uni—of experimenting or dating for fun. While other girls had boyfriends and heartbreaks, I was learning to intubate unconscious patients and manage three shifts in a row without falling apart.
So yeah—I thought about sex. Wanted it, sometimes. Felt the ache of something unspent. I'd kissed boys. Been on a handful of dates. I wasn't a stranger to chemistry or touch.
But no one ever felt right.
Too loud. Too eager. Too entitled.
And somewhere along the way, I realized I didn't owe my first time to the next available option. Or to a boy I wasn't sure I even liked. Or to some half-drunk night with a mediocre man I'd regret in the morning.
I didn't save myself for love. I saved it for someone who felt worth it.
And this man—this calm, composed, quietly powerful man—did.
He didn't push. Didn't posture. He had presence, not desperation.
That mattered.
I took a slow step forward, closing the remaining space between us. The edge of the desk brushed the back of my thigh. He watched me—hands still at his sides, body still relaxed.
God, even that restraint turned me on.
I reached up and touched the edge of his shirt collar. Let my fingers skim lightly over the soft cotton, then trailed them down, slow and deliberate, until they rested against the flat of his chest.
And I kissed him.
Not soft. Not shy.
My mouth pressed to his with full intent—open, hungry, steady. I didn't hold back, and he didn't hesitate. He met me with equal pressure, parting his lips just enough to let me in. Warm breath. The faint taste of whiskey. Our mouths moved in rhythm, deliberate and slow, a steady escalation.
His hand slid to my waist, thumb pressing lightly just beneath my ribs, anchoring me to him as I tilted my head and deepened the kiss.
I opened my mouth wider. Our tongues met—hot, slick, slow at first. Just a tease, just enough to make me inhale through my nose and press my body closer to his.
He groaned softly into my mouth when I kissed him harder—my tongue brushing deeper, exploring, taking my time. He responded in kind, his hand firm now at my lower back, guiding me flush against him.
My fingers curled into his shirt.
God, he tasted good. Like heat and confidence. Like someone who didn't play games.
His tongue stroked mine again—more deliberate this time—and I felt my knees weaken just slightly, my pulse thudding in my throat.
I gasped softly against his lips, pulling back just a breath, but he chased it, kissing me again—slower now, dirtier, his mouth dragging against mine like he didn't want to stop.
And then I felt it.
His erection—hard, thick, pressed against my hip.
I stilled, only for a second. Not shocked. Not scared.
Just suddenly, fully aware of everything.
My body. My decision. My want.
My face went hot. A blush crawled up my neck, uninvited but impossible to stop.
He didn't say a word. Didn't push. Just kept his hands where they were—one warm at my waist, the other ghosting over my hip, gentle and solid.
I blinked up at him, lips slightly swollen, breath shallow.
He was just looking at me. Letting me feel it. Letting me choose.
And I did.
My hand smoothed over his chest again. No hesitation.
Still kissing him?
Yeah. I wanted more.