Leon Drake came awake with a mouthful of hair and the slow, sticky pulse of someone else's heartbeat against his ribs.
The brunette (Anya? Ava?) was draped over him like a blanket made of skin and sin, one heavy breast crushed to his chest, nipple still peaked from whatever they'd done at four in the morning.
The blonde (hell, he'd lost her name somewhere between the second bottle of Patrón and the balcony) had her thigh hooked high over his hip, the slick heat between her legs pressed to his skin like she was marking territory.
The room smelled of sex and sweat and the ghost of her perfume (something expensive and filthy). His cock gave a lazy twitch, remembering how the blonde had begged, voice cracking, when he'd pinned her wrists and taken her from behind while Anya watched, fingers buried in herself.
He eased out from under them, silk sheets dragging across his stomach like a slow tongue. The shower was a glass box of steam; he braced both palms on the tile and let the water hammer the night off him. Didn't help much.
Every drop felt like a mouth. He could still taste the blonde on his lower lip, still feel Anya's nails raking down his back when she came with his name half-sobbed into the pillow. By the time he toweled off, he was half-hard again and grinning like an idiot.
The Lamborghini Urus growled awake under the penthouse, matte black and hungry. He took the coastal road too fast, one hand on the wheel, the other palming the ache in his slacks because the memory of Anya's mouth wouldn't quit.
The lab smelled like antiseptic and ozone, but he carried last night in his hair, in the faint teeth marks on his shoulder.
The serum shimmered gold in its vial, thick as melted honey. He leaned in close, breath fogging the glass. "Come on, gorgeous. Make me twenty-five forever."
The robotic arm jerked. The vial tipped. The explosion was silent at first—just a bloom of white fire and the wet slap of liquid across his tongue, his throat, the open collar of his shirt. It tasted like the moment before you come, sharp and electric.
Then the pain hit, and everything went white.He woke on his back in sand so hot it should've blistered, but it didn't. The air was thick with resin and crushed figs and something darker (sex baked into the dunes).
A woman straddled him, thighs clamped around his hips, skin glowing like polished bronze. Solara.
The name slid into his head like it belonged there.
Her tits were heavy, swaying as she breathed, nipples dark and tight enough to cut glass. Between her legs she was drenched, slick coating the inside of her thighs, dripping onto his cock like warm oil."Leon Drake," she said, voice rolling over him like a slow fuck. "You lived like every sunrise was your last lay.
I felt it." She rolled her hips, dragging her cunt along his length, teasing the head against her entrance. "I want that fire."He was hard (Jesus, painfully hard) and when she sank down, taking him in one slick glide, the sand hissed beneath them. She was molten inside, tight and greedy, riding him like she'd been starved for a thousand years.
Her nails carved red lines down his chest; he answered by gripping her ass, spreading her wider, thrusting up until her breath broke on a moan.
The sun hammered down, but it wasn't burning—it was feeding him, pouring liquid gold into his veins with every stroke."Feel that?" she whispered, leaning close so her breasts crushed against him, nipples dragging fire across his skin. "That's me. That's forever." She clenched around him, deliberate, and he saw stars. When she came it was with a cry that cracked the sky, her cunt milking him in rhythmic pulses that dragged him over the edge.
He spilled into her with a growl that tasted like sunlight, hips jerking, the sand beneath them fusing to glass from the heat.She rose slow, thighs trembling, trailing two fingers through the mess between her legs and licking them clean with a wicked smile. "Get up, Lux Solarius.
The desert's yours. The sun's yours. And every dawn I'll ride you awake until you forget you were ever anything but mine."He stood, naked and gleaming, cock still slick with her.
The sunlight answered when he lifted a hand—coiling thick and golden around his wrist, licking up his arm like a tongue, then shooting skyward in a pillar of pure flame. Far off, the white city knelt. Closer, Solara watched with hooded eyes, lips swollen, thighs still trembling.Lux grinned, slow and filthy, and the sun burned hotter for it.