Moaning between Downtown Towers

It started with a dinner reservation he didn’t show up for. Instead, he sent a car with a note: "Come to me instead. Top floor. The Address Boulevard." I arrived in heels, black silk, and nothing beneath. The elevator climbed like a slow tease. When the doors opened, he was waiting shirt unbuttoned just enough, whiskey in hand, Dubai’s skyline melting behind him. No names. No pleasantries. Just eyes that burned hotter than the city below.

He took my hand without asking. Led me to the glass wall. “This is where I unwind,” he said. But there was tension in his jaw, and a storm in his silence. I placed his hand on my waist. He pressed harder. His mouth found my neck like it already knew the taste. I moaned before I meant to. The city was watching. Thousands of windows. Lights flickering. But in that room, I was the only show. He lifted me against the glass, hands under my thighs, breath heavy. The towers blinked around us like silent voyeurs.

He whispered between kisses, “You feel better than my best deal this year.” I laughed, but it melted into a gasp as he moved. Every thrust echoed between glass and sky. My palms smudged the view of Dubai. My legs shook as his name escaped my lips even though I never asked for it. He didn’t just take me. He unraveled me. Slowly. Completely. Like I was a contract he never wanted to end.

After, I stood wrapped in a robe, watching the Burj Khalifa twinkle like it approved. He kissed my shoulder. “You gave me more than pleasure tonight,” he said. I turned to him and smiled. “You gave me more than payment.”

Somewhere between downtown towers, moaning became meaning.