It started with a look.

Georgie walked ahead of me, hips swaying like they had a personal vendetta against every sane thought I’d ever had. Her heels clicked sharply on the polished tile floor of the lingerie section — a warning shot if ever I heard one. Stockings, black lace, and delicate silks fluttered around us, but nothing came close to the dangerous curve of her smirk when she turned and said, “Pick one. I’ll try it on… if you’re good.”

Oh, I was already bad.

I handed her a delicate, white lace set that looked like sin sewn into fabric — just to see how far she’d go. She disappeared into the change room, but the curtain didn’t quite shut. That was deliberate. Everything about Georgie was deliberate.

“Come in,” she purred, and that was it — the last thread of control snapped.

I stepped into the tiny change room and pulled the curtain shut behind me. The lighting was low, warm, golden… like a secret whispered in the dark. Georgie stood with her back to me, hair loose down her back, wearing nothing but that lace. And heels. Those fucking heels.

I moved in close. My hands found her hips, sliding along the smooth curve of her waist before pulling her back against me. She gasped — soft and sharp — as my lips traced the line of her neck, then lower, nibbling down to the swell of her breast.

“You’re trouble,” she breathed.

“And you’re about to get fucked like it,” I growled.

She turned to face me, eyes smouldering. No hesitation. I pushed her gently back against the mirror, the cold glass making her arch with a gasp. My mouth was everywhere — throat, collarbone, the edge of her lace bra — tongue teasing, teeth scraping, hands pinning her like I’d claimed her for good.

She moaned when my fingers slid beneath the waistband of her thong. Slick. Hot. Ready.

“Fuck, Georgie,” I groaned, voice low and raw. “You’re soaked.”

“Then do something about it.”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

I spun her around, her hands braced against the mirror. That perfect arse in those lace briefs had me right on the edge. I pulled them down just enough, then freed myself — thick, hard, desperate. She moaned as I teased her entrance, the head of my cock sliding between her folds.

When I pushed inside her, we both lost our breath.

She was tight, wet heat clenching around me as I thrust deep. My hand slid up her spine, gripping her hair, pulling her back so I could whisper filth into her ear. Every movement was rougher than the last — hips slamming, breath ragged, bodies colliding in a rhythm that echoed against the glass and velvet curtain.

“You wanted this,” I growled, fucking her harder, watching our reflection. “You wore those heels on purpose.”

She whimpered, “I wanted you to lose control.”

I did.

I gripped her hips and pounded into her, deeper, faster, until I felt her legs shake — her body tightening, her breath catching as she came hard around me, biting her own knuckle to muffle the cry.

I followed with a grunt, buried deep, emptying myself inside her with one final, shuddering thrust.

We stood there for a moment — breathing, pulsing, wrecked.

Then Georgie looked over her shoulder with a wicked grin.

“So,” she said, lips curling, “what do you think of the fit?”