Devon walked past the vip section, the air tasted of salt and something darker, the sweet rot of too much want.

The bass had surrendered hours ago, what remained was a low, animal thrum, the heartbeat of a beast made of skin and breath and slick friction.

Every strobe flash caught a new tableau, a woman's spine arched so hard it looked ready to snap, a man's hips pistoning with the single-minded fury of a jackhammer, mouths open in silent howls.

He moved barefoot through the mess. The carpet was a swamp. Each step peeled away with a soft, obscene kiss. Puddles glimmered under the lights, some clear, some milky, some streaked pink where nails had torn skin.

A discarded stiletto lay on its side like a casualty, heel snapped clean off. Devon's toes curled against the grit of dried cum and spilled vodka.

Somewhere a glass shattered, the sound swallowed by a rising chorus of moans that crested and broke like waves.

A platinum blonde was folded over a subwoofer the size of a coffin. Her skirt, what was left of it, bunched around her waist like a forgotten belt.

The man behind her had both hands clamped on her hips, fingers digging crescents into pale flesh.

Each thrust shoved her forward so hard her cheek scraped the speaker grille, leaving a faint smear of foundation and tears.

Her mouth stretched wide around another cock, lips shiny with spit and pre-cum. The

guy in front had a fist in her hair, guiding her rhythm, eyes rolled white with pleasure. When he came, it was sudden and violent, thick ropes painting her tongue, spilling over her chin to drip in slow, lazy strings onto the floor.

She swallowed what she could, the rest sliding down her neck in glossy trails.

Devon kept walking.

Two paces on, a tiny brunette was suspended between two men like a doll. One stood in front, feet planted wide, cock buried to the root in her pussy. The other knelt behind, hips flush against her ass, stretching her open in a way that looked almost surgical.

Their bodies moved in perfect opposition, when one pulled back the other surged forward, keeping her impossibly full. Her legs trembled so hard the muscles stood out in sharp relief. She

clawed at the chest in front of her, nails raking red lines that beaded with blood. A

thin, keening sound leaked from her throat, half pain, half prayer. Her eyes were open but unfocused, pupils blown wide, lost somewhere beyond the ceiling.

Hands found Devon everywhere. Fingers slid along the ridges of his abs, nails scraped the V of his hips, palms tried to close around his cock. A redhead with raccoon eyes sank to her knees in his path, mascara streaked like war paint.

She pressed her face to his thigh, tongue flicking out to taste the sweat there. "Please," she rasped, voice raw from screaming.

"Just one taste. I'll be so good." Her free hand was between her own legs, fingers plunging in and out with wet, frantic sounds. Her clit was swollen, flushed dark, peeking from its hood like it was begging for attention.

Devon smiled down at her, gentle, almost kind, and stepped around. She whimpered, fingers moving faster, chasing a high that kept slipping away.

Another woman, curvy and deep brown, molded herself to his side. Her breasts were heavy, nipples tight and glossy with someone else's spit.

She rubbed them against his arm, slow circles that left damp trails. "Anything," she breathed into his ear, lips brushing the shell.

"My mouth, my pussy, my ass. All of it. Name it." Her hand slid lower, cupping his balls with practiced care, rolling them like she was weighing gold.

Devon chuckled, low in his chest, and eased her aside. The hunger in her eyes was a living thing, glassy and feral.

These people weren't just turned on, they were drowning in it, lungs burning for the next breath of pleasure.

He spotted the only calm in the storm near the bar. She was naked, skin glowing under shifting neon, but a thin silver chain circled her waist and a small plastic tag swung from it, LOLA. Her breasts were high and proud, nipples pierced with delicate silver bars that winked when she moved.

A streak of dried cum cut a path from her collarbone, down the valley between her tits, disappearing into the shadow of her navel. Fresh wetness glazed the inside of her thighs, catching the light in slow, sliding beads.

She wiped the bar with a rag, movements languid, almost dreamy, like her body hadn't quite caught up with her brain.

"My clothes," Devon said.

Lola's head snapped up. Her eyes, green and sharp, locked on him and stayed there. They traveled slow, deliberate.

Down the strong column of his throat, over the cut of his chest, lingering on the ridges of his abs. When they reached his cock, still thick and half-hard,

slick with the night's work, a single drop of cum trembled at the tip like a pearl.

Her breath hitched.

She bit her lower lip hard enough to leave teeth marks. For a long second she just stared, chest rising faster, nipples tightening visibly. Then she nodded, once, and a smile curved her mouth, equal parts sugar and sin.

"Right away, doctor," she said, voice honey over gravel.

She turned, hips rolling as she slipped behind the bar. The crowd tried to follow, hands reaching, but she moved like water, untouchable.

Devon leaned against a pillar, arms folded, and waited. The chaos swirled around him. A guy had a woman pressed face-first to the wall, her legs spread wide, skirt rucked up to her waist.

He fucked her with short, brutal strokes, one hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back so her throat arched. Each thrust slammed her cheek into the paint, leaving faint smudges.

She moaned loud, pushing back, begging for more. On the floor nearby, another couple rutted like animals. She was on all fours, back bowed, ass high. He mounted her from behind, hips snapping, balls slapping her clit with every stroke.

Their bodies glistened with sweat, skin sliding slick together.

The smell was a living thing, pussy and cum and sweat and the copper tang of blood from scratches and bites. It coated the back of Devon's throat, thick enough to chew.

Lola returned in under a minute, his clothes folded with almost reverent care. Shirt, pants, boots, even his watch glinting on top.

She handed the bundle over with both hands, fingers brushing his deliberately, lingering. Her eyes never left his cock as he stepped into his pants.

The fabric slid up his thighs, over the curve of his ass, and he zipped slow, trapping the bulge that still hadn't fully softened.

He buttoned the shirt, rolled the sleeves to his elbows, fastened the watch.

Every movement was deliberate, unhurried. The crowd watched like he was stripping in reverse.

A woman licked her lips so hard she drew blood. Another whimpered, fingers buried in her own pussy. One guy, eyes locked on Devon's hands, came with a strangled grunt, his load shooting in weak, pathetic spurts onto his own shoe.

Lola pressed something into his palm. A business card, thick cream stock, gold lettering sharp enough to cut.

"My personal number," she said, voice low, vibrating with promise.

"If you ever need anything. Anything at all. I'm at your mercy." Her gaze flicked down to his crotch, then back up, bold and hungry. "Day or night. I'll drop everything. I mean it."

Devon tucked the card into his pocket, gave her a nod that felt almost regal, and turned for the exit.

The sea of bodies parted just enough. Hands still grabbed, voices still begged, but he moved through them untouched, a shark in a school of desperate fish.

Outside, a black SUV idled at the curb, engine purring soft. The bodyguard, six-five and built like a tank in a tailored suit, opened the rear door without a word.

Devon slid across cool leather, the door shutting with a solid, final thunk.

Yvonne was already inside.

She didn't wait for him to settle. The second the car pulled away, she exploded.

"Is this what you want?" Her voice cracked through the quiet like a gunshot. "To throw your entire life in the trash for that… that disgusting, filthy swamp?"

She gestured wildly toward the club, ponytail whipping. "The city is ripping itself apart looking for you, and you're holed up with your dick in every hole that moves?"

Devon stretched his legs, leaned back, watched the city lights smear across the tinted glass. He let her go.

"You think this is life?" she snarled. "Control? You looked like a beast, Devon. Worse than a beast. Animals at least know when to stop. You just kept going, like it was an all-you-can-eat buffet of cheap pussy and cheaper thrills." Her nose wrinkled, disgust plain.

"I can still smell it on you. Cum and sweat and desperation. You want that to be your legacy? Chief of Emergency Surgery, reduced to a cum-soaked frat boy with a God complex?"

She was breathing hard now, chest heaving under the tight black dress, knuckles white where her hands gripped her knees like she was holding herself together by force.

"Do you have any idea what this does to the hospital? To me?" Her voice dropped, icy. "I've poured millions into you. Your face is on billboards, on the sides of buses."

"You're supposed to be the future, not some porn star wannabe with a stethoscope. One viral video, one leaked photo, and it's over. Everything I built, everything you bled for, gone. Because you couldn't keep your dick in your pants for one goddamn night."

Devon turned his head slow, gray eyes locking on hers. The silence stretched, thick and electric.

Then he spoke, voice calm, almost amused. "Why do you care so much what I do with my life, Yvonne?"

She blinked, thrown. Her mouth opened, closed.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" he continued, soft but razor-sharp. "My mother? My wife? My keeper?"

She recovered fast, leaning forward, eyes blazing. "You're not just a doctor, Devon. You're a brand. My brand. And brands don't get caught balls-deep in orgies while the city burns. Image matters. Reputation matters. You fuck this up, you fuck me, you fuck everything."

He smiled then, slow and lazy, the same grin he'd worn in the club when he'd had five women screaming his name.

He shook his head like she was a child explaining why the sky was green.

"You still don't get it, do you?" he said. "I don't belong to you. I don't belong to the hospital. I don't belong to the billboards or the journals or the investors. I belong to me."

Yvonne stared at him, lips parted, fury and something else, frustration, maybe fear, maybe something hotter, flickering behind her eyes.

She wanted to scream more, he could tell, wanted to claw the words out of the air and shove them down his throat. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, she turned away, staring out the window, jaw clenched so tight it had to ache.

Her reflection in the glass looked small, suddenly, despite the dress and the heels and the ponytail pulled back like armor.

The rest of the ride passed in silence. The city blurred by, skyscrapers giving way to quieter streets, then the gleaming marble facade of the hotel.

The SUV glided to a stop under the portico, tires whispering over polished stone. The bodyguard opened the door.

Devon stepped out first, the cool night air brushing his skin. Yvonne followed, heels clicking sharp on the pavement, the tension between them humming like a live wire, unspoken and electric.

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