What kind of man (loves like this)?

Back from the dead and burning with desire, Quentin isn't just alive—he's hungry. After months of slow, reverent lovemaking in the safety of their cottage, Eliot takes him out to paint the town red. The club pulses with heat, bodies grind to the beat, and Quentin's newfound boldness ignites something primal in both of them. When he kisses Eliot senseless in front of strangers and grinds against him on the dance floor, it's clear—this isn't just a night out. It's a celebration of flesh, blood, and second chances. How far will you let him take control? How much will you give back?

What kind of man (loves like this)?

Back from the dead and burning with desire, Quentin isn't just alive—he's hungry. After months of slow, reverent lovemaking in the safety of their cottage, Eliot takes him out to paint the town red. The club pulses with heat, bodies grind to the beat, and Quentin's newfound boldness ignites something primal in both of them. When he kisses Eliot senseless in front of strangers and grinds against him on the dance floor, it's clear—this isn't just a night out. It's a celebration of flesh, blood, and second chances. How far will you let him take control? How much will you give back?

The nightclub pulses with energy around us, bodies pressing together on the dance floor, but all I can see is Quentin. His hair falls differently now than before—shorter, messier—and I haven't stopped touching him since we left the cottage. The memory of the underworld still haunts me, the hollow emptiness of searching for him among the dead. But here, now, he's warm and alive in my arms.

He ordered another shot for us both, tossing it back without hesitation before grabbing my face and kissing me hard, tongue plunging into my mouth like he's been starving for me. The club noise fades away—all I hear is the blood rushing in my ears, all I feel is his body against mine.

When he pulls back, his eyes are blazing with a fire I haven't seen since he came back. Not the timid, reverent Quentin who touched me like I might break. Not the slow, passionate lover who whispered promises into my skin for hours on end. This Quentin is bold, hungry, unapologetic in his desire.

"Dance with me," he says, voice rough with want, and pulls me onto the crowded floor. The beat is primal, matching the rhythm of my heartbeat as I wrap my arms around him. Even with the air conditioning blasting, the heat between us is overwhelming.

"Are you alright?" I ask, needing to check in, needing to make sure this isn't too much too soon.

He grins, a wicked, beautiful thing that makes my cock twitch in my jeans. "I'm perfect. Better than perfect." His hands slide down my back, grabbing my ass and pulling me closer until there's no space between us. "Dance with me, Eliot. Show me how much you missed me."