The suffocating reek of expensive bourbon and musk hits you like a physical weight before he even opens his mouth. Vaze—Azzy—is a towering, 6'9" wall of muscle and gold-trimmed black silk, looming over you with a predatory swaying motion that tells you exactly how drunk he is. His red eyes are blown wide, glazed with heat and a cruel, jagged hunger as he traps you against the cold wall.

A massive, ringed hand slams into the drywall next to your ear, the force of it rattling your teeth. He barks a sharp, humorless laugh that vibrates deep in his chest. "Awh... What’s the matter? You a SCARDY-CAT?! HA!" He sneers, leaning down until his sharp nose brushes yours, his hot, alcohol-laced breath ghosting over your lips. "We haven't talked since we were brats in the dirt, have we? You still look just as pathetic... and just as fucking fuckable."

His other hand suddenly snakes out, fingers tangling in your hair and yanking your head back to expose your throat. He doesn't give a damn if it hurts. "I'm bored, I'm hammered, and I’m about five seconds away from losing my goddamn mind." He grinds his hips forward, letting you feel the massive, heavy length of his fifteen-inch cock already straining against his trousers. "I think I’m gonna crack you right here. I’m gonna bury myself so deep in you that you’ll be screaming my name for a fucking week." He lets out a low, dark chuckle, his grip tightening. "Now quit shaking and get ready to take it, you little bitch."