⍟AlcaPzr⍟

Dylan Minnette ♧︎︎︎

Braeden Lemasters ♫︎

Cole Preston 𖠌

Stranger Things ☏︎

Clay Jensen ㋛︎

Isabella Elei 𑁍

Matty/Gabriette ❣︎

Various✫

Mcr ☠︎︎

Off Campus ♡︎

Billie Eilish ❦︎

Renne Rapp ✿︎

You almost walked right past him.

The scrub room was half-empty, fluorescent lights humming, the sharp scent of antiseptic already clinging to the air. Andrew was leaning against the counter, tying his mask, dark hair still a little damp from the quick shower he’d taken after rounds. He looked up the second the door clicked shut behind you.

For a second neither of you spoke.

His eyes dragged over you the way they used to—slow, deliberate, like he was cataloguing every inch even through the shapeless blue scrubs. Your stomach tightened. You hated that it still did that.

You kept your voice flat. “You’re still on the board for the Whipple?”

“Yeah.” His voice was lower than you remembered, rough around the edges. “You’re the Anesthesiologist?”

You gave a short nod and moved to the sink, turning the water on harder than necessary. The silence stretched, thick and ugly.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke again.“Come by the apartment tonight after your shift.” You rinsed your hands, dried them with quick, aggressive motions. “Your shit is still there. The leather jacket, the grey hoodie, half a drawer of boxers, the stupid espresso machine you insisted on buying. I’m done looking at it.”

Andrew’s jaw flexed. He pushed off the counter, taking one slow step closer. Close enough that you caught the faint trace of his cologne under the hospital soap.“You could’ve just texted,” he said quietly.

“I could’ve.” You finally met his eyes. They were darker than usual, something restless and hungry flickering behind the professional calm. “But I didn’t. So come get it. Tonight. Im gonna finally be home .”

You turned toward the OR doors before he could answer, pulse already hammering in your throat. Behind you, you heard him exhale—slow, controlled, like he was holding something back.

The apartment smelled like lemon cleaner and the last of your patience.

You’d spent the last hour yanking open drawers and cabinets, dumping every forgotten piece of him into the same battered cardboard box that already held his jacket and the espresso machine. Another pair of black boxers. A half-empty bottle of his cologne. The soft grey T-shirt he used to sleep in that somehow still smelled like him no matter how many times you’d washed it. You shoved it in with more force than necessary.

Laundry day had left you in nothing but a pair of tiny black micro shorts that barely covered the curve of your ass and zero top. Your hair was piled in a messy knot, a thin sheen of sweat on your collarbones from scrubbing the kitchen counters. You didn’t give a shit. He was coming to collect his things, not to stay.

You were halfway through folding one of his old hospital hoodies when the knock came—three firm, familiar raps. You wiped your hands on your shorts, crossed the living room, and pulled the door open without checking the peephole.

Andrew stood there in dark jeans and a black T-shirt that clung to his chest, a duffel bag hanging from one hand. His eyes dropped instantly. They locked on your bare breasts, the soft weight of them, the way your nipples had tightened the second the cooler hallway air hit your skin. His gaze dragged lower—over the flat of your stomach, the high cut of the micro shorts, the bare stretch of your thighs—before climbing back up to your face with deliberate, hungry slowness.

A low, rough sound left his throat.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice already gravel. His mouth curved into that dangerous little half-smile you used to love and hate in equal measure. “Wow… I really missed being welcomed like this.”

He didn’t move to come inside yet. He just stood there filling the doorway, eyes dark and unapologetic, looking at you like he’d walked straight into the exact fantasy he’d been trying not to think about for weeks.

You felt heat flash low in your belly anyway. You didn’t cover yourself. You stepped aside just enough for him to walk in, but you didn’t move back. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing the two of you into the thick, charged air of the apartment.

“Get your shit,” you said flatly, nodding toward the overflowing cardboard box on the floor. “Before I decide to sell it. That leather jacket alone could cover a month of rent.”

Andrew dropped the duffel bag by the door without looking at it. His eyes were still on you—on the bare curve of your breasts, the way your nipples had stayed tight, the soft line of your stomach disappearing into those ridiculous little shorts. He dragged a hand over his mouth like he needed a second to remember how to speak.“I don’t understand why you’re still this angry, bella mia,” he said, voice low and rough. The Italian endearment rolled off his tongue the way it always used to, warm and intimate, like he still had the right to use it. “We both said things we didn’t mean. It’s been weeks—”

You laughed once, sharp and humorless.“Weeks.” You crossed your arms under your chest, which only pushed your breasts up higher, and you watched his gaze drop again before he forced it back to your face. “You want to know why I’m still this fucking mad, Andrew? Because you never stopped. Patients. Their wives. Their daughters. Every new resident with a pulse. You flirted with all of them like it was breathing—right in front of me. Smiling that little smile, leaning in too close, letting them touch your arm, laugh at your stupid jokes, while I stood three feet away watching the man who was supposed to be mine act like he was still single.” Your voice stayed steady, but something hot and ugly pulsed under your skin.“You never even looked guilty. Not once.”

Andrew’s jaw tightened. The playful heat in his eyes dimmed into something darker, heavier. He took one slow step closer, the air between you shrinking.“That’s what this is about?” he asked quietly. “You think I wanted any of them?”

You didn’t answer. You just stared at him, bare-chested and furious, daring him to keep talking.

Andrew’s nostrils flared. He took another step, closing the space until you could feel the heat coming off his body.“You think I wanted them?” he repeated, voice dropping lower. “You think I looked at any of those women the way I look at you?”

You scoffed, shaking your head hard enough that a few strands of hair fell across your bare shoulder.

“I think you looked at everyone that way. Patients. Nurses. Attendings. Anyone who smiled at you long enough. You made it a fucking sport. And the worst part?” Your voice cracked for half a second before you forced it steady again. “You never fucked me like that. Never. You saved the real hunger for the people who weren’t yours. With me you were careful. Soft. Like you were scared I’d break. Like you didn’t even know how to take me the way you clearly wanted to take everything else that moved.”

Andrew’s eyes went almost black.“That’s what you think?” he said, quiet and dangerous. “That I didn’t know how to fuck you?”

“I know you didn’t,” you shot back, chin lifting. “Because if you had, I wouldn’t have spent half our relationship watching you light up for strangers while I got the polite version. The controlled version. The version that never once lost control with me.”

He moved so fast you barely had time to breathe.

One second he was a foot away, the next his hand was braced on the wall beside your head, body caging you in without quite touching. His chest rose and fell hard. You could smell him—clean soap and that faint trace of cologne that still lived in your sheets no matter how many times you washed them.

“You have no idea,” he growled, mouth inches from yours, “what I held back with you.”

Your pulse slammed against your throat. The air between your bare skin and his shirt felt electric, heavy, ready to snap.

Andrew’s breath ghosted over your lips, hot and uneven. For a second he just stared at you, jaw locked, eyes almost black with everything he wasn’t saying.

Then he exhaled a rough, broken curse against your mouth.“Cazzo… eccoci di nuovo.”

The words were low, almost a growl, and the second they left his tongue he crashed into you.

There was nothing careful about the kiss. Nothing soft. It was pure starvation—hungry, brutal, teeth and tongue and the sharp edge of weeks of restraint snapping all at once. His mouth claimed yours like he’d been dying for it, one hand sliding up to grip the side of your neck while the other stayed braced against the wall, caging you in. He kissed you deep and filthy, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth hard enough to sting, then plunging back in like he couldn’t stand even that tiny separation.

A broken sound tore out of your throat.

Your hands shot up, fingers twisting hard into his dark hair, and you yanked him closer—closer, until his chest crushed against your bare breasts and the heat of him burned straight through you. You kissed him back just as viciously, biting at his mouth, tugging at his hair until he groaned into yours.

The box of his things sat forgotten on the floor. Neither of you cared.

Andrew broke the kiss only long enough to hook his hands under your thighs and lift you like you weighed nothing. Your back hit the wall hard enough to knock a soft gasp out of you, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The hard line of his cock pressed right against the thin fabric of your micro shorts, already thick and insistent.

He didn’t give you a second to breathe.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open and greedy, dragging hot, wet kisses down the side of your throat. He bit the sensitive spot just below your ear, then soothed it with his tongue, sucking hard enough that you knew it would leave a mark. Your fingers stayed buried in his hair, tugging, holding him there while your head fell back against the wall.

A low, dark laugh rumbled against your skin.“You knew,” he murmured, voice rough and amused and filthy all at once. He rolled his hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding against you so you could feel exactly how hard he was. “You opened the door like this… bare tits, tiny little shorts, telling me to come get my shit…” Another open-mouthed kiss to your throat, teeth scraping. “You knew exactly how this was going to end, bella mia.” He lifted his head just enough to look at you, eyes almost black, mouth wet and swollen from kissing you.“Didn’t you?”

You swallowed hard, the wall solid against your back, his hips pinning you in place like he had no intention of letting you down anytime soon.

“No,” you breathed, even as your hands slid under the hem of his black T-shirt. “I didn’t know.” Your fingers dragged up the hot, hard planes of his stomach, feeling every ridge of muscle jump under your touch. “But I’m not complaining.”

You shoved the fabric higher. Andrew helped with a quick, impatient movement, yanking the shirt over his head and tossing it somewhere behind him. It hit the floor without a sound.

Fuck. How the hell had you let yourself forget?

His chest was broad and warm, a light dusting of dark hair trailing down between his pecs, over the defined abs, and disappearing into the waistband of his jeans in that perfect, mouthwatering happy trail. His shoulders looked even wider without the shirt. The veins in his forearms stood out as he held you up. He looked ruinous. Dangerous. Like every filthy late-night thought you’d tried to kill since the breakup had just walked back into your apartment and pressed you against the wall.

Your hands mapped him without permission—over his ribs, up to his chest, thumbs brushing his nipples just to feel him twitch.

Andrew’s eyes darkened further. A slow, wicked smile curved his mouth as he watched your face.“Sei una bambina cattiva e bugiarda,” he murmured, voice pure sin. “You’re a bad, lying little girl.”

One of his hands left your thigh. It slid up your side, over your bare breast, lingering just long enough to thumb your nipple, then continued higher. His fingers wrapped loosely around the front of your throat—not tight, not yet, just a warm, possessive collar of heat and pressure. Exactly the way he knew wrecked you.

Your breath stuttered. Your hips rolled against him on instinct.

He felt it. Of course he felt it. That low, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest as his thumb stroked the side of your neck, testing, reminding you how easily he could take control.

“Look at you,” he said voice rough with hunger. “Still so fucking responsive when I put my hand here.” He squeezed just a fraction tighter—enough to make your lashes flutter, enough to send a sharp pulse of heat straight between your legs. “You can keep saying you didn’t know how this would end, bella mia… but your body already gave you away.” He leaned in, mouth brushing yours without quite kissing you, the pressure of his hand on your throat steady and perfect.

“Lie to me again,” he whispered. “I dare you.”

Your pulse hammered against his palm. You could feel every careful flex of his fingers around your throat, the exact pressure that always short-circuited your brain.

“It terrifies me,” you admitted, voice rough, “how well you still know me.”

Andrew’s eyes softened for half a second—something raw and almost tender flickering through the hunger—before the heat swallowed it whole again.

“What kind of man would I be,” he murmured, leaning in until his forehead nearly touched yours, “if I didn’t know the love of my life perfectly?”

The words landed heavy. You didn’t have time to answer.

His free hand dropped between your bodies. You heard the metallic scrape of his belt, the soft hiss of his zipper. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just far enough, the movement rough and impatient. His cock sprang free—thick, hard, already leaking at the tip—and the hot weight of it slapped against the thin fabric of your micro shorts, right over your cunt.

A broken sound escaped you.

Andrew’s hand on your throat tightened just a fraction more, a deliberate, possessive squeeze that made your eyes flutter and your hips jerk forward on instinct. He groaned at the way you reacted, rolling his bare cock against the soaked crotch of your shorts, smearing precome into the fabric.

“Still so wet for me,” he rasped, voice pure gravel. “Even when you’re furious. Even when you swear you hate me.” Another slow grind, the head of his cock catching against your clit through the shorts. “I’ve got you, bella mia. I’ve always fucking had you.”

He squeezed your throat again—perfect, controlled, exactly how you needed it—and watched your mouth fall open on a silent gasp.

Andrew didn’t bother taking the shorts off.

His fingers hooked into the soaked crotch of the micro shorts and the thin string of your thong, yanking both to the side in one rough tug. The cool air of the apartment kissed your bare, dripping cunt for half a second—then the thick, blunt head of his cock notched against you.

He looked straight into your eyes.

And pushed in.

One long, relentless thrust. No teasing. No inching. He buried himself to the hilt in a single stroke, stretching you wide around that perfect, heavy cock you hadn’t felt in weeks. The burn was sharp and exquisite. He was so fucking big—thicker than you remembered, so deep it punched the air straight out of your lungs.

Your eyes rolled back.

A broken, high sound tore from your throat as your head thumped against the wall. Your nails dug into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Every nerve in your body lit up at once. He filled you so completely it bordered on too much, the thick vein along the underside of his cock dragging against your walls as he bottomed out and stayed there, hips flush to yours, letting you feel every pulse of him inside you.

“Fuuuck—” Andrew’s voice cracked against your neck, hand still firm around your throat. “Still so tight… still take me like you were made for it…”

He didn’t move yet. Just held himself buried to the root, breathing hard, letting the stretch wreck you while your cunt fluttered helplessly around him.

Your eyes were still half-rolled, mouth open, completely gone on the feeling of him.

Andrew’s forehead dropped against yours, breath ragged, cock buried so deep it felt like he was trying to fuse the two of you back together.

“I’m not moving,” he rasped, voice dark and absolute. His hand flexed around your throat, thumb stroking the side of your neck in a slow, dangerous caress. “You want it? You take it.”

The challenge lit something feral in you.

Your thighs tightened around his waist. You lifted yourself up—feeling every thick inch drag out of you—then dropped back down hard, taking him to the hilt again. The wet sound of it was filthy. A broken moan tore from your throat as you did it again, and again, using the wall and his body for leverage, bouncing on his cock like you were starving for it.

Andrew groaned low and wrecked, eyes locked on your face.

“That’s it… fuck, look at you…”

His hand tightened around your throat—firmer now, the pressure perfect and punishing—cutting just enough of your air that every bounce felt sharper, hotter, more intense. Your vision flickered at the edges. Your cunt clenched hard around him with every downward slam, the stretch borderline overwhelming, the head of his cock kissing that deep spot that made your toes curl.

You kept going, riding him harder, wetter, the micro shorts still shoved to the side and soaked. Each time you sank down he throbbed inside you, thick and relentless, and the chokehold only made it worse—better—until your whole body was shaking with how intense it felt.

Andrew’s free hand gripped your ass, helping you bounce, but true to his word he still didn’t thrust. He just held you, choked you, and let you fuck yourself stupid on his cock while he watched every second of it.

You clung to him like you were drowning.

Your arms locked around his neck so tightly it almost hurt, nails digging into the back of his shoulders as you kept bouncing on his cock—short, desperate rolls of your hips that took him deep every single time. Your mouth found his skin and wouldn’t leave it. You bit the side of his neck, hard enough to mark, then soothed it with a messy, open-mouthed kiss. Then his jaw. Then the corner of his lips. Then back to his throat again, sucking and biting and licking like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to devour him or be destroyed by him.

Broken sounds kept spilling out of you—half words, half moans, completely incoherent.

“Fuck—Andrew—so big—missed this—missed you—don’t stop—please—”

Your voice was wrecked, high and shaky, babbling against his skin between every wet slap of your cunt taking him to the root. The chokehold on your throat only made it worse; every restricted breath turned the pleasure sharper, thicker, until you were trembling in his arms and still couldn’t stop moving.

Andrew groaned like the sound of you falling apart was killing him.

“That’s it, bella mia,” he rasped against your temple, hand still firm around your neck. “Let me hear it. Tell me how much you needed this cock…”

You only clung tighter, biting down on his shoulder as another broken string of pleas and curses tumbled out of your mouth, your body bouncing harder, wetter, completely lost in him.

It hit you like a truck.

Your whole body locked up mid-bounce, cunt clamping down on his cock so hard it punched a broken scream out of your throat. The orgasm ripped through you violent and messy—your eyes rolling back, mouth falling open, a thick string of spit slipping from the corner of your lips as you completely lost control. You kept babbling even while you came, voice high and wrecked and barely human.

“Andrew—fuck—I’m—oh my god—can’t—too much—please—”

Your hips jerked helplessly, still trying to take him deeper even as your walls fluttered and squeezed around him in pulsing waves. Drool ran down your chin. Your nails raked down his back. The hand around your throat only made it more intense, turning every pulse of pleasure into something blinding.

Andrew watched every second of it with dark, hungry eyes, that filthy little laugh rumbling out of his chest as he felt you fall apart on him.

“There she is…” he murmured, almost reverent and completely smug at the same time. He leaned in, licking the spit from the corner of your mouth before kissing you deep and filthy. “Look at that. Completely fucked the brain right out of you, didn’t I, bella mia?”

Another low, satisfied chuckle against your lips as your body kept trembling and twitching around his cock, still buried to the hilt.

“That’s my girl.”

Andrew lasted maybe ten more brutal thrusts.

He finally broke his own rule, hips snapping up hard to meet every downward bounce of your body, fucking into you with deep, punishing strokes while you were still twitching and oversensitive from your orgasm. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the apartment. His hand stayed firm around your throat, the other gripping your ass hard enough to bruise as he drove himself deeper, chasing his own end.

“Fuck—you feel too good—” his voice cracked, raw and desperate. “Gonna fill you up… take it—”

He buried himself to the root one last time and came with a low, guttural groan against your neck, cock pulsing hard as he spilled deep inside you in thick, hot ropes. You felt every spurt, every throb, your cunt still fluttering weakly around him like it wanted to milk him dry.

For a long moment neither of you moved.

Just the sound of ragged breathing. The feel of his forehead pressed to yours. The slow drip of his cum starting to leak out around his cock where you were still joined.

Eventually his hand loosened from your throat, sliding down to cradle the back of your head instead. He stayed inside you, soft kisses pressed lazily to your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth while the aftershocks faded.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. Rougher. Almost careful.“Can I stay?”

The bass of Human Nature was crawling up your spine like a living thing.

You were deep in it—eyes half-lidded, body rolling slow and filthy under the strobing pink and green lights, hips grinding the air like the song was fucking you. The weed had settled warm and heavy in your chest, making every beat feel thicker, wetter, more intimate. Smoke curled from the joint pinched between your fingers as you swayed, free hand dragging down your own throat, over the thin fabric of your top, lower… just enough to feel the heat pooling between your legs.

You weren’t thinking about anything. Just the music. Just the way the bass made your cunt throb in time.

A sudden flash of sequins and a sharp, theatrical voice cut through the haze.“Hey, sugar—”

You blinked, slowed your roll, and looked up.

A tall drag queen in a chrome corset and six-inch platforms was standing right in front of you, holding a neon-pink drink with two cherries and a ridiculous little umbrella. She grinned, painted lips glossy under the lights.“Someone sent this over for you, baby.”

You stared at the glass, then at her, still high, still half-dancing. “What?”

She laughed, low and knowing, and tilted her chin toward the edge of the dance floor.“Her.”

You followed the line of her finger.

And there she was.

Billie Eilish hoodie half-zipped, baggy pants hanging low on her hips, black hair messy under the flashing lights weaving through the crowd like she owned every pulse of the bass. Her eyes were locked on you. Dark. Hungry. A little smile curling at the corner of her mouth as she moved closer, slow and deliberate, never looking away.

You recognized her instantly.

The joint almost slipped from your fingers.

The drag queen lifted her own glass in a quick, theatrical toast, the sequins on her corset catching the strobe lights.“Alright, sugar, my job here is done. Enjoy your little gift.” She winked, clinked her drink lightly against the neon-pink one still in your hand, and melted back into the crowd with a swish of her hips.

You barely watched her go. Your eyes were already locked on Billie again.

She was still weaving closer, slow and deliberate, that half-smile still playing on her lips. The bass of Human Nature kept throbbing through the floor, through your body, straight between your legs. The weed made everything feel thicker—your pulse, the heat under your skin, the way your thighs pressed together when you shifted.

You lifted the drink slightly, then tilted your chin toward the open space in front of you. A clear invitation. A wordless come here.

Billie didn’t hesitate.

The second she saw the signal, she moved faster cutting through the last few bodies like they weren’t even there. In three heartbeats she was right in front of you, close enough that you could smell her: clean sweat, a hint of something woody and expensive, and the faint sweetness of whatever she’d been drinking.

She stopped just short of touching you, head tilted, eyes dark under the flashing lights.

“Hi,” she said, voice low and rough around the edges, almost drowned out by the music. Her gaze dropped for half a second to your mouth, then lower, before dragging back up. “You looked lonely out here.”

The joint was still burning between your fingers. The drink was cold and sticky in your other hand. And Billie Eilish was standing close enough that if you leaned forward even a little, your chests would brush.

Billie’s eyes flicked down to the joint still burning between your fingers. A slow, crooked smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.“You gonna share that?” she asked, voice low enough that you had to lean in a little to hear her over the bass. “Or you keeping it all to yourself?”

You didn’t answer with words. You simply lifted the joint, turned it carefully, and pressed the damp filter to her lips.

Billie held your gaze as she leaned in and took a long, slow drag. Her lips closed around it, soft and deliberate, the tip of her tongue brushing the paper for half a second. Smoke curled between you when she exhaled, warm against your cheek. Her eyes never left yours.

Then her hand found your waist. Not shy. Not testing. Firm. Fingers splaying wide over the thin fabric of your top, thumb pressing just under your ribs as she pulled you closer in one smooth motion. Your bodies met—chest to chest, hip to hip—and the bass of Human Nature seemed to sink straight into the space between your legs.

She kept the joint between her lips for another second, then took it from you with her free hand, never letting go of your waist. Her other palm slid a little lower, settling at the small of your back, holding you flush against her as she swayed once, slow and deliberate, matching the heavy roll of the music.

“Thanks,” she murmured, smoke still ghosting from her mouth. Her thigh slipped between yours for the briefest second as she moved. “Now dance with me properly.”

You didn’t answer her with words either.

Instead you turned in her arms, slow and deliberate, until your back was pressed to her chest. Then you started moving.

Not just dancing. Performing.

Your hips rolled in a deep, filthy grind against the front of her baggy pants, ass dragging slow over the growing heat you could already feel there. You arched your back, one hand sliding up into your own hair, the other trailing down your body like you were putting on a private show just for her. The weed and the bass made everything liquid—your spine, your thighs, the way your cunt throbbed every time you pressed back harder against her.

You felt her breath hitch against the side of your neck. You kept going. Dropped lower, then rose again, dragging your ass up the length of her in one long, teasing stroke. Your free hand reached back, fingers brushing over the front of her pants, not quite grabbing, just tracing the outline of her through the fabric—light, deliberate, cruel. You could feel how warm she was already. How hard she was getting under the loose clothes.

Billie made a low sound in her throat. Her hand on your waist tightened, fingers digging in. The other came around to rest low on your stomach, almost possessive.“Don’t tease me, kitten,” she murmured right against your ear, voice rough and dark. Her hips pushed forward once, deliberate, letting you feel exactly what you were doing to her. “Not unless you’re ready for me to do something about it.”

You only ground back harder, smiling to yourself as the lights flashed pink and green over the two of you in the middle of the crowded floor. You turned in her arms so fast the joint almost fell from your fingers.

Your mouth found hers without hesitation open, hungry, tasting like smoke and whatever sweet liquor had been on her tongue. Billie kissed you back hard, like she’d been waiting for it the whole time. Her free hand came up to grip the back of your neck, holding you there while her tongue slid against yours, slow and filthy.

And then her other hand dropped. Straight down. Palm pressing firmly between your legs, cupping your pussy through the thin fabric of your shorts like it belonged to her. Fingers curling just enough to feel the heat and the dampness already soaking through. She made a low, satisfied sound against your mouth when she felt how wet you were.

She broke the kiss just enough to speak against your lips, voice rough and dark.“Fuck… look at you.” Her hand squeezed once, deliberate, feeling the slickness. “Soaking already. Your cunt’s dripping for me in the middle of this whole goddamn rave.” She rubbed slow, teasing circles right over your clit through the fabric. “Bet it’s gonna feel perfect sliding over mine… all that wetness making a mess between us while you grind on me.”

Her thigh pushed forward between yours at the same time, giving you something to press against while her hand kept working you through your clothes.“You want that, kitten?” she murmured, lips brushing yours. “Want me to feel exactly how soaked you are when you start riding my thigh out here where anyone could look?”

Billie’s fingers didn’t stay still for long.

While her palm kept pressing firm against your soaked pussy, her other hand slipped down to the waistband of your shorts. Just the tips of her fingers at first—tracing the elastic slowly, back and forth, dipping under the edge for a second before pulling back out again. Teasing. Testing. Making you feel every deliberate brush of skin against skin. She did it again. And again. Never going further than that thin strip of fabric, just letting her fingertips skim the soft skin right above where you needed her most.

Your hips jerked forward on their own.“Billie—” The name came out broken, half-swallowed by the bass and the kiss she kept stealing from your mouth. You were already grinding against her hand, chasing any friction she’d give you. “Please… stop teasing. Put them in. Fuck—put your fingers inside me.”

She hummed against your lips, low and pleased, like she’d been waiting for exactly that. Her fingers slipped under the waistband properly this time, sliding down over the front of your panties, feeling how completely ruined they already were. She dragged two fingers slowly through the wet fabric, pressing right against your clit for a second before stopping just short of pushing inside.

“Begging already?” she murmured, voice dark with heat. Her thigh pressed harder between yours. “Say it again, kitten. Tell me exactly what you want me to do to this dripping little cunt in the middle of all these people.”

Her fingers stayed right there—so close, so fucking close—waiting her fingers slid lower, pushing the soaked fabric of your panties aside just enough. The first direct touch of her skin against your bare clit made your whole body jolt. She started slow—tight, deliberate circles, rubbing the swollen little bud with the pad of two fingers like she was learning exactly how you liked it.

You couldn’t stay still. Your hips started moving on their own, rolling in time with the heavy bass still pulsing through the floor. Not just grinding—dancing. The same filthy, liquid roll you’d been doing alone earlier, only now every movement dragged your clit harder against her fingers. You worked yourself on her hand like it was the only thing that existed, chasing more pressure, more friction, more of that perfect wet slide.

Billie watched your face the whole time, eyes dark under the strobing lights.“That’s it,” she murmured against your mouth, voice rough. “Dance on my fingers, kitten. Show me how badly you need it.” Her other hand stayed locked on your waist, keeping you close while you rolled your hips faster, wetter, more desperate. Every circle of her fingers sent another pulse of heat straight through your cunt.

You were already making a mess of her hand. And she clearly loved it.

She simply pushed two fingers inside you in one smooth, filthy thrust slick and easy from how soaked you already were. The stretch pulled a broken sound from your throat that got swallowed by the bass. She didn’t give you time to adjust. Her fingers curled immediately, pressing up hard against that sensitive spot that made your knees nearly buckle.

She found it on the first try. And then she worked it.

Slow, deliberate strokes at first—curling, rubbing, dragging over your G-spot like she was determined to ruin you right there on the dance floor. Every time her fingers flexed inside you, another rush of wetness coated her hand. You could feel it dripping down her knuckles, soaking into the fabric of your shorts.

Your hips kept moving on instinct, rolling and grinding like you were still dancing, fucking yourself deeper onto her fingers with every beat of the music. Billie’s free hand stayed locked on your waist, holding you steady while she curled those two fingers again and again, harder, more precise.

“Fuck… there it is,” she breathed against your mouth, voice thick with heat. “That perfect little spot. You’re clamping down on me so good already.” She pressed deeper, rubbing firmly, watching your face fall apart under the flashing lights. “Keep dancing on my fingers, kitten. I want to feel this cunt drip all over me while you come.”

Her thumb found your clit at the same time, circling it in tight, mean little strokes while her fingers kept working that deep, devastating angle inside you.

You were shaking. And she wasn’t stopping.

Broken little sounds kept spilling out of you—half-words, desperate babbling that barely made sense over the pounding bass. “Fuck—Billie—right there, don’t stop, please don’t stop, it feels so—oh my god—” Your voice cracked every time her fingers curled hard against that spot inside you, every time her thumb dragged over your clit in those tight, relentless circles.

Your hips were still rolling like you were dancing, but it was messy now, frantic, fucking yourself onto her hand with zero rhythm left. Wet sounds mixed with the music every time she thrust those two fingers deeper. You were dripping down her wrist.

Billie leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low and dark and amused.“Shhh…” she murmured, curling her fingers again just to make you whimper. “You don’t want us to get caught, do you, kitten?” Her free hand slid up to cover your mouth gently, not hard, just enough to muffle the next broken moan that tried to escape. “All these people around us… and you’re about to come all over my fingers like a desperate little slut in the middle of the floor.”

She didn’t stop moving her hand between your legs. If anything, she went harder—curling, rubbing, working that perfect spot while her thumb kept punishing your clit. Her palm stayed over your mouth, feeling every muffled sound you made against it.

“Quiet,” she whispered again, almost sweet. “Or I’ll have to stop… and I really don’t want to stop when you’re this close.”

The next hard curl of Billie’s fingers against that perfect spot, combined with the relentless circles of her thumb on your clit, shoved you straight over the edge. Your orgasm hit like a wave—violent, messy, impossible to hold back. A loud, broken cry tore out of your throat before her hand could fully muffle it, raw and shameless over the bass of the music. Your whole body locked up, cunt clenching hard around her fingers in wet, pulsing waves as you came all over her hand right there in the middle of the crowded floor.

Hips jerking, thighs shaking, more filthy sounds spilling out of you even as Billie tried to keep you quiet. Slick rushed down her wrist, soaking into your shorts, making an absolute mess between your legs while the lights flashed pink and green over the two of you.

When the last strong pulse finally faded, your legs gave out.

You just… collapsed forward into her.

Billie caught you easily, strong arms wrapping around your waist and back as you flopped against her chest, boneless and trembling and still twitching around the fingers she hadn’t pulled out yet. She held you upright with zero effort, one hand still buried between your legs, the other stroking slow and soothing up and down your spine while you panted into the crook of her neck.

“That’s it… good girl,” she murmured against your hair, voice rough with heat and something softer underneath. Her fingers gave one last gentle curl inside you, just to feel the leftover flutters, before she slowly slid them out. “So fucking loud for me… and still dripping.”

The car ride home from the therapist’s office was quiet in the way that only happened after someone had finally said the thing out loud.

You sat in the passenger seat, fingers loosely curled around the strap of your bag, staring at the familiar stretch of streetlights sliding past the window. Dylan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, thumb tapping an uneven rhythm against the leather. The same hand that usually found its way to your thigh without thinking. Tonight it stayed put.

Dr. Paz’s voice still sat between you like a third passenger.

“The issue isn’t love. It’s that you’ve stopped surprising each other. The sex has become… predictable. Safe. And safe can start to feel like distance if you’re not careful.”

Dylan had nodded. You had nodded. Neither of you had looked at the other.

He pulled into the driveway of the house you’d shared for two years and killed the engine. For a moment neither of you moved. The silence stretched, thick and charged.

Then Dylan exhaled, long and low, and turned his head toward you.“She’s right,” he said. His voice was quiet, but there was something underneath it—something sharper than the usual post-therapy exhaustion. “I mean we’ve been fucking like people who already know the ending.”

You looked at him. The streetlight caught the edge of his jaw, the dark fall of his hair, the way his mouth was set in a line that wasn’t quite a frown.“I don’t want safe anymore,” he continued. His eyes stayed on yours, steady and dark. “Not with you.”

He reached across the console then, but instead of the familiar squeeze of your knee, his fingers closed around your wrist. Firm. Possessive. The pad of his thumb pressed against your pulse like he was checking that it was still racing. “I've an idea once we get inside,” he said, voice lower now. “Take off your shoes. Leave everything else on. And wait for me in the bedroom.”

Your breath caught.

Dylan’s mouth curved—not quite a smile. Something hungrier.

“I’m going to fix the monotony,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You trust in me right?.” He released your wrist, opened his door, and stepped out into the night without another word.

You sat there nodding for three more heartbeats, pulse loud in your ears, before you followed him inside

Once you got home you kicked your shoes off by the door the second you stepped inside, the soft thud of them against the wall the only sound in the quiet apartment. Dylan’s keys hit the kitchen counter a moment later. You didn’t look back. You walked straight down the short hallway to the bedroom the way he’d told you to, heart already kicking harder against your ribs.

The lamp on the nightstand was still on from earlier, casting the room in that warm, low light that always made everything feel more intimate than it should. You sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on your thighs, fully dressed exactly as he’d ordered—jeans, soft black sweater, the thin gold chain you never took off. Waiting.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

Dylan appeared in the doorway and leaned one shoulder against the frame, watching you for a long second. His eyes dragged over you like he was already inventing new ways to ruin the version of you that had walked into therapy earlier.

You arched a brow, voice deliberately light, almost mocking.“Did your creativity suddenly turn back on? Like it used to at the beginning? When you’d get that look and I’d end up with bruises in places I couldn’t explain at work?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

He pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that felt louder than it should have. He didn’t answer right away. Instead he walked straight to the dresser, yanking open the top drawer with more force than necessary. “I’m not losing the love of my life,” he said, voice low and rough, “over fucking monotony.”

He dug through the drawer, shoving aside socks and old tour laminates, searching for something with clear purpose. You watched the line of his back, the way his shoulders tensed under the black shirt he’d worn to the appointment.“I let it get boring,” he continued, still rifling through the contents. “I let us get comfortable. And comfortable turned into predictable. And predictable almost turned into distance.” He slammed the first drawer shut and opened the next one harder. “Not happening. Not with you.”

His hand closed around something in the back of the drawer. He pulled it free slowly.

A long strip of soft black fabric. One of his old bandanas. The one he stole from the 13 reasons why set from that clay shooter scene

Dylan turned to face you, the fabric dangling from his fingers, eyes darker than they’d been in the car.“Lie back,” he said quietly. “And close your eyes.”

You obeyed without hesitation, lowering yourself onto the mattress until your back met the cool sheets. The moment your head touched the pillow, Dylan was already climbing onto the bed, knees bracketing your hips as he leaned over you.

The black bandana brushed your cheek first soft, familiar, smelling faintly of him. He folded it carefully, then slid it over your eyes, tying it snug at the back of your head. The world went dark. Instantly.

And fuck, the rush hit you like it used to in the beginning.

That sharp, electric drop in your stomach. The way every other sense sharpened the second your sight was taken. You could hear the soft drag of his breath. Feel the heat of his body hovering over yours. Smell the clean scent of his cologne mixed with the faint trace of the therapy office still clinging to his shirt. Your pulse thundered in your ears so loudly you were almost certain he could hear it too.

You felt the smirk more than saw it—felt the way the air shifted when the corner of his mouth curved upward in that private, wicked little expression he used to wear when he was about to do something filthy to you.

Dylan leaned down. His nose brushed yours. His breath ghosted across your parted lips. You tilted your chin up instinctively, chasing the kiss you were sure was coming—but he stopped.

Millimeters away. So close you could feel the almost-touch of his mouth, the warmth of it, the promise of it. Your lips parted further on a shaky inhale. He stayed right there, denying you, letting the tension stretch until it ached.

“I’m going to get a few things,” he murmured against the space between your mouths, voice low and rough and full of dark amusement. “And you’re going to guess what I’m touching you with.”

He pulled back just enough that the loss of his nearness made you almost whimper.

“No peeking. No touching me unless I say. You only speak to guess… or to beg.” A soft, dangerous pause. “And if you guess wrong…” His fingers trailed once, lightly, down the center of your throat.“I’ll make sure you feel it.”

Then the mattress shifted as he left the bed, footsteps moving toward the dresser again, drawers opening, objects being selected with deliberate care while you lay there blind, already wet, already aching, heart slamming against your ribs the exact same way it had the first time he’d ever looked at you like he wanted to ruin you.

You heard him moving through the apartment.

Drawers opening and closing. The soft clink of something glass. The refrigerator door. Cabinets. Footsteps returning, then leaving again. Every sound stretched the wait, and every second of blindness made your body more aware of itself.

Your sweater suddenly felt too warm. The seam of your jeans pressed against you in a way that was almost cruel. You shifted your hips once, just the smallest roll, and the friction dragged a quiet, helpless sound from your throat. Your clit was already throbbing—steady, insistent pulses that made you clench around nothing. You wanted to slide your hand between your legs so badly your fingers twitched against the sheets.

But you didn’t.

You kept your hands where he’d left them, flat on the mattress, nails digging lightly into the fabric while you forced yourself to breathe through the ache. The bandana was soft against your eyelids, but the darkness made everything else sharper: the cool air on your flushed skin, the way your nipples had tightened under the sweater, the wet heat gathering between your thighs until you were certain it would soak through your underwear if he took much longer.

Dylan’s footsteps finally returned to the bedroom.

You heard the soft thud of several objects being set down on the nightstand. Then the quiet drag of something else—brushes, maybe. The faint scent of something sweet and cold reached you next. Chocolate? Fruit? You couldn’t tell yet. Only that he had gathered a deliberate collection of textures and temperatures, and he was going to use every single one of them on you.

The mattress dipped as he climbed back onto the bed.

You felt the heat of him settle near your side. His voice came low, almost conversational, but thick with the same hunger you’d felt earlier against your mouth.

“Still being good?” he asked. A fingertip traced the edge of the bandana near your temple. “I can see you squirming. Your thighs keep pressing together like you’re trying to get friction without using your hands.”

You swallowed hard.

“Don’t you dare touch yourself,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath warmed your cheek. “That clit is throbbing for me, isn’t it? I haven’t even started and you’re already desperate.” A soft, dark chuckle.“Good. Stay exactly like that. Hands where they are. Legs wherever I put them. And when I touch you… you guess.”

Something cool and smooth brushed the air near your collarbone, not quite making contact yet.

“Ready, baby?”

Dylan didn’t give you any more warning.

His mouth crashed onto yours—deep, hungry, claiming. The kiss was nothing like the almost-kiss from earlier. This one was all tongue and teeth and the low sound he made when you immediately opened for him. He kissed you like he was starving for it, like the months of predictable sex had left him just as restless as you. One hand braced beside your head while the other slid under the hem of your sweater, palm dragging up the bare skin of your stomach. He broke the kiss only long enough to pull the sweater up and over your head. The fabric caught for a second on the bandana, then he tugged it free and tossed it aside.

Cool air hit your bare chest.

Dylan went still.

Then a soft, incredulous laugh left him—low and rough and filthy with appreciation.“No bra,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Of course you’re not wearing a fucking bra.” His fingers brushed the underside of one breast, light as a threat. “And look at these. Nipples already hard for me. You’ve been sitting here dripping and aching the whole time I was gone, haven’t you?”

You arched without meaning to.

He leaned down and blew a slow, deliberate stream of cool air across your left nipple. The sensation shot straight between your legs. You twisted beneath him, a broken little sound catching in your throat, hips shifting restlessly against the mattress.“Sensitive,” he murmured, sounding far too pleased. He did it again to the other side, watching the way your body reacted even though you couldn’t see him. “Fuck, I love how easy you still are for me.”

While you were still squirming from the air on your nipples, Dylan moved lower. His hands settled at the waistband of your jeans. You felt the warm drag of his mouth against the button—then the careful, deliberate pressure of his teeth and tongue working it open. He unzipped you the same way, slow and focused, the metal teeth parting under the heat of his mouth until the jeans were loose around your hips.

He hooked his fingers into the fabric and dragged them down your legs in one smooth pull, tossing them somewhere behind him.

You were left in nothing but your panties.

Dylan sat back on his heels between your thighs for a moment, just looking. You could feel the weight of his stare even through the blindfold.“Wow,” he said quietly, almost laughing again, voice thick with dark satisfaction. “I haven’t lost my touch at all.”

His hands slid up the insides of your thighs, thumbs pressing just shy of where you needed him most.“Still so fucking responsive. Still so wet I can already see it through the lace. And we’re just getting started, baby.”

“A toothbrush,” you whispered, voice already rough.

Dylan’s low, pleased laugh vibrated against your skin.“Good girl.”

The praise landed like a spark straight between your legs. Before you could even process the warmth of it, his mouth closed over your left nipple—hot, wet, and deliberate. He sucked once, slow and deep, then flicked his tongue across the tight peak while the abandoned toothbrush was set aside on the nightstand with a soft click.

You arched hard, a broken sound spilling out of you.

He released the nipple with a wet pop and dragged his lips across to the other one, giving it the same attention—kissing, sucking, worrying it gently between his teeth until your hips were rolling helplessly against the mattress.

“That’s one,” he murmured against your breast. “And it’s only going to get harder from here. More difficult. More… interesting.” His tongue traced a lazy circle around the nipple he’d just bitten. “I’m going to use things you never thought could feel this filthy. And you’re going to keep guessing while I ruin this perfect little body of yours.”

Then he was moving up.

His mouth finally claimed yours the way you’d been aching for since the car—deep, hungry, and claiming. Dylan kissed you like he was pouring every frustrated, restless month into it. His tongue slid against yours, slow and filthy, while one hand cupped the breast he’d just been tormenting. When you moaned into his mouth he caught your lower lip between his teeth and bit down, sharp enough to sting, then soothed it with a slow suck that made your toes curl. He pulled back just enough to speak against your swollen mouth.

“Ready for the next one, baby?”

Something warm and thick dripped onto the center of your chest.

You flinched at the sudden heat of it, then shivered as Dylan dragged a slow, deliberate line of the sticky liquid down between your breasts, over your stomach, stopping just above the waistband of your panties. The scent reached you a second later—sweet, delicious, almost decadent.

“Chocolate,” you breathed, already arching into the sensation. Your mind latched onto the only thing that made sense. “It’s chocolate—”

The sharp, open-handed slap landed right over your clothed pussy before you could finish the sentence.

The sound was wet and filthy in the quiet room. The sting bloomed instantly, heat spreading through the thin lace of your panties and straight into your throbbing clit. You cried out, hips jerking up off the mattress, the blindfold making the sudden punishment feel even more intense.

Dylan’s voice was low and dark with amusement.“Wrong.”

He soothed the sting with two slow fingers, pressing firmly against the damp fabric, rubbing the ache he’d just created in deliberate circles.

“It’s honey,” he corrected, leaning down so his mouth brushed the shell of your ear. “Warm. Sticky. Going to taste so fucking good when I lick it off you later.” His fingers pressed harder against your clit through the panties, making you whimper. “But you guessed chocolate. And wrong guesses get punished.”

Another slow drip of honey landed just above your navel. Dylan dragged it lower with his fingertip, stopping right at the edge of the lace.

“Still so wet I can feel it through your panties,” he murmured, almost thoughtful. “And I haven’t even taken them off yet.” His hand left you for a second. You heard the soft sound of him dipping his fingers into whatever jar he’d brought.

Then the warm, sticky trail continued—lower, teasing along the crease of your thigh, so close to where you needed him that your hips lifted again without permission.

“Next one is coming,” he said quietly. “And this time… try to think harder, baby.” Dylan’s mouth descended without warning. He licked a long, slow stripe through the warm honey coating the center of your chest, tongue flat and deliberate, gathering the sweetness as he went. The wet heat of it made you moan, back arching off the bed. He hummed against your skin like he was savoring both the honey and the way your body reacted to him, then continued lower—kissing, licking, cleaning every sticky trail he’d left down your stomach with filthy, unhurried strokes of his tongue.

When he reached the line just above your panties he paused, breathing hot against the damp lace, before dragging his tongue one last time through the honey that had pooled near your navel.

Then something completely different touched you.

Cold.

A single ice cube pressed firmly into the hollow of your belly button.

The contrast was so sudden and sharp that a near-scream tore out of your throat. Your whole body jerked, thighs clamping around nothing, hands fisting the sheets so hard your knuckles ached. The ice burned in the best way—freezing against the flushed, overheated skin he had just been licking—and the melted water immediately mixed with the remaining honey, trickling down toward the waistband of your panties in a cold, sticky path.

Dylan laughed softly, dark and pleased, holding the ice in place with two fingers while you squirmed and gasped beneath him. “Fuck, the sound you just made,” he muttered. “Almost screamed for me. Good.”

You heard the unmistakable sound of a belt being undone. The soft rasp of a zipper. Fabric shifting.

Dylan stood just long enough to shove his jeans and boxers down in one rough motion. You couldn’t see him, but you heard the heavy thud of the clothes hitting the floor, followed by the soft sound of him kicking them aside. When he climbed back onto the bed the heat of his bare skin radiated against your side, and the hard, heavy weight of his cock brushed your hip as he settled between your legs again.

He was fully naked now.

And the ice cube was still melting in your navel, cold water running down toward the soaked lace of your panties while his thick, hard cock rested against your thigh—hot, heavy, and already leaking.

“Still with me, baby?” he asked, voice rough with restraint. “Because the next one is going to make you forget how to form words.”

He hooked two fingers into the soaked crotch of your panties, yanked the lace hard to the side, and slammed into you in one deep, brutal thrust.

The stretch was sudden and perfect—his thick cock forcing your walls open until he was buried to the hilt, hips flush against yours. A broken, punched-out moan tore from your throat as your back arched hard off the mattress. The blindfold made every inch of him feel enormous, the heat and fullness overwhelming after so much denial.

Then the vibration hit. A low, relentless buzz started right against your clit and the base of his cock at the same time. You gasped, thighs trembling violently around his hips.

“Oh—fuck—”

Dylan groaned above you, the sound rough and filthy, like the sensation was just as intense for him. He stayed buried deep for a second, letting you feel every pulse of the vibrating cock ring he’d clearly slipped on while you were blind and distracted.“Yeah,” he rasped, voice already strained. “Felt that, didn’t you? Put it on just for you. Right against that pretty clit every time I bottom out.”

He pulled almost all the way out—slow enough that you felt every ridge and the continuous thrum of the ring—then slammed back in hard. The vibration intensified with the impact, buzzing directly against your swollen clit on every thrust. Your hands flew up instinctively, grabbing at his shoulders, nails digging in as the dual sensation of being stretched and relentlessly stimulated short-circuited whatever was left of your coherent thoughts. Dylan set a deep, punishing rhythm, each stroke angled so the vibrating ring dragged over your clit on the way in and out. The wet sounds of him fucking you filled the room, filthy and loud, mixed with the soft mechanical buzz and the broken noises spilling from your mouth.

“Still so fucking tight,” he growled against your throat, biting down as he thrust harder. “Taking me so well with that ring buzzing between us. You’re already clenching like you’re about to come.”

He fucked you through the building pressure, the cock ring turning every deep stroke into pure, overwhelming stimulation until your legs were shaking and your moans had turned into desperate, high-pitched cries.

The careful control he’d been holding onto finally cracked. He drove into you with deep, relentless thrusts, the vibrating cock ring slamming against your clit on every stroke until the pleasure turned sharp and overwhelming. The wet, filthy sound of him fucking you filled the room—skin against skin, the continuous buzz, your broken moans turning into something higher and more desperate.

Words started spilling out of you without permission.“Dylan—fuck, fuck, please—don’t stop—oh my god—so deep—I can’t—I’m—”

You were babbling, half-coherent pleas and curses tumbling over each other as the pressure built too fast. Tears already stung behind the bandana, the kind that came from pure sensory overload, from being so full and so relentlessly stimulated that your body didn’t know how to contain it anymore.

Dylan growled low in his throat at the sound of your voice falling apart. He reached up, fingers working the knot at the back of your head. The bandana loosened and then slipped free, the sudden rush of light making you blink hard even as he kept fucking into you without slowing.

Your eyes met his.

His were dark, pupils blown, jaw tight with restraint that was clearly fraying. He stared down at your face like he’d been starving for the sight of it—flushed cheeks, parted lips, the wet tracks of tears already slipping from the corners of your eyes from how intensely you were feeling everything.

“Almost forgot,” he rasped, voice rough and reverent at the same time as he slammed in deep and stayed there for a second, the ring buzzing hard against your clit. His thumb brushed one of the tears from your cheek. “Almost forgot how fucking beautiful you look when you’re crying for me like this.” He pulled back and thrust in again, harder, watching every flicker of expression that crossed your face now that he could see it.

“There she is,” he muttered, almost to himself. “My girl. Taking it so well. Falling apart on my cock with those pretty tears.”

His pace stayed punishing, deep and relentless, the vibration never letting up as he kept his eyes locked on yours.

The orgasm hit you like a wave that had been building for too long.

It crashed through you hard and sudden—your walls clamping down around Dylan’s cock in tight, pulsing waves while a broken sob tore from your throat. Tears spilled freely down your temples as the pleasure ripped through every oversensitive nerve. Your back arched off the bed, thighs shaking violently around his hips, hands clutching at his shoulders like you needed something solid to keep from floating away. The vibrating cock ring only made it worse (and better), dragging the climax out until you were crying and moaning and clenching around him in helpless, rhythmic spasms.

“That’s it—fuck, yes—come for me,” Dylan groaned, voice wrecked. He fucked you through it, deep and steady, until the intensity started to tip toward too much.

Then he slowed.

The hard, punishing pace melted into long, deep strokes that let you feel every inch of him as the aftershocks kept rippling through you. His hand came up, fingers sliding into your hair, petting the strands back from your damp forehead with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with how roughly he’d just taken you. He kept moving inside you—slower now, grinding more than thrusting—while his thumb stroked soothingly along your hairline.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, eyes locked on your tear-streaked face. “Just like that… breathe for me.”

A few more deep, rolling thrusts and his own control finally shattered. Dylan buried himself to the hilt with a low, guttural groan, hips stuttering as he came hard inside you. You felt the hot pulses of him filling you, the way his cock throbbed through his orgasm while the vibrating ring kept buzzing weakly between your bodies. His forehead dropped against yours, breath ragged, hand still gently stroking your hair even as his body trembled through the last waves.

For a long moment the only sounds in the room were your shared, uneven breathing and the soft dying buzz of the cock ring.

Dylan eventually reached down, switched it off, and carefully pulled out of you. He didn’t go far—just shifted enough to gather you against his chest, still petting your hair in slow, repetitive motions while your tears gradually slowed and your body continued to tremble in the aftermath.

You stared at your phone for a solid thirty seconds before you finally typed the message, thumb hovering over send like you were about to set off a bomb.

> You: guess where i am

You hit send and immediately flipped the phone face-down on the sticky airport seat, heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. Eight months. Eight long, brutal months of delayed FaceTime calls, of falling asleep to the sound of her voice through cheap earbuds, of touching yourself while she watched from another town and whispered filthy things she couldn’t follow through on.

Eight months of missing the weight of her, the smell of her, the way she bit when she got too needy.

Your phone buzzed almost instantly. You flipped it over.

> Lyd 💕 (Babygirl): in your house a ton of fucking miles away, obviously

A second message came right after.

> Lyd 💕 (Babygirl): why

You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper and typed back, fingers shaking just a little.

> You: got it wrong baby girl i’m at the airport come pick me up

You didn’t even have time to lock the screen before the three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then the call came through—FaceTime, of course, because Lydia Night never did anything halfway.

You answered.

Her face filled the screen, hair a mess, eyeliner smudged like she’d been rubbing her eyes, wearing that oversized black hoodie she always stole from you and never gave back. For a second she just stared, mouth slightly open, like her brain was buffering.

Then her voice came out rough, almost cracked.

“You’re fucking kidding me right now Y/N”

You smiled, soft and a little wicked, and tilted the camera so she could see the departure boards behind you, the fluorescent lights, the suitcase at your feet.“Surprise, baby.”

You barely had time to grab your suitcase before you saw her.

Lydia came through the automatic doors like she was on a mission, black hoodie half-zipped, hair still messy from whatever she’d been doing when your text hit, keys already clenched in one hand. Her eyes scanned the crowd once—twice—and then locked on you.

You didn’t wait.

You dropped the handle of your suitcase and launched yourself at her, arms wrapping tight around her neck as your mouth crashed into hers. The kiss was messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and eight months of missing her pouring out at once. She made a low, startled sound against your lips, then her hands were on you—grabbing, pulling, claiming.

One second your feet were on the ground.

The next, Lydia had both hands under your ass and was hauling you up like you weighed nothing, your legs locking around her waist on pure instinct. She squeezed hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh through your jeans, and walked you backward a few steps until your back hit a pillar, never once breaking the kiss.

Someone nearby whistled. Someone else laughed. You didn’t care.

Lydia pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, voice rough and already wrecked.“Eight fucking months,” she muttered, squeezing your ass again like she needed to make sure you were real. “You’re lucky I didn’t bend you over right now .”

Lydia didn’t put you down. She carried you the whole way through the terminal like that, your legs still locked around her waist, mouths crashing together every few steps. People stared. Someone muttered something under their breath. Neither of you gave a single shit. Every time she had to stop for a sliding door or a crosswalk she just pressed you harder against the nearest wall and kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours like she was trying to make up for every second you’d been apart.

By the time you reached the parking garage your lips were swollen and your jeans were damp.

Lydia finally set you down next to her car—an old black thing that still smelled like cigarettes and her perfume—but she didn’t let you go far. She crowded you against the passenger door, one hand braced above your head, the other still gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.“Open,” she said, voice low and rough.

You knew exactly what she meant. Your mouth fell open without hesitation.

Lydia leaned in close, eyes locked on yours, and spat directly onto your tongue. Warm. Filthy. Perfect. She watched you swallow like it was the hottest thing she’d ever seen, then dragged her thumb across your bottom lip. “I know how much you fucking love that,” she murmured.

You shook your head slowly, still tasting her, and looked up at her through your lashes.“No, pretty… you’re wrong.” Your voice came out soft, almost reverent.“I love you. Everything of you.”

The second the car doors shut, the world got quieter.

Lydia didn’t start the engine right away. She just sat there for a moment, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other reaching across the console to find yours. Her fingers slid between yours slowly, deliberately, thumb stroking over your knuckles like she was relearning the shape of them.

Then she started driving. And she didn’t stop talking.

“I missed you so fucking much,” she said, voice low, eyes on the road but her hand never leaving yours. “Every single day. Waking up and reaching for you and finding nothing. It was driving me insane.” Her thumb kept moving, soft circles against your skin.“I missed the way you smell. The way you laugh when you’re trying not to. The way you look at me like I’m not a complete disaster.” She let out a short, rough breath. “I missed having you in my bed. Missed hearing you breathe next to me. Missed being able to just… touch you whenever I wanted.”

The city lights slid past the windows. Her grip tightened every time she said something particularly raw.

“Eight months is too long, baby. Way too fucking long. I kept telling myself I could handle it, that the calls were enough, but they weren’t. Not even close.” She brought your joined hands up and pressed a kiss to the back of yours without taking her eyes off the road. “I need you. I’ve needed you this whole time.”

The second the car stopped in front of her building, Lydia was already out and around to your side.

She opened the passenger door like a proper gentleman, one hand offered to help you out even though you didn’t need it. The second your feet hit the sidewalk she grabbed your suitcase with her free hand and steered you toward the entrance, still not letting go of your fingers.

Inside the apartment she barely paused.

She kicked the door shut behind you, dropped the suitcase somewhere near the couch without looking, and then her mouth was on yours again—wet, desperate, all tongue and teeth and a low hungry sound that vibrated straight through your chest. She kissed you like she’d been starving for months, saliva sliding between your lips, her hands already under your shirt, gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks.

You barely had time to breathe before she bent, hooked her arms under your thighs, and lifted you clean off the floor again.

“Bedroom,” she muttered against your mouth, already walking, still kissing you like she couldn’t stand even a second of distance. “I’m not waiting another fucking minute.”

She tossed you onto the bed hard enough that you bounced once, your body sinking into the sheets that still smelled like her. Before you could even catch your breath she was on top of you, knees bracketing your hips, hands pinning your wrists above your head.

“I’ve dreamed about this every fucking night,” she breathed against your mouth, voice wrecked and low. “Every single night for eight months. You under me. Looking at me like that.”

Then she kissed you again—messy, open-mouthed, so wet it was almost filthy. Saliva slid between your lips, down the corner of your mouth, and she didn’t bother wiping it away. She just licked it up and kissed you deeper, grinding down against you like she couldn’t stand another second of distance.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were dark and soft at the same time.

“I love you,” she said, the words rough. “I love every part of you. Your body. This—” her hands slid down, grabbing two full handfuls of your ass and squeezing hard enough to make you gasp, “—especially this. But mostly I just love you. How perfect you are. How you’re mine.” She leaned down again, forehead pressed to yours, still holding your ass like she was afraid you’d disappear.“You’re perfect. And I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

Lydia didn’t waste another second. She sat up just enough to yank your shirt over your head in one rough pull, then went straight for the button of your jeans. The zipper barely survived. She dragged the denim and your underwear down your legs in the same desperate motion, tossing them somewhere across the room. Your bra followed a second later—she didn’t even bother with the clasp properly, just shoved the straps down and ripped it off like it had personally offended her.

You were fully naked under her in less than a minute. But you weren’t going to let her stay dressed either.

Your hands shoved under the black hoodie and pushed it up, forcing it over her head. She helped, arms rising, and the second it was gone you went for her belt. The metal clinked. You yanked it open, then shoved her pants and boxers down her hips as far as you could reach. She kicked them the rest of the way off without ever taking her eyes off you.

Now she was just as bare as you were.

Lydia stared down at your naked body like she was starving all over again, one hand already sliding up the inside of your thigh, the other braced beside your head.“Fuck,” she whispered, almost reverent. “There you are.”

Lydia flipped you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing.

One strong hand pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you face-down into the mattress while the other yanked your hips up until you were on your knees, ass in the air. She didn’t give you a second to adjust.

The first slap cracked across your right cheek—hard, sharp, the sound loud in the quiet room. You gasped. The second landed on the left side just as hard. Then another. And another. She spanked you in a steady, relentless rhythm, each hit making your ass bounce and sting, the skin quickly turning warm and pink under her palm.

“Look at this fucking ass,” she growled, voice low and filthy as she squeezed one cheek hard enough to leave white fingerprints. “So perfect. So soft. Made to take whatever I give it.” She delivered another sharp slap, then immediately soothed the burn with a rough squeeze. “Such a pretty little thing… and still such a needy slut for me after all these months, huh?”

You could only whimper into the sheets.

Lydia leaned down, still holding your hips up, and dragged her tongue slowly over the heated skin of your right cheek. She licked a long, wet stripe across the sore flesh, then bit down lightly before doing the same to the other side. Her tongue was hot and deliberate, tracing the shape of you, tasting the places she’d just spanked. “Fuck, I missed this ass,” she muttered against your skin, voice rough with hunger. “Missed marking it. Missed eating it.” She spread you open with both hands and licked again, lower this time, right along the cleft, filthy and shameless. “My perfect, filthy girl.”

Lydia grabbed your hips and dragged you higher, forcing you properly onto all fours. She spread your knees wider with her own, then just… stared.“Jesus Christ,” she breathed, voice thick. One hand slid up the back of your thigh and over the still-stinging curve of your ass so she could pull you open, exposing everything. “Look at this pretty little cunt. So wet already. Dripping for me after eight months of nothing.”

She stayed there for a long moment, just looking, thumbs stroking the soft skin of your inner thighs. Then she shifted behind you, lined her body up, and pressed the slick heat of her pussy right against yours.

The first slow grind made both of you moan.

Lydia rolled her hips, dragging her wet folds along yours from clit to entrance and back again, coating you in her. The friction was filthy and perfect—soft, slippery, desperate. She did it again, harder, grinding down so every movement rubbed her clit against yours, her juices mixing with yours until the sound of it was wet and obscene in the quiet room.“Fuck—feel that?” she groaned, hands gripping your waist tight as she kept rocking against you. “Missed this so much. Missed how soaked you get for me. Missed rubbing my cunt all over yours until we’re both shaking.”

She didn’t stop. Just kept grinding, slow and filthy, chasing the friction like she’d been starving for it.

Lydia delivered another sharp slap to your already-pink ass, the sound cracking through the room.“Fuck, I love all this cake,” she groaned, both hands spreading you open again so she could stare. “So thick. So soft. So fucking perfect.”

Then her fingers slid lower.

She found your clit with two fingers and started rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles soft at first, almost teasing, the wetness making every stroke slick and easy. You jerked under her touch, a broken little sound escaping your throat.

Lydia leaned over your back, her mouth close to your ear, still grinding her pussy lazily against yours while her fingers worked.“And this…” she murmured, pressing a little firmer, circling that swollen bud with perfect pressure, “this is the fucking cherry on top.”

She kept rubbing you like that—slow, filthy, worshipful—like she had all the time in the world to ruin you.

Lydia’s hips started moving faster.

The slow, teasing grind turned sharper, more desperate—her wet cunt sliding hard against yours with every roll of her body, the slick sounds of it filling the room. She kept her fingers on your clit the whole time, rubbing in tighter, quicker circles that matched the new pace, like she was trying to make you fall apart right there on your hands and knees.

Then one of her hands left your hip and slid up your stomach. She cupped your breast, squeezed, and found your nipple with two fingers. She pinched it lightly at first, then harder, rolling the stiff peak between her fingertips while she kept grinding against you. Her other hand mirrored the motion a second later, both of your nipples caught between her fingers as she tugged and played with them in time with the filthy drag of her pussy over yours.

“Fuck—look at you,” she groaned against the back of your neck, voice already wrecked. “Taking it so well. Getting so wet for me while I play with these pretty tits.”

She pinched both nipples at once and ground down harder, chasing the friction like she couldn’t get close enough. You twisted under her, rolling onto your back and pulling Lydia with you. She moved with you immediately, like she’d been waiting for it. In one smooth motion she hooked one of your legs over her hip, slid her own thigh between yours, and pressed the wet heat of her pussy right against yours again—this time face to face. The new angle made everything more intense. Every time she rolled her hips, her clit dragged directly over yours, slick and perfect.

You wrapped your arms around her neck and pulled her down into a tight hug, holding her as close as you could while she started rocking against you. Your chests pressed together, soft and warm, her breath hot against your cheek.

Lydia groaned into your neck, one hand sliding under your ass to keep you locked against her as she scissored harder.“Fuck, baby—” she breathed, voice breaking a little. “Just like this. Hold me. Don’t let go.”

You tightened your arms around her and met every grind of her hips with your own.

The friction between you turned frantic.

Lydia’s hips snapped harder against yours, the wet slide of her cunt over your clit getting faster, messier, both of you gasping into each other’s mouths. You kept your arms locked around her neck, holding her as tight as you could while she ground down like she was trying to fuse the two of you together.

The kiss never broke.

Even when the pleasure started cresting—hot and sharp and almost too much—you stayed locked at the mouth, tongues sliding, spit mixing, soft broken moans vibrating between your lips. Lydia’s arms crushed you against her chest, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your ass so hard it hurt in the best way.

“Come with me—” she choked against your mouth. “Please—fuck—come with me—”

You did.

The orgasm ripped through you at the same second it hit her. Your bodies locked together, shaking, cunts pulsing against each other as you both came hard, wet and loud and completely undone. Lydia kept grinding through it, milking every last wave, kissing you like she was drowning and you were the only air left.

When the worst of it finally eased, she didn’t pull away. She just wrapped herself around you even tighter—arms, legs, everything—burying her face in your neck and holding you like she wanted to crawl inside your skin and stay there forever.

You pushed through the last of the crowd with your heart still slamming against your ribs like it was trying to escape. The lights outside the venue hit too bright after the dark of the pit, and your legs felt unsteady, almost drunk on the residual roar of the amps.

You were shaking.

Not from the cold. Not from the residual adrenaline of being crushed against the barrier for an hour and a half. You were shaking because of the way he’d looked at you.

Right in the middle of I Wanna Be Yours.

You’d been screaming the words with everyone else, throat raw, eyes locked on him like always. And then his gaze had dropped—slow, deliberate—and landed straight on you. Not the general blur of the front row. You. For three full lines. He’d held it while his voice went low and rough on “secrets I have held in my heart”, and something in his expression had shifted, like he was singing the next part directly into your mouth.

Your hands were still trembling when you finally made it past the side exit. You leaned against the brick wall, head tipped back, trying to catch a breath that wouldn’t come steady. The night air smelled like cigarette smoke and spilled beer and the faint metallic tang of the stage still clinging to your clothes.

You pressed your palms flat against the wall behind you and closed your eyes.

He saw you.

You were almost certain of it.

And the worst part—the part that made your stomach twist with something hot and stupid—was that you wanted him to have seen you. You wanted that look to mean something more than a singer scanning the crowd. You wanted it to mean he’d clocked the way you’d mouthed every word like a prayer, the way your knuckles had gone white on the barrier, the way you’d stared like you were already halfway to ruin for him.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You ignored it.

Somewhere behind the venue the loading bay doors were still open, crew shouting, the low rumble of the tour bus idling. You told yourself you should leave. Go home. Replay the setlist in your head like a normal obsessed girl and try not to invent entire conversations with a man who didn’t even know your name.

Instead you stayed there, still shaking, still tasting the last note of that song on your tongue, and waited for your pulse to remember how to slow down.

You finally pushed off the wall and started walking, hands shoved deep in the pockets of your jacket, head down. The pavement was still damp from earlier rain, reflecting the streetlights in long, broken streaks. Your boots scuffed against the concrete as you tried to put some distance between yourself and the venue, like maybe if you walked far enough the residual heat under your skin would cool.

It didn’t.

You were three blocks away when you almost walked straight into him.

Alex was leaning against the side of a black van parked half on the curb, one boot crossed over the other, a cigarette already between his lips. His hair was still a mess from the stage lights, shirt slightly open at the collar, the same dark jeans he’d worn under the spotlight. He looked up just as you froze mid-step.

For a second neither of you moved.

Then your brain short-circuited into pure fangirl mode.

“Oh my god—hi. Sorry. I—uh—can I get a photo? Please? I mean, only if it’s not weird, I know you just got off stage and—”

The words tumbled out too fast. Your hands were already reaching for your phone like an idiot.

Alex’s mouth curved, slow and amused around the unlit cigarette. He studied you for a beat longer than necessary, eyes dropping briefly to the way your fingers were still trembling around the phone.“Only if you help me light this first, kiddo.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black Zippo, the metal catching the streetlight as he held it out toward you. The lighter looked worn, edges slightly scratched, like it had been in and out of his hands a thousand times.

You stared at it. Then at him. Then back at the Zippo. Your pulse, which had almost started to settle, kicked hard against your throat again.

“Yeah,” you managed, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “Yeah, okay.” You took the lighter from his fingers. The metal was warm from his pocket.

You flicked the Zippo open, the small flame catching with a soft metallic click. Your hands were still not entirely steady as you leaned in and held it up to the end of his cigarette. The tip glowed orange. Alex inhaled slowly, eyes never leaving yours over the flame.

When you pulled back and closed the lighter, he took a long drag, then exhaled a thin stream of smoke to the side.

“You’ve got pretty eyes, kiddo.”

The words landed low and casual, like he was commenting on the weather. But the way he said them—quiet, almost thoughtful—made something in your stomach drop hard.

You felt the heat rush straight up your neck and into your cheeks. Your lips parted, but nothing useful came out. You just stood there, black Zippo still warm in your palm, staring at him like an absolute disaster.

Alex’s eyebrows lifted slightly. A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched the flush climb higher on your face.

“Wow,” he murmured, taking another drag. “You’re giving daddy issues and a praise kink.” He tilted his head, studying you with open interest now, smoke curling from between his lips.“I like that.”

Your fingers tightened around the lighter. You could feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, everywhere. The street suddenly felt too quiet, too narrow. All you could hear was the distant traffic and the soft crackle of the cigarette as he waited for you to say something—anything—that wouldn’t make you look even more wrecked than you already were.

Alex’s free hand came up slowly, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair away from your cheek. The touch was light, almost careful, but it still sent a full-body shiver straight down your spine. He left his knuckles resting just under your jaw for a second longer than necessary, thumb grazing the edge of your skin.“Can I?” he asked, voice low and rough around the cigarette smoke still lingering on his breath.

You nodded—too fast, too eager—because this was every filthy late-night fantasy you’d ever had about him finally crawling out of your head and into the real world. Your biggest wet dream standing right in front of you on a damp sidewalk, asking permission like he already knew the answer.

The second your chin dipped, Alex closed the space between you.

His mouth crashed into yours like he’d been starving for it. No soft buildup, no careful first kiss. Just heat and hunger and the taste of nicotine and mint as he tilted his head and deepened it immediately. One hand slid into your hair, gripping just tight enough to make your knees threaten to buckle, while the other stayed cupping your jaw, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

You made a small, helpless sound against his lips. He swallowed it whole and kissed you harder.

Alex finally pulled back, just enough to look at you. His lips were slightly swollen, breathing a little heavier, eyes dark and locked on yours like he was cataloguing every single reaction. The hand in your hair stayed put, fingers still tangled, keeping you close.“You’re such a good girl,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “You wanna keep being a good girl for daddy?”

Your whole body answered before your mouth could. You nodded hard, desperate, almost frantic, eyes wide and shining under the streetlight.

Alex’s mouth curved into a slow, wicked little smile.“Nuh-uh.” He gave a soft tug on your hair, just enough to make you feel it. “Use your words, kiddo.”

You swallowed, throat tight.“Yes—yes—”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting, patient and completely in control.“Yes what?”

Heat flooded your face all over again. Your voice came out quieter, almost shaky, but you forced the words out because you wanted them so badly it hurt.“Yes, daddy. I’ll be a good girl.”

Alex’s eyes darkened even further. He exhaled a soft, pleased sound and brushed his thumb once across your lower lip, like he was rewarding you already.“That’s my girl.” Alex slipped his jacket off in one smooth motion and draped it over your shoulders without asking. The leather was still warm from his body and smelled like him—cigarettes, stage sweat, and that faint woody cologne he always wore. He pulled it closed around you, then slid an arm around your waist, tucking you firmly against his side as he started walking.“C’mon, kiddo,” he murmured, voice soft but still laced with that earlier darkness. “Bus is this way.”

You walked pressed up against him, his jacket drowning you, his hand steady on your hip. Every few steps he glanced down at you, and every time he did, that little smirk threatened to break through.

Especially when he felt how tightly you were gripping the front of his shirt under the jacket. Or when he caught the way your breathing still hadn’t fully settled. Or when you kept stealing looks at his mouth like you were already starving for the next kiss.

Alex let out a quiet, amused huff of laughter and squeezed your waist a little tighter.“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, almost fond. “You’re fucking desperate, aren’t you?” He didn’t sound like he minded. Not even a little.

He just kept walking, guiding you toward the dark shape of the tour bus waiting at the end of the street, his thumb absently stroking the side of your hip through the leather like he already owned the right to touch you however he wanted.

Alex guided you up the narrow steps of the tour bus, his hand never leaving the small of your back. The moment the door shut behind you he flipped the lock with a solid metallic click, then scanned the length of the dim interior—empty bunks, quiet lounge, no crew, no bandmates. Just the low hum of the engine and the faint smell of old leather and cigarettes.

Satisfied, he turned back to you.“Come with daddy, kiddo.”

Before you could answer he bent, hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you clean off the floor in one smooth motion. Your legs automatically locked around his waist. The second your body settled against his you felt it—hard, thick, unmistakable—pressed right between your legs through the layers of denim and the leather of his jacket still draped over your shoulders.

A soft, broken sound escaped you.

Alex’s eyes darkened as he adjusted his grip, deliberately rolling his hips once so the full length of his erection dragged slowly against you. His voice dropped even lower, rough with restraint.“Feel that?” he murmured against your ear, carrying you deeper into the bus toward the back. “That’s what you’ve done to me since the second I saw you in the crowd. Be a good girl and hold on tight.”

Alex carried you the last few steps into the small back bedroom of the bus and dropped you onto the narrow bed without ceremony. The mattress dipped under your weight as he followed you down, knees spreading your thighs open. His hands went straight for the hem of your dress, shoving the fabric up roughly until it bunched around your waist.

He froze for half a second when he saw what was underneath.

A thin black thong. Barely there. The kind that left almost nothing to the imagination.

A low, dark laugh rumbled out of him.

“Oh, look at that,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement and something hungrier. He hooked two fingers under the delicate side strap and tugged just enough to make the fabric dig into your skin. “Wearing a little scrap of nothing like this… almost like you planned on ending up under me tonight, didn’t you, kiddo?”

Heat flooded your face. You opened your mouth, but he didn’t give you the chance to answer.

Alex yanked the thong down your legs in one smooth, deliberate pull, the thin fabric sliding over your thighs and off your ankles. He held it up for a second between two fingers, examining it with a wicked little smirk, then shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans like a trophy.“Mine now,” he said simply, eyes locked on the newly bare skin between your legs. “Daddy’s keeping this.”

His palms slid back up your thighs, spreading them wider as he settled between them, already leaning down like he was starving for the next taste of you. He leaned down, warm breath ghosting over your bare skin, and dragged the flat of his tongue in one slow, deliberate stroke straight over your clit. The wet heat of it made your hips jerk hard against the mattress. A broken, high sound tore out of your throat before you could stop it—

“Alex—” The name had barely left your lips when his hand came down.

Slap.

A sharp, stinging smack landed right on your sensitive clit, the sudden shock of it making you gasp and try to close your thighs. He held them open with one forearm and did it again.

Slap.

Harder this time.

“Wrong name, kiddo,” he growled against your soaked skin, voice dark and warning. Another quick, precise slap landed square on the swollen little bud, the wet sound of it filthy in the quiet of the bus. “I’m not Alex when I’ve got my mouth on you. Try again.”

He gave you one more firm slap for good measure, watching the way your body jolted and the fresh flush that spread across your cheeks, before lowering his head again—ready to reward you the second you got it right.

Your voice came out shaky and desperate, hips twitching under his grip.

“Please—please, daddy, eat my pussy—please—”

Alex’s mouth curved into a dark, satisfied smile against your thigh.

“Took you long enough,” he murmured.

Then he stopped teasing.

He buried his face between your legs and devoured you.

No more careful strokes. No more testing. Just pure, filthy hunger. His tongue dragged hard over your clit, then pushed lower, fucking into you in deep, wet thrusts while his nose pressed against the swollen bud. He groaned like he’d been starving for the taste of you, the vibration of it shooting straight up your spine. One hand stayed locked on your thigh, keeping you spread wide open; the other slid under your ass, tilting your hips up so he could get even deeper.

He licked and sucked and growled against you like he had all night and zero intention of coming up for air, every wet, filthy sound filling the small bedroom of the bus.

Alex gave your soaked cunt one last, deliberate spit, watching the thick string of it land right on your clit and drip down. Then his hands were on your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach in one rough motion. He dragged you back until you were on all fours in the middle of the narrow bed, ass up, face pressed into the sheets.

“Stay like that,” he ordered, voice low and rough.

You felt the sharp crack of his palm against your right cheek first—smack—hard enough to sting and make the flesh bounce. Then the left. He spanked you again, and again, alternating sides, each slap louder and meaner than the last until your ass was burning and your thighs were shaking.

Only then did you hear the soft metallic clink of his belt being unbuckled.

Alex slowly pulled the leather free from the loops of his jeans, the long strip sliding out with a quiet hiss. He doubled it once in his hand, letting the weight of it rest against the already-red skin of your ass for a second, just long enough for you to feel the promise of it.

“Good girl,” he murmured, almost gentle. “Keep that pretty ass up for daddy.”

Alex pushed the head of his cock against your entrance, already slick from his mouth and the way you’d been dripping for him. He didn’t thrust in all at once. He fed it to you slowly—inch by thick, heavy inch—watching the way your body stretched around him.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, voice strained. “You’re so fucking tight, kiddo…”

You felt every ridge, every vein as he sank deeper. He was thicker than anything you’d ever taken, the stretch so intense it stole the air from your lungs. Your mouth fell open against the sheets, a broken, wet sound spilling out of you. Saliva pooled under your tongue and dripped down your chin as he kept pushing forward, slow and relentless, until his hips finally met the curve of your ass.

You were full. Completely, almost painfully full. Drool slid from the corner of your lips onto the mattress while your arms trembled under you, barely holding you up.

Alex’s hand stroked down your spine, possessive and steady.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. “Take every inch of daddy’s cock like the good little slut you are.”

He stayed buried to the hilt for a long moment, letting you feel just how completely he owned you, before he finally pulled back and started to fuck you.

Alex’s hand shot into your hair, fingers tightening at the roots as he yanked your head back. The sharp pull forced your spine into a deeper arch and made you look over your shoulder at him.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered, voice rough and low. “Don’t you dare look away.”

His other hand pressed firmly between your shoulder blades, pushing your chest down into the mattress while he kept your hips high. The new angle made him sink even deeper with the next thrust. You felt every thick inch drag along your walls as he started to move for real—hard, deep, relentless.

The wet sound of his cock slamming into you filled the small bedroom of the bus. Each thrust punched a broken moan out of your throat. Alex didn’t slow down. He fucked you like he’d been holding back for hours, hips snapping forward with enough force to make the bed creak under both of you.

“That’s it,” he growled, still holding your hair tight, eyes locked on yours. “Take it. Take daddy’s cock like you were made for it.”

He drove into you harder, the sharp slap of skin on skin mixing with your desperate, drooling whimpers as he used you exactly the way he wanted

Alex felt it the second your body started tightening around him—that desperate, fluttering squeeze that told him you were right on the edge.

He leaned over your back, still fucking you hard and deep, mouth close to your ear.

“Look at you,” he growled, voice thick with both praise and pure filth. “Such a good little slut for daddy. Soaking the sheets, drooling all over the place, taking this cock like you were born to be used.”

His hand tightened in your hair, forcing your head back further so you couldn’t hide from the words.

“You’re gonna come all over daddy’s dick, aren’t you? Gonna make an even bigger mess like the dirty, desperate girl you are.” He slammed in harder, grinding deep when he bottomed out. “That’s it. Be good for me. Come on this cock. Show me how much of a needy little whore you really are.”

Every filthy, mixed-up praise and degradation only pushed you closer. Your arms shook. Your cunt clenched hard around him. Alex kept talking right into your ear, never slowing the brutal pace, determined to ruin you completely as he felt you start to break.

The orgasm hit you like a wave.

A raw, broken scream tore out of your throat as your whole body locked up. Your cunt clamped down hard around Alex’s cock, pulsing and squeezing so tightly it almost hurt. Thick, wet heat flooded around him as you came—creaming all over his length, soaking him even more, the mess dripping down onto the already ruined sheets.

“Fuck—yes—” Alex’s voice cracked into a low, guttural groan. The way you squeezed him was too much. He slammed in one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then he was coming too—hot, heavy pulses flooding deep inside you. He held you there, hips pressed flush against your ass, grinding through every thick spurt while your walls kept fluttering and milking him dry.

For a few long seconds the only sounds in the bus were your ragged breathing, his harsh pants against the back of your neck, and the wet, filthy mess the two of you had made between your thighs.

Alex’s grip in your hair finally loosened. He stayed buried inside you, still twitching, still filling you, voice rough and satisfied when he finally spoke.

You were standing in the VIP tent, the bass still vibrating through the soles of your boots, when Renee stepped back up to the mic instead of walking offstage.

The lights dimmed to a deep red. She pushed her hair out of her face, grinned that slow, knowing grin she only ever used on you when no one else was looking close enough to notice, and spoke into the mic like she was telling a secret.“Alright. I’m changing the setlist real quick.”

A ripple of confusion moved through the crowd. She let it settle, then continued, voice low and a little husky from singing for almost two hours.“There’s someone in this room tonight who is… very special to me. Someone who has been driving me completely insane for months. In the best way. In the worst way. In every way that makes me want to do stupid things on stage just to watch their face.”

She paused, eyes scanning the VIP area with deliberate laziness until they landed on you. Held. Didn’t move.

“This person is obsessed with Amy Winehouse. Like, properly obsessed. Knows every breath, every crack in the voice, every time Amy’s heart is breaking in the middle of a note. And I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. About how some people get under your skin so deep you start wanting to sing their favorite songs just to see if they’ll look at you the way they look at the music.”

A soft laugh left her. Almost private.

“So I’m gonna do something I don’t usually do. I’m gonna cover a little Amy for them. And I want them to know—this isn’t for the crowd. This isn’t for the cameras. This is for the person who has been in my bed more times than I can count and still pretends we’re just friends who fuck. The person who leaves marks on my neck and then acts like they don’t own me the second the door closes. The person who is standing right there in the VIP tent looking at me like they already know exactly what I’m about to do to them later.”

She tilted her head, still staring straight at you, and the corner of her mouth curved sharper.“In My Bed,” she said simply. “Because some of us never really leave it.”

The first soft notes of the guitar drifted out. Renee closed her eyes for half a second, then opened them again and locked them on yours as she started to sing—slow, intimate, like she was already between your legs and every word was meant only for you.

The first lines left her mouth slow and velvet-rough, her eyes locked on yours like she was singing straight into your mouth instead of the mic.

“Wish I could say it breaks my heart Like you did in the beginning…” She rolled her shoulders back, one hand sliding down the mic stand as her hips shifted in a lazy, deliberate circle. The movement was small, almost private, but you felt it in your stomach. The way she moved was the same way she moved when she was on top of you controlled, teasing, already knowing exactly how wet she was making you. “It’s not that we grew apart A nightingale no longer singing…”

She stepped closer to the edge of the stage, boots planted wide, and let her free hand trail down the front of her own thigh. Just once. Slow enough that you could track every inch. Her gaze never left yours.“It’s something I know you can’t do Separate sex with emotion…”

A small, wicked smile curved her lips as she delivered the next lines, voice dropping lower, almost spoken.“I sleep alone, the Sun comes up You’re still clinging to that notion…”

She rocked her hips again, slower this time, the motion rolling through her body like she was already grinding against you. The crowd screamed, but she wasn’t performing for them. She was performing for the girl in the VIP tent who had been inside her last Tuesday and still pretended it didn’t mean anything.“Everything is slowing down River of no return Recognise my every sound There’s nothing new to learn…”

Renee’s eyes darkened. She dragged her tongue across her lower lip between lines, then kept singing, voice thick with something that wasn’t just the song.

“You’ll never get my mind right, like two ships passing in the night In the night, in the night Want the same thing when we lay Otherwise, mine’s a different way A different way from where I’m going…”

She turned slightly sideways so the stage lights caught the curve of her waist, then looked back over her shoulder at you deliberate, filthy before facing forward again and locking eyes once more.

“Oh, it’s you again Listen, this isn’t a reunion So sorry if I turn my head Yours is a familiar face, but that don’t make your place safe In my bed, my bed, my bed…” Her free hand rose and brushed over her own collarbone, fingers tracing the path she always made you kiss. The movement was pure provocation. She knew you were watching. She knew your thighs were pressed together. She knew exactly what this was doing to you.

She kept going, voice softer now, almost intimate even through the speakers.“I never thought my memory Of what we had could be intruded But I couldn’t let it be I needed it as much as you did…”

Renee’s hips rolled again, slower, filthier, like she was already fucking the air between you. Her eyes stayed on yours through every single word.“Now, it’s not hard to understand Why we just speak at night The only time I hold your hand Is to get the angle right…”

She finished the last line with a small, breathless laugh into the mic, still staring straight at you, and the look she gave you said everything:

“I know you’re wet. I know you’re thinking about my bed. And I know you’re going to be in it the second this show ends”

The final note still hung in the air when the lights cut to black.

You didn’t wait for the crowd to clear. You moved the second the house lights came up, slipping past security with the badge Renee had given you weeks ago, the one that said plus-one in a way that felt more like mine. The back exit was already open, a rectangle of cold night air and cigarette smoke. You leaned against the brick wall just outside, heart still hammering from the way she’d looked at you the entire song.

Five minutes later the door swung open.

Renee stepped out in the same stage outfit, hair damp at the temples, cheeks still flushed from the lights. She was laughing at something one of the crew said over her shoulder—until her eyes found you.

The laugh died.

She didn’t even finish the goodbye. She just walked straight toward you, boots clicking on the concrete, that same slow, knowing look from the stage still burning in her eyes.

You didn’t let her speak.

The second she was close enough, you grabbed the front of her shirt, yanked her in, and kissed her like you’d been starving for days. Your mouth crashed against hers, open and desperate, tongue sliding past her lips the moment she gasped. You felt her stumble a half-step from the force of it, then her hands were on your waist, gripping hard, pulling you flush against her as she kissed you back just as filthy.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was the kind of kiss that said I heard every single word you sang and I’m about to ruin you for it.

Renee made a low sound against your mouth—half groan, half laugh—and bit your lower lip hard enough to sting. You answered by shoving her back against the brick wall, one thigh sliding between hers, and she let you, hips already rolling into the pressure like she’d been waiting for this exact moment since the first note of the cover.

When you finally pulled back just enough to breathe, her lips were wet and swollen and she was smiling that dangerous little smile. “Fuck,” she whispered, voice wrecked. “Took you long enough.”

You pulled back just enough to look at her, lips still brushing hers, breath uneven.“Wow,” you murmured, voice low and rough. “You really said the ‘angle right’ part out loud. On stage. In front of thousands of people.” A slow, wicked smile tugged at your mouth. “I mean… scissoring is not that hard.”

Renee’s eyes flashed. She let out a short, breathless laugh and tightened her grip on your waist, pulling you even closer so your bodies were pressed flush from chest to thigh.“You say that ‘cause you’re a fucking top by heart,” she shot back, voice dripping with challenge. Her thigh pushed deliberately between yours, grinding just enough to make her point. “Always so sure. Always so ready to take control.”

You didn’t answer with words. You kissed her again—harder this time, slower, dirtier—sliding your tongue against hers like you already knew exactly how she tasted when she was losing the argument. When you finally broke the kiss, your lips stayed against hers as you whispered,

“And you’re a fucking pillow princess.” Renee’s breath hitched. For a second she just stared at you, pupils blown, then a dark, delighted grin spread across her face.“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that,” she promised, voice thick. “The second we get somewhere with a door that locks.”

You barely made it to the hotel.

The second the black car door shut, Renee’s hand was already between your thighs, fingers pressing hard against the seam of your jeans like she was trying to feel how wet you’d gotten during the entire drive. You shoved her hand away only long enough to yank her into another filthy kiss, teeth and tongue and the low sound she made when you bit her bottom lip again.

By the time the car stopped under the hotel canopy, both of you were breathing like you’d run there.

You pulled the black baseball cap lower over your eyes. Renee did the same with hers, sliding on a pair of dark sunglasses even though it was almost midnight. You mirrored her, the lenses hiding the way your pupils were still blown from the way she’d been looking at you since the stage.

The lobby was quiet. Too quiet.

You walked side by side toward the front desk, close enough that the backs of your hands brushed with every step. Renee’s pinky hooked around yours for half a second—quick, secret—then let go like nothing had happened. The receptionist looked up with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, the kind of look that said she recognized the silhouette even if she couldn’t see the face.

Renee slid a black credit card across the counter without taking off the sunglasses. “One room. High floor. As private as you’ve got.”

Her voice was steady. The only giveaway was the way her thigh pressed against yours under the counter, deliberate and warm.

You didn’t speak. You just stood there beside her, heart hammering, already imagining how hard she was going to shove you against the door the second it locked behind you.

The second the hotel door clicked shut behind you, you didn’t even wait for the lights. You grabbed Renee by the front of her shirt, spun her around, and kissed her like the entire night had been building to this exact second. Your mouth crashed against hers—hungry, open, messy—tongue sliding past her lips the moment she gasped. She tasted like the stage, like adrenaline, like every filthy look she’d given you during that song.

Renee answered by shoving you backward until your shoulders hit the wall. Then she climbed you.

One leg hooked around your hip, then the other, and suddenly she was wrapping herself around you like she belonged there—weight solid and warm, thighs tight against your sides. Her hands buried in your hair and pulled, hard enough to tilt your head back and make a sharp sound leave your throat. She used the angle to deepen the kiss, grinding down against you as she licked into your mouth like she was already fucking you with her tongue.

“Fuck—look at you,” she breathed against your lips, still gripping your hair, still rolling her hips in that slow, deliberate grind. “Coming in here acting like you’re in charge… and the second the door locks you’re already letting me climb you.”bShe tugged your hair again, sharper this time, and kissed you even dirtier—biting your lower lip, sucking on it, then sliding her tongue back in like she was claiming every inch of your mouth. Her body pressed flush against yours, heat and pressure and the soft sound she made when you gripped her ass to hold her up.

Neither of you had even turned the lights on yet.

You didn’t make it three steps toward the bed. Renee’s mouth was still on yours when her weight shifted and both of you went down hard onto the mattress, the impact knocking a breathless laugh out of her that you swallowed immediately. She landed half on top of you, thighs straddling one of yours, and the second your backs hit the sheets the clothes started coming off like they were on fire. You yanked her shirt up and over her head without even breaking the kiss. She did the same to yours a second later, tossing it somewhere behind her. Your hands went straight to the button of her stage pants while hers worked open your jeans, fingers clumsy and urgent, both of you breathing hard against each other’s mouths.

“Fuck—get these off,” she muttered, voice rough, already shoving your jeans down your hips. You lifted just enough for her to drag them lower, then returned the favor, peeling her pants down her thighs while she kicked them the rest of the way off. Her underwear came next—yours too—pulled down in the same frantic motion until there was nothing left between you but skin.

Renee sat up just long enough to unhook her bra and throw it aside. You did the same, and the second your breasts were bare she was on you again, pressing you back into the mattress, bare chest to bare chest, the heat of her skin making your stomach tighten. Her mouth found your neck, then your collarbone, then lower, kissing and biting as her hands roamed every newly exposed inch of you.

You tangled your fingers in her hair and pulled her back up for another messy kiss, hips already rolling up against hers. She answered by grinding down hard, the slick heat of her cunt sliding against your thigh, and the low, filthy sound she made into your mouth told you she was just as gone as you were.

Your hands slid down to Renee’s ass, gripping hard as you shifted both of your bodies on the bed until her thigh was hooked high over your hip and your cunt was pressed flush against hers. You guided her with firm pressure on her cheeks, pulling her tighter, rolling your hips up so the wet heat of her slid perfectly against you. The first real grind made both of you gasp.

“Fuck—look at this,” you muttered against her mouth, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass as you set a slow, deliberate rhythm. “I love your fucking ass. Love how it feels in my hands when you’re grinding on me like this.”

Renee let out a broken sound that was half laugh, half moan, and dropped her face into the curve of your neck. Her lips parted against your skin, kissing you there—open-mouthed, wet, messy—while her hips started moving with yours. Every time you pulled her closer by the ass she answered with a sharper roll, cunt sliding against cunt, slick and hot and perfect.

She kissed your neck again, harder this time, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear as she breathed,“You’re so fucking obsessed with it…”

You squeezed harder in answer, guiding her into a deeper grind, the wet sound of the two of you scissoring already filthy in the quiet room. Renee’s mouth stayed on your neck the whole time—kissing, biting, sucking—while her hips kept following every pull of your hands like she couldn’t get close enough.

Your hands stayed locked on Renee’s ass as you started moving her properly—pulling her hips into yours in a steady, filthy rhythm, forcing her cunt to drag against yours over and over. Every roll of your hands made her grind harder, the wet heat of her sliding perfectly against you, slick and hot and so fucking good it made your stomach clench.

Renee’s head dropped back for a second, a broken moan tearing out of her throat.“Fuck—yes—”

You kept going, guiding her with both hands, using the grip on her ass to control the angle, the pressure, the exact way her clit rubbed against yours. The wet sound of the two of you scissoring filled the room—obscene, rhythmic, getting louder with every thrust of your hips.

Renee’s moans turned sharper, higher. She braced one hand on the mattress beside your head and started meeting every movement you forced on her, grinding down hard, chasing the friction like she was already close. You answered with a low, ragged sound of your own, head tipping back into the pillows as the pleasure built fast and dirty between your legs. “God—Renee—”

She moaned again at the sound of her name, louder this time, almost desperate, and dropped her mouth back to your neck, panting against your skin while her hips kept moving exactly the way you were making them. Both of you were loud now—unrestrained, filthy, moaning like the only thing that existed was the wet slide of cunt against cunt and the way your hands kept pulling her tighter, harder, deeper into the grind.

Your hands stayed locked on Renee’s ass, keeping that filthy grind going, but you lifted your head and dragged your mouth down the center of her chest. The second your lips closed around one of her nipples she made a sharp, broken sound and her hips jerked harder against yours.

You sucked. Slow at first—tongue circling the tight peak, lips sealed around it—then harder, pulling it into your mouth the way you knew made her lose control. Renee’s reaction was instant. Her movements turned hungrier, more desperate; she started grinding down on you with real force, cunt sliding against yours in short, urgent rolls while you kept sucking.

“Fuck—don’t stop—” she gasped, one hand flying to the back of your head to hold you there.

You switched to the other nipple without breaking the rhythm of your hips, sucking just as hard, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. Every pull of your mouth made her move faster, wetter, the sound of the two of you scissoring turning even filthier. Her moans spilled out louder now, unrestrained, and she kept rocking against you like she couldn’t get enough friction, couldn’t get close enough. You kept your mouth on her, sucking and licking while your hands forced her hips into that perfect, relentless grind. Renee was shaking above you, thighs tight around your hip, every movement of her body growing more frantic the longer you stayed latched onto her nipples.

Renee’s hips were moving wild now—short, desperate grinds that kept her cunt sliding hard against yours while you still had your mouth latched onto her nipple, sucking like you were trying to pull the orgasm straight out of her. Your hands never left her ass, forcing her tighter, deeper into the wet friction until the sound of the two of you was pure filth.“I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—” she choked out, voice breaking.

You didn’t answer. You just sucked harder and rolled your hips up to meet every frantic movement she made.

The first pulse hit her like a shock. Renee’s whole body locked, a broken cry tearing out of her throat as she started coming—hard, shaking, cunt clenching and then releasing in a sudden, hot gush that soaked your thighs and the sheets beneath you. The feeling of her squirting against you dragged you over the edge with her.

Your orgasm slammed through you a second later. You moaned against her breast, hips jerking as you came just as hard, your own release spilling out in messy pulses that mixed with hers. The wet heat between you turned filthy and overwhelming—both of you squirting, grinding through it, shaking and moaning while the sheets grew soaked under your joined bodies.

Renee kept moving even as she came, riding out every wave against you, her forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged and broken. You held her through it, hands still gripping her ass, bodies locked together while the last aftershocks kept making both of you twitch and spill a little more.

You sat cross-legged on your bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting warm shadows across the room. The bottle of deep crimson polish rested between your thighs as you carefully dragged the brush over your left ring finger, the smell of acetone sharp in the air. Outside, Woodsboro was quiet for once. Too quiet.

The phone on your nightstand rang.

You didn’t jump. You didn’t even flinch. A slow, knowing smile curved your lips as you set the brush down, wiped your finger on a tissue, and reached for the receiver.

“Hello?” you answered, voice low and almost bored.

A distorted, mechanical rasp answered you.“Do you like scary movies?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back against the headboard, the phone pressed between your ear and shoulder while you examined your half-painted nails.“Jesus Christ, Stu. You’ve used that line on me, like, twelve times this week. It’s getting sad.”

There was a beat of static, then the voice filter cut out with a soft click, replaced by a familiar, breathless laugh.

“Fuck, baby. You’re no fun tonight.” Stu’s real voice came through, low and rough, the kind of voice that always sounded like he’d just been running or laughing too hard. Or both. “You busy?”

“Painting my nails,” you said, lifting your hand to inspect the glossy red. “Trying to look pretty for my boyfriend who currently has his hands full of someone else’s blood, I’m guessing.”

“Guilty.” You could hear the grin in his voice. Somewhere in the background there was the faint sound of fabric rustling, maybe a knife being wiped clean. “Billy’s still finishing up. Kid’s a fucking perfectionist.”

You hummed, deliberately slow. “Mm. You and Billy again. Spending more quality time with him than with me these days. Should I be jealous of this little homoerotic crime partnership you’ve got going on?”

Stu barked out a laugh, loud and unrestrained. “Baby—”

“I’m serious,” you cut in, voice dropping into something softer, meaner. “You two are always together. Sharing the costume. Sharing the kills. Sharing those little looks when you think no one’s watching. Next thing I know you’ll be fucking in the woods while I’m sitting here painting my nails like a good little alibi.”

There was a sharp inhale on the other end of the line.

“Fuck,” Stu muttered, the word thick. “You’re such a bitch when you’re horny.”

“Am I wrong?”

“You’re not wrong that I we share all that,” he said, voice dropping lower, rougher. “But Billy’s not the one I’m thinking about when I’ve got a hard-on in this stupid fucking costume. You are. Always you.”

You smirked, settling deeper into the pillows, the polish forgotten.“Prove it,” you murmured. “Tell me what you’re doing right now. And don’t you dare hang up on me for him.”

Stu’s laugh came out rough and a little breathless on the other end of the line, like he’d just been running.“No, baby—fuck, no. Don’t start with that jealous shit,” he said, voice dropping into that low, coaxing tone he only ever used on you. “You know it’s not like that. Billy’s just… useful. That’s all. You’re the one I come home to. You’re the one I’m thinking about when I’ve got blood on my hands and a hard dick under this stupid fucking robe.”

You heard the soft rustle of fabric, the faint clink of metal, and then the sound of a car door slamming.“I’m already on my way to your place,” he continued, the filter completely gone now. His real voice was rough, almost desperate. “I swear to God I’m gonna make it up to you. I’ll go to hell and back for you, you know that. I’ll crawl through the fucking woods on my knees if that’s what it takes. Just keep that pretty mouth of yours ready for me.”

You smiled slowly, twisting the phone cord around one finger as you watched the wet polish on your nails catch the light.“Yeah?” you murmured. “And how exactly are you planning to compensate me, Stu? Because I’ve been sitting here alone while you’ve been out playing dress-up with your boyfriend.”

He groaned, the sound filthy and frustrated.“Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking tease. I’m gonna walk through that door, pin you to the bed, and remind you exactly who I belong to. Mouth, hands, cock—all of it. I’m gonna fuck you so deep you forget Billy even exists. You’re gonna feel me for days, baby. I promise.”

In the background you could hear the engine starting, the low growl of his car pulling away from whatever fresh crime scene he’d just left behind.

“Keep the door unlocked,” he said, voice tight with urgency. “And don’t you dare finish those nails. I want them wet when I get there. I want to smear that pretty red all over your thighs while I’m between them.”

You bit your lip, heat already pooling low in your stomach.“Hurry up then,” you whispered. “I’m getting impatient.”

“I’m coming,” Stu answered, almost growling. “And when I do, you’re not gonna be able to walk straight for a week.”

Time dragged after you hung up.

You set the half-finished bottle of polish on the nightstand and got to work. The sheets got straightened, then deliberately messed again so they’d look lived-in. You lit the cheap vanilla candle on the dresser, cracked the window just enough to let the cool night air in, and left the door unlocked like he’d told you. Your reflection in the mirror looked flushed already—hair down, oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder, bare legs, still-wet crimson nails catching the light every time you moved.

You were smoothing the last pillow when the phone rang again. You answered on the second ring, already smiling.

The distorted voice filled the line, low and mechanical.

“Hello, Sidney… wait. Wrong number.” A soft, static-laced chuckle. “Did you miss me already, baby?”

You leaned back against the headboard, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.“You’re still doing the whole cheap-ass Ghostface routine? Really?” you asked, voice dry. “Instead of worrying about your little killer performance, maybe worry about not getting blood all over my window when you climb through it. I just cleaned that shit last week.”

There was a beat of silence. Then the filter cut out completely and Stu’s real voice came through, rough and dark with laughter.“Oh, you mouthy little fucking thing…”

You heard the engine of his car grow louder, closer.“I’m gonna fuck that attitude right out of you,” he growled, the words thick with promise. “I’m gonna walk through that door, pin you down, and make you choke on every single smart-ass comment you’ve got left. By the time I’m done with you, the only thing coming out of that pretty mouth is my name and maybe a few desperate little ‘please’s. Blood on the window? Baby, I’ll paint the whole fucking room if it means I get to watch you take it the way I know you love it.”

Your thighs pressed together on instinct.“Then stop talking and get here,” you whispered.

“Two minutes,” he answered, voice already dropping into something feral. “Keep that attitude warm for me.”

The window slid open with a soft scrape.

You didn’t even have time to stand before a black-clad figure swung one long leg over the sill, boots hitting the carpet with a dull thud. The Ghostface mask tilted toward you, empty black eyes catching the candlelight. For half a second the room felt colder.

Then Stu yanked the mask off in one sharp motion.

His hair was a mess, face flushed, that wild grin already splitting across it like he couldn’t wait another second. Blood—someone else’s—smeared faintly across the knuckles of the hand still gripping the mask.“Miss me?” he breathed.

You opened your mouth to answer, but he was already on you.

He closed the distance in two strides, dropped the mask somewhere on the floor, and crashed his mouth against yours. The kiss was all teeth and heat—hungry, messy, claiming. He bit down hard on your lower lip, hard enough to sting, then soothed it with a swipe of his tongue before sucking it between his teeth again. You tasted copper and adrenaline and him.

A low, almost feral sound rumbled in his chest as his hands found your waist. Without breaking the kiss he spun you, walked you backward, and shoved you hard onto the bed. Your back hit the mattress, the oversized shirt riding up your thighs. Stu followed immediately, climbing over you, knees bracketing your hips, one hand already fisting in your hair to tip your head back so he could kiss you deeper, dirtier.“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, voice rough. “You look so goddamn good waiting for me like this.”

He ground his hips down once, letting you feel exactly how hard he already was under the black robe, then leaned in to bite your lip again—slower this time, deliberate, like he wanted the mark to last. Stu broke the kiss with a wet sound and sat back on his heels, that manic grin still stretched across his face. Before you could catch your breath he grabbed your hips, flipped you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing, and yanked you up onto your knees. The oversized shirt rode all the way up your back. Cool air hit your bare ass for half a second—then his open palm cracked down hard across one cheek.

The sharp sting bloomed hot and sudden. You gasped into the sheets.“That’s for running your fucking mouth about me and Billy,” he growled, already delivering a second, harder slap to the other side. The sound was filthy in the quiet room. He laughed under his breath, low and delighted, rubbing the smarting skin with rough fingers like he was admiring his own work. “Not even because of the homoerotic shit—though that was cute—but because you kept pushing. Kept teasing. Kept trying to get a rise out of me while I was elbow-deep in someone else’s guts.”

Another spank, slower this time, lingering. He squeezed the heated flesh, then delivered two more in quick succession until your ass was stinging and warm under his hand.“You have no idea,” he continued, voice thick with laughter and lust, “how hard it is to wipe down a crime scene when your dick’s already throbbing because your girl is on the phone talking shit. I was cleaning blood off the walls with a fucking hard-on, baby. Trying not to leave prints while thinking about bending you over exactly like this.” He leaned over your back, one hand still gripping your hip to keep you in place, and pressed his mouth close to your ear. His breath was hot.“Maybe I should’ve just asked Billy to suck me off real quick so I could focus,” he mocked, the words dripping with wicked amusement. “Would’ve been faster. But no… I saved every single drop for you. And now you’re gonna take it.”

His palm came down again, harder, the smack echoing. You felt him grind the hard line of his cock against the back of your thigh through the robe, laughing softly when you pushed back into him on instinct. Stu didn’t give you a second to recover. He shoved the black robe off his shoulders in one rough motion, letting it pool on the floor behind him. The rest of his clothes followed just as fast—boots kicked aside, pants shoved down and kicked away until he was completely naked, hard and flushed and already leaking. The candlelight caught the faint smear of someone else’s blood still on his knuckles as he gripped your hips again.

He didn’t push inside yet. Instead he lined that thick, heavy cock up between your cheeks and started dragging it slowly back and forth, the slick head catching on your entrance every time he rolled his hips. Precome smeared along your folds, mixing with how wet you already were, turning the friction filthy and wet. He kept the rhythm lazy, almost lazy-cruel, just enough pressure to make you rock back for more.“Look at you,” he laughed under his breath, voice low and mean with affection. “All that smart-ass attitude and now you’re dripping down my cock like a desperate little brat. You talked all that shit about Billy, about me forgetting you… and the second I get my hands on you, this is what happens.”

He ground forward harder, the underside of his cock sliding right through your folds, the head bumping your clit on every pass. Another wet smear of precome. Another soft, mocking chuckle.“I’m gonna ruin you for that mouth of yours,” he promised, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair and tug your head back. “Gonna fuck you so deep and so mean you forget how to talk back. Every time you try to be cute and jealous I’m gonna remind you exactly what happens to brats who tease killers while they’re still covered in blood.”

He kept rubbing, slow and deliberate, coating himself in you, the wet sounds of it filling the quiet room. His free hand squeezed one stinging cheek, then delivered another sharp spank just because he could.“Keep pushing that pretty ass back on me,” he ordered, voice rough with hunger. “Get me nice and wet. Because the second I decide you’ve had enough teasing… I’m burying every inch inside you and I’m not stopping until you’re crying.”

He grabbed the thin waistband of your pajama shorts with both hands and yanked. The fabric tore with a sharp, ugly rip, elastic giving way under his strength. He didn’t stop there—fingers hooked into the crotch of your panties next and shredded them too, dragging the ruined scraps down your thighs and tossing them aside like trash. Cool air hit your bare, dripping cunt for only a second before the thick, flushed head of his cock nudged right up against it.

He didn’t push in. He just stayed there, pressing the tip against your entrance, rocking his hips in tiny, shallow movements that stretched you just enough to feel the threat of it. Every time you tried to push back he pulled away a fraction, keeping you open and empty and aching.

“Uh-uh,” he laughed, low and mean, one hand still fisted in your hair to keep your head pulled back. “You don’t get it until you ask nicely. Come on, baby. Use that bratty little mouth for something useful.” He nudged forward again—just the tip, just enough to make you clench around nothing—then eased back, smearing more wetness over himself. The head caught on your entrance, teasing, refusing to give you more than that shallow stretch.

“I can do this all night,” he murmured against the back of your neck, voice thick with amusement and lust. “Keep rubbing against this pretty cunt until you’re shaking. Keep you right on the edge while I talk about how good you’re gonna look with my cock buried in you. Or…” He pushed the tip in the tiniest bit deeper, then stopped. “You can beg.”

You were already trembling, thighs burning, the sting on your ass mixing with the unbearable emptiness. The wet sound of him nudging against you again made your breath hitch.“Stu—”

“Louder,” he ordered, delivering another sharp spank to the cheek he’d already marked. “Beg me to fuck you. Tell me how bad you need it after all that shit you talked.”

He kept the head of his cock right there, pulsing against you, refusing to give more until the words finally tore out of you—desperate, broken, exactly the way he wanted.

Your voice cracked on the first try.“Stu—please—”

He only hummed, the sound dark and pleased, and rolled his hips again so the thick head of his cock nudged just a fraction deeper before pulling back. The stretch burned and vanished just as fast, leaving you empty and shaking.“Not good enough,” he murmured against the side of your neck. Another slow drag of the tip through your soaked folds. “You were so fucking mouthy earlier. Talking about Billy. Talking about me forgetting you. Now look at you.”

Your fingers twisted hard in the sheets. Heat burned behind your eyes. The ache between your legs was almost painful now, every shallow tease making your thighs tremble.“Please,” you tried again, voice higher, thinner. “Please, Stu—I need it. I need you inside me. Don’t—don’t keep teasing, I can’t—”

He laughed softly, the sound filthy, and delivered another sharp slap to your already-stinging ass. The impact made you jolt forward, then rock right back against him on instinct.“Almost crying already?” he taunted, voice thick with hunger. “Fuck, that’s hot. Keep going. Beg like you mean it.”

A broken sound tore out of you. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as you pushed your hips back, chasing the pressure he kept denying.

“Please, Stu—fuck me. I need your cock. I’ll be good, I swear, just—please put it in. Please, I’m so empty, I need you to fill me up, I need you to fuck me hard, please—” Your voice finally cracked completely, the last word coming out wet and desperate. You were shaking under him, forehead pressed to the mattress, almost sobbing with how badly you needed him to stop teasing and take you.

Stu’s breath hitched. You felt the thick head of his cock press more firmly against your entrance, still not giving you what you were begging for—but closer. So much closer.“There she is,” he whispered, almost reverent. “That’s my good little brat.”

The second the broken plea left your mouth he slammed forward in one brutal thrust, burying every thick inch inside you to the hilt. The stretch was sudden and overwhelming—your cunt forced open around him, the wet sound of it filthy and loud in the quiet room. A broken cry tore out of your throat as your body struggled to take him all at once.

He didn’t give you time to adjust.

One hand fisted hard in your hair, yanking your head back until your back arched sharply. The other clamped down on your hip hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the flesh he’d already spanked red. Then he started moving.

The pace was wild from the first stroke—deep, punishing, relentless. His hips snapped against your ass with wet, filthy smacks, the force of each thrust shoving you forward on the mattress only for him to drag you right back onto his cock. He fucked into you like he’d been starving for it all night, like every second he’d spent cleaning blood off a wall with a hard-on was being paid back now.

“Fuck—yes—” he growled, voice rough and broken with pleasure. “Take it. Take every fucking inch, baby.” He yanked your hair harder, forcing your head back even further so he could watch the side of your face as he drove into you. The headboard started knocking softly against the wall. Your soaked cunt clenched around him with every brutal stroke, the wet sounds of how desperately you were taking him filling the room. He didn’t slow down. He didn’t ease up. He just kept fucking you harder, deeper, like he was trying to carve himself into you permanently.

Your hands shot forward, fingers twisting hard into the sheets until your knuckles went white. You needed something to hold onto—anything—because every brutal thrust was driving him straight into that spot deep inside you that made your vision blur.

Stu knew exactly what he was doing. He adjusted the angle of his hips just slightly and the next stroke punched right against it. A broken, high sound tore out of your throat. Your whole body jerked. Tears stung the corners of your eyes as pure, overwhelming pleasure slammed through you, sharp and almost too much.“There it is,” he growled, voice rough with triumph and lust. He yanked your hair harder, forcing your back into a deeper arch so he could keep hitting that same perfect place over and over. “Feel that? That’s the spot that makes you fucking cry for me.”

He didn’t let up. The pace stayed wild, relentless, each deep thrust grinding against that sensitive place until your thighs were shaking and your breath came in wet, desperate gasps. Tears finally slipped down your cheeks—not from pain, but from how intensely good it felt. Your cunt clenched hard around him every time he bottomed out, the wet, filthy sound of it filling the room.

You clung to the mattress like it was the only thing keeping you grounded, forehead pressed into the sheets, almost sobbing with every perfect, punishing stroke.“Stu—fuck—right there—” your voice cracked, high and wrecked. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

He laughed, low and dark, and only fucked you harder.

He kept driving into that perfect spot with the same wild, punishing pace, one hand still fisted in your hair while the other left your hip just long enough to deliver a sharp, open-handed slap across your already-stinging ass.

“I can’t tell—”

Smack.

“—if I’m punishing you—”

Smack.

“—or just motivating you—”

Smack.

“—to keep being a fucking brat.”

Each slap landed between thrusts, the sharp sting blooming hot over the deeper, relentless pleasure of his cock grinding into that sensitive place. Your body jolted every time his palm connected, the dual sensation making your cunt clench hard around him.

You were past coherent words. Broken sounds spilled from your mouth with every thrust—half-formed pleas, his name, soft broken sobs of pure overload. Tears streaked down your cheeks as you clung to the sheets, babbling nonsense between gasps.

“Stu—fuck—please—right there—don’t—ah—god—yes—harder—please—I can’t—Stu—”

He laughed, dark and delighted, and delivered another stinging slap right as he bottomed out again.“Listen to you,” he groaned, voice rough with lust. “Can’t even form a full sentence anymore. Just my name and ‘please’ and that pretty little fucked-out babbling. That’s what you get for running your mouth earlier.”

Another sharp slap. Another deep, perfect thrust that made your vision white out for a second. You could only sob his name and push back onto him, completely gone on the pleasure.

The pressure inside you finally snapped.

One particularly deep, brutal thrust ground right against that swollen spot and your entire body seized. A broken, high cry tore out of your throat as the orgasm ripped through you—violent, messy, overwhelming. Your cunt clamped down hard around Stu’s cock and then you were squirting, wet heat gushing around him in hard, pulsing waves that soaked his thighs and the sheets beneath you.

You couldn’t stop babbling.“Stu—fuck—oh my god—I’m—ah—coming—don’t stop—please—Stu—Stu—fuck—”

The words tumbled out wet and broken between sobs of pure overload, your voice cracking as another strong pulse of fluid spilled out of you. Your arms gave out. You collapsed forward onto the mattress, face pressed into the sheets, still shaking and babbling his name like it was the only word left in your head.

Stu groaned loud and filthy behind you, the sudden gush of wetness around his cock clearly pushing him closer to the edge. He didn’t slow down. If anything he fucked you through it harder, chasing every last tremor, the wet, filthy sounds of him slamming into your squirting cunt filling the room.“That’s it—fuck—look at you making a mess for me,” he growled, voice rough and almost reverent. “Keep coming. Keep soaking my cock. Let it all out, baby.”

You could only sob and babble, completely wrecked, another smaller gush spilling out of you every time he bottomed out. A raw, broken groan tore out of his throat as his hips stuttered, then slammed forward one last time—burying himself to the hilt as he came hard inside you. Thick, hot pulses flooded your already-soaked cunt, the wet heat of it spilling out around his cock with every twitch. He kept grinding deep through it, milking every last drop into you, one hand still fisted in your hair while the other gripped your hip hard enough to leave bruises.

“Fuck—baby—” he gasped, voice wrecked. “Take it. Take all of it.”

He stayed buried inside you as the last tremors faded, chest heaving against your back, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. For a long moment the only sounds in the room were both of you trying to catch your breath and the soft, filthy drip of everything he’d left inside you.

Then he eased his grip on your hair, smoothed the tangled strands with surprising gentleness, and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck.“You did so fucking well,” he murmured against your skin, voice still rough but softer now. “Took every inch. Came all over my cock like a perfect little mess. I’m proud of you, baby.”

He carefully pulled out, watching the thick mix of his cum and your wetness spill down your thighs, then rolled you both onto your sides so he could pull you against his chest. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other stroking lazily over the red marks he’d left on your ass.

The raspberry vodka had already started settling warm and heavy in your chest by the time the music shifted into something slower. You were perched on the edge of the kitchen counter at someone’s house you barely remembered walking into, plastic cup sweating in your hand, the sticky-sweet burn of the drink still lingering on your tongue. The room felt softer around the edges—voices blurred into a low hum, the string lights overhead casting everything in a hazy pink glow.

You took another slow sip, the vodka sliding down easier than the last. Your phone buzzed against your thigh. You blinked at the screen, the letters swimming for a second before they settled into place.

>Braeby: Almost there. Stay put, okay? Coming to get you.

A small, floaty smile tugged at your mouth. You typed back with clumsy thumbs—okay, hurry—and locked the phone again, letting it rest face-down beside you. The drink in your hand was nearly empty. You tipped the rest of it back, the raspberry taste sharp and bright, and set the cup down with a soft clink.

Outside, somewhere past the open sliding door and the people clustered on the patio, a car engine hummed closer. You swung your legs a little, heels knocking gently against the cabinet, waiting.

The front door opened with a soft creak and a rush of cooler night air. You looked up just as Braeden stepped inside, dark hair a little messy from the wind, hoodie half-zipped, eyes already scanning the room for you.

The second your gaze locked on him, a bright, unfiltered giggle spilled out of you.“Braeby!!!” You slid off the counter a little too fast, nearly stumbling, but he was already closing the distance. His hands settled steady on your waist, grounding you before your feet even fully found the floor.

He huffed a quiet laugh, one eyebrow lifting as he took in the flush on your cheeks and the empty plastic cup behind you.“Uuuh… did princess have a little extra tea tonight?”

You only giggled again, leaning into him without hesitation. Braeden shook his head fondly, already looping one arm under your knees and the other around your back. In one smooth motion he lifted you clean off the ground, holding you securely against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice soft near your ear as he turned toward the door. “I’ve got you. Let’s get you home.”

Braeden settled you carefully into the passenger seat, reaching across to click the seatbelt into place with a soft click. The car still smelled faintly like his cologne and the mint gum he always kept in the center console. He rounded the front, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the engine, the low hum filling the quiet between you.

You twisted toward him almost immediately, still warm and floaty from the vodka. Before he could even shift into drive, you leaned across the console, cupped his jaw with both hands, and pressed a soft, slightly clumsy kiss right to his lips.

Braeden’s breath hitched for half a second. He didn’t pull away, but his hand came up gently to rest at the side of your neck, thumb brushing your skin as he let the kiss linger just long enough to be sweet before easing back.

A quiet, amused sound left him.

“ooooh… tasty strawberry vodka,” he murmured against your mouth, the corner of his lips curling up. His voice stayed low and fond. “You’re all sugar right now.”

He gave your cheek one last soft stroke with his thumb, then settled back into his seat, still smiling as he finally put the car in drive.

Braeden pulled into the small parking spot behind the building and cut the engine. The sudden quiet felt heavier somehow, the night air cooler when he stepped out and came around to your side. He opened the passenger door carefully, offering his hand.“Easy,” he said softly.

You took it and tried to stand, but the second your feet hit the pavement the world tilted. The raspberry vodka that had felt warm and floaty earlier now made your knees soft and unreliable. You swayed hard, a small surprised sound leaving your throat as you almost went down.

Braeden was already there. One arm slid firmly around your waist, the other scooping under your knees again, lifting you against his chest like it was nothing. You automatically looped your arms around his neck, cheek resting against the soft fabric of his hoodie.“I’ve got you,” he murmured, already starting up the short path to the entrance. “No more walking for princess tonight.”

He carried you the rest of the way without breaking stride, the steady rhythm of his steps and the quiet thump of his heartbeat under your ear the only things that felt solid.

You only managed a couple of careful sips before the glass felt too heavy. Braeden took it from your hands and set it on the coffee table. The second it was gone you reached for him, fingers clumsily catching the front of his hoodie, and pulled him closer.

The kiss you pressed to his mouth was messy and uncoordinated—too much teeth for half a second, then too soft, like you couldn’t quite decide how to do it. You giggled against his lips, the sound warm and tipsy.“You’re so handsome,” you mumbled, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Like… all the time. You make me so wet, Brae. Constantly. I just—” Your hands slid up to his shoulders, trying to tug him down further onto the couch with you. “I want you. Right now. Please?”

Your voice was soft and insistent, the intention unmistakable even through the alcohol haze. You kept trying to kiss him again, slower this time but still clumsy, murmuring against his mouth how good he always made you feel and how much you needed him tonight.

Braeden went still under your hands.

For a second his eyes flickered—something warm and conflicted passing through them. He wanted to say yes. The soft, needy way you were looking at him, the way you kept pulling him closer, made the word sit heavy on his tongue. Saying no felt wrong in that moment, like he might hurt your feelings or make you think he didn’t want you. The last thing he ever wanted was for you to feel rejected, especially when you were already this vulnerable and floaty. But the thought only lasted a breath. He caught himself. If he gave in right now, while the vodka was still thick in your system and your coordination was this far gone, it would be worse. You wouldn’t fully remember it the way you deserved to. You might wake up tomorrow unsure, or worse—feeling like he had taken something from you when you weren’t really able to give it. That idea sat heavier than any temporary disappointment.

So he exhaled slowly, steadying himself, and carefully caught both of your wrists in his hands before you could tug him down any further. His grip was gentle but firm, thumbs brushing over your pulse.“Hey,” he said softly, voice low and careful. “Look at me for a second.” he shifted closer on the couch, carefully gathering you into his arms so your head rested against his chest. One hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gently threading through your hair while the other stayed firm and steady around your waist.“No, baby,” he said quietly, voice soft against the top of your head. “Not like this.”

You stood at the kitchen counter of the Meeks house, the late afternoon light slanting through the half-drawn blinds as you measured kernels into the old pot. The smell of butter already lingered from the first batch you had melted, and you kept your movements slow and deliberate so the soft sizzle would fill the quiet instead of the news still echoing in both your heads.

Mindy sat on the edge of the couch behind you, legs pulled up, phone face-down on the cushion beside her. She had not touched it in twenty minutes. Tara’s name still glowed in the notifications she refused to open again. You could feel the tension radiating off her like static shoulders locked, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing.

You shook the pot gently, listening to the first kernels begin to pop. “Hey,” you said, keeping your voice light. “Movie night rules still apply even with a killer . No checking the phone until the credits roll. Doctor’s orders.”

She huffed a soft, almost reluctant sound that might have been the beginning of a laugh. “You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m the person making the popcorn. That gives me temporary authority. And besides you do know I want to be a doctor” You glanced back at her. “Come here. Help me salt these before they get cold.”

Mindy unfolded herself from the couch and crossed the short distance to stand beside you. Her shoulder brushed yours as she reached for the salt shaker. For a second she just stayed there, close enough that you could feel the residual tremor she was trying to hide.

“She’s okay,” you said quietly, not looking at her. “Tara’s okay. Sam’s with her. We’re here. We’re safe. Just… popcorn and a dumb movie for a little while.”

Mindy nodded once, sharp and small, then tipped salt over the growing mound of white. Her fingers brushed yours when she handed the shaker back. You let the contact linger a second longer than necessary.

The last kernels finished popping. You dumped everything into the big blue bowl the two of you always used, added another thin drizzle of butter the way she liked it, and carried it to the couch. Mindy followed, curling into the corner with her knees drawn up. You settled in beside her, close enough that your thighs touched, and set the bowl between you.

She reached for a handful, chewed slowly, then leaned her head against your shoulder without saying anything. You felt the rigid line of her body begin to ease, just a fraction, as the opening logos of the movie started to play on the screen.

The soft crackle of the movie filled the living room when the phone started ringing on the cushion beside Mindy’s hip.

You reached across her without thinking and pressed your palm over the glowing screen.“Nuh-uh, babygirl. I told you no phones until the credits roll.”

Mindy’s eyes flicked to yours, already restless.“What if it’s Wes or Chad or Sam? What if he’s calling with news about Tara? I have to—”

She twisted the phone free before you could stop her and answered on the second ring, voice already tight with worry.“Wes? Did something happen? Is Tara—”

The voice that answered was not Wes. It was low, distorted, and wrong in a way that made the air in the room go still.

Mindy froze mid-sentence. Her free hand found your wrist and locked around it hard enough to bruise.

You leaned in, close enough to hear the mechanical rasp through the speaker.

“Hello, Mindy.”

The number on the screen was unknown.

She had not even looked.

The distorted voice kept talking, slow and almost playful, like it was enjoying every second of the silence that had swallowed the living room.“So… how’s the little romantic homicidal evening going with your girlfriend, Mindy? You two look cozy. Popcorn, movie, soft lighting… very domestic. Tell me, is there going to be sex later? would it bother you if I joined? I promise I’ll be quiet. Well… mostly.”

A low, static-laced chuckle scraped through the speaker.“Or are you still sticking to your precious little rule? The one about people who have sex not surviving? Funny how that works. Although… you two are the wokes of the group, right? The progressive ones. For the lesbians I guess that rule doesn’t apply. How convenient.”

You watched Mindy’s face the entire time. The color drained from her cheeks. Her free hand tightened around your wrist until your bones ached. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

You leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper.“Mindy… what’s happening? Who is that?”

She turned her head just enough for her eyes to meet yours.

Her mouth formed the word without sound, slow and terrified. “Ghostface.”

You kept your eyes locked on Mindy’s pale face and forced the words out as steadily as you could.“Put it on speaker. Let me hear him. Maybe he’ll slip.”

Mindy’s thumb hovered over the screen for half a second, then she tapped the button. The distorted voice flooded the living room, louder now, filling every corner.“Well, well… look at that. Y/N speaking up. Wow. You’re actually smart when you’re not three fingers deep in your own pussy… or Mindy’s. Anyway. Really? Bottoms again? I mean, I get it, the chaos, the rage, the whole ‘fuck the patriarchy while making out in a bathroom stall’ vibe, but come on. You two are predictable.”

Your stomach dropped. You stared at the television, where the opening of Bottoms was still frozen on pause from when the phone first rang.“How the fuck do you know we’re watching Bottoms?”

The laugh that answered was low, wet, and delighted.“First reason? Because I know you. I know what you like. Uncomfortable queer cinema. The kind that makes straight people squirm and makes the two of you feel seen. You put it on every time the world gets too loud. Every single time. Second reason…” A soft, deliberate pause stretched out, long enough for the silence to start screaming.“…because I’m standing in your yard right now.”

You both went completely still. The only sound left was the faint static of the open line and the distant, almost polite crunch of footsteps on dry grass outside.

Then the living-room window exploded inward in a shower of glass and black fabric. Ghostface stepped through the shattered window like he had all the time in the world. Glass crunched under his boots. The black robe settled around him with a soft, almost casual swish. He lifted one gloved hand and gave the two of you a little side-to-side wave, fingers wiggling, as if he had just walked into a party instead of a murder scene.

Then he lunged.

You grabbed Mindy’s wrist and yanked her toward the hallway. The living room was suddenly too small, the couch and the coffee table becoming obstacles instead of furniture. Ghostface’s boots thundered behind you, the knife flashing once in the low light before disappearing again into the folds of the robe. You slammed into the narrow corridor that led to the kitchen. Mindy’s breath was ragged in your ear. You could feel how close he was—close enough that the fabric of his robe brushed the back of your arm when you risked a glance over your shoulder.

He reached for Mindy’s hair. She twisted hard, ripped free of your hand grip for half a second, and snatched the heavy ceramic vase from the side table without slowing down. In one fluid, furious motion she spun and brought it down across the side of Ghostface’s masked head with everything she had.

The vase exploded on impact. White shards and water and the last of the dying flowers sprayed across the hallway. Ghostface staggered sideways into the wall with a low, startled grunt, the knife dipping for a crucial moment.

Mindy didn’t wait to see if he stayed down. She grabbed your hand again and pulled. You didn’t stop running until the top of the stairs.

Mindy shoved you ahead of her into the narrow upstairs hallway, then spun toward the heavy wooden wardrobe that stood against the wall. Together you dragged it with everything you had, the legs screaming against the floorboards as you angled it and tipped it sideways. It crashed down across the top of the staircase with a solid, final thud, blocking the entire width. For a moment the only sounds were your shared breathing and the distant, furious scramble of Ghostface recovering below.

Mindy pressed her back to the wardrobe, chest heaving, eyes already scanning the dark hallway like she was drawing a map in her head.“Okay. Listen to me,” she said, voice low and fast. “He’s not going to stay down long. That vase only bought us minutes. Maybe less. Windows are too high on this floor to jump without breaking something, and the front door is right in his line if we try to go back down. Attic access is in the ceiling of the spare room—too slow, too loud. Fire escape is on the far side of the house, outside Chad's old window. That’s our best shot.”

She grabbed your face with both hands for half a second, forcing you to meet her eyes.“We stay quiet. We move together. If he gets past this wardrobe before we reach that window, we split—you go for the bathroom and lock yourself in, I try to draw him. But we don’t split unless we have to. Understood?”

You nodded once. Your heart was slamming so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs.

Mindy’s hands left your face and found your wrist instead, grounding, firm.“Then we move. Now.”

You were already moving when you saw it.

Ghostface had somehow forced the wardrobe just enough to squeeze through the gap at the top of the stairs. He came up silent, almost careful, the black robe blending with the shadows until the silver of the knife caught the light behind Mindy’s shoulder.

She was still turned toward the far end of the hall, whispering the next part of the plan, completely unaware.

The scream that tore out of you was raw and broken, the kind that scraped your throat bloody on the way out.“MINDY—!”

You threw yourself forward without thinking. Your body collided with hers just as the blade flashed. The impact sent both of you staggering sideways into the wall. You felt the sharp, wet heat of the knife slide across your side instead of hers—deep, immediate, wrong. Pain bloomed white-hot and then went strangely cold.

Mindy’s eyes went wide as she registered what you had done. Her hands flew to you, but you were already shoving her behind you, one arm locked across her body like a shield, the other pressed hard against the spreading warmth soaking through your shirt.

Ghostface tilted his head, studying the two of you for a beat as if the interruption amused him.

You barely had time to draw another breath before the knife came down again.

Ghostface drove the blade into your shoulder, the force of it slamming you back against the wall. The steel punched through muscle and scraped bone with a wet, grinding sound. He didn’t pull it straight out. He twisted—slow, deliberate, the serrated edge tearing a wider path as he turned the handle. White-hot pain exploded through your entire upper body. You screamed, the sound breaking into a choked, animal noise.

Mindy was still behind you, shouting your name, trying to pull you away, but you kept your body locked in front of hers.

The second thrust landed lower, just beneath your ribs on the right side. The knife sank in deep. You felt the tip drag against something soft and vital. Ghostface leaned in, putting his weight behind it, and twisted again. The blade rotated inside you with a sickening, meaty resistance. Blood poured hot and fast down your side, soaking your shirt, your jeans, the floor. Your knees buckled. You slid a few inches down the wall, still trying to stay upright, still trying to keep him away from her.

He yanked the knife free with a wet rip and immediately drove it into your thigh. The third stab was savage. The blade buried itself to the hilt, then he wrenched it sideways, carving a longer, uglier wound. Your leg gave out completely. You collapsed onto the hallway floor, the impact sending a fresh wave of agony through every injury at once.

Ghostface followed you down.

He straddled your hips, pinning you. The fourth stab went into your stomach. He pushed slowly this time, watching your face as the steel sank inch by inch. When it was fully seated he twisted the handle in a full circle, the knife grinding against tissue and muscle. You arched off the floor, a broken, wordless scream tearing out of you. Blood bubbled up between your lips.

The fifth and sixth came in rapid succession—once into your upper chest, once into the soft flesh just above your hip. Each time he twisted. Each time the pain climbed higher, sharper, until it stopped feeling like separate wounds and became one continuous, screaming fire that filled every part of you.Your vision tunneled. The edges of the hallway went gray. You could still hear Mindy’s voice somewhere far away, raw and desperate, but it sounded like it was coming from underwater.

Ghostface paused only long enough to tilt his head, studying the damage. Then he raised the knife one more time.

He drove it down between your collarbones with brutal precision. The blade sank deep, the tip scraping bone before punching through the soft tissue beneath. He twisted it once—hard—then ripped it free in a single, savage motion. A fresh spray of blood painted the wall behind you. Your body jerked once and then went slack against the floorboards, the last of your strength spilling out with the warmth pooling beneath you.

For a moment the only sound was the wet, uneven drag of your breathing. Ghostface straightened. He looked down at you, head tilted, as if deciding whether the work was finished. Then he turned without another word, strode to the shattered upstairs window, and climbed through it in one smooth motion. The black robe disappeared into the night. Glass still clung to the frame where he had passed.

The hallway fell silent except for the faint drip of blood.

Mindy had been frozen against the far wall, eyes wide, hands pressed over her mouth. The shock had locked every muscle in place while the knife rose and fell. The second the window frame stopped rattling she broke free.

She scrambled across the floor on her knees, sliding through the dark smear of blood, and gathered you against her chest with shaking arms.

“No—no, no, no, stay with me—look at me—” Her voice cracked on every word. She pressed both hands hard over the worst of the wounds, trying to stop what would not stop. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Just keep looking at me. Please.”

Your head rested against her shoulder. The hallway lights seemed to dim at the edges. Her tears fell warm onto your face as she rocked you, still whispering the same broken promises over and over. You tried to speak. Your lips parted, but the only sound that came out was a wet, broken gurgle. Blood rose in your throat and spilled over the corner of your mouth, warm and metallic, sliding down your chin. The words you wanted—something simple, something to tell her it was okay—never made it past the damage.

Mindy’s arms tightened around you instantly. She pulled you closer, cradling your head against her chest, one hand still pressed desperately over the wound between your collarbones as if sheer will could hold everything inside.“Don’t—don’t try to talk,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Just breathe. Please just breathe. Stay with me. You have to stay with me.”

Her tears fell freely now, dripping onto your face and mixing with the blood. She rocked you gently, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking against your skin.“You can’t leave me alone. Do you hear me? You can’t. I need you. Please… please resist. Just a little longer. Help is coming. Wes is coming. Someone is coming. Just hold on. Please hold on for me.”

Her voice broke completely on the last words. She kept repeating them, softer and softer, like a prayer she was terrified the universe would ignore. Mindy’s hands were still slick with your blood when she fumbled for her phone. She nearly dropped it twice before she managed to unlock the screen and hit Chad’s contact. The second the call connected she didn’t wait for a greeting.

“Chad—Chad, listen to me—get back here right now. Get the fuck back from the bar. Ghostface attacked us. He was in the house. He—” Her voice cracked into a raw, panicked shout. “He stabbed her. He stabbed Y/N over and over. There’s so much blood. She’s not—she’s not responding right. Tell Wes. Tell him to get Judy on the line and get an ambulance here immediately. Judy’s the sheriff, she can make it priority, she can make them come faster. Please, Chad, please, there’s no time. There’s no fucking time—” She was crying so hard the words kept breaking apart. In the background you could hear Chad’s voice rising in alarm, already shouting for Wes, but Mindy just kept talking over him, desperate and fast.“We’re upstairs. The hallway. I blocked the stairs but he got through. He left through the window but I don’t know if he’s still out there. Just—please hurry. Tell them to hurry. She’s dying, Chad. She’s dying and I can’t stop the bleeding.”

Her free hand never left the wound between your collarbones, pressing harder even as her whole body shook.

Mindy’s voice had gone quiet and steady, the panic stripped down to something raw and desperate.“I’ve got you,” she whispered against your hair, rocking you slowly. “I’ve got you. Just stay with me. Keep breathing. That’s all you have to do. In and out. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Her hands never stopped moving—pressing, adjusting, trying to hold the worst of the wounds closed even as the blood kept seeping between her fingers. She kept murmuring the same soft promises, over and over, like the sound of her voice alone could keep you tethered.“You’re not alone. You’re not. Help is coming. Just a little longer. Please… just a little longer.”

Somewhere outside, far down the street at first and then closer, the rising wail of sirens cut through the night. The sound grew louder, layered, urgent. Red and blue light began to flash faintly against the broken window glass.

Mindy lifted her head at the noise, a broken sound of relief escaping her, then she immediately lowered her face back to yours.“Hear that?” she whispered, tears still falling. “They’re here. You’re going to be okay. Just hold on for me. Please hold on.”

You were at the nurses’ station, stacking the last of the charts and lining up the pens in their little holder the way you always did when a shift finally bled into quiet. The fluorescent lights hummed softer now that most of the day-shift chaos had drained away. Your shoulders ached in that familiar, satisfied way.

Warm arms slid around your waist from behind without warning.

You startled for half a second before the scent hit you coffee, clean scrubs, and that faint trace of his cologne that always made your stomach flip. Andrew. His chest pressed solid and broad against your back, chin settling lightly on the top of your head as he pulled you flush against him.

A soft, happy sound escaped you before you could stop it. You melted, spine curving into the hard line of his body, hands stilling on the counter. His arms tightened just a fraction, possessive and gentle at the same time, thumbs stroking slow circles over the soft fabric of your scrub top right above your hipbones.

“Caught you,” he murmured, voice low and warm against your hair. A quiet giggle vibrated in his chest, the sound pure Andrew—playful, a little breathless, like he’d been waiting all shift to do exactly this. He nosed along the side of your head, then pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, lips soft and smiling.

You felt the curve of that smile against your skin.

He nuzzled the side of your neck once, then spoke low enough that only you could hear, voice warm and a little rough from the long shift.

“Arizona’s out tonight,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Which means the place is empty… and I want you in it. Stay. We’ll grab dinner, put on something stupid, cuddle until we forget what day it is.” A soft, almost shy laugh rumbled through him. “Maybe some dry humping if you’re feeling generous. I just— I missed you the entire fucking shift. Couldn’t stop thinking about having you close.”

You turned in his arms, hands sliding up his chest to fist lightly in the fabric of his scrub top. Rising onto your toes, you kissed him—slow, sweet, lingering just long enough to taste the smile still on his mouth. When you pulled back you stayed close, noses nearly touching.“You already know the answer,” you whispered.

Andrew’s eyes crinkled, that playful, lovesick glint lighting them up. He leaned in again, forehead resting against yours as his hands settled warm and heavy on your hips.“I know,” he said, soft and certain. “But I like being sure. Besides…” His voice dropped even lower, a teasing edge curling through it. “Consent is hot.”

Your cheeks went nuclear. Heat flooded all the way to your ears as you stared up at him, mouth falling open.“ANDREW!!!”

He only grinned wider, completely unrepentant, thumbs still stroking lazy circles over your hips. The playful glint in his eyes made it clear he was enjoying every second of your flustered reaction.“What?” he asked, voice pure innocence laced with mischief. “Is it wrong to try to seduce my girlfriend?”

A startled giggle burst out of you. You shoved lightly at his chest, but there was zero force behind it—you were already melting again.“Nope,” you managed between soft laughs, “what’s actually wrong is that you’re just standing here talking instead of taking me to your bike.”

Andrew’s grin turned sheepish and ridiculously fond at the same time. He ducked his head, pressing another quick kiss to the corner of your mouth before he stepped back just enough to catch your hand.“Sorry amore,” he murmured, Italian accent slipping through the way it always did when he was feeling especially soft. “We’ve only been together three weeks. I still don’t fully know my rights and obligations as a boyfriend.”

The bike rumbled to life beneath you both. You wrapped your arms tight around Andrew’s waist the second he settled in front of you, chest pressed flush to the solid line of his back, cheek resting between his shoulder blades. The leather of his jacket was warm under your palms. Every shift of the bike pressed you closer, thighs bracketing his, the vibration traveling straight up your spine.

City lights blurred past. For a few blocks you just held on, breathing him in, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing under your hands. Then the confession slipped out before you could second-guess it, voice low against the curve of his neck so the wind wouldn’t steal it.

“I’ve been thinking about sex,” you admitted, fingers tightening on his jacket. “A lot. Like… constantly. During rounds. During charting. During every single quiet second of this shift.” You swallowed, cheeks already burning, “I keep imagining what it would feel like when you finally stop being so careful. How you’d sound if I touched you the way I’ve been wanting to. How you’d look above me. How your hands would feel if they stopped being polite and just… took. I’ve thought about you pinning me down. About you being so gentle it makes me ache and so hungry it makes me shake. I’ve thought about the sounds you’d make when you first push inside. About how wet I already get just from the way you look at me sometimes. I’ve been touching myself thinking about you and it still isn’t enough. I want the real thing. I want you.” Your arms stayed locked around him the entire time, body molded to his like you were trying to fuse yourself to his back.

The confession hung between you, raw and breathless, carried only by the wind and the steady thrum of the engine.

Andrew’s entire body went rigid for half a second beneath your arms. The bike swerved the tiniest bit before he corrected it, a rough, punched-out breath leaving him that you felt all the way through his back.“Cazzo, bella mia,” he growled, voice low and strained, the Italian curse rolling out of him like it had been punched from his chest. “You can’t say something like that and expect me not to react.” His hand left the handlebar just long enough to cover one of yours where it rested against his stomach, squeezing tight, almost desperate. When he spoke again his voice was rougher, thicker, every word scraped raw with the same hunger you’d just confessed.“I’ve been dying for you. Every single day of these three weeks. I go home and jack off thinking about the way you look at me in the hospital, the way your voice gets soft when you say my name, the way your body fits against mine when I hug you from behind. I’ve wanted to drag you into an on-call room and ruin you so many times I lost count. I’ve wanted to taste you, hear you, feel you clench around me. I’ve been so fucking careful because I never wanted to push, but make no mistake—” His voice dropped even lower, almost a rasp. “I’ve been starving for you.”

The motorcycle rolled to a stop outside his place. Andrew killed the engine and swung his leg over in one smooth motion, already turning to help you off. The second your boots hit the pavement he was right there, hands warm on your waist, eyes dark and hungry under the porch light.

“Lucky for us,” he murmured, a crooked, breathless grin tugging at his mouth as he glanced at the single-story house, “not much stairs to climb. I don’t think my self-control would’ve survived them.”

He unlocked the door with one hand still holding yours, pushed it open, and the moment the two of you crossed the threshold he spun you around. His mouth crashed onto yours—deep, urgent, tasting like pure relief and three weeks of restraint finally cracking. One of his arms banded tight around your waist while the other slid under your thighs, and in the next heartbeat he lifted you clean off the floor like you weighed nothing.

You locked your legs around his hips on instinct. Andrew kicked the door shut behind you without ever breaking the kiss, carrying you deeper into the dark house as if he couldn’t stand even another second of not having every inch of you against him. You felt it the second he pressed you closer—thick, hard, and unmistakable against the softest part of your stomach as he carried you through the dark living room. Your breath hitched hard against his mouth.

“Fuck,” you whispered when he finally broke the kiss just enough for air, eyes wide, “why didn’t you tell me you’re big?”

Andrew let out a low, almost embarrassed laugh that vibrated straight through your chest. He nuzzled the tip of his nose against yours, voice soft and teasing even while his arms stayed locked around you like he never planned to put you down.“Nudes kill expectation, tesoro,” he murmured, the endearment rolling out warm and fond. “I’d rather you find out the fun way.”

He reached the bedroom in a few long strides and lowered you onto the mattress with deliberate care, as if you were made of glass. One hand stayed cradling the back of your head the entire time so it never hit the pillow too hard. When your back touched the sheets he hovered over you for a second, dark eyes roaming your face like he still couldn’t quite believe you were actually here, in his bed, looking up at him like that.

Andrew braced himself above you on one forearm, the other hand already slipping under the hem of your scrub top. He peeled the fabric upward inch by inch, eyes never leaving yours, like he was unwrapping something sacred.“Dio mio… guarda che bellezza,” he breathed, voice low and reverent. “Sei una dea, tesoro. My own personal goddess.”

The top came off and was tossed somewhere behind him. He dipped his head immediately, mouth finding the soft skin just above the waistband of your pants. A slow, open-mouthed kiss, then another a little higher, then another. Each one lingered, warm and deliberate. He unhooked your bra with the same careful patience, sliding the straps down your arms as if the fabric itself might bruise you. When it fell away he sat back just enough to look, and the soft, almost pained sound that left him made heat flood straight between your legs.“Perfetta,” he whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to the slope of one breast, then the other. “Every single inch of you is perfect.”

His lips kept moving across your collarbones, down the center of your chest, along the soft underside of each breast, over your ribs, the sensitive dip of your waist. He kissed the faint marks left by the elastic of your scrubs, the freckles scattered across your stomach, the places no one else ever bothered to notice. Every new patch of bare skin earned its own soft Italian praise and a lingering press of his mouth, like he was mapping you, claiming you, worshipping you one careful inch at a time. Andrew finally sat back on his heels between your spread thighs, eyes dark and shining as they dragged over every inch of skin he’d just kissed. His hands went to the hem of his own scrub top.

You pushed up onto your elbows immediately, reaching for him.“Let me—”

He caught your wrists gently, bringing both of them to his mouth so he could press a soft kiss to each pulse point before guiding them back down to the mattress.

“No, tesoro,” he murmured, that playful, love drunk smile tugging at the corner of his mouth even as his voice stayed low and rough. “Enjoy the show.”

He peeled the top off in one smooth motion and tossed it aside. The soft light from the hallway caught on the lines of his chest, the lean muscle of his stomach, the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants. Your mouth went dry. You didn’t even try to hide the way your eyes drank him in—slow, greedy, lingering on every new inch of skin he revealed.

Andrew noticed. Of course he noticed. The smile on his face deepened, equal parts shy and filthy, as he stood just long enough to shove his pants and boxers down in one push. When he stepped out of them and climbed back onto the bed completely bare, you felt the full weight of that hungry stare of yours reflected right back at you in the way his cock already looked painfully hard.

You kept looking. Couldn’t stop. Every flex of muscle, every shift of his body as he settled over you again, the heavy length of him brushing against your thigh—you took it all in like you were starving and he was the only thing that could ever fill you up.

Andrew settled back over you, the solid heat of his bare body pressing you into the mattress. One hand braced beside your head while the other slid slowly up your side, thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath your breast. His eyes locked on yours, dark and soft at the same time, that familiar playful glint still flickering underneath all the hunger.“Now…” he murmured, voice low and giggling a little breathless, “where were we?”

You reached up, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him just a fraction closer.“Well you were about to make love to me,” you answered, the words coming out softer than you meant them to.

Andrew’s mouth curved into the sweetest, filthiest little smile. He leaned down until his lips brushed yours with every word.“Oh. Right.”

Then he kissed you—deep, slow, and completely devastating. No more teasing. No more careful restraint. Just pure, open-mouthed hunger as his tongue slid against yours, one hand cradling the side of your face while the other pulled your body flush against his. The kiss felt like three weeks of wanting finally given permission to exist, and he poured every single second of it into the way his mouth moved over yours.

Andrew’s hips shifted, and you felt it—the thick, hot length of him sliding lower until the blunt head nudged right against your entrance, parting your folds just enough to feel how wet you already were. A low, almost pained sound rumbled in his chest.

He broke the kiss just enough to speak against your lips, voice rough and dark with restraint.“You’re not going to need much foreplay, are you, tesoro?” he murmured, the question soft and filthy at the same time. “You’re already this wet for me…”

Before you could answer he rolled his hips, dragging the tip of his cock up through your slick folds until it caught against your clit. He stayed there, circling slow and deliberate, rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves with the broad head of his cock in lazy, teasing strokes. Every pass sent a sharp spark of pleasure through you, and the way he watched your face while he did it—eyes half-lidded, lips parted—made it feel even more intimate.“Look at you,” he whispered, still teasing, still only giving you that light, maddening friction. “So ready for me already.”

Andrew reached over to the nightstand without ever fully leaving the cradle of your thighs, pulling the drawer open with one hand. The soft rustle of a condom wrapper was the only sound for a second before he tore it open with his teeth, never looking away from your face. He rolled it on quickly, carefully, then settled back over you, the blunt head of his cock finding your entrance again.

He laced his fingers through both of yours, pinning your hands gently to the mattress on either side of your head. His forehead dropped to yours as he started to push in—slow, so slow it almost hurt in the best way. You felt every inch of him stretching you open, the thick heat of him filling you little by little while his breath stuttered against your mouth.“Cazzo… you’re so tight, bella,” he whispered, voice shaking with the effort of holding back. “Feel that? Feel how you’re taking me?”

You squeezed his hands and lifted your legs higher around his hips, arms finally breaking free so you could wrap them around his shoulders and pull him down flush against you. Chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. You needed him closer needed the solid weight of him pressing you into the bed while he sank deeper, inch by careful inch, until he was fully seated inside you and both of you were breathing hard against each other’s mouths.

Andrew started to move slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged every thick inch of him against your walls. The stretch was still intense, still almost too much, and soft, helpless sounds kept spilling from your throat with every thrust. You couldn’t stop them. Didn’t even try.

He buried his face in the side of your neck, lips parting against your pulse as he kissed and nuzzled the sensitive skin there.“You’re perfect,” he whispered against your throat, voice rough and full of wonder. “So fucking perfect, tesoro. Taking me so well…”

His grip on your hands tightened just a little as he adjusted the angle and thrust harder deeper, more deliberate but never faster. Each stroke stayed measured, powerful, driving into you with controlled force that made your back arch and fresh moans tumble out of you. He kept kissing your neck between every whispered praise, hips rolling steady and strong, filling you completely on every push like he never wanted to leave.

Your moans had turned into soft, desperate little whines, thighs trembling around Andrew’s hips as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter low in your belly. Every deep, hard thrust pushed you closer, and you could feel yourself starting to shake beneath him.

Andrew felt it too. His rhythm never faltered, but his voice dropped into something rougher, thicker, the Italian spilling out of him more freely the closer he got.“È così, bella… just like that,” he breathed against your ear, one hand still laced with yours while the other slid down to grip your hip, holding you steady for every powerful stroke. “You’re so close, I can feel it. You can do it, tesoro. Let go for me. Vieni… come on my cock, amore mio. I want to feel you.”

His forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling harder, deeper, still not faster—just relentless. Every word was punched out between heavy breaths, mixed with soft Italian curses and praises as his own control started to fray.“Cazzo, you’re perfect… così stretta… let go, baby. I’ve got you. Just let go.”

Your eyes locked on Andrew’s and stayed there neither of you looking away even as the pleasure crested. The next deep thrust pushed you over the edge, and you came with a broken, breathless cry, walls clenching hard around him. The intensity of it stole the air from your lungs; every pulse of your orgasm felt sharper, deeper because he was still moving, still filling you, still staring into your eyes like he could see straight through to the most vulnerable part of you.

Andrew followed you almost instantly. His hips stuttered, a low, guttural groan tearing from his chest as he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, forehead pressed to yours, eyes never leaving yours. The raw, unguarded look on his face—awe, hunger, and something almost painfully soft all tangled together—made the moment feel even more overwhelming.