MDNI 18+ Only

For a second, everything inside you stills. The air feels too thick to breathe. His question hangs between you, soft but devastating in its simplicity.

You’ve known since the moment he pulled back, since the moment his eyes softened in that way that means he’s been thinking. Overthinking. You can almost hear the shape of the question before he says it. The one thing you’ve been hoping he wouldn’t notice, the one secret you’ve been holding like a fragile thread between your teeth.

Your mind runs through every version of a lie you could tell—how easily you could reach for one, how practiced it would sound. You could smile, nod, say yes. You could take his hand, kiss him, promise that everything is fine. He’d want to believe you. He always does.

But you can’t.

Because he’s looking at you the way he always does when he’s already figured it out. That careful, searching gaze that doesn’t accuse but waits. That sees more than you ever mean to give away.

Your stomach twists. Heat crawls up your chest, into your throat. You want to look anywhere else, to break the moment before it breaks you, but you can’t.

You meet his eyes.

And just like that, the fight drains out of you. The pretense, the practiced deflection, the quiet little performance you’ve been keeping up. All of it.

Because this is Spencer. And there’s no lying to him anymore.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

The words stick. Heavy. You can feel them gathering at the back of your throat, sharp and fragile all at once. You look at him, then down at your joined hands, his thumb still tracing the same quiet path across your skin.

You try to swallow the tremor in your voice. “Spence, I…”

He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t fill the silence. He just waits — eyes soft, patient in the way that always makes it harder to hide.

Your chest feels tight. Every breath catches on itself. You want to tell him, but the memory presses down before you can form the words. The look on your former partner’s face. The way their tone had changed when patience ran out. The slow unravelling from curiosity to frustration. The sound of your name turned into an accusation.

Your throat burns. You look away. “No.”

It’s barely more than a breath.

He tilts his head slightly, not confused, not disbelieving — just listening.

You draw in a shaky breath. “No, you haven’t.”

The admission lands between you like something alive. Your stomach twists around it, braced for whatever comes next. For the shift in his posture, the flicker of disappointment, the silence that usually follows.

But none of that happens.

He just nods. Not quick. Not slow. His fingers tighten around yours, grounding you.

You force yourself to keep going, even though your voice trembles. “It’s not you. It’s never been you. I’ve just… I’ve never been able to with anyone.”

That earns a small sound from him — not surprise, not pity, just quiet acknowledgement.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” you say, words tumbling out faster now that they’ve started. “I was scared. I didn’t want to ruin what we had or make you think you weren’t enough. Because you are, you really are. You’re… everything I need. But I thought if I told you, it would change things.”

His brow furrows, soft and uncertain. “Change things how?”

You blink hard, eyes wet. “I told someone before,” you whisper. “A long time ago. I thought being honest would make it easier, but it didn’t. They thought it was… a challenge.” You can barely get the word out. “They treated me like a problem to solve. And when they couldn’t—”

Your voice cracks.

He squeezes your hand gently, urging you on without saying a word.

“They gave up,” you say. “And they made me feel like it was my fault. Like I was broken. I can still hear them saying it, even when they didn’t say the word. I just— I couldn’t go through that again. Not with you.”

You press your palm to your eyes, shaking your head, trying to catch your breath. “So I pretended. Because it was easier than losing you.”

When you look at him again, his expression hasn’t hardened. If anything, it’s softened — something warm flickering beneath the sadness in his eyes.

He leans in, brushing his nose against your temple before speaking. “You’re not broken.” His voice is low, careful, threaded through with something that sounds like disbelief that anyone could have ever made you think otherwise. “You didn’t ruin anything. You just… carried it alone for too long.”

You nod against his shoulder, tears slipping silently down your cheek.

“I just wanted to make you happy,” you whisper.

“You do,” he says. His thumb moves slowly across your knuckles again. “You always do.”

There’s a quiet moment then — the kind that stretches and holds.

When he finally speaks again, it’s a whisper. “Thank you for telling me.”

And somehow, that’s what makes your breath hitch all over again — because he means it. Because he isn’t angry, or disappointed, or hurt. Because he’s still here, hand in yours, steady and sure, like you haven’t just handed him something that terrified you to say.

You lean into him, and he lets you, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head.

“Spence?” you whisper, voice barely there.

“Yeah?”

“You’re really not mad?”

He shakes his head, lips brushing your hair. “No, angel,” he says quietly. “Not even a little.”

You close your eyes, a tear slipping across your cheek. He catches it with his thumb before it reaches your jaw.

You press your face into his shoulder, blinking quickly, trying to breathe around the heat still crawling up your throat. You’ve already said it. The truth is out. But the quiet is too heavy, and the longer he doesn’t speak, the harder it is to stop the voice in your head from filling in the blanks.

You pull back just enough to look at him. “I need you to know something.”

His brows lift gently, gaze still fixed on yours.

“It’s not that I don’t enjoy it,” you say. The words trip over themselves, desperate to come out right. “I do. Being with you, like that… it feels good. It always feels good. You’re… I mean, you’re incredible. I’m not pretending to like it or faking the whole thing. I just…”

Your voice trails. You swallow hard, force yourself to keep going.

“I just never… get there.”

His expression doesn’t shift in the way you brace for. No flicker of ego, no disbelief. Just that same quiet focus, like he’s taking in every word and holding them carefully. Like none of this changes the way he sees you.

His thumb brushes the side of your hand again, slower this time. “Thank you for telling me.”

You nod, eyes burning again.

“I meant what I said,” he adds, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not broken. This isn’t something that makes you less of anything. Not to me.”

Your throat tightens. You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Even if you never do,” he says, “even if that’s just… part of how your body works, I still want you. I still love being with you. You’re not a problem to solve.”

The pressure behind your eyes breaks at that. You breathe in shaky and deep, curling a little closer to him.

You don’t say anything else yet. You just let yourself hold onto that moment. That warmth. That reassurance.

His fingers stay threaded with yours, grip tightening just slightly, like something in him is finally giving way.

You glance back at him and see it there — the shimmer in his eyes, the way he blinks a little too slowly. Not trying to hide it, but not letting it spill over yet either. His jaw shifts, tense at the edges, his breath catching on something unspoken.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, even though you don’t know what exactly you’re apologizing for. The lie, the hiding, the fear. All of it.

But he shakes his head. Not harshly. Just enough to stop you.

He swallows hard. His thumb presses gently to your knuckles, like he needs the anchor. “It hurts thinking you’ve been pretending — that you felt like you had to.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” you say quickly. “Not really. It always felt good. You’ve never made me feel like I had to perform, not once.”

“But it still happened.” His eyes flick to yours, and you see it clearly now. Not anger. Not disappointment. Just something deeper. Something like grief. “You thought sparing my feelings mattered more than your own comfort. Your own pleasure. I never wanted that.”

You look away, throat tight, the edge of your vision burning. “It’s not that simple.”

He nods. “I know it’s not. I just… I can’t stop thinking about how that must’ve felt. How long you’ve been carrying it.”

There’s a pause, thick with unspoken things. He shifts closer. Not to close the space entirely, but to meet you in it.

You sit with the silence for a moment, both of you wrapped in it like something fragile. The kind that doesn’t ask to be filled. His thumb keeps brushing your knuckles, slow and steady, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

Your voice is small when it comes. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you.”

“I know.” His response is quiet, immediate. “I know you didn’t.”

You take a breath, then another. It doesn’t help. Your chest still feels tight.

“I just didn’t want it to become a thing. I didn’t want it to change how you touched me. How you looked at me. I didn’t want it to feel like pressure.”

He nods, almost imperceptibly, and waits.

“It already took so much to unlearn all of that,” you say. “The guilt. The feeling like something was wrong with me. I didn’t want it to follow me here too. Not with you.”

You feel his grip shift slightly, just enough for him to bring your joined hands up between you. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, lips warm and firm and trembling faintly where they touch your skin.

“I’m so sorry that you ever had to feel that way,” he murmurs. “I hate that someone made you carry that alone.”

You shake your head, eyes wet again. “It’s not just them. I let it happen too. I just… stopped expecting more. Started believing that it wasn’t something I could have. That maybe it didn’t matter as much as everything else.”

Spencer exhales slowly, like something inside him is cracking open in the quiet.

“But it does matter,” he says. “It matters because it’s you. Because I want every part of this to feel good for you. Not just good enough.”

Your breath hitches, sharp at the edges. “I know you do. That’s why it scared me so much.”

His brows pull together. “Why?”

“Because I knew you’d try,” you whisper. “You’d give everything. And I didn’t want you to feel like you failed. I didn’t want this to turn into something that made us both feel broken.”

It hangs there for a moment, suspended in the hush of the bedroom.

Then he leans in and presses his forehead gently to yours.

“I’m not upset with you,” he says. “I’m not disappointed. I’m just glad you told me.”

You close your eyes, the weight of it all finally settling.

“I love you,” he adds, softer now. “So much.”

You nod, breathing out against his cheek. “I love you too.”

A small sound escapes you. Not quite a sob, but something just as fragile.

Spencer pulls you in gently, shifts the both of you without letting go. He guides you down onto the pillows again, this time lying on his side with you curled into his chest. His arms wrap around you slow, careful, but tight enough that you feel held. Grounded.

The sheet slides up with him, dragged by one hand until it covers you both. He doesn’t tuck it in. Doesn’t adjust or smooth or make a fuss. Just lets it rest, lets it shield the closeness without suffocating it.

His cheek presses to your temple. You feel the way his lashes flutter as he closes his eyes, the way his breath evens slowly, one hand still tracing soft, absent-minded circles against your spine.

You don’t speak again.

There’s nothing left that needs to be said tonight. Just the warmth of him against you. The quiet, steady thrum of his heart. The soft brush of his thumb at your shoulder like he’s making sure, even now, that you’re still with him.

Eventually, the tension slips from your body, little by little. The tears dry where they’ve settled, and the air between you stays still and kind.

Sleep finds you in the silence, wrapped in arms that never let you go.

Lately, everything feels softer between you.

The quiet moments stretch longer. The touches linger more. There’s an ease that wasn’t always there. Not because things were ever difficult, but because something has shifted. Deepened. He doesn’t rush to fill silences the way he used to. Doesn’t over-explain every instinct. He just stays close. Brings you coffee without asking. Hums when you touch his hair.

You trust him more now. He trusts you differently too.

It’s been about a week since that night. Since the conversation. Since the thread you’d both been afraid to tug finally came loose between your hands.

You didn’t expect anything to change overnight. You didn’t want it to. You just needed him to know.

But Spencer is built to learn. And once he knows something matters, he needs to understand it. Not to fix it. Not to prove anything. Just so he can carry it better. So he can meet it with the care it deserves.

He never brought it up again. Never asked for more than you were willing to give.

But when he kisses you now, there’s a different kind of focus behind it. When his hands find your skin, they linger like they’re memorizing. Like your pleasure, your comfort, your closeness, all of it, is something sacred.

You haven’t had sex since that night. Not because you’re avoiding it. Just… letting everything breathe.

And in the meantime, you notice little things. He’s been staying up later. Once or twice, you’ve caught sight of him thumbing through a stack of books that weren’t there the day before, margins full of tabs. He’s always reading, always researching, but lately there’s been more of it. A quiet intensity, like something’s taken root in his mind and he’s trying to water it without drawing attention.

You don’t ask. He doesn’t offer. It’s not unusual enough to focus on, but you notice it anyway. The way his gaze lingers a little longer. The weight of something unspoken in his silence. Not secretive, just private. Protective.

It’s been a week, and nothing has rushed forward or fallen away. You’re still learning each other. Still leaning in.

So when he disappears for a minute after dinner, you don’t think much of it. You’re clearing plates, wiping crumbs from the counter, half-lost in the rhythm of domestic quiet. But when you go looking for him, you find the door to his study slightly ajar. And inside, half turned in his chair, backlit by the warm lamp on his desk, is Spencer — hunched over a journal so dense with diagrams it could be a med school text.

He doesn’t hear you at first.

And when he does, the way he startles is almost comical.

You nudge open the study door with your hip. “Hey, did you—”

He jolts like you fired a starter pistol.

The book snaps shut in his lap with a sound much too loud for the size of it. His glasses, already halfway down his nose, get shoved up a little too fast, and his hand covers the cover of the book like it’s radioactive.

You pause in the doorway.

Spencer looks like he’s trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t just caught red-handed with something embarrassing, which, of course, makes it ten times more obvious that he absolutely was.

“…What are you reading?” you ask, amused.

“Botany,” he says too quickly.

Your eyebrows go up.

“Advanced botany,” he clarifies, somehow making it worse.

You walk over, gently tug his wrist off the book.

The title is painfully not-botanical.

The Journal of Sexual Medicine: Clinical Perspectives on the Female Orgasm. The page he’s on has a detailed anatomical diagram that would make a medical illustrator proud. It’s open to a section titled Neurovascular Pathways and the Role of Direct vs. Indirect Stimulation.

You blink at the diagram. “Wow."

Spencer exhales sharply through his nose, shoulders collapsing a little. “Okay, I know how this looks, but I swear I was reading it for the articles.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Uh‑huh.”

“The peer‑reviewed articles,” he insists, lifting the book an inch like he’s proving a point. “It’s a medical journal, not— not anything inappropriate. It’s just—” He glances down at the open spread and instantly regrets it. “Oh, God, that’s… that’s definitely a diagram of—okay, yes, that’s—” He shuts it halfway, flapping one hand in defeat. “In my defence, the paper on the neurological pathways was really informative, and then suddenly there were illustrations, and I wasn’t expecting the level of anatomical accuracy, and now I feel like—like some sort of academic deviant.”

You bite back a laugh. “Academic deviant?”

He groans, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I mean, who even says that? I just— I didn’t want you to think I was— I wasn’t— this isn’t—” He stops, visibly searching for oxygen. “It’s not porn! It’s research! I just happened to get… caught… on the page with the detailed cross‑section.”

You’re smiling now, can’t help it.

He drags his palms down his face, muffled words escaping between his fingers. “I swear, I’ve never felt more like a pervert in my entire life. It’s a legitimate journal. There are citations. Footnotes. I’m citing footnotes in my head while panicking.”

“I was going to hide it before you came over,” he adds. “I didn’t expect you to come in here.”

“I’m researching,” he mutters, clearly mortified. “For you.” Then, more quietly, he says, “I wanted to be ready. For you.”

That lands softer. Deeper.

You tilt your head, watching the way his hands curl slightly over the closed book.

Your expression softens.

He exhales, long and slow, closing the book fully now and setting it aside on the desk, like he knows the game is up.

“I wasn’t trying to hide it. Not really. I just didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. Or think I was trying to make this clinical or turn it into a… a challenge.”

He meets your eyes. That look of quiet intensity you know so well. Not performance. Not pride. Just Spencer, full of care, doing what he always does when something matters to him — studying it until he can hold it gently.

“I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on,” he says. “Clinical studies, essays, anatomy journals, therapy books. I’m trying to build a better map before I get to the terrain. Because you deserve that kind of care.”

He meets your eyes, earnest, a little nervous. “I want to explore you. Not just sexually, but anatomically. Emotionally. I want to understand what makes your body feel good — what gives you pleasure — and I know I can’t just guess. Or rely on what’s worked before, on what other people say works. So I’ve been studying. Carefully. Quietly. So I can be better for you.”

Your heart twists.

He gestures to the book with a helpless flick of his hand. “I know it’s not exactly romantic, but… it felt important.”

You cross to him, slow and steady, and lean down until your hands are on the arms of his chair.

“You’re studying how to make me feel good?”

He nods, barely.

You feel heat rise in your own chest, warmth curling into something heavier, deeper.

“Spencer,” you murmur, lips twitching. “That might be the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” His eyes go wide for a second, like you’ve short-circuited something in him.

You kiss him, slow and warm and full of gratitude. Not for the studying itself, but for everything it means.

You lean into him, forehead pressing lightly to his shoulder. His arm curls around you without hesitation. The book entirely forgotten now.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” he says into your hair. “We don’t have to do anything until it feels right. I just… needed you to know I’d wait. As long as it takes.”

You don’t say anything else for a moment. Just let yourself rest in the space he’s made for you.

His hand stays at your back. Warm. Steady.

You feel it then—really feel it—that this time will be different.

And when you finally speak, it’s with a quiet certainty that wasn’t there before.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”

Spencer’s breath catches faintly. Not in surprise, exactly, but in something closer to relief. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching like he’s double-checking that you meant it. That it wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment thing, or something you said just to make him feel better.

You nod, reassuring, and trace your fingers along the seam of his shirt where it folds at his shoulder.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and his thumb strokes once, feather light, like he’s not sure whether to smile or cry.

He clears his throat. “Then… maybe tomorrow night?”

You blink. “Tomorrow?”

“I just—” He lets out a sheepish little huff. “I want to be prepared. I have a plan. Kind of. I mean, it’s not like a step-by-step—well, it is a little bit step-by-step—but not in a weird way. I just want everything to be… right. I want to set things up. Take my time. Make sure we’re not interrupted. Create space for you to just… feel.”

You can’t help the warmth that blooms in your chest. “You’re planning it?”

He flushes. Immediately. Visibly.

His hand slips from your cheek to the back of his neck, and he rubs at the skin there like he’s trying to soothe something frayed. “I know that sounds ridiculous. I just— I wanted it to be good. Not just good, I mean, obviously I want it to be good, but… I mean meaningful. Safe. Unhurried. I thought if I gave myself a little time, I could—”

He cuts himself off. Breathes in like he’s trying to reset.

You don’t say anything. You just wait.

“I want to earn it,” he says finally. Quiet. “Your trust, I mean. Not the sex. Not the orgasm. I don’t think of it like that. I’m not trying to… crack some code or cross a finish line. I just want to know I did everything I could to make you feel wanted. Cherished. Cared for.”

You’re quiet for a beat too long, and he misreads it instantly. Starts to backpedal.

“Unless that’s weird. Or too much. It might be too much, I know I can come on too strong sometimes when I care about something, and obviously this is one of those things where pressure is the opposite of what I should be—” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “God.”

Your lips part to speak, but before you can, he keeps going, voice faster now. Spiralling.

“I’ve been trying to get it right. Not just for you, for us. I’ve been… practising. Reading. Not just anatomy and psych, but technique. Stimulation types. Sensory mapping. Orgasm response patterns—”

You blink.

His mouth opens like he’s going to keep talking, but you’re already climbing into his lap.

Not slow. Not teasing. Just urgent. All instinct and want.

His breath catches the moment your weight settles over him, thighs bracketing his hips. You can feel him, half-hard and only getting worse, and you swear his hands don’t know where to land. They hover first at your hips, then your thighs, then come to rest — barely — at your waist, fingers splayed like he’s afraid to grab too tight.

You lean in, nose brushing his. “You’re studying how to touch me?”

He nods, a little dazed. “Trying to,” he mumbles. “Not… not just touch. I mean, yes, that, but—how to… do it well. Properly. The right way. I’ve been memorizing diagrams and timing patterns and—I practised edging, for stamina. And I read this piece about dirty talk, and I’m—trying to be better at that, too. If you’re into that. I mean, I don’t know if you are, but if you—”

You kiss him before he can finish.

His mouth opens under yours, eager and uncoordinated, and you feel the way he shifts beneath you like his restraint is hanging by a thread. You roll your hips once — slow, deep — and that thread nearly snaps.

He groans into your mouth. Hands tightening on your waist.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word barely formed. “This is—this is not helping.”

You kiss along his jaw, down to his neck, where his pulse is thudding fast. “You said dirty talk?”

His head tips back with a helpless noise. “I was studying it, not ready to field test it mid-makeout.”

You grind down again, slower this time. Measured. Just enough friction to feel him twitch against you.

“Spencer,” you murmur, lips brushing his ear, “you’re hard.”

He swears again. Soft and strangled.

His hands move, gripping tighter now, like he’s finally anchoring himself. “I’m trying not to be,” he says, a little desperate.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” you whisper. “I want you. You. Just like this.”

His breath hitches. “Tomorrow,” he says, with the kind of forced resolve that sounds like it’s costing him everything. “Please. Let me wait. Just one more night. I want to get it right.”

You pull back to look at him.

His eyes are glassy. His chest rising fast. His glasses are slightly askew, and his hair’s been mussed from where your fingers buried into it.

He looks like every inch of him wants to say yes. Like it’s taking every ounce of his willpower to say anything else.

You nod, slow. “Okay.”

But you don’t climb off him. Not yet.

You let him kiss you again — deep, unhurried, filled with every promise he’s made. His hands stay on your waist, fingers twitching against bare skin, and he breathes your name like it’s something sacred.

You stay like that for a while. Straddling him, arms around his neck, your forehead tucked into the curve of his shoulder. His hands never stray. They just rest against your back, warm and steady, like he’s trying to soak in the closeness without tipping it too far.

Eventually, you climb off him, slow and reluctant, and he helps you settle beside him on the couch. Neither of you turns on the TV. Neither of you reaches for a book. You just sit there in the quiet hum of the room, your legs tangled loosely under the throw blanket, your fingers brushing every now and then.

There’s something humming beneath the stillness. Not tension exactly. Just the weight of what’s coming. The promise of it. You feel it in the way he touches you, gentler than ever, like reverence is something physical. You see it in his profile when he thinks you’re not looking, the way his lips part just slightly like he’s holding something back. Like he’s already playing it out in his head, step by step, but refusing to let himself rush.

He walks you to the door when it’s time to go, fingers laced with yours like it’s the only way he can let you leave.

And when you kiss him goodbye, you don’t say anything about tomorrow.

You don’t need to.

It’s already there, pulsing between you.

Waiting.

You spend most of the next day in a daze.

Nothing distracts you for long. Not your morning routine, not the errands you try to check off, not even the steady comfort of your own apartment. It’s not nerves. Just a low, steady anticipation, winding its way through you with every hour that passes.

When you finally knock on his door just after seven, your stomach does a slow, warm turn at the sound of him moving inside. You know he’s been preparing — not just his space, but himself. You’ve spent the last twenty-four hours thinking about his voice in your ear, the way he flushed when you called him hot, the way he trembled under you but didn’t move an inch.

And when he opens the door, every thought you’ve had floods right back in.

He’s barefoot. Dark grey sweatpants, a soft long-sleeved shirt that fits just snug enough across his chest. His curls are still a little damp from a recent shower, and his glasses catch the warm light spilling from behind him. His eyes rake over you quickly, then settle — quiet, wide, steady.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

He lets you in with a small smile, but doesn’t move to touch you right away. There’s a subtle tension in him, like he’s holding something back. Something delicate. When you glance toward the hallway, he gently shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “There’s something I want to do first. Before we go in.”

You follow him to the couch, confused for only a second — until he gestures for you to sit.

You do.

He sits beside you, not quite touching.

Then, slowly, he reaches behind him and pulls out a small notebook. It’s not his usual case file pad. This one’s older. Worn soft at the edges. He sets it in his lap, but doesn’t open it.

His eyes flick up to meet yours, uncertain but full of care.

“I want tonight to feel… good,” he says. “For you. Completely. That’s the whole point. Not the orgasm. Not the outcome. You.”

You nod slowly, letting the weight of his voice settle between you.

“I’ve been reading about communication strategies — specifically about how couples can establish comfort before exploring more intense or unfamiliar touch.” His voice is quieter now, more clinical by accident, and he seems to catch himself. He frowns. “That sounded a lot less awkward in my head.”

You smile. “You’re doing fine.”

“I just thought we could talk through a few things,” he says. “Likes, dislikes. Boundaries. Not just for tonight, but… in general. So I’m not guessing, or pushing, or assuming.”

Your heart twists.

He clears his throat and reaches again for the notebook. “I wrote a few questions down. Just things to help us talk through it. I thought… if we each answered a few honestly, we might feel more grounded.”

And he does — he reads them gently, slowly, with pauses that make room for laughter when the phrasing is awkward, for silence when something feels vulnerable.

The first one makes you smile: “What words or nicknames feel sexy when you hear them?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You mean like… princess?”

His ears pink immediately. “Only if you like that,” he says quickly. “I mean, I’m not suggesting it. Not necessarily. Just… gathering data.”

You tilt your head. “Spencer. Are you trying to compile a dirty talk vocabulary?”

He fumbles the notebook, eyes wide behind his glasses. “I— no— I mean… yes. A little. Contextually. With permission.”

You grin. He clears his throat, flustered, and moves on.

“Are there kinds of touch you’ve never explored but might want to?”

That one you answer slowly. Thoughtfully. He doesn’t fill the silence. Just nods when you’re done, fingers tapping the corner of the notebook like he’s locking the answer in.

Some of his questions come easier than others. He asks if you like surprises or prefer to know what’s coming. You think about it for a moment before telling him it depends — that sometimes the anticipation is half the pleasure, but sometimes it’s the knowing that makes you feel safe enough to let go. He nods, as if that makes perfect sense to him.

Then he asks if you like being praised. Told you’re doing well. You don’t even have to answer out loud. The way you look at him gives it away, and the smallest smile tugs at his mouth, shy and pink at the edges.

The next ones are softer, more grounding. He asks what would help you feel safest tonight if something starts to feel too heavy. If there are any words you’d rather he avoid. If there’s anything he should never do — gestures, positions, kinds of touch that bring up old ghosts.

You answer each carefully. He doesn’t look away once. He almost forgets to write anything down. Too busy listening, nodding a little here and there, absorbing every word like the information isn’t just important — it’s sacred.

“Would it be okay,” he says softly, “if we used a stoplight system tonight? Just to make it easy. You can say ‘red’ at any point and I’ll stop immediately. ‘Yellow’ if something doesn’t feel right, and I’ll check in."

Your chest warms. You nod.

His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “We can change anything. At any time. You don’t owe me consistency. Just honesty. That’s all I want.”

You nod again, slower this time. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he whispers. “That’s all I wanted to cover before we started.”

He leans back slightly. “Unless there’s anything else you want to ask me. Or tell me.”

There’s a pause. Not hesitation — just the kind that comes when two people know something is about to shift.

You reach for him, your palm sliding against his chest. And you nod.

“I’m ready.”

He leads you to the bedroom by the hand.

You don’t say much on the way there. Neither does he. But the quiet between you feels full. Intentional. Like every breath is building toward something. He opens the door without fanfare, and for a second, you just take it in.

The room is bathed in warm amber light, the soft flicker of candles catching on the walls and ceiling. They smell faintly like sandalwood and something sweeter — maybe vanilla. Something warm. There’s a towel already placed at the bed, and on the dresser sits a neat row of what he’s chosen: a bottle of massage oil, a black silk blindfold, two soft restraints still coiled, and something you can’t quite make out from here.

The bedspread is smooth, freshly changed. The curtains drawn. The air is quiet, still, warm.

And all of it is for you.

Spencer stands beside the bed for a second, thumb brushing your hand, eyes scanning your face as if checking one last time that you’re here with him.

When he turns back to you, his expression is gentle, steady, but his hands are a little pink at the knuckles like he’s been clenching them to stay calm. “I want to start with a massage,” he says, voice quiet but sure. “Just to help you relax. To feel good in your body. No expectations. Just touch.”

Your chest flutters, heat coiling low in your belly.

You nod.

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since you walked in.

“I’ll walk you through everything,” he murmurs. “But you can stop me at any point. Or change your mind about anything. We can pause. Or just… lie down and hold each other. Whatever you want.”

You nod again, slower this time. “Okay.”

Spencer gives you a moment, then lifts your hand to his lips, presses a kiss there like it’s a vow.

“Do you want help getting undressed?” he asks.

You hesitate — not from uncertainty, but from the sudden awareness of how deeply you want him to touch you.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He helps you out of your clothes without rushing. One piece at a time. Gentle hands and soft glances. When your top comes off, he doesn’t ogle, doesn’t gawk. Just lets his fingers glide up your arms, eyes meeting yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world to see you like this. When he unhooks your bra, he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. When your underwear slips down your thighs, his hands don’t linger, but his gaze flicks down and then back up again like he’s memorizing the outline of you.

You lie down on your stomach, slowly, and he helps you adjust the towel beneath you so it’s comfortable.

There’s a beat of quiet, then the soft sound of the massage oil bottle opening.

The first drop of oil hits your back like a kiss. Warm. Smooth. The first touch is a sweep across your shoulders. His hands are smooth, slick with oil, gliding over your skin like he’s afraid to miss a single inch. He doesn’t rush. Just moves in long, even strokes from your neck to the curve of your spine, palms wide and steady. He lingers at your shoulder blades, working in slow circles, then drags down again, each pass heavier than the last.

You exhale, low and long. It already feels good. Better than you expected.

“I read,” he murmurs, voice low, “that starting with the back helps the body release more deeply. Makes it easier to let go.”

You hum into the pillow, your hips tilting slightly as he drags his thumbs along the small of your back.

His hands slide lower. Across the dip of your waist. The swell of your hips. Then—gently, carefully—over your ass. He kneads there with more pressure, thumbs digging in just slightly, and you feel your breath catch.

“I’ve been picturing this,” he says softly, more to himself than to you. “How your skin would feel under my hands. How warm you’d get. How soft.”

Your thighs press together instinctively.

He leans forward just enough to kiss the base of your spine. His lips stay there for a second longer than they should.

You feel heat pool low in your belly. He hasn’t even touched you anywhere close to your front, and you’re already aching.

He keeps his touch steady, methodical. Each motion heavier than the one before, spreading the oil over your back until your skin glows under the candlelight. His palms drag slowly down your spine, thumbs pressing along either side until they reach the base. Then he moves outward again, kneading the muscles at your lower back with more intent, working through the tension until you melt beneath him.

His hands drift lower. He smooths the oil over the curve of your hips and down to your ass, spreading his fingers as if he can’t get enough of how you feel under his palms. The kneading turns firmer, slower. His thumbs press deep into the flesh, then sweep outward to cup you fully. You let out a small sound you don’t mean to make, muffled by the pillow.

He shifts, straddling your thighs, giving himself a better angle. His hands roam over both cheeks, gliding and squeezing, the heat of his touch blending with the slick warmth of the oil. He drags his palms up to the small of your back, down again in smooth, deliberate motions. You can feel the weight of his gaze on the way your body responds—how your hips roll slightly with each pass, how your breath catches every time his thumbs dip toward the crease where thigh meets curve.

He leans forward, lips brushing the spot where your spine ends. “You have no idea how perfect you feel,” he murmurs, voice quiet but unsteady. His breath warms your skin as he speaks. “Every time I touch you, I have to remind myself to slow down.”

He presses another kiss there, slower this time, the faintest scrape of his teeth following. His palms slide lower again, kneading the round of your ass, fingertips tracing along the edge of your thigh before he smooths back up.

You sigh into the pillow, eyes half‑closed, body soft and pliant under him. He keeps going, alternating between firm strokes and light sweeps, working oil into your skin until it shines. Each motion feels like worship—measured, patient, but threaded with something deeper, something hungry he’s trying to keep contained.

“Still okay?” he whispers.

You hum a quiet yes.

He stays there for a moment longer, thumbs pressing gently into the base of your spine, then palms gliding once more over the curve of you before he finally stills. The warmth of his breath ghosts over your skin.

“Can I help you turn over now?” he asks, voice husky from restraint.

You nod without opening your eyes.

You shift slowly, easing onto your back, and Spencer helps guide you. His hands are careful, steady at your waist as you roll over, the towel shifting with you. You settle in again, blinking up at him through the low flicker of candlelight.

His eyes linger on your face for a moment, scanning for any hesitation. When he finds none, he leans to the dresser and reaches for the oil again. Warms it between his palms.

“This part might take longer,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Let me know if anything starts to feel too much. Or not enough.”

You nod, your body already humming from the first half of his touch. He starts at your collarbones, thumbs brushing over the delicate lines there, working in slow circles. His palms spread wider as he glides downward, across your shoulders, the pads of his fingers tracing the curve between tendon and bone. It’s thorough. Patient. Not indulgent yet — not quite — but close.

He works over your arms next, one at a time, massaging down your biceps, your elbows, your wrists. Lifts your hand to press his thumbs into your palm, the heel of it, each finger in turn. The attention is disarming. Disarming and grounding all at once.

His eyes flick to yours again before moving to your ribs. He uses more oil this time, smoothing it down the sides of your torso in long, reverent strokes. His thumbs press into the muscles just under your ribs, coaxing tension loose bit by bit. When he reaches your stomach, he slows even more.

The pads of his fingers skim over the softness there. He doesn’t squeeze or grope, just kneads lightly, coaxing warmth into your skin. You feel your abdomen flutter under his touch.

His voice stays quiet, almost a whisper. “Still okay?”

You nod. “Feels amazing.”

A small smile lifts the corners of his mouth. He leans forward and presses a kiss just below your navel — not sexual, not yet, just tender. Anchoring.

When he glides lower, over the slope of your hips, his touch drags a little. Heavier now. More purposeful. His hands find the sides of your thighs, smoothing outward, then back in again. The contact is firmer now, kneading over the muscle, slowing at the dip where your thighs meet your pelvis. But still, he holds back. Keeps the touch focused. Intentional. You can feel him working to stay measured, to let it unfold exactly how he planned. Even though his breath sounds tighter now. Even though his hands linger longer each time they pass your skin.

Your body’s already burning, but you don’t speak. You let him lead. Let him take his time.

His hands move back up, gliding once more over your stomach. Slower this time. More deliberate.

You feel him pause just under the swell of your breasts. Not hesitant, not unsure — just waiting. Giving you a breath, a moment, a chance to speak. When you don’t, when you stay still and open beneath him, he lets out the smallest sigh. Almost like relief. Almost like awe.

Then his palms slide upward.

The first touch is light. A slow pass over the outer curve of your breasts, fingers spreading to cradle them fully. He’s still gentle, still exploring, but there’s weight behind it now. Pressure. Intent.

You gasp, soft and surprised, as his thumbs brush over your nipples, slow and gliding. They tighten almost instantly under his touch, and he reacts without thinking — circling again, more firmly now. His breath stutters, and you hear it, low in his chest.

“You’re so…” he murmurs, eyes fixed on where his hands are moving, voice slipping into something rougher. “God. You’re so gorgeous.”

You arch into him without meaning to.

He doesn’t speak again for a while. Just touches. Lavishes. His thumbs sweep and roll and press, coaxing your nipples into peaks, then cupping the weight of your breasts like he’s trying to memorize how they feel in his hands. He kneads gently, then pinches, and the shift in sensation sends a sharp jolt down your spine.

Your legs shift, thighs pressing tighter together.

He leans down and presses a kiss between them — right in the centre of your chest — then another, and another, until his mouth closes over one nipple, slow and reverent. His tongue traces a circle. His lips tug, careful at first, then firmer when he feels your hand thread into his hair.

You moan, and he shudders against you.

His free hand doesn’t idle. It skims your side, your waist, down to the bend of your knee, then slowly back up the inside of your thigh. Not quite touching where you want him, but close enough that your hips shift, chasing the contact.

He breaks away from your breast with a gasp. His voice is barely there, breathless and warm.

“You look so beautiful like this. All oiled up and flushed and wanting.”

Your eyes flutter.

“I could stay here forever,” he whispers, mouthing over your skin. “Just learning you like this. Just making you feel good.”

And he means it. Every word.

His mouth trails down your stomach, each kiss slower than the last, each breath warmer than the one before it. When he reaches your hips, he pauses, lips pressing softly to your skin right where the bone curves out beneath your waist. Then again, lower. Then again.

You shift beneath him, thighs parting slightly, an invitation he doesn’t take.

Instead, his hands glide down the outside of your legs, smoothing along the oiled skin of your thighs, down to your knees, then up the inside. He grazes close — so close — but never quite there. You bite down on a sound when his knuckles skim the crease where thigh meets heat.

“Spencer…”

Your voice is already thick.

He hums like he doesn’t notice. His lips brush your hip again, trailing toward your centre, but at the last second, he diverts. Presses a kiss to your inner thigh instead. His hands follow, squeezing gently, spreading you just a little farther without ever crossing the line.

You squirm. Try to tilt your hips toward him. He notices. Smiles against your skin.

You whimper. It’s not dignified, but it doesn’t matter.

One of his hands drags up your torso to stroke your breast, his thumb circling your nipple again, while his mouth moves lower. Just below your belly button now. Still not where you want him. Your legs fall open further. Your body aches.

He breathes out a quiet sound that’s nearly a groan.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he says, kissing your hip again, his voice shaky now, like he’s just barely holding himself together. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“You have,” you gasp, frustrated, hips lifting off the bed.

“Not really,” he murmurs. “Not the way you want.”

Then he kisses the very top of your inner thigh — just shy of your centre — and holds there.

You could sob.

He stays like that, lips on your skin, his fingers stroking up and down your sides, teasing the undersides of your breasts, down your belly, all of it maddeningly careful. Every pass skirting the edges of where you need him most. The heat builds with nowhere to go.

Your hands clench the sheets.

“Spencer. Please.”

That does something to him. His breath catches, his body shudders once.

He pulls back slightly and murmurs against your thigh, “Not yet. I’m not done driving you crazy.”

And he means it. You can hear it in his voice — the steady, trembling delight of watching you fall apart one inch at a time.

His hands return to your thighs.

Not rushed, not greedy, but undeniably firmer now. Slower. He’s still working like it’s a massage, dragging his oiled palms along your muscles with a steady rhythm. But each pass comes closer. Each press of his thumb skirts nearer to the ache between your legs.

You shift under his touch. He doesn’t adjust right away. Just keeps the same maddening pace.

He starts at your knees and glides upward, smoothing both hands up the tops of your thighs, fingers splaying wide as they climb. On the next pass, his thumbs press just inside the crease, dragging dangerously close to where you’re already wet for him. Then retreat.

Again. And again.

You breathe his name.

It’s barely a sound, but his hands pause. Just for a beat. Then continue. You feel his touch settle on the tops of your thighs, his fingers massaging with languid, careful pressure. His thumbs knead small, deliberate circles a hair’s breadth from your centre.

Still not touching you there.

You flex your hips without meaning to, chasing it. He doesn’t give in.

He moves back to your stomach, stroking gently from your ribs down to your pelvis. He presses lower, slowly, until the pads of his fingers are tracing the border where soft skin begins to heat. Where need lives.

He watches your face the entire time.

Your hands fist in the sheets again. Your legs fall wider on instinct, desperate for him. Still, he doesn’t touch.

Instead, he drags one hand lightly down your inner thigh again, slipping toward the edge of unbearable, and then turns his palm, sweeping just to the side of the seam of your folds — not enough pressure to give relief, but enough to make your whole body jolt.

“Spencer…”

His eyes flick up. He swallows.

“I’m still massaging,” he murmurs, a hint of nervous delight in his voice, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you and can hardly believe it’s working.

“You’re evil.”

“I’m thorough.”

His fingers return to your lower belly. Smooth strokes down, pausing just at the edge. Retreating.

“Trying to relax you,” he says innocently, tracing the line of your hips.

You’re a mess. Already pulsing around nothing, already gasping at the smallest touch. And still he keeps you there, high and trembling, your body begging for him.

His hands come to rest on your thighs again. Warm. Possessive.

He kisses your inner knee.

“Ready for more?” he asks, breath hitching against your skin. “For me to really start?”

And you are. God, you are.

Because if his hands alone feel like this, you don’t know how you’re going to survive the rest.

You’re still trembling from his hands when he leans forward again, lips brushing your inner thigh in one last kiss before he eases away.

“I want to try something,” he says, voice low but steady.

Your eyes flutter open, slow and hazy, just in time to see him reach for the folded black silk on the dresser.

He holds it in both hands, like it’s delicate. Like it matters.

“A blindfold?” you murmur, breath still shallow.

Spencer nods. “Only if you want. I just thought—”

He swallows, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one knuckle before continuing.

“There’s a phenomenon in sensory science called perceptual enhancement,” he says, voice slightly rushed like he’s nervous again, rambling a little. “When one sense is limited, the brain reallocates attention to the others. So when you take away sight, even temporarily, your brain heightens its response to things like sound, smell, touch. Especially touch.”

He glances down at the blindfold, then back up at you. His cheeks are already pink.

You’re quiet.

But not because you’re uncertain.

Because your whole body pulses at the idea of him orchestrating this — him thinking it through, planning not just how to touch you, but how to make you feel more. More of everything.

He watches you carefully. “I want you to focus only on what your body feels. Nothing else. No pressure to perform. No worry about how you look or sound. Just sensation.”

Your heart thuds hard in your chest. His hands, still faintly slick with oil, look impossibly gentle holding the silk. You sit up slowly, rising on your elbows, then nod once.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His breath catches. He moves closer.

“May I?” he asks, like it’s the most intimate part of the night so far.

You sit up fully, tilt your head forward slightly. “Please.”

You feel the whisper of silk before it ever touches your skin. Then it slides softly over your eyes, the fabric cool, weightless, shutting out the light.

And when he ties it at the back of your head — not too tight, just enough — the world falls away.

Sight gone.

Everything else waiting.

You feel the bed shift as he moves lower, his hands brushing down your thighs in slow, grounding strokes. The blindfold holds you in the dark, heightening every other sense. The rustle of fabric. The scent of candle wax melting into the air. The weight of his presence hovering near the edge of anticipation.

Then his voice, low and close, curling at the edge of your hip.

“We talked about this already,” he says, one hand sliding gently beneath your knee to part your legs wider. “But I just want to be sure.”

His mouth presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, warm and steady.

“I’m going to taste you now,” he murmurs. “If anything feels off, or too much, just say red. Or yellow if you need me to slow down, okay?”

You nod, breath catching slightly. “Okay.”

“Just… let yourself feel. That’s all I want tonight. To take my time with you,” he adds, his tone shy but sincere.

There’s another kiss, higher now, and the sensation of his thumbs spreading over your hips like he’s anchoring you in place. You can feel how close he is, the heat of his breath just above where you need him most, and still he waits. One last pause to give you the space to pull away if you need it.

You don’t.

You reach for the sheets instead, fingers twisting in anticipation, and whisper, “I’m ready.”

And then he begins.

He starts slow.

Not tentative, but exploratory, like he’s tasting a language he’s only ever read about until now. You feel the first pass of his tongue low and soft, a gentle sweep along your folds that makes your stomach tighten even though it doesn’t push you closer to the edge.

It isn’t even about that yet.

His hands stay firm on your hips, anchoring you in place, thumbs brushing faint circles into your skin. His mouth works in careful strokes, gathering slick with his tongue, tracing the edges of you with quiet reverence. Every now and then, he pauses just to inhale, just to feel the heat of your skin against his breath, like even that is enough to undo him.

He kisses you the way he studies — with full attention, no shortcuts, no assumptions. His tongue moves in slow, deliberate motions, circling places that make you twitch, then pulling back, redirecting. Like he’s cataloguing. Testing. Not greedy, not impatient. Just learning.

You arch under him, just slightly, more out of want than need. The sensation is warm, deeply erotic, but it’s not building toward release. Not yet. It’s a tide that rises slowly and holds — enough to make your legs tense, your throat tighten, your hands fist lightly into the sheets, but never quite enough to break the surface.

Still, it feels incredible. Intimate in a way that doesn’t need climax to justify its weight.

You don’t rush him. You don’t guide.

You just let him taste. Explore. Settle into the rhythm of it.

He hums against you once — softly, like he’s surprised by something — and you jolt in response. Not a reaction you could’ve predicted, but he files it away. You can feel him do it. Adjusts, tries again, just a hair to the left.

He’s not chasing. He’s collecting. Learning the terrain.

And even though your orgasm is nowhere close yet, your body is fully awake, aching with anticipation, flooded with the proof of how good this already feels.

Without sight, the rest of the world expands.

Sound stretches. Every breath you take seems louder. Every exhale he makes curls against your skin like a promise. The sheets beneath you feel softer somehow, more noticeable. Your skin, already flushed from his mouth, tingles with the aftershocks of heat that hasn’t even crested yet.

The blindfold stays snug against your temples, soft silk over your lashes, and somehow that makes everything feel more intimate. Like there’s nowhere for your attention to go except what he gives you.

Your body becomes the whole story.

You don’t know where his hands will land next. Don’t know what part of you he’s watching. Which part he wants. That uncertainty doesn’t bring fear — it sharpens your anticipation, winds it tighter in your belly. Every time the mattress shifts or the air moves or his breath brushes somewhere new, your chest lifts in response. Searching.

He doesn’t pause when he shifts focus. Doesn’t pull back with a question or a cue.

He just adjusts. Smooth and fluid.

A slight change in the angle of his mouth. A firmer pressure of his tongue. That same soft hum from earlier, now deliberate, like he’s recreating the vibration he felt you respond to.

Your hips jolt gently beneath his hands, a reflex more than a request, but he answers it anyway. His palms tighten just slightly, anchoring you again, giving you permission to stay open. Stay vulnerable.

Then he goes again.

This time, you feel the difference immediately.

He circles a spot just below your clit, tongue pressing in slow, rhythmic strokes that make your thighs twitch. Every few seconds, he adds a new layer. The flat of his tongue. The tip. The lightest flick upward. He watches for it — that subtle shift in your breath, the way your legs tense, the way your stomach pulls in.

He’s dialling you in.

You can hear him breathing through his nose, steady and low, but there’s something desperate behind it now. Something wanting. He murmurs something into your skin — not quite words, just a sound of deep concentration — and then his tongue shifts again.

Higher. Slower. More direct.

He drags it flat across your clit, then pulls away. Then again, firmer this time. Your fingers curl into the sheets. The sounds leaving your mouth are soft but insistent, helpless little gasps that clearly land somewhere deep in his chest, because his grip on your thighs tightens again and his mouth grows more deliberate.

You pant his name once. He groans in response.

Then he adds his fingers.

Not deep at first. Just one, testing the edge of you, slick and careful, letting you clench around the intrusion before easing further in. His mouth never leaves you. He finds your clit again, now more confident, stroking in a rhythm that aligns with the shallow curl of his finger inside you.

And you swear, somewhere under the haze of it, you feel him smile against you.

Like he knows he’s close. Like he’s figured out something key.

The tension coils in your belly. Tight. Sharpening. Almost too much.

And just when it starts to crest—

He pulls back.

Not all the way. His mouth lingers on your thigh now, kissing the tender skin there, while his hand strokes gently over your hip.

“Doing okay?” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked.

You can’t speak. Just nod, breath shaking.

He kisses the inside of your knee. Then your thigh again. Working his way back.

And every move he makes now is with purpose. No longer studying — now applying. Now building. Now pushing.

You hear the shift of him settling lower again. Then, softly, “You taste unreal. I’ve never… I didn’t know it could be like this.”

His tongue returns to you, now slower, deeper, paired with the precise curl of two fingers now, stroking upward inside you in a motion that makes your whole body seize. His other hand spreads gently across your thigh, anchoring you, and the blindfold heightens everything — every wet, obscene sound, every breath he exhales against your skin.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs against your clit. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me. I’m so fucking hard right now just from tasting you.”

Your hips buck involuntarily, and he groans again, sinking deeper with his fingers, mouth now fully locked in on you. The angle is perfect. He’s found something that makes your breath stutter, your body tense, and he zeroes in on it like instinct.

“God,” he mutters, voice thick with disbelief. “You're close aren't you?”

You nod blindly, gasping. He doesn’t let up.

But after another few moments, your body starts to hesitate.

You’re close. You can feel it hovering there, almost within reach. Your breath hitches, your thighs tremble — but something keeps catching. Not resistance, exactly. Just something holding you back. Not quite letting you tip.

Spencer feels it too.

You feel his rhythm falter just slightly. Then resume. He’s paying close attention, reading every breath, every twitch, like a puzzle he almost has solved.

His fingers slow for half a second, adjusting angle. He presses deeper, firmer. His mouth strokes with a little more pressure, then a little less. He’s trying. Testing.

But still, you don’t crest.

He eases back just barely. Just enough to breathe against you instead of on you. His voice is wrecked and gentle all at once.

“Something’s not clicking,” he murmurs. “You’re right there, I can feel it. But—”

He trails off. Then you feel his hand come up, tenderly brushing your temple.

“I think it’s the blindfold.”

You blink under the silk.

“I think maybe it helped you lock in focus on the sensations. But you need something more now. Connect what you're feeling with sight.”

His hands are careful as they untie the knot, easing the fabric away from your face. You squint at the light, breath still heaving.

When your eyes adjust, the first thing you see is him.

On his knees between your legs, lips red and wet, his hair messy, his chest rising and falling like he’s been holding his breath too. His gaze meets yours, intense and unguarded.

He looks stunned. Hungry. In awe.

“I need you to see how I’m looking at you,” he says softly. “How beautiful you are. How much I want you.”

Then he leans back down, never breaking eye contact as he licks you again.

And the second your eyes lock on him — the moment you watch him mouth you, watch his fingers working inside you with the kind of devotion that borders on desperation — everything changes.

It’s not just sensation anymore. It’s him. His gaze, steady and dark and so full of want it makes your chest ache. The slow drag of his tongue over you now paired with the stretch of his fingers, curling perfectly, coaxing something tighter out of you every second.

He groans softly when your hips twitch. Like your pleasure is winding something in him too.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your clit. “Let me see you.”

You whimper, thighs quivering around his shoulders.

“I want you to fall apart for me,” he breathes, mouth hot, words stuttered between kisses. “I want to feel it. Taste it. Please—”

He trails off, dragging his tongue slowly up the centre of you before circling again, unrelenting. His fingers press deeper now, curling with more confidence, more rhythm. And he watches you the whole time, lips slick, cheeks flushed, like you’re the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.

Your hands scramble over the sheets. One finds his hair. Your fingers tangle in the curls at the back of his neck, and he moans like it shoots straight to his cock.

You can barely breathe.

The edge crests again, sharper this time. You ride the rhythm of his mouth and hand, guided by the soft grunts he makes into your skin, by the unblinking stare he refuses to drop.

You try to hold on. Try to last just one more second. But it’s too much.

“Spencer—” you gasp, voice cracking on his name.

His answer is a groan and a firmer press of his mouth.

And then you break.

Your orgasm hits hard, violent in its stillness. Your whole body clenches, your thighs lock around him, your back arches off the bed. You cry out for him, one hand clutching the sheets, the other fisted tight in his hair.

He doesn’t stop.

The combination — the pressure, the rhythm, the eye contact — unlocks it.

You cum. For the first time, with someone else.

But he doesn’t stop.

He watches your face, sees the exact moment the sensitivity begins to curl into something more. The shiver that doesn’t fade, the way your breath catches like you’re caught between pleasure and pain. His hand tightens on your thigh, his mouth sliding back to your clit in slow, deliberate strokes.

“I need another,” he murmurs against you. “Give me another, baby. You can do it.”

It’s not command. It’s hunger. Worship disguised as need.

He curls his fingers again, slower now, deeper, keeping the pressure on that same spot he’s learned pulls your voice from your throat. His other hand slides up your stomach, anchoring you. The sensation crests again — faster, rougher — and your body gives before your mind can catch up.

The second orgasm crashes through you harder than the first. You sob his name, head tipping back, and he groans like the sound hits him straight in the chest.

He keeps moving until you’re trembling uncontrollably, until your hips buck away from his mouth.

Only then does he stop.

He kisses your thighs, your stomach, your hips, moving up your body with reverence, his mouth open and warm and desperate. When he reaches your chest, he pauses, breath still uneven, eyes glassy.

“You’re amazing,” he whispers, voice breaking. “ I could stay between your legs forever if you'd let me.”

He kisses you softly, slow and full, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

Your whole body is trembling, boneless from the weight of it, your breath caught in your chest as the second orgasm ebbs slowly through you. Spencer doesn’t say anything at first. Just holds you.

His face is flushed, lips red and wet, curls messy from your hands, eyes full of something raw and radiant.

“You did it,” he says, softly.

You nod, barely, breath still catching.

“I’m so proud of you.”

The words hit somewhere deeper than expected. Not because of what you did, but because of how he says it. With wonder. With warmth. Like your pleasure wasn’t just arousing — it was meaningful.

His hands cup your thighs, gentle, reverent. “That was… beautiful. You were beautiful.”

You swallow thickly, still blinking your way back to yourself.

Spencer leans in and kisses your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. Then your mouth fully, slowly, letting the kiss stretch and deepen, like he’s easing you back into your body one breath at a time.

When he pulls back, his eyes stay fixed on you. Steady. Blown wide with wonder.

“You were incredible,” he says, soft and reverent. “I’ve never seen anything like that. Never heard anything more beautiful than you cumming.”

His fingers graze your cheek, then slide through your hair as if he still can’t believe you’re real. Still can’t believe you let him see you like that.

“I hope you know how much that meant to me. That you trusted me with that. That you let go like that with me.”

You nod, eyes glossy, chest still fluttering with the aftershocks. Your body is loose, buzzing. But you’re not finished. Not even close. Not with the way he’s looking at you now.

He brushes your thigh, just once, before resting his hand there.

“If you still feel up to it…” His voice wavers slightly, but he catches himself, breathes through it. “I’d really like to feel you.”

You bite your lip. Not from nerves. From the sudden rush of heat between your legs that returns the second he says it.

“I want that too.”

His mouth parts, and for a second he just stares at you, like you’ve undone him all over again.

“I thought,” he says slowly, his fingers now moving across your skin in light strokes, “we could try something I’ve been reading about.”

Your brow lifts slightly. You’re already intrigued.

“It’s… not complicated,” he rushes to clarify. “I just—straddling me might help. It’s a position that allows for more control, more depth and angle adjustments. It’s supposed to give more pressure to the front wall of the vagina, which—based on everything I’ve read—can increase chances of g-spot stimulation. But mostly…” He swallows, eyes flicking from your mouth to your hips. “Mostly I want to see you. I want to hold your waist and watch your body take me. Watch your face. Help guide you through all of it.”

There’s a pause. Then, lower, more vulnerable: “If that’s okay with you.”

You don’t respond with words. Just kiss him. Harder this time, slower. You press your body to his, feel the full line of his arousal through the soft heat of your thighs. You taste the desperation in him, the restraint, the need.

When you finally pull back, you’re breathless.

“I want you inside me,” you whisper. “Exactly like that.”

He stares at you like those four words just cracked something wide open inside him.

But then he glances down at himself, like he's only just remembered he's still wearing clothes. The sudden flicker of embarrassment crosses his face — quick, boyish — and you catch the moment he starts to rise, hands already moving to unbutton his pants.

You stop him with a gentle palm on his chest.

“I want to undress you,” you say.

His throat bobs with a swallow, and he nods without speaking.

Your hands move first to his shirt — still rumpled from where your bodies pressed together. You undo each button with quiet precision, tugging the fabric loose and pushing it off his shoulders. His chest rises and falls beneath your touch, muscles subtly flexing like he’s trying to stay composed.

Once the shirt is gone, your hands skim down. You unfasten his pants next, dragging the zipper slow enough to watch his breath catch. When you tug them past his hips, his boxers follow, and he’s already hard — flushed and aching, straining against the sudden rush of air.

You glance up at him. His cheeks are pink. His eyes glazed with need.

“I didn’t mean to get this worked up so fast,” he murmurs, sheepish.

You press a soft kiss just above his navel, and he shudders.

He lets out a breath, then shifts himself higher onto the bed until his back rests against the headboard. Pillows bracket him. His hands brace loosely at his sides like he’s not sure whether to grip the sheets or reach for you.

You climb over him slowly. Straddle his lap.

His eyes fall to the space between you — to the way your thighs spread across his, to the slick shine still clinging to your inner thighs. His hands hover at your hips, but he doesn’t pull you down yet.

His palms settle at your hips, fingers twitching like he’s barely holding himself back. You can feel him pulsing between your legs, so hard it must ache, but he still doesn’t pull you down.

He just looks at you, like he needs to memorize everything. The heat of your skin, the weight of your body over his, the slick proof of how ready you are already stretched across his lap.

“I can feel how wet you are,” he says quietly

You nod, dragging your nails lightly across his chest. “It’s all for you.”

His mouth falls open just slightly. “Jesus.”

Then his fingers flex at your waist, guiding you closer. Not down yet. Just easing your hips to rock forward so your slick folds drag along the length of him.

You both groan.

“I want to be good for you,” he says again, voice lower now, needier. “Tell me what you like. Tell me if I need to adjust. I’ll do whatever you need.”

Your hand slides into his hair, tugging gently. “I want you inside me, Spencer.”

He swears under his breath. You feel his hands shake.

Then, with one hand guiding himself and the other braced at your waist, he lines you up. Lets you take control. His cock nudges at your entrance, hot and flushed, and you sink down slowly, inch by inch, until you’re filled.

Your body, already softened and warm from the release he gave you, welcomes him differently now. Fuller. Deeper. Less tension, more want.

Spencer’s mouth parts on a quiet gasp. His fingers flex where they grip your hips, holding you still while he breathes through it.

"You're so warm," he whispers, like it’s a secret. "So soft. I can feel how relaxed you are. Is it different for you? After—"

You nod, already rocking your hips once in response, slow and tentative. "Yeah. It's better. You hit deeper this way."

You shift again, dragging your slick folds along the length of him. He lets you experiment, adjusting his angle a little, meeting you halfway with careful thrusts. The first few movements don’t quite sync — one of you rolls too fast, the other too shallow — but neither of you minds. You both laugh softly through the misfires, his hand smoothing down your back in reassurance.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “We’ve got time.”

You lift and drop your hips again, slower now, finding a rhythm that makes both of you sigh. His cock drags against the front of you, just right, and your breath stutters.

Spencer catches it. “That? Was that good?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Right there.”

He adjusts. Curls his hips up as you grind down again. And this time the pressure lands perfectly. His hands tighten on your hips.

“Jesus,” he groans. “Do that again.”

You do. Again and again, and each time he grunts a little louder, breathless with restraint. You can tell he’s holding back — trying not to thrust too hard, trying to let you stay in control — but every now and then his hips jerk up harder, like instinct gets the better of him.

Then he starts testing out words.

“You feel so fucking good,” he pants. “You’re so wet for me.”

It’s hot, but doesn’t quite land. Your body doesn’t react.

He falters. Tries again, brow furrowed. “You like it like this? Me filling you like this?”

Still not quite there.

And then he finds it.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he says, voice lower now. “Such a good girl, riding me like that. Taking me so well. That’s it, sweet girl.”

You clench around him, hard.

His head falls back with a moan. “Oh fuck. That. That’s what you like. You want me to tell you how good you are for me, don’t you?”

You whimper.

“Yeah, you do,” he breathes, thrusting up into you a little harder. “My perfect girl, taking every inch. You make me feel so fucking lucky.”

Your thighs start to shake again, pleasure rising steadily with each praise-soaked thrust. Spencer's still watching your face, ravenous now, learning every flicker of pleasure across your expression and adjusting for it. His rhythm locks into yours.

Then he shifts. Leans forward.

His mouth finds your breast — open and hungry — and he wraps his lips around your nipple, sucking slow and deep until your head drops back on a moan. His tongue flicks, then swirls, and when he feels the way your hips stutter in response, he groans against your skin. The sound vibrates through your chest.

“God, your body,” he pants, his voice muffled against your breast. “I could worship you for hours.”

You grind down again and he meets you with a sharp upward thrust, deeper now, and his hands slide lower, framing your waist before gliding back to grip the round of your ass.

He squeezes hard. Not rough, but full — possessive. His fingers dig into the soft flesh, anchoring you as he starts to fuck up into you with more force. Each thrust lifts your body slightly before it crashes back down, the leverage sending him even deeper.

“Just like that,” he groans. “You feel that? How deep I am?”

You nod, dizzy from the sensation. Every glide of his cock hits where you need it now. Your slickness coats him, making each movement sound obscene, wet, desperate.

His mouth leaves your breast only to move to the other, lips just as greedy, his tongue dragging slowly around the peaked bud before sucking it into the heat of his mouth. You whimper, riding through the swirl of sensations, the way his tongue and cock seem to work in tandem, building you toward something new again.

Your fingers tangle in his hair again as you keep moving, your thighs trembling around him, your whole body caught in the push-pull of control and surrender.

And he’s still gripping your ass like he’s never going to let go. Still lifting his hips to meet every drop of yours. Still panting against your chest, mouth hot and open and needy.

You rock down again and feel the thick drag of him stretching you just right. He thrusts up to meet you, sharp and precise, and it makes your breath catch — but it’s not quite enough. Not yet.

Still, it’s better than anything before. Not just the angle or the pressure, but the feeling of being wanted like this. His hands on you. His mouth everywhere. The awe in his voice when he says your name between clenched teeth.

You feel it building again, somewhere low and hot. A slow burn.

But the rhythm falters when he tries to adjust again — too deep on one thrust, too shallow on the next. He’s still trying to match your movements, still trying to figure out what you need now that you’re both slick and desperate and shaking.

“I—sorry,” he breathes against your skin. “I want to get it right.”

“You are,” you manage, fingers tightening in his hair. “Just… not there yet.”

His eyes flick up to yours, flushed and focused. “Tell me what to do.”

You press a kiss to his temple, your voice soft, breathless. “Keep going. Let me find it.”

So he does. He finds his rhythm again, one hand trailing back down to grip your ass with purpose, helping guide your movements, anchoring you as you chase the friction that’s starting to hit just right. His hips rise harder now, more deliberate, matching your roll, your grind, your stuttering need.

One of his hands slips up your spine to the nape of your neck, grounding you.

The other stays tight on your ass, fingers flexing every time you sink fully onto him. His hips are starting to slap wet against your thighs. You feel him everywhere. Thick and hard and throbbing inside you, panting and lost and still somehow trying to give you everything.

“You’re doing so well,” he groans. “I can feel how close you are. So fucking perfect like this.”

His rhythm steadies again, and every thrust lands deeper, slower, until your breath starts catching on every push of him inside you. He watches your face, watches the way your lips part, the tremor in your jaw, and the words start to come.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re perfect like this. My good girl.”

The praise slides out of him easily now, natural, certain, and it lights something in you every time. You clench around him, and he groans, hips jerking up harder.

“You like that,” he breathes. “When I tell you you’re good. You love it.”

He keeps going, his words tumbling out between gasps. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you move like that. So open for me.”

There’s a pause, a flicker of hesitation — his jaw tightens as though he’s weighing whether to say the next part. Then, rougher, quieter:

“Your… your pussy feels incredible.”

The word sounds foreign on his tongue at first, awkward and shy, but the second it leaves his mouth, you tighten around him, and he falters on a sharp breath. His eyes snap to yours, wide and dark.

“Oh,” he exhales, almost in disbelief. “You liked that.”

You nod, barely able to form words, still moving against him.

He swallows hard, and the next time he says it, there’s a tremor of confidence behind it.

“This pussy,” he says, more certain now, “feels so fucking good around me. I can feel every twitch. Every time you squeeze me.”

You moan, and his hand tightens on your ass again, pulling you down hard onto him as he thrusts up to meet you. The sound that tears from both of you is raw.

“That’s it,” he grits out. “Take me. Take what you need.”

The tempo builds, your rhythm syncing again, messy and perfect. His voice deepens, breath hitching on every other word as he pushes closer to the edge of control.

“Fuck—look at how you’re taking me,” he says, voice breaking through a groan. “Look at us. Look how good you look like this.”

You glance down, and the sight alone nearly undoes you — the slick movement where your bodies meet, the way his cock disappears inside you again and again, the dark heat in his eyes as he watches you watch it.

“Yeah,” he whispers, reverent and desperate all at once. “Just like that. Keep watching. You’re doing so fucking good for me.”

And this time, you can feel it — the build starting to climb again, slower than before but stronger, heavier, the kind that promises to pull you both under when it breaks.

His hand stays firm on your ass, guiding your hips into a new rhythm, messier now, sharper. You can feel him swell inside you, feel the restraint unravelling second by second.

“You feel that?” he pants. “The way you grip me every time I talk to you like this?”

He moans, raw in his throat, and his words come out unfiltered now.

“Your pussy is so tight. So fucking warm. I can feel every little flutter around me—every time you get close, you squeeze me.”

The words still catch in his throat, a slight pause after like he’s still getting used to saying it aloud. But he sees the way you clench at the sound. Watches your lashes flutter. And it emboldens him.

“You like hearing that,” he groans, voice darker now. “You like when I say how wet your pussy is for me. How it pulls me in like you never want to let go.”

You nod, breathless, and his other hand comes up between you again, slick fingers stroking gently over your clit with practiced focus.

“I want to make you cum again,” he murmurs, more controlled now but no less intense. “You deserve it. You earned it. And I—fuck, I need to feel it again. I need to feel you fall apart around me while I’m still inside.”

Your body is quaking, every word shoving you closer to the edge. His fingers don’t falter. He’s watching you again. Eyes locked on yours, lips parted, flushed all the way down his neck.

“I’ve been training myself for this,” he whispers like a confession. “Every night. I’d edge myself until I couldn’t see straight. Kept holding back. Thought about you. About this. About how good it would feel to be buried in you and know I can keep going until you break.”

You whimper, your entire body tensing at the sound of it, at the truth of it — how hard he’s worked just to make this moment last for you.

“Can you feel it, baby?” he gasps. “How close I am?”

You nod again, your thighs trembling around him, unable to form words. The pressure’s back. Deep and low and climbing faster this time.

“I’m not gonna cum until you do,” he says through clenched teeth, his pace stuttering with effort. “But I’m right there. So fucking close. You make me feel—God, you make me feel everything.”

And still, his fingers are stroking, deliberate and focused, synced to the exact rhythm of your hips.

Your hips roll harder now, pushing down with each thrust, meeting him with wet, sharp, soaking rhythm. The pressure is unbearable in the best way — your clit swollen under his fingers, your pussy fluttering around his cock, your thighs trembling as his praise pours over you in waves.

“Good girl,” he gasps, broken open, head tipping back against the pillows. “That’s it. Ride me. Ride me just like that.”

You moan, the sound high and ragged, and his hand on your ass grips harder.

“You’re fucking incredible,” he groans. “So strong, so beautiful—taking everything I give you and more.”

He watches you like he’s never seen anything more perfect. His fingers tighten, dragging you down with more force now as his hips buck up to meet yours.

“You feel so good,” he pants. “So good for me. So fucking tight and wet. Your perfect little pussy—Jesus, it’s choking me.”

You gasp at the word — not because it shocks you, but because he says it. He stumbles over it, cheeks flushed, but when you whimper in response, he surges with confidence.

“You like that?” he growls, voice lower, rougher. “You like hearing how wet your pussy is for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”

“Good girl,” he moans, like it’s reflex now. Like he needs to say it. “That’s my girl. My perfect girl. Come on, baby. Give it to me. Let me feel you cum on my cock.”

His thumb circles your clit again, precise and focused, and your body starts to shake — legs burning, vision dimming.

“I need it,” he begs, eyes wide and desperate now. “I need to feel you cum around my cock. Show me how good it feels. Show me how beautiful you look when you fall apart.”

“Spencer—” your voice breaks, stuttering.

“Please,” he gasps. “Please, sweet girl. Let me feel it. I want it so bad. I want to cum inside you so fucking bad, but not until I feel you lose it on me.”

And that’s what does it.

Your body tenses, curls, collapses all at once — a shattering orgasm tearing through you, blinding and overwhelming. You cry out, shaking hard, your thighs clamping around his hips as your cunt pulses around his cock, milking him.

Your body locks, thighs trembling violently, nails digging into his shoulders as the orgasm slams through you with brutal, breathless force. It surges in waves — deep and endless — your walls clenching around him so hard it borders on painful. You can’t breathe, can’t think, can only feel as your body pulses around his cock, drenched, fluttering, dragging him into your heat like it was made for him.

“Oh fuck,” Spencer gasps, hands tightening on your waist, holding you down.

You feel the moment it happens — the second your orgasm tips him over.

His mouth falls open. His eyes squeeze shut. His whole body surges up beneath you, hips thrusting once, twice, then freezing deep inside you as he cums.

“Holy shit—” he groans, voice raw, broken.

His cock twitches, then pulses, spilling deep, thick, endless heat inside you. His hands are still on your hips, still pressing you flush against him like he needs to feel every contraction of your body as you milk him through it.

He’s shaking. Practically whimpering.

He presses up as deep as your bodies will allow, grinding through the last throb of it. You feel every inch of him, thick and spent and still twitching inside you, buried so far you swear you’ll never forget how full this feels.

Neither of you moves for a long moment. The only sounds are your breaths, ragged and uneven, your heart pounding loud in your ears, his forehead pressed to your chest like he’s trying to steady himself with your heartbeat.

Then, softly, reverently—

“I didn’t mean to cum that hard,” he whispers, still trembling. “You felt too good. You looked too beautiful.”

His cock is still nestled inside you, softening slowly, and you swear you can still feel him pulse once more, like your body is holding him in place. Like you’ve claimed him. Like he’ll never recover from this, and maybe neither will you.

Spencer doesn’t pull out right away.

Instead, he lets the silence stretch, one hand smoothing over your back as he catches his breath. Then, slowly, carefully, he shifts his weight and guides your body down with him, easing both of you onto your sides. His cock stays nestled inside you, softening gradually, but it feels good like this. Close. Deep. Intimate.

You bury your face in his neck and let your body melt against his. You can feel his heartbeat against your chest — erratic, still coming down — and the way his arm tightens around your waist like he can’t bear the thought of letting go yet.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple.

You nod, but it takes a second to speak. Your voice catches.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just… a lot.”

You don’t mean it in a bad way. Just full. Intense. Your whole body still humming from how hard it hit you, from how much it gave you. Something’s tight in your chest, not quite tears, but something close. Something that doesn’t want to be alone in the aftermath.

“I know,” he breathes, his hand stroking lightly up and down your spine. “I know. I’ve got you.”

You close your eyes.

There’s warmth between your legs, the soft mess of it, but you don’t want to move. Not yet. Not even to clean up. You’re too relaxed, too overwhelmed, too deeply wrapped in him. You can feel him slowly slipping free inside you, the wetness starting to trickle, but still — you stay.

Spencer doesn’t push. He just holds you.

And for a long moment, neither of you speaks.

When he finally does, it’s soft. Quiet enough to feel private, like a secret meant only for you.

“You’re incredible,” he says. “I hope you know that.”

You shift slightly, just enough to look up at him. His hair’s still a mess. His cheeks still flushed. But his eyes are wide and open and so full of love it almost undoes you.

“I’ve wanted to be close to you like this for so long,” he adds, brushing your damp hair back from your face. “But this… this was more than I imagined. You let me in. You trusted me. I’ll never take that for granted.”

Your throat goes tight again. You don’t trust your voice not to crack, so you just kiss him. Slow and quiet. Nothing hungry. Nothing urgent. Just… a thank you. For all of it.

When you pull back, your fingers stay curled in his chest hair, your legs tangled with his. You can still feel where he was inside you. Still feel the way he looked at you when you came apart in his hands.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel like something is missing.

You feel wanted. Known. Held.

It takes a minute before either of you moves.

He helps you sit up first. Your legs are shaky, your skin damp with sweat and everything else. You should feel sticky and sore, maybe self-conscious — but you don’t. His touch stays so steady, so tender, that none of it matters.

You lean on him, boneless and warm, and he doesn’t rush you. Just guides you to the bathroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The water is already running.

You barely remember how you got into the shower, only that he was there the whole time. That the water felt good. That his hands were careful. That the soap smelled like something soft and clean, like almond or linen or skin.

He washed you slowly, like you’d break if he moved too fast. Fingers sliding through your hair, along your shoulders, down your spine. Kissing the back of your neck between rinses. Whispering nothing in particular, just little comforts — you did so well, I’ve got you, it’s okay.

You think you might’ve kissed him in the water. Maybe more than once.

Time doesn’t pass the way it usually does. Everything’s too soft for that now.

The next thing you register, he’s leading you back to bed. The sheets are fresh. Crisp and warm.

You’re dry, wrapped in one of your sleep shirts. He’s in nothing but boxers, hair damp, hands always reaching for you, like touching you keeps him steady.

There’s a glass in your hand. Cold water. He waits until you finish it, then sets it aside and crawls back in, pulling you close again.

You melt into him. Clean and sore and impossibly full.

Neither of you says anything for a while. Not until your body fully relaxes again and your mind catches up to the rest of you.

And then it hits.

Not the sex, not the stretch or the mess or the intensity of it — but the fact of it. What it meant. What it changed.

“I didn’t think this would ever happen,” you say, almost to yourself. “I didn’t think I could.”

Spencer doesn’t interrupt. Just shifts closer, kisses your temple.

You feel your throat tighten. “I thought there was something wrong with me.”

“There never was,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, voice low. “I thought it would always just feel… distant. Like I’d keep going through the motions and never actually feel it. But then—” You swallow, eyes pricking. “But then you.”

He exhales hard against your skin, like it physically hits him.

“I didn’t fix you,” he says carefully. “You were never broken. You just needed someone who listened.”

Your lips press together. You nod, because it’s true. Because he’s right.

He shifts again, tucking you closer. Fingers dragging slowly along your hip, his voice quieter now.

“Let me keep learning you,” he says. “Let me keep giving you more.”

You smile into the quiet, small and aching.

“I want that,” you whisper. “I want more.”

Spencer’s hand stills slightly on your hip. You feel the shift in his breath before he speaks.

“You sure?”

You nod. “I’m looking forward to it. To seeing what else you’ve… learned.”

The way his body reacts is subtle — a soft inhale, a faint shiver under your palm — but it feels like you’ve set something alight again. His voice stays low, a quiet rasp against your ear.

“Not tonight,” you add, and your grin turns a little tired, a little fond. “I don’t think I could move even if I wanted to.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, pulling the blanket higher over your hips. “No. Not tonight.”

There’s a beat. Then his lips find your hairline, and his arm wraps tighter around your waist.

“Tomorrow, then,” he murmurs.

You hum in agreement, already halfway to sleep, your body still humming from all the places he touched you, all the places you didn’t know could feel that way. You feel full, and not just physically. Full in a way you never imagined possible. Safe, understood. Wanted.

You’ve been with him long enough to recognize the rhythm of it. The way his eyes flick from note to note. The way he leans into the desk, elbows drawn in like he’s trying to make himself smaller. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Just folds in around the thought like the rest of the world isn’t there.

God, he’s so fucking pretty.

It hits you sometimes when you least expect it. You’ll be halfway through a report, or sipping coffee across from him, or passing him a folder in the briefing room, and something in your chest will tighten like it’s the first time you’ve really seen him. Big brown eyes, sharp jaw, fingers that move with this careful kind of focus no one else seems to notice. He’s all soft-spoken facts and too-long limbs, so gentle in how he touches you it makes your heart ache.

He’s sweet. Thoughtful. Warm in all the ways people don’t expect.

You’ve never had anything like this before. Not the comfort, not the quiet check-ins, not the kind of affection that lingers in the small things—his hand brushing your lower back as he passes, the way he always makes your drink exactly how you like it, the way he hums against your neck when he’s half-asleep and doesn’t want to let go.

And the sex is good. It’s great, actually. He’s attentive. He tries. He always makes sure you feel wanted. Desired.

Wanted.

That should be enough.

You shift in your chair, watching the way his lips part slightly as he jots something down, and you feel that warm pull in your stomach again.

But then he glances up at you.

Not just a glance, not one of those dreamy, absent-minded looks he sometimes gives you like he’s still amazed you’re real.

This one lingers.

His brow twitches. Not quite a frown. Just a crease. Like he’s trying to work something out. Like you’re a question he didn’t know he needed to answer.

You freeze. Just for a second. Smile before you even mean to, like that’ll smooth it over.

He looks away a moment later. But something sticks.

He’s been doing that more lately.

Watching. Thinking. Holding onto you with his eyes like you’re starting not to make sense.

You know exactly when it started.

And it wasn’t here, in the bullpen, in the daylight with a file in your hands and people all around.

It started that first night. That first time. When you let him believe something that wasn’t true.

It happened at his place, late one night, after dinner and a case and too many quiet looks passed across the small space between you on the couch.

You’d been dating for a while by then. Long enough that you knew the shape of his apartment, the cadence of his laugh, the way he always set out two glasses of water without being asked. Long enough that you slept over more often than not, woke up tangled in his sheets with his nose buried in your neck and his hand resting on your waist like it belonged there.

But you hadn’t had sex yet.

Not because you didn’t want to. God, you’d wanted to. But it hadn’t felt rushed. Spencer was patient in a way you hadn’t known how to name at first — so gentle, so cautious, like every step closer was something to be earned. Like he didn’t want to get it wrong. And the longer you waited, the sweeter it became. Every kiss a little longer. Every touch a little deeper. Every moment building to something that neither of you ever said aloud, but both of you felt coming.

That night, it just… happened.

He kissed you like he needed it. Like he’d been holding back for weeks and something in him had finally tipped over. You straddled his lap, pushed his curls out of his face, and felt him tremble when your fingers slipped under the hem of his shirt.

You thought about telling him then. You really did.

He was so good to you. Sweet and curious and a little shy, looking at you like he didn’t know where to start because he wanted to touch everything at once. He would have taken it well. He would have listened. He would have cared.

But you didn’t want to ruin it.

Not after last time.

You’d told a partner once, long ago. Explained carefully, honestly, that no one had ever made you cum before. They grinned and called it a “fun challenge.” Turned it into something to conquer rather than something to share. Spent an hour on you like a test they were determined to pass, fingers and tongue and toys. And when it still didn’t happen, their smile had cracked. Their frustration had bled through. They’d thrown up their hands, bruised ego barely hidden, and implied quietly — but clearly — that maybe you were broken. That maybe the problem wasn’t them.

It had driven a wedge between you. Left you feeling like a puzzle that couldn’t be solved. Like an inconvenience instead of a partner. And you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t go through that again.

So with Spencer, with this man who looked at you like you were something precious, who kissed you like he couldn’t believe you were real, you stayed quiet. Told yourself it wasn’t lying. Just protection. Just letting something good exist without dragging your old ghosts into it.

You didn’t want to break the rhythm or risk shifting the weight of the moment. You swallowed it down — the truth, the history, the quiet ache of every time someone else had tried and failed. You kissed him instead. Told yourself that maybe this time would be different.

And in a lot of ways, it was.

Spencer touched you like you were made of silk. Like he couldn’t believe you were letting him. His hands trembled when he undid your bra. His mouth lingered at your collarbone, your sternum, the swell of your breast. He murmured things you only half caught — words worshipful without trying to be. He was so hard, so warm, rutting softly against your thigh while he kissed you like he couldn’t help it.

When you pulled him down between your legs, his whole body went still. His eyes searched yours like he needed confirmation he wasn’t dreaming.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, voice thin and wrecked and sincere.

You nodded, pulled him in.

He entered you with his forehead pressed to yours, a breathless groan caught in his throat. His hands were everywhere — cradling your face, gripping your waist, holding your thigh higher so he could sink in deeper. He moved slowly, watching you, trying to read every twitch, every breath. He kissed you between thrusts. Told you you were beautiful. Told you he’d wanted this for so long.

And it was good. It was. The rhythm, the pressure, the affection. The way he whispered your name like he was trying it on for the first time. The way he shuddered when you clenched around him. You felt cared for. Desired. Safe.

But that final spark never came.

It built, flickered, teased at you, but stayed just out of reach. And you knew it — knew the shape of the disappointment, knew the ache of it — even as you tried to will your body into giving him what he wanted to see.

He didn’t just keep going blindly. You felt him hesitate. Felt his thumb brush your cheek like a question. Those big brown eyes locked onto yours, soft and hopeful. His brow furrowed slightly. His mouth parted like he was about to ask. His eyes searched yours, wide and worried and so damn earnest. Not just desire, but concern. Hope. A little doubt creeping in around the edges.

It broke your heart.

So you tilted your head back. Let out a sound you’d practised under your breath before. Curved your body into his like you’d hit the edge. Moved with him the way you thought you should.

His eyes went wide for a split second — startled, relieved — then he exhaled hard against your mouth. His movements grew ragged as he tried to hold himself together, still whispering your name like he didn’t want to lose you in the rush. He groaned, lips crashing into yours, pace stuttering. He clung to you like a lifeline, overwhelmed and undone, gasping your name through a kiss that barely held together.

He came with a quiet sob of relief, pressed so tight against you that you could barely breathe. His arms wrapped around you like he didn’t want to let go. When he looked at you, there was something shining in his eyes. Like you’d given him a gift.

He stayed there for a long time. Breathing you in. Hands still cradling your face, thumbs brushing your temples like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. When he  leaned back enough to see you again, the look on his face almost undid you — wide‑eyed and a little uncertain, cheeks flushed, lips parted like he was about to ask if you were okay.

“You’re… wow,” he murmured, voice hoarse and shaky. “Was that… okay?”

You smiled and cupped his cheek before he could finish. Nodded. Made yourself sound breathless. “It was perfect.”

His shoulders softened, relief blooming there. He kissed you again, slow and tender, then wrapped his arms around you and held you until your pulse evened out.

You let him hold you. Let him believe.

And you’ve been quiet ever since.

But lately, it’s been harder to ignore.

Not just the silence in your own head, but the way Spencer has started looking at you differently. Not with suspicion or doubt. Not even with frustration. Just quiet attention. Like his brain is mapping something behind your eyes that he hasn’t named yet.

He watches you more now.

Not constantly. Not obviously. But you catch him sometimes, across the bullpen or curled beside you on the couch, eyes fixed not on your body, but your reactions. He’s always been observant, always tuned in, but this is different. Slower. Sharper. Like he’s circling a thought he doesn’t want to admit out loud.

You think you know exactly when it started.

Not the first time. Not even the second. But the most recent.

The night you rushed him.

It had started like so many others, easy and warm, hands under clothes, mouths on skin. His apartment was quiet, the lights low, the tension familiar in that sweet, addictive way only he could stir in you.

You’d taken your time with him. You always did. His pleasure was so easy to chase, so satisfying to pull from him. The way his breath caught when you kissed down his chest, the way his thighs trembled when you touched him just right, the way he whispered your name like it anchored him. You loved seeing him like that. Loved giving it to him.

And he always wanted to return the favour.

He’d been hard already when you started, panting softly against your neck as you eased him back onto the mattress. But he still reached for you, hands skimming your thighs, mouth already trailing lower.

"Let me," he whispered. "Please."

You kissed him. Smiled. Brushed his hair back like he was being sweet and silly.

"You don’t need to."

He blinked, confused. "I want to."

You kissed him again. Deeper this time. Let your hand slip between his legs, wrapped your fingers around him and swallowed the soft moan he gave you.

"I want this," you said, breath warm against his mouth. "Let me take care of you."

His body relaxed under your hands, but something in his expression didn’t soften all the way. Not fully. His brows stayed slightly drawn, like he’d missed something. But he let you guide him back, let you focus all your attention on him.

You made it good for him. Slow, deliberate, drawn-out until his thighs tensed and his breath stuttered and he begged for your mouth like it was the only thing that could save him. You took everything he gave you and made it feel like enough.

And afterward, when he started to kiss his way down your stomach, when his hands slid gently to your hips, you stopped him like you always did.

Softly. Casually. With a kiss to his mouth and a quiet little hum, like you just couldn’t wait any longer.

"Come here," you said, tugging at his arm. "I need you."

He hesitated. Just for a second. Glanced up at you from where he’d settled between your thighs, eyes wide and searching.

"I just thought…" His voice caught in his throat. He didn’t finish.

You kissed him before he could try. "I want to feel you."

That always worked. The urgency. The closeness. You weren’t lying — you did want him. Your body ached for him constantly. He made you feel wanted in a way no one else ever had, and there was so much about being with him that felt right.

So he nodded. Let you pull him close. Let you guide him inside you with a soft gasp and your legs tight around his hips.

He moved slowly. Pressed his forehead to yours. Whispered your name like he was trying not to fall apart.

And it felt good. Every stroke. Every shift of his hips. The way he held your face. The way he kissed your jaw and murmured how perfect you were. His body against yours, heavy and warm and familiar. The kind of pleasure that melted through your muscles and made you arch up for more.

But that edge stayed out of reach.

And it did feel good.

But not in the way he wanted it to.

The pleasure was there. The warmth. The comfort. The ache low in your belly that never really left when he was around. But it stayed steady. Flat. Pleasant. You didn’t edge toward anything. You didn’t build.

And you gave him everything you had. The right sounds, the right movements, the breathless pressure of your hands in his hair. You made him feel like he was giving you everything, even when that stubborn spark lingered just out of reach.

Your hands moved across his back. Your hips rocked to meet his. You whispered his name into his ear like a secret. And when he started to cum, you clenched around him just enough to make him shudder, to make him believe.

When he came, he did it holding you close, forehead to yours, breath catching on your lips.

But even through the haze, you felt it.

The way he lingered just a moment too long after. The way his eyes stayed open. Watching you. Not with suspicion. Not with doubt.

Like he was cataloguing something he hadn’t noticed before.

You stroked his hair and kissed his shoulder, tracing slow circles along his spine until he caught his breath.

And when he reached down again — not insistently, not aggressively, just gently — your hand found his wrist and stilled it.

"I already had one," you whispered.

He looked at you for a moment.

And you saw it again.

That pause. That tiny crease between his brows. The flicker of something thoughtful blooming behind his eyes.

He didn’t say anything. He just lay back beside you and pulled you into his arms.

But his hand stayed on your waist like he wasn’t done thinking. Like something had just started to click.

You see that same look on his face now.

Present day. Across the bullpen. A case file open in front of him, untouched.

His chin rests in his hand, fingers lightly brushing the curve of his mouth. His glasses  catching the light as he studies you from behind the lenses, perfectly still.

Not staring. Not exactly.

Just watching.

Like you’re a question he hasn’t quite formed yet. Like he’s been circling it in his head for days, keeping it quiet while he narrows down the possibilities. His brows aren’t furrowed, but you can tell he’s working. Somewhere behind the softness in his eyes, there’s motion. Thought. A slow turn of gears.

The moment your eyes meet his, he looks down. Not hurried. Just smooth. He slides his finger along the edge of the page in front of him, makes a note in the margin that doesn’t matter.

It’s the same thing he did yesterday. And the day before that.

Three days since the last time you had sex. Three days since you kissed him before he could move lower, wrapped your legs around his waist and told him you needed him right then. Three days since he started looking at you like this.

Not with suspicion. Not with doubt.

Just quiet focus.

He’s not pulling away. If anything, he’s leaned in closer this week. Sitting beside you during lunch instead of across from you. Resting his hand on your thigh during briefings. Pressing his lips to the top of your head when he passes behind your chair.

But this is different.

This part, the stillness across the room, the way his eyes land on your face when he thinks you’re not paying attention. The way his expression softens without losing shape. No warmth missing, no affection pulled back.

Just analysis.

He’s observing you like he would on a case. Like there’s something slightly out of place, something small that keeps tugging at the edge of his understanding.

It doesn’t feel like pressure. It doesn’t feel like judgment.

It feels like inevitability.

You look back at your screen. Scroll without reading. Highlight a line in your report just to move your hand.

You wonder how long you have before the question stops forming in his head and finally makes its way to his mouth.

The day drags quietly past six. One by one, lights start to dim, chairs roll back, footsteps scatter down the hall. Nobody’s in a rush to leave, but nobody’s sticking around either. No new cases. Just paperwork. Just time.

You type a few more lines, mostly coherent, then sit back and stretch your arms behind your chair, feeling the pull in your shoulders.

Across the bullpen, Spencer shifts.

You glance over before you can help it. His eyes are already on you again.

It doesn’t catch you off guard this time. You hold his gaze for a second longer than usual. Waiting. Wondering if this is the moment he finally speaks.

But he just blinks once, gently, and starts gathering his things.

You rise too, slower than necessary. Your bag is already packed. You drape your coat over your arm instead of putting it on right away, fingers fussing lightly with the sleeve.

He meets you halfway, at the corner of his desk.

“Done for the night?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. You?”

He hums an affirmative, mouth curving slightly at one corner.

Your body knows his rhythm too well now—where he’ll pause, when he’ll tilt his head, the beat before he pushes his hair back. He doesn’t look distracted. Doesn’t look distant.

But he’s still watching.

“Wanna come over?” you ask, keeping your voice casual, your eyes lowered just a little as you slide past him toward the corridor. “I was thinking I could pick up something easy on the way. Or we could order in.”

There’s the briefest delay before he answers.

It isn’t hesitation. Just… consideration.

“I think I’m gonna head home tonight,” he says gently, adjusting the strap of his satchel over his shoulder. “I’ve got a few things I want to finish. But tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Tomorrow’s good.”

His smile is small, fond, like he’s trying not to overthink anything.

He walks you to the elevator anyway.

Your footsteps echo in the stillness of the hallway, the only ones left. Your hand brushes against his as you wait for the doors. He catches it gently, laces his fingers through yours, warm and familiar like always.

When the elevator arrives, you turn to face him. He lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to your knuckles—just once. His eyes stay on yours the whole time.

“You’ll text me when you’re home?” he asks.

“Of course.”

He nods. Lets your hand go.

You step into the elevator, turning slowly to face forward, but you feel his eyes linger until the doors slide closed.

Only once you’re alone, surrounded by the gentle hum of flickering overhead lights, does the tension behind your ribs finally start to settle.

You’d wanted him to say yes. You would’ve been happy if he had. You’d even started planning the night in your head. What movie you might put on.

But you’re relieved that he didn’t.

Because something is shifting. You can feel it in the quiet moments, in the weight of his gaze, in the shape of the air when he looks at you for too long.

And you’re not ready for the question.

Not yet.

You don’t turn the lights on when you get home.

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe your shoes off without thinking, jacket sliding down your arm until it lands in a soft heap over the chair. A faint glow from the streetlamp outside leaks through the blinds, striping the floor in pale amber.

You don’t want to be anywhere else. And at the same time, you don’t want to sit still.

Because the thing that’s been gnawing at you for months is louder now. It’s harder to quiet when you’re alone.

You lie back on the bed without undressing. One arm over your head, the other resting on your stomach. The ceiling looks the same as always, a familiar spatter of shadows and paint, but it doesn’t feel neutral tonight. It feels like it’s waiting for something. Like it knows what you’re about to think.

You’re attracted to him.

That’s never been the problem.

If anything, you want him more than you’ve wanted anyone. Your body responds to his before he even touches you. A glance from across the room. The curl of his fingers just above your knee. The way he says your name like he’s still surprised he gets to.

He turns you on constantly. And he doesn’t even have to try.

Just the thought of him — the way his lips feel on your neck, the way his voice drops when he’s close — makes heat gather low in your stomach. You’ve woken up with your thighs pressed tight more times than you care to admit. And every time you’re with him, every time he touches you, it feels good. More than good. It feels like sinking into warm water. Like you could stay there forever.

And yet.

Your hand slides up under your shirt, resting against your ribs. Not even moving, just… there. The pressure of it grounding. You think about the last time. The way he kissed your shoulder after. The way he kept looking at you like he knew something was off but wasn’t sure what. You’d felt the question in his hands, even when he didn’t speak it.

He makes you feel everything. He touches you like you’re fragile but never breaks you. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t push. He listens. He learns.

So why can’t you just let go?

You want to. God, you want to. You want to give him that piece of you. Let him see what it looks like when you fall apart in his hands. Let him know he could make you feel that way. But your body never tips. The heat is there. The need. The ache. It builds and builds, but it never crests. Like something inside you pulls back just at the edge.

And it's not because you’re repressed. It’s not because you’re closed off. You’ve always had a strong sex drive. You get yourself off. You know your body. You're not broken.

But something always freezes the moment someone else is involved.

You close your eyes and try to remember what it felt like the first time he looked at you like you were his whole world. The awe in his voice. The way he held your face like he was afraid it might disappear. You think about the soft tremble in his hands when he touched you, like he was overwhelmed just to be allowed. He’d looked at you like he wanted to give you everything, like if he did it right, you’d see yourself the way he saw you.

And you couldn’t bring yourself to take that from him.

You couldn’t watch the light go out in his eyes.

So you nodded when he asked if you were okay. You kissed him hard enough to make him forget the silence. You gave him a lie shaped like an orgasm and let him believe it was real.

And now, months later, you still don’t know how to undo it.

The call comes just before dawn.

Your phone buzzes against the nightstand with JJ’s name on the screen, and when you answer, her voice is low but direct.

“We’ve got a case. Hotch wants everyone in the conference room in an hour.”

You’re already out of bed by the time the line goes dead.

The bullpen is nearly empty when you arrive. Early sunlight cuts through the windows in long stripes, and the building feels half-asleep, echoing too much under the hum of fluorescent lights.

Morgan’s the first one you see, hoodie thrown over a t-shirt, a coffee cup already in hand. He offers you a short nod as you step off the elevator, and you nod back. No one speaks much at this hour. Not until there’s something to say.

Spencer arrives just behind you, messenger bag slung across his body, hair damp like he ran out of time to dry it. You feel the brush of his hand against your back as he moves past, brief and steady, and the tight coil in your chest eases just a little.

By the time you reach the conference room, most of the team is already inside. JJ has taken her usual spot to Hotch’s right. Emily pulls a chair back beside Morgan and leans forward with her elbows on the table. Spencer settles beside you without a word, flipping open the slim folder in front of him as Garcia finishes queuing up the screen.

There’s no small talk. No easing in.

Hotch’s voice is clipped when he begins. “We’re being pulled in by the Atlanta field office. Third abduction in just under ten days, all within the same ten-mile radius. Women in their thirties, taken from their homes at night. No signs of struggle. Local PD is stretched thin, and they’re requesting immediate support.”

JJ chimes in. “Victim’s name is Erin Reynolds, thirty-four. Disappeared sometime between midnight and 5 a.m. this morning. Husband came home from night shift and found the front door unlocked. No forced entry. No signs of a break-in. Her phone and purse were still inside.”

Garcia clicks through security cam timestamps, cell tower data, and a cluster of reports that don’t quite add up yet. “Our previous two victims were both brunette, medium height, lived alone. Lisa doesn’t fit the pattern, but we’ve got reason to believe she’s connected. The timeline’s tightening. If this follows the same pattern, we have less than forty-eight hours.”

No one has to say it out loud.

That’s why they called you in so early.

Hotch glances around the table. “Wheels up."

Chairs scrape back. Files are gathered. Everyone moves quickly but without urgency, falling into step like a well-oiled machine. It’s early, and it’s going to be a long few days. But the gears are already turning.

And whatever was sitting at the back of your mind when you woke up, it doesn’t follow you out the door.

By the time the jet touches down in Atlanta, the team already has working theories. Profiles start to take shape somewhere over Virginia. Patterns laid out, contradictions marked, victimology still shifting beneath their feet.

The days that follow bleed together in the way they always do when you're chasing time. Interviews, evidence review, press coordination, jurisdictional tension with local PD. You barely see a hotel room before you're back in the field again, shuffling through another lead that feels promising until it isn’t. Every new piece of data opens a door, but none of them lead straight through.

The team splits up more than once. You and Spencer canvass a neighbourhood with a narrow window of potential witnesses. JJ and Morgan chase down a former coworker with a sealed juvenile record. Emily spends two hours on the phone with the mother of one of the earlier victims while Hotch walks the crime scene with local detectives. Garcia filters everything from Quantico, piecing together timelines and tech that might tie the victims together.

The stress never spikes. It just simmers.

You eat when you can. Sleep when it’s offered. Think only about the case and the hours left on the clock. When the local media catches wind of a potential serial, the pressure tightens. Suddenly, you're not just solving a case — you're doing it with spotlights on your backs and families waiting for answers you don't yet have.

And still, there's no sign of Erin Reynolds.

You don’t think about much else. The rest of your life gets compartmentalized, pushed aside. Your body is tired in that bone-deep, functional way. Not restless like it was at home, not tight with anticipation or dread.

Just… tired.

When the break finally comes, it’s quiet. A fingerprint match on an abandoned vehicle. A phone ping that narrows the search radius. You find the unsub before the next forty-eight hours are up. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t confess either. But his prints are all over Erin’s missing cell phone, and by the time you search his house, she’s already been moved.

The recovery is tense but smooth. She’s alive. Scared. Injured. But alive.

And when the case closes, it does so with relief and exhaustion in equal measure.

No celebration. Just stillness. Stillness and paperwork.

The flight home is quiet. Not solemn, but muted. Everyone burned out in the same way, even Spencer, who spends most of the trip reviewing final reports with his knee bouncing subtly under the table.

Everyone moves slowly, weighed down by the kind of fatigue that doesn’t hit until everything is over. No more checklists. No more clocks. Just the long exhale that comes after a case breaks and closes all at once.

You say your goodbyes half-heartedly in the parking garage. No handshakes, no jokes. Just tired nods and quiet acknowledgements. Everyone heading their own way. Promising sleep, even if it never really comes.

Spencer falls into step beside you without saying anything. He doesn’t ask if you want company. You don’t ask if he’s too tired. It’s just understood. The kind of easy, worn-in rhythm that only comes after months of falling into each other’s orbit on muscle memory alone.

You drive with the windows cracked just enough to let the chill air in. He holds your hand over the centre console. Neither of you speak.

At your apartment, you kick your shoes off by the door and don’t bother with the lights. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair, his bag sliding to the floor with a soft thud. You flick on the lamp in the living room — low, warm — and both of you just stand there for a moment, not quite ready to break the silence.

You end up curled together on the couch. Legs tangled. One of his hands on your thigh, the other at your waist. Some old movie plays without sound in the background, the flicker of it catching on the curve of his jaw as he leans into you like he’s just trying to breathe you in.

No tension. No worry. No waiting.

Just stillness. Finally.

He rests his forehead against yours and sighs. Not heavy. Not loaded. Just tired.

And you close your eyes.

You don’t open your eyes right away. Just let yourself exist like that for a while, forehead to his, your breath mixing with his in the space between.

Your hand lifts without thinking, brushing the edge of his jaw, thumb tracing the line of his cheek. His skin is soft there. A little rough from the day but familiar under your touch. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t speak. Just tilts slightly toward you, like even the smallest gesture might anchor him closer.

You let your fingers drift. Down his neck. Across his collarbone. Not teasing. Not purposeful. Just exploring the way you always do when it’s quiet enough to feel him like this.

His eyes flutter, barely open, and for a moment you think he might speak. But he doesn’t. He just watches you with that gentle, unreadable look — all tired affection and something slower beneath it.

Your palm flattens over his chest. His heartbeat is steady under your hand, and you feel the rise and fall of his breathing like it’s syncing with yours. You shift a little closer, your nose brushing the corner of his mouth.

“I missed you this week,” you murmur, quiet, not quite sure where the words come from.

His lips quirk, soft and crooked. “I was right there.”

“I know.” You press your nose to his cheek, let your voice fall just above a whisper. “Still.”

His hand curls tighter around your hip. The moment hangs there, warm and suspended, something gentle stretching out between you. Not electric. Not heavy. Just present. You let your thumb drift along the base of his throat, feeling the subtle movement there, the quiet swallow like he’s holding something down.

You lean in, nose to nose, barely touching. His breath catches, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t close the gap.

So you do.

Your mouth finds his in a slow kiss, soft and seeking, your fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt. It’s not hungry, not rushed. Just the kind of kiss that asks for more without saying it out loud.

And when you draw back just a little, your lips brushing his, he follows. Not with pressure, but with presence. Eyes lidded. Hands still gentle. He’s letting you decide.

You thread your fingers through his hair, and he exhales against your mouth like he’s been holding that breath since the second you touched him.

You shift again, just enough for your leg to slide more firmly between his. His breath hitches like it surprises even him, and when your thumb brushes under his jaw, his eyes flutter shut.

Your fingers trace the edge of his collar, then down, easing the buttons of his shirt open one by one. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t rush you. He just watches, quiet and steady, as if you’re both agreeing not to say anything yet.

You press your mouth to the hollow of his throat. His hand tightens at your waist.

Still, neither of you speak.

You shift in his lap, just enough to make him exhale again, his hands sliding up along your back as you pull him closer by the belt loops of his pants. Another kiss, slow and seeking. Another press of your chest against his. You can feel the warmth of him now, the steady tension beneath his skin, the quiet restraint that tells you he’s waiting for you to decide what comes next.

You tilt your head, brushing your lips across his cheek.

“Come to bed,” you whisper.

He nods, barely more than a breath, and leans in to kiss you again as you rise to your feet. He follows you without a word, fingers catching at your hip, steadying you as he stands.

You step backward toward the bedroom, and he follows, each of your hands still clutching a part of the other. His fingers at your waist. Yours twisted in the open edge of his shirt.

You glance back once, just to catch the way he's watching you. His mouth parted. Eyes heavy.

The bedroom is dim, cooler than the rest of the apartment. The blinds are drawn, and the only light comes from the hallway. It lands in soft strips across the bed, the edge of the dresser, the faint shine of the floorboards.

You turn to face him at the foot of the bed and slide your hands slowly up his chest. His shirt is already loosened, the buttons undone, fabric parted enough to feel the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. You lean in for another kiss. Not demanding. Just deep. Familiar. Like something you've both been aching for since the second you walked through the door.

His hands settle on your hips again, more certain now. Like the slow touch of someone who knows exactly how you feel under his palms. He kisses you back with that same patience, but there's something more behind it now.

The backs of your fingers graze his collarbones as you ease his shirt from his shoulders, letting it fall somewhere behind him. He catches your wrist before you can move away, thumb brushing the inside with the faintest pressure. You lean in again, mouth catching his, slower this time, deeper, and feel the sound he makes somewhere low in his chest.

His palms skim your sides. They slip under the hem of your shirt and pause there, waiting, fingertips just resting at the warm dip of your back.

The fabric lifts over your head in a single smooth motion, tossed aside without a glance. He’s already kissing down your neck, down your shoulder, hands spreading across your ribs. His nose nudges the top of your chest. He lingers there, lips parting but not pressing. Just breathing. Taking in the heat of your skin, the shift in your breath, the way you lean into him without hesitation.

His breath finds your sternum, your ribs, the small space between, before his mouth does. It’s slow, almost reverent in its care, but there’s a tremor of hunger beneath it that keeps his movements from feeling practiced. His lips follow the line of your body until his hair brushes your chin and you can feel the quiet tremble of his inhale against your skin.

Your hands find his shoulders, then his back, fingers moving through the warmth of him. The muscles beneath your palms shift with each careful breath he takes. When he lifts his head, his mouth is pink, slightly damp, and his expression has softened into something open and unguarded. You can tell he’s thinking again, the way he does when he’s not sure if he should let himself want something this much.

He tries to speak, but the words fall away before they reach you. Instead, he brings his mouth back to your chest and stays there until you tilt your head back and exhale.

The rest of your clothes come away between touches and small pauses, quiet enough that the sound of your heartbeat feels louder than the fabric shifting.

His hands ease lower, slipping over your hips, steady and warm, coaxing you gently back. You move with him, small steps in retreat until the mattress finds the backs of your knees. He doesn’t press. Just waits. Watching. Letting you set the pace.

You sit, and his hand comes with you, palm dragging along your thigh as you shift back across the sheets. He follows, knees sinking into the mattress, the weight of him tilting just slightly toward you.

Your head meets the pillow, spine curving into the bed. His hand finds your calf and drags it forward with him, guiding your leg around his waist. He bends to kiss you again, slower this time, lips brushing yours like he’s reacquainting himself with the shape of your mouth.

His pants and underwear come off somewhere between kisses and the careful sweep of your foot down his thigh. You feel the shift of fabric, the give of his body beneath it. You don’t look to see where they land. He doesn’t either.

His weight settles over you in degrees, chest brushing yours, thigh braced between yours. His hands stay in motion, smoothing along your sides, your stomach, your arms, like he needs the reminder that you’re here, warm beneath him, letting him in.

And when he lifts his head again, something in his expression has changed. Still soft. Still open. But focused now, pulled inward, like he’s turning something over in his mind. Something delicate. Something not ready to be named.

His hands shift again, gliding up from your hips to the space just beneath your chest. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t speak. Just watches for the way your breath lifts when his thumbs skim the undersides of your breasts.

He leans down, mouth brushing over your sternum first. Then higher. His hands mould around you, thumbs splaying outward as his palms lift and cup, easing you upward to meet his mouth. He kisses slowly, not just at the peak but around it, lips soft and warm and open, dragging heat across your skin. His tongue follows, flicking lightly once, then again, before drawing your nipple into his mouth.

You arch, just barely. A soft inhale. Your thighs tighten slightly at his hips.

His mouth drifts lower, trailing slow, deliberate heat across your chest, the weight of his body anchored carefully against yours. His thigh shifts between yours, not in search of friction but contact, his skin warm where it meets yours.

One hand braces beside your ribs, the other lifting again, steadying the curve of your breast in his palm. His thumb slides across the peak once, then again, gauging the way it tightens under his touch. He doesn’t speak. Just watches.

The next kiss lands slightly to the side, lips brushing the soft edge before drawing in. His tongue flicks, slow and light, followed by a firmer pass of his mouth. The response is subtle, but it’s there. The way your hand tightens at his bicep. The way your breath catches when he seals his lips around you and draws just slightly deeper.

He stays there longer than usual, careful not to change rhythm, not to push. Alternating pressure. Warm breath. Another slow pass of his tongue. Then a pause, just long enough to feel the flutter of your pulse against his cheek.

His hand shifts to the other side. His mouth follows. Again he watches. Tracks the rise of your chest, the way your eyes slip shut. Notes the absence of hesitation. The way your hips shift, slow and unconscious beneath his.

The tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease, but something quiet steadies. A thought settling into place.

He lingers a moment more, brushing his nose against the curve of your breast, inhaling faintly as if trying to memorize something. Then his mouth returns, soft and warm, and his hand slips lower, gliding over your ribs in search of the next sign.

His mouth stays at your chest a while longer, lips warm and slow, tongue flicking and curling in a rhythm meant to soothe, to tease. His hand shifts to the other breast, thumb brushing a soft arc around the peak before giving a gentle squeeze. His palm lifts and moulds again, cradling you in his hand like he’s trying to feel every part of your response through the skin.

You arch into it.

Not dramatically. Not preformative. Just enough. Your breath catches on the inhale and exhales through parted lips. Your back flexes beneath him and your thigh presses slightly firmer at his hip.

He notices.

The small details. The rhythm of your breath. The press of your hand at his shoulder. The way your head tips back when his mouth seals over you again, suckling lightly, then harder, then softer again. He lingers. Traces his tongue around the edge and feels you tremble under him.

So far, everything lines up.

There’s no falter in your reactions, no pause or stiffness. He doesn’t rush. He takes his time. Stays just long enough to watch the ripple of pleasure as it moves through you, to confirm the subtle signals he’s been tracking since you stepped into the bedroom.

Then he lifts his head.

His hands ease lower, smoothing across your ribs, your waist, and down toward your hips. He kisses the centre of your chest one last time, then lets his lips drift down the line of your torso.

He watches the way your stomach shifts under the soft scrape of his stubble. Watches your fingers twitch in the sheets. When his hands settle just beneath your hips, he pauses.

Just for a breath.

Not because he’s unsure.

Because he’s paying attention.

His lips linger at your chest, warm and open, hands splayed wide at your waist. He breathes against you a moment longer, then lifts his head and shifts lower. Kisses your ribs again, the soft plane of your stomach, the dip beneath your navel. His hands follow. One slides to your thigh. The other presses gently along the top of your hip, thumb tracing the skin there in slow, steady circles.

He settles between your legs without a word.

You inhale.

It’s not abrupt. Not forceful. Just a gentle change in weight, a shift in focus. His hair brushes your stomach. His mouth hovers. The tip of his nose grazes just above the place he wants to be.

Then he looks up.

Not for show. Not for permission. But because he needs to look at you. Because something’s been sitting in the back of his mind for weeks now, and he’s almost sure. Almost.

His eyes are soft when they meet yours. Open. Curious. A little unsure.

You thread your fingers through his hair, breathing through the tension rising low in your belly. It’s instinctive, the way your hand curves against his scalp. The way you tug, just barely, like maybe this time you can redirect without speaking.

“Come here,” you say, low. Soft. Like you always do.

But this time, he doesn’t move.

He kisses your hip instead. Then the inside of your thigh. His hand smooths down to the back of your knee and lifts gently, opening you a little more beneath him. Not asking. Not pushing. Just… staying.

You tug again, firmer now.

Still, he doesn’t shift. His mouth finds the crease where your leg meets your core, and he breathes there, eyes never leaving yours.

And suddenly the moment changes.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. But it’s there.

The quiet plea in his gaze. The way his fingers press just slightly firmer at your thigh. Like he’s trying to say let me. Like he’s wondering.

You feel it. All of it.

And you can’t redirect again without breaking something fragile.

So your hand stills in his hair.

And he waits. Breath steady. Mouth close.

Watching. Not demanding. Just watching.

Trying to find the answer in your body before he asks out loud.

You shift again, fingers curling deeper into his hair. “Spence,” you whisper, voice low and coaxing. There’s a small smile in it, something soft and familiar that always makes him melt. “Come here.”

Your hips lift, subtle. Your other hand slides down his chest, tracing the line of his sternum, the edge of his ribs. You drag your nails lightly across his stomach, a gentle plea disguised as touch. His breath catches, but his focus doesn’t move.

You pull again, this time tugging his chin up, brushing your thumb along his jaw as if to remind him of where you want him. “Please,” you say, quieter now. “I want you.”

He hears it. Every word. The warmth, the affection, the careful shape of it. The same rhythm, the same tone you use every time you lead him away from this. It isn’t rejection. It’s redirection. It always has been.

He looks up at you then. Really looks.

Your head is tilted to the side. Your chest rises and falls in slow rhythm, a flush building at your throat. You look beautiful. You always do. And yet — there it is again. That edge of uncertainty in your smile, the way your hand trembles just slightly against his cheek.

“Please,” you whisper again. “I just want you.”

He stays where he is. Hands still steady at your thighs. The heat in his gaze doesn’t fade, but it narrows. He’s thinking again, that quiet, meticulous way he does when something doesn’t add up. When every piece fits too perfectly to be real.

He leans forward once more, presses a kiss to your inner thigh, and breathes you in like he’s trying to memorize something important. His voice is quiet when he speaks, almost a hum against your skin.

“Let me, angel,” he says. “Please.”

It isn’t a command. It’s not even a question. It’s a request wrapped in devotion.

And that’s the moment he knows — the way you hesitate. The way your hand stills against him. The way you whisper his name again, soft and trembling, not in want, but in quiet panic.

That’s when it clicks.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just draws a slow breath and starts to shift, easing his weight off you with a kind of carefulness that makes your brows pinch together before you can stop yourself.

“Hey,” you say, quiet but immediate, hands reaching to catch him at the waist. “What’s wrong?”

His touch stays on you. One hand glides up your thigh. The other traces your ribs as he leans forward to press a soft kiss just above your navel.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, voice low, steady. “I just—” He lifts his head, meets your eyes. “Can we sit up? Just for a minute.”

You nod, unsure, but you let him guide you anyway. His hand slips beneath your back, not rushing, just coaxing you upright as he shifts alongside you. He reaches for the sheet without a word and pulls it up over both your bodies.

The pillows are soft behind you, but your shoulders are tense. You glance over at him, waiting. Watching the way his mouth opens, then closes again. How his eyes move like he’s working through something word by word before he says it aloud.

“Okay,” he says finally, exhaling. “I need to ask something, but I don’t want you to think it means something bad. Or that you did something wrong. Because you didn’t. I swear you didn’t.”

Your pulse skips.

He notices. Of course he does.

He keeps going. A little faster now, like he’s afraid he’ll lose the nerve if he slows down. “I’ve just… I’ve been thinking about something. It’s probably nothing. It’s probably just me overanalyzing things. But if it’s not, then I want to know. I want to understand it, and I want to fix it. If there’s anything to fix. I just don’t want to keep going like this without asking. I don’t want to make assumptions. About us. About you. Because I care too much to get it wrong.”

You shift toward him slightly, legs still tangled under the sheet. Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. “Spence. What is it?”

He hesitates. Then his hand finds yours, fingers lacing, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles.

“Can I ask you something?” he says. “And will you be honest?”

And that’s when you know.

It drops into your chest like a stone. Heavy. Inevitable.

You meet his eyes. You try to hold his gaze like it doesn’t sting, like you haven’t been waiting for this question since the first time you moved his head away with a kiss and a whispered “later.”

You nod.

He asks, gently, “Have I ever made you orgasm?”

Emily’s across the room at the bar. You clock her in your periphery even when you aren’t looking. She hasn’t taken her eyes off you since you approached the target. You can feel her gaze like a brand at the nape of your neck. She’s not good at hiding it tonight, not when he’s got a hand at your waist, not when you laugh too easily at something he says, not when you lean in close under the pretense of being heard.

You know how you look. You know how Emily sees you. Skirt tight and short, the top low-cut, one of her favourite pairs of heels that she told you make your legs look like they go on for miles. And it’s for the case, technically. But you don’t miss the way her jaw sets when he tucks your hair behind your ear. You don’t miss the way her hand tightens around her drink when your fingers brush the unsub’s chest, casual and slow.

You’re not trying to torture her. But you’re playing a role, and she knew that going in. Still, the flash in her eyes when you look her way, just once, just long enough to meet her gaze before the unsub’s hand starts to slide lower, tells you exactly how thin her patience is running.

It’s not long after that the takedown happens. Smooth, clean, no mess. You don’t have to touch the guy again. The team moves in. The cuffs go on. No one gets hurt.

And then it’s over.

You expect Emily to decompress like the rest of them. To have a drink. To celebrate a case closed. Instead, she doesn’t say much of anything. Doesn’t answer JJ when she asks if you two are joining them at the bar. Doesn’t look at you when you make a joke. Doesn't make a noise on the ride home.

The second the front door closes behind you, she crowds you back against it.

Not angry. Not rough.

Just controlled.

Simmering.

Her mouth near your ear. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

The heat in her voice doesn’t match the cool of her words. She’s already pressing her body against yours, thigh between your legs, mouth at your throat.

“I wasn’t,” you say.

She kisses just below your jaw. “Didn’t look like that from where I was standing.”

“I was doing my job.”

“You’re very good at your job,” she murmurs, voice low and firm and possessive. “But that doesn’t mean you get to walk away like nothing happened.”

Her hands find your hips. Pull you closer. Her breath is hot against your collarbone. There’s no distance left between you. No space for confusion. Just her, everywhere, all at once. Jealousy, yes. But not the destructive kind. Not the kind that causes doubt. It’s the kind that stakes a claim.

And tonight, she’s going to make sure you remember exactly who you belong to.

She doesn’t take her time. Not in the way that means patience, not in the way that gives you room to think. She moves like she’s already made up her mind. Like everything you did back at the club has been burned into her memory and she’s not going to rest until she’s overwritten it all.

Her teeth scrape against the delicate skin beneath your ear. Not hard, not yet. Just enough pressure to make your breath catch, just enough to make heat pool low in your belly. Her fingers tighten at your waist. You can feel her knuckles brush skin where your top has ridden up. There’s nothing tentative in the way she holds you. Nothing soft in the grip she has on your body.

“You let him touch you,” she says, her voice low and steady, lips brushing over your skin as she speaks. “You let him talk to you like he had a chance.”

She bites a little harder this time. Not enough to leave a mark, not quite. But she’s close. And when her tongue flicks over the spot a second later, soothing and hot, it makes your knees weaken.

“You think I didn’t see the way you looked at him?” Another nip, higher this time, closer to your jaw. “The way you laughed? The way you leaned in like you wanted him?”

You start to speak, some kind of protest, some reminder that it was all for the case, but she cuts you off with another bite. This one leaves a sting.

“Don’t,” she says, breath hot against your neck. “I don’t need an excuse. I know it was fake. That’s not the point.”

Her hand slides down. Skims the hem of your skirt. Lingers there. Fingers pressing just a little too deliberately along the back of your thigh.

“The point is,” she murmurs, nipping her way across your throat now, her voice going quieter and rougher as it settles into your skin, “he got to touch you. He got to smell you. He got to imagine what you’d sound like when you’re falling apart.”

Her hand moves higher.

“He got to watch you smile like you wanted him.”

You gasp when her teeth sink in at the base of your neck. No hesitation this time. She’s going to leave a mark. She wants to. You can feel it in the way she sucks until your skin pulses, the way her other hand fists into the fabric at your waist, keeping you right where she wants you.

“And I had to stand there,” she goes on, the words dragged against your skin, each one hotter than the last. “Watching him put his hands on what’s mine.”

You’re breathless now, back arching, hands gripping the front of her shirt like you need something to ground yourself with. But Emily doesn’t let up.

“I should’ve dragged you out of that club,” she growls softly. “Should’ve bent you over the table and reminded you who you belong to.”

Her tongue flicks over the new mark. She breathes in deep like she’s trying to calm herself, but she doesn’t stop.

“Maybe I still will.”

Her mouth trails lower, dragging across your collarbone, your chest. Hands still gripping your thighs, pushing your skirt up inch by inch. Every movement deliberate. Every word a match thrown into kindling.

“Say it,” she whispers. “Say you’re mine.”

Your pulse hammers under your skin. Your voice comes out wrecked already. “I’m yours.”

“That’s right.”

Another mark. Another bruise-to-be at your shoulder.

“Every inch of you. Every sound you make. Every fucking look you give. It’s all mine.”

You’ve never felt so wanted. So claimed. So utterly undone before she’s even gotten your clothes off.

She pulls back just enough to look at you. Her eyes are darker than they were at the club, rimmed in something low and smouldering, something barely held in check. She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t need to. She’s already decided what tonight’s going to be.

Her hands slide down your sides, steady, purposeful, then off you completely.

"Bedroom," she says. Nothing more.

You go without hesitation, legs still a little weak, skin still prickling where her mouth left heat and bruises behind. You hear her follow, slow, deliberate steps. She doesn’t rush. She’s letting the anticipation spread.

By the time you reach the bed, you can feel her presence behind you like pressure against your spine. You turn, expecting her to reach for you again, to press you back, but she doesn’t. She stays just out of reach.

Her arms fold across her chest.

“You want me to fuck you?” Her tone is even, controlled. Still riding that razor’s edge between composed and absolutely gone. “Then get on your knees.”

You hesitate for less than a second. The tone in her voice doesn’t leave room for questions. You drop.

The carpet’s rough under your bare knees. The room is quiet except for your breath and hers. You keep your eyes on her thighs, waiting. She steps closer, and your breath catches again when you see her fingers go to the waistband of her jeans. She unbuttons them slowly. Then she stops.

"You want my hands on you tonight," she says, "you're going to earn it."

She doesn’t look away as she pushes her pants and underwear down together, not slow for your sake, but deliberate, exposing herself without the faintest hint of modesty. Her pubic hair is dark, thick, natural, soft curls framing everything below like velvet shadows against her skin. It’s not trimmed for anyone’s gaze. It’s not put on display. It’s just her—real and raw and so goddamn hot it makes your mouth go dry.

She hooks a leg over your shoulder, pulling you closer without a shred of hesitation, voice low and rough.

“You let him touch you,” she says again, fingers sliding into your hair, gripping just enough to keep you still. “So now you’re going to make it up to me. With your mouth. Until I decide you deserve more.”

Your heart stutters hard against your ribs. She doesn’t wait for a reply. Just uses that grip to pull you in closer, spreading her stance wider, one foot braced on the floor, the other still looped over your shoulder.

“You don’t stop until I tell you.”

And then she presses herself to your mouth, not gently. Not soft. Just raw and needy, slick already, the warm press of her thighs bracketing your head. You breathe her in, familiar and earthy and clean, the faint scent of skin and sweat and heat clinging to the curls that brush against your face.

You start slow, lips soft against her, tongue parting her with reverence—but that isn’t what she wants.

“Don’t tease,” she snaps. “He didn’t tease when he touched you. You didn’t tease when you giggled in his ear.”

Her voice tightens as you adjust, licking deeper, dragging your tongue over the slick length of her, flicking her clit harder, faster. She groans low, thighs twitching around your face, hips rocking forward into your mouth like she’s taking what’s owed.

“You think I didn’t see the way you looked at him?” she growls. “The way you laughed? The way you leaned in like you fucking wanted it?”

You try to speak, some half-formed denial, but she pulls your hair tight and pushes you deeper.

“Shut up.”

It’s not angry. It’s not cruel.

“Open wider,” she snaps again, voice already breaking at the edges. “You’re going to make me come just like this. On your face. With my thighs around your head. And then maybe I’ll touch you.”

Her breath hitches when you moan against her, the vibration setting something off. Her hips grind down harder, her slick thick on your chin now, your tongue aching with the effort of keeping up with her pace.

“You like this,” she pants. “You like being used. Like being a toy I use to get myself off. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

You nod, helpless and wrecked, nose pressed against the heat of her, your mouth slick and swollen, jaw burning, arms trembling.

“Fuck—right there—don’t stop.”

Her hand fists in your hair. Her whole body tenses.

Her body is slick and hot and aching against your tongue, and you feel it in every part of you—her tension, her hunger, the possessive fury just barely held back behind each slow roll of her hips. Her grip in your hair is firm, not punishing, but tight enough to make sure you don't move unless she wants you to.

You open wider like she told you, jaw straining, tongue flattening beneath her. You drag slow, deliberate strokes through the wet heat between her thighs, letting your nose nudge through the soft curls at her mound as you bury yourself deeper.

You want her to fall apart on you.

You want her to make a mess of you.

When you draw your tongue back and shift to her clit again, your lips wrap around it gently, then tighter, sucking until you feel her hips jolt.

“Fuck—god, you’re filthy for it,” she snarls. “You like this too much. You don’t even want me to touch you, you just want my cum in your mouth.”

Your moan answers her. You lap at her in long, fluid motions, alternating between the soft suck of your lips and the steady flick of your tongue, circling her clit over and over, faster now, until your jaw aches and your hands are trembling and she’s shaking above you.

Her thigh is flexing hard against your shoulder. She’s trying to stay upright, but her body’s giving out, her legs twitching under the weight of it. You feel the tremor in her belly when you push two fingers into the plush softness of her inner thigh for leverage and seal your mouth over her again.

“Suck it,” she groans. “Harder—don’t stop. Fucking don’t you dare stop.”

Her body takes over.

There’s no finesse in it now, no effort to maintain control. Just the pure, instinctive rhythm of her hips as they start to roll harder, faster, her cunt pressing down against your mouth like she needs more than you can give. Her slick is everywhere, soaking your chin, smearing across your cheeks, hot and endless, and the soft curls at her mound drag over your nose with every grind of her hips.

“Fuck, yes—just like that,” she pants, her voice barely holding together. Her fingers tighten in your hair again, anchoring you there, holding your face exactly where she wants it. “You’re gonna stay right there. Gonna let me fuck your face.”

You moan again, deeper this time, letting the sound vibrate into her. She responds with a sharp gasp, a shudder that ripples through her body as she bears down harder, grinding her clit against your tongue like she’s chasing it now, like she’s desperate to tip over.

Her cunt rocks against your mouth again, the motion raw, messy, all slick and heat and pressure. Your lips stay parted, your tongue working in time with every roll of her hips, licking up and down her slit, then flattening again to let her grind on you. You’re soaked now, every breath tasting like her, every inch of your skin below your nose marked with her arousal.

She’s using you.

Not cruelly. Not thoughtlessly.

But wholly.

Entirely.

Her body jerks when you suck harder, your mouth sealing around her clit again, tongue flicking, dragging, catching her just right. She chokes on a gasp, one hand flying to the wall to steady herself, the other still locked in your hair, holding you still as her hips begin to stutter.

“You want it?” she hisses. “You want me to cum all over that pretty fucking face?”

You nod as best you can, eyes half-lidded, mouth open, lips bruised from the force of her riding you.

“Then earn it.”

She grinds again, rougher now, rhythm falling apart as she gets close. Her breath punches out of her in short, desperate gasps. She’s muttering now, broken curses between clenched teeth, hips jerking, thighs clenching around your ears.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna cum, don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

And you don’t.

You lock your mouth over her, tongue relentless, letting her rock and ride and rut against your face until her body breaks.

She cums hard.

It hits her all at once—hips locking, cunt spasming against your tongue, thighs trembling. Her head falls back and a strangled, wrecked moan tears from her throat as she grinds down through it, fucking her release into your mouth like she wants to leave it there, like she wants to keep tasting it on your lips later.

You don’t stop until she pulls away.

Not because you want to stop. But because she’s too sensitive now, her whole body twitching and pulsing, her slick thick on your tongue and your chin and probably the floor. She pulls back with a sharp inhale, thighs still trembling, hand sliding from your hair down to your jaw. Her thumb smears through the wet mess she left on your skin, dragging it slow across your cheek like she wants to see it shine in the light.

Her chest is heaving. Her pupils are blown wide. She stares down at you with something that isn't quite a smirk but holds all the danger of one.

“You look so fucking pretty like that,” she murmurs, thumb slipping over your bottom lip, pressing just enough to make your mouth open again. “All ruined. And I haven’t even touched you yet.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment.

Just stands there, panting, flushed and trembling slightly from how hard she came, the shine of it still slicking your lips. Her fingers trail down from your cheek to your throat, a soft, teasing line that barely lingers before she pulls her hand away entirely. Then, without a word, she reaches for her shirt.

The silence stretches between you, heavy and pulsing, lit with the kind of heat that makes you dizzy. You stay on your knees, watching her. Watching the slow reveal as she peels the sweat-damp fabric over her head and tosses it to the floor. Her bra goes next. There’s nothing careful or seductive about it. She undresses like she owns the room, like she owns you. Like she doesn’t need to put on a show because you’re already undone.

Your eyes drag over her chest, over her stomach, over the dark patch of hair between her thighs still slick with arousal. She notices your stare and lets you have it. Lets you look. For a second.

Then she points at you.

“Clothes. Off.”

You scramble to obey, fumbling with your top, shimmying out of your skirt, the wetness between your legs thick now, hot and aching from being ignored so long. You don’t try to hide it. You let her see what she’s done to you. You let her see how soaked your thighs are.

But she doesn’t come closer.

She just sits down on the edge of the bed, legs slightly parted, hands resting casually on her thighs. Her expression is calm. Almost amused.

“Come here,” she says.

You move, still breathless, still flushed, your clothes in a heap behind you. But when you go to kneel again, her hand shoots out, catching your wrist.

“No,” she says, voice low and firm. “Over my lap.”

Your heart skips.

She tugs you forward, guiding you until you're bent over her thighs, hands braced against the bed, your bare chest pressed to the covers. Her legs shift under you, helping to support you better.

“I told you,” she says, her palm gliding slowly over the swell of your ass. “You don’t get to walk away from what you did tonight.”

You shiver.

“You wanted to play games at the club?” she says. “Now you’re going to pay for it.”

Her hand lingers on the curve of your ass, the touch deceptively soft, almost tender. It doesn’t match the look in her eyes, or the sharp command of her voice, or the tension that’s still coiled in her from everything you stirred up earlier tonight. She strokes slowly, fingers dragging across your skin like she’s mapping it out. Like she’s imagining what it’s going to look like by the time she’s done with you.

You’re already shaking.

Not from fear. Not from cold.

But from anticipation.

“You knew what you were doing tonight,” she says finally. Her tone is even. Measured. But there’s a thread of heat beneath it that betrays just how tightly she’s holding her control. “Smiling at him. Touching him. Letting him get close.”

You open your mouth to speak, but her hand presses down firmly against your lower back.

“No. You’ve had your chance to talk.” She pauses. The hand stroking your ass slides between your legs for just a second, enough to make your thighs twitch. She doesn’t give you anything, not yet, just feels how wet you still are. Her breath catches a little at the proof of it.

“You’re dripping,” she says, almost to herself. “Fucking soaked. And I haven’t even laid a hand on you.”

The pressure lifts again. Her fingers resume their slow path over your skin, soft now, almost tender in contrast to the edge in her voice.

“You want to act like a slut?” she murmurs. “Then you get punished like one.”

You press your cheek against the covers, your pulse a hard, pounding drum in your throat.

“I’m going to spank you,” she says. “Fifteen times. You’re going to count them. Out loud. I want to hear you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, the anticipation flooding your body so fast it makes your head spin.

“And when we’re done…” Her voice dips lower. “You’re going to thank me.”

The silence afterward is sharp, like she’s letting the rules settle in. Like she’s giving you the chance to absorb them before she moves forward.

Then her hand slides up your spine, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades, grounding you again.

“Colour?” she asks, soft but firm.

You don’t hesitate.

“Green.”

Emily doesn’t say anything at first. Just lets the silence stretch, lets it settle around you like a second skin. Her hand stays on your back, warm and steady, her thumb tracing slow circles just below your shoulder blade. It’s not comfort. It’s control. The kind that says she’s in no rush, that she’s going to take her time with this, that you’re going to feel every second of what you’ve earned.

Then her hand leaves your back.

The first slap lands clean across the curve of your ass. It’s not hard, not yet—just enough to startle, to spark something beneath your skin.

“One,” you whisper, breath catching in your throat.

“Louder,” she says, calm and cool. “I want the neighbours to know you’re getting punished.”

You swallow hard, cheeks already burning. “One.”

Her hand smooths over the spot she just struck, rubbing the sting into your skin with slow, deliberate pressure. Then lifts again.

The second swat is sharper. More direct. It lands just to the side of the first, the skin there more sensitive. You flinch. Not away from her, but into it.

“Two,” you gasp, louder now.

Your thighs are already slick, the ache between them deepening with each breath. The burn from the spanks is blooming now, a dull, glowing heat that spreads from your ass to your core. You press your hips tighter to her thigh without thinking, seeking friction, relief, anything.

Emily notices.

“No rubbing,” she warns, voice low. Her hand comes down again, this time a little lower, catching the underside of your ass where it’s softest.

You yelp. “Three.”

The sting bites sharper now. It lingers longer. Your breath stutters as you try to settle again, fingers curling into the covers.

Four lands on the opposite side, the sharp crack of it echoing through the room. “Four,” you moan, hips rolling before you can stop them.

Her hand slides between your legs for just a second. Not to touch. Just to feel. She groans when she finds you wet and swollen.

“You’re dripping all over me,” she says, amused now, her palm dragging back over your sore skin. “And we’re not even halfway there.”

The next two come quick, one after the other. Five. Six. You gasp both numbers through clenched teeth, your voice getting shakier as the burn builds. The sting is layered now, sharp on the surface, warm underneath, humming through you like a live current. It hurts, but not in a way that makes you want to stop. It hurts in the way that twists low in your belly, in the way that makes your clit throb against nothing.

She gives you a pause after six. Her hand strokes over your ass, both cheeks now red and warm beneath her palm. You can feel how sticky your inner thighs are, how badly you want her to touch you, how close you are to begging already.

But she’s not done.

Seven is harder. A deliberate test of how much you can take. Your breath hitches, the number caught in your throat for a second before you force it out.

“Seven.”

She hums, pleased. Her other hand rubs along your back again, grounding, before her palm strikes again.

Eight. Nine.

Your legs tremble. The burn is deep now, rooted in your core, radiating with every beat of your pulse. Your cunt is aching. Empty. Clenching around nothing. Every time she slaps you, your hips jolt forward, instinctive, desperate.

Ten lands straight in the centre, right where the muscle is fullest, where the heat lives hottest now. You moan the number this time, not even trying to hide it.

Emily chuckles low behind you. Her hand strokes the abused skin, fingers slipping lower, trailing between your legs again, spreading your slick lazily along your folds, but not quite touching your clit. Not yet.

“Look at you,” she murmurs. “So turned on you’re shaking. You love this, don’t you?”

You nod. Voice lost in the rush of blood in your ears.

“Use your words,” she says, pressing two fingers against the inside of your thigh, close enough to make you whimper. “Tell me how much you love it.”

“I love it,” you breathe, frantic now. “I love it, Emily. Please—”

She spanks you again. Hard. “Eleven.”

You choke on the number, moan it through clenched teeth.

“Twelve.”

The pain blurs with the arousal now, a thick haze of heat and want and obedience. You’ve never felt more bare, more open. Your body is humming. Your cunt is leaking down your thighs. The air feels too thin.

Thirteen. Fourteen.

Your voice is ragged. Your body rocks with every hit. You can’t keep still.

Then she pauses. One hand rubbing over the burning skin of your ass, the other still between your thighs, fingers not giving you quite enough.

And then the last one lands.

Fifteen.

Your whole body jerks with it. The sting explodes across your skin and the ache rushes straight to your cunt.

You gasp the number like a prayer. “Fifteen.”

Then a pause. A beat of silence.

You remember what comes next.

“Thank you,” you whisper, dazed and trembling. “Thank you, Emily.”

And her hand finally cups your cunt, warm and wet and solid.

“That’s my good girl.”

Emily’s hand lingers on the curve of your ass for a final moment, her palm warm over the sting she left behind. Then she gives you a soft tap. Not sharp, not playful. Dismissive. A wordless command.

“Up.”

You ease off her lap on unsteady legs, the muscles in your thighs trembling, ass hot and sore and aching in the best kind of way. The room tilts a little as you straighten. Her gaze stays on you the whole time, dark and hungry, flicking down the line of your body like she’s deciding what to do with you next.

She doesn’t stand.

She leans back on her palms for a moment, then shifts higher onto the bed, planting one foot and pushing off the floor with the other so she can scoot back against the pillows. She stretches out with a slow exhale, arms lifting above her head for a breath, her body long and flushed and slick in the low light.

Her thighs fall open slightly, casual, unhurried. There’s nothing preformative in the way she lays there, nothing shy or uncertain—just that same quiet, simmering authority she’s carried all night, like she knows exactly what she wants and how long you’ll take to give it to her.

“Come here,” she says, tilting her chin at you. Two fingers curl lazily in the air. She doesn’t need to say it twice.

You climb onto the bed, moving toward her on all fours, the mattress dipping beneath your knees, your skin still buzzing from the weight of her hand. Your breath catches when you reach her, dropping down on your forearms so your chest brushes lightly against hers, mouth already tilting toward hers for a kiss.

But before you can close the distance, her fingers press to your forehead, firm and final, stopping you in place.

“Uh-uh,” she says, soft but sharp. “No kisses yet.”

Your breath stutters.

Her fingers slide down, dragging over the bridge of your nose, then falling away completely.

“Turn around.”

You blink.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Her voice is lower now, all smoke and command. Her hands slide up your thighs, slow and deliberate.

“Face the other way. Put that pretty cunt over my mouth and your mouth over mine.”

Your breath leaves you in a rush. Heat blooms in your cheeks. Your thighs clench.

She lifts her eyebrows.

Her hands find your hips, guiding you with barely-there pressure as she shifts lower into the pillows. You can feel her thighs parting beneath you, feel the air change between your legs as she speaks again, low and even.

Her hands settle on your hips, thumbs dragging slow, deliberate circles into your skin. She's not rushing you. She's just holding you there, just letting the weight of her words come next.

“You still haven’t earned my touch.”

Her grip tightens just slightly.

“I want your mouth on me. I want to cum on your face again.”

She pauses, watching the way you shiver, the way your breath catches at the base of your throat.

“But you don’t get anything until I decide you've earned it.”

Her voice is calm. Settled. Deadly sure.

She shifts her hips once beneath you, just enough for the slick heat to radiate against your face, a taunt more than a touch.

“Now get started.”

You lower yourself slowly, hands braced against the tops of her thighs, breath shaking as the scent of her floods your senses. She’s slick and warm, swollen from the first orgasm you pulled out of her, her curls damp against your lips before you’ve even touched her properly. Her thighs flex under your palms when your breath fans over her, and still, she doesn’t reach for you.

She just waits.

You drag your tongue through her slowly. From the bottom of her slit all the way up to her clit in one long, deliberate stroke, tasting her again—hot and musky, tinged with salt and sweat.

You feel her inhale through her nose, feel the tension pull tight beneath her ribs, feel the slow press of her hips as she tilts up into your mouth.

You don’t tease. You want to. But she gave you a task, and you’re going to complete it the only way she’ll allow.

Your tongue flicks gently over her clit, soft at first, just enough to make her exhale shift into something heavier. Then again, firmer this time, the tip of your tongue circling slow, gathering slick before pressing flat and dragging over her.

She groans softly, low in her throat, her thighs spreading wider to give you room.

You press in closer.

You seal your mouth over her and suck—light at first, then harder, letting your tongue flick in rhythm, steady and focused. Your hands shift beneath her thighs, holding them open, fingertips digging into the soft flesh just enough to keep her where you want her. Her body twitches when you angle lower, when your tongue dips to tease at her entrance before curling up again to flick her clit. You’re messy with it now. Wet and warm and eager. Each breath you take fills your lungs with her, and each stroke of your tongue draws another sharp twitch from her hips.

Her hands stay off you, just like she said they would. She’s giving you nothing. You haven’t earned it yet.

But she’s breathing harder.

And when you flatten your tongue and start to move it in slow, insistent circles, her hips buck once, uncontrollably, before settling back.

“Just like that,” she murmurs, more breath than voice.

You press in harder. You let her use you. Your jaw aches but you don’t stop. You want to feel her come apart again. You want to be the reason.

You wrap your lips tighter around her clit and suck—hard enough to make her curse under her breath.

You’re buried in her.

Mouth slick with her arousal, chin soaked, your jaw straining with effort and your thighs trembling from holding yourself still. Every part of you is tense with the need to be touched, to be fucked, to be filled, but your mouth stays locked to her cunt, your tongue relentless and aching. You flick over her clit in steady strokes, then slow to circle, then suck again, letting your tongue trace the shape of her.

She moans softly beneath you, but she still hasn’t touched your cunt. Hasn’t even tried.

Instead, you feel her breath.

It ghosts over your skin, hot and deliberate, every exhale grazing your folds. She's close enough now that when she sighs, it stirs your slick, your clit twitching at the sensation. You can't see her, but you know her mouth is parted, know her gaze is pinned between your legs, watching every drip of arousal fall from your cunt.

And you’re soaked.

Soaked in the way that has you dripping from your core, the slick running in slow trails down the inside of your thighs. It’s impossible to ignore how wet you are, how swollen and desperate. You’re leaking onto her chest, hot drops landing just below her collarbone, sliding across the swell of her breast.

She hums when one lands there, amused, smug.

“Messy,” she murmurs, voice warm and thick. “You’re getting me filthy, babe.”

You can feel her lips curve against the inside of your thigh, her mouth so close but still not touching. She inhales deeply, the sound filthy, deliberate. Then her hands slide up from your hips, fingers pressing into the fullness of your ass, spreading you wider.

She groans, low and appreciative. “God, look at you. Dripping.”

Her thumbs knead into the swell of your ass, massaging the flesh slowly, lazily, as if she’s just getting comfortable. Not possessive. Just indulgent. She squeezes and spreads you open further, pulling your cheeks apart to expose your cunt even more, your slick glistening in the low light, spilling down to her chest in a steady trail.

“Don’t stop,” she warns, her grip tightening just slightly when your rhythm falters. “You stop, and you don’t get anything tonight.”

You moan into her, tongue pushing deeper, licking up every drop she gives you. The vibrations from your mouth make her twitch, her hips shifting, breath catching.

“Just like that,” she murmurs again, voice breathier now. “Fuck—just like that.”

But she still doesn’t touch your cunt.

Not even a brush.

She stays there beneath you, teasing with nothing but breath and heat and the steady pressure of her palms on your ass, squeezing you, spreading you, holding you open while you work to bring her over again.

And you will.

You have to.

Because you’re soaked and empty and desperate.

And she still hasn’t even touched you.

Her breath rolls out against your pussy, another teasing exhale that hits you square on your clit, and your hips jerk without permission. Your tongue stutters, mouth still working her clit in tight, focused circles, and her thighs twitch in response, a groan slipping from her lips. You don’t falter long. You press in again, tongue curling, sucking harder.

But it’s not enough. Not anymore.

The ache between your legs has become sharp, a clenching need that burns through your spine. Your cunt feels swollen, empty, dripping. The slow drag of her fingers across your ass only makes it worse, like she knows exactly what you're holding back, exactly how much you need to be filled.

You move one hand from where it's braced on her thigh and bring it down, slow at first, sliding between your legs. She doesn’t stop you. She doesn’t say a word. But the second your fingers graze her cunt, slick and open and begging, her nails dig just a little deeper into your skin.

You drag your fingers through her folds, slow at first, just enough to feel the heat radiating off her. She’s soaked. Wet in that aching, generous way she only gets when she’s been edging on power and control, when she’s been holding herself back just to keep you in place. Your fingers slide easily through her slick, collecting it, smearing it across your knuckles as you curl them back to her entrance.

She groans beneath you, the sound rough and strained, her thighs tensing. Her hands don’t stop kneading your ass, don’t stop spreading you open. If anything, her grip tightens, grounding herself in the feel of you above her while you work her cunt.

Your mouth stays sealed to her clit, tongue flicking with practiced rhythm as you press your fingers into her, slow and steady. The heat inside her grips you immediately, her walls tightening as you ease in, and she lets out a breath like she’s been holding it this entire time.

You curl your fingers, just slightly, just enough to make her gasp.

Then you start to move.

Her hips jerk against your mouth, the muscles in her stomach flexing under your chest. You can feel it all. Every little reaction. Every twitch of her thighs. Every clench around your fingers. You pump into her slowly, carefully, your tongue never faltering, circling her clit while your fingers fuck her open.

"Fucking yes," she groans, her voice vibrating against your cunt with each exhale. "Just like that. Don’t you dare stop."

You moan into her, and the sound sends a tremor through her hips. Your jaw is starting to ache, your arm burning with effort, but none of it matters. Not with the way she’s moving now. Writhing beneath you, cunt squeezing your fingers with every roll of her hips, her slick coating your palm as you thrust deeper, harder.

Her grip on your ass is bruising now, fingernails dragging down the curve of you like she’s trying to mark you, anchor herself with the shape of your body.

"More," she breathes, her voice wrecked now, raw with need. "Give me more."

You give it to her.

A third finger slides in with a stretch, your knuckles brushing up against the spot that makes her groan like it’s ripped from her chest. Your tongue doubles down, mouth soaked and sore and relentless as you suck her clit between your lips, feeling her tense again.

She’s close. You can feel it.

Her cunt flutters around your fingers, clenching tight, her whole body arching into you now.

You don’t stop.

You push harder.

You keep her pinned, keep your mouth latched to her, keep your fingers working her from the inside out until she breaks again.

It happens fast.

One moment her hips are rocking into your mouth, chasing every curl of your tongue, every deep thrust of your fingers. The next, her body locks up underneath you, thighs tensing around your ribs, heels digging into the bed as she gasps, sharp and breathless.

Then she cums.

Hard.

Her cunt clenches around your fingers, fluttering in tight, desperate pulses that make it hard to move. You hold her there, fingers buried deep, tongue still circling her clit as her body jerks beneath you, every muscle drawn tight. She moans, low and broken, the sound ripped straight from her chest, her voice ragged with the force of it.

The slick between her legs floods over your hand. Wet and hot, coating your palm, your wrist. Her pubic hair is soaked with it now, the soft curls clinging to your chin, sticky with sweat and arousal as you mouth at her clit through the aftershocks.

"Fuck," she hisses, voice barely a whisper. Her head falls back into the pillows, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving with each shaky breath.

You keep licking, slower now, easing her through it. Her body twitches under your mouth, too sensitive, but she doesn't stop you. Her hips roll one last time before she shudders and goes still, her thighs loosening around you, her hands sliding from your ass to the bed like she’s spent everything she had.

She's panting. Slick. Glowing with the kind of release that leaves her soaked and trembling, cunt still twitching weakly around your fingers.

You barely have time to breathe before her hands slide back down your thighs. No teasing now. No slow, possessive strokes. Just firm, sure pressure as she spreads you open and pulls you down, locking you into place with a grip that says you’re not going anywhere.

And then she moves.

Her mouth finds your cunt with no hesitation, no warning. Just the wet, open heat of her lips sealing around your clit and sucking hard enough to rip a cry from your throat.

You try to stay upright. You really do. But the moment her mouth seals around your clit, your whole body jolts, and your strength shatters.

Your arms give out, elbows folding beneath you, and your chest collapses forward—straight onto the soft heat of Emily’s mound. Her pubic hair is still damp with sweat and slick, the curls coarse and warm against your skin as the tops of your breasts press flush against her hips. The angle sends your face deeper between her thighs again, your cheek brushing her inner thigh, your lips dragging against her folds as you cry out into her.

Because she doesn’t hold back.

She dives in like she’s been waiting all night to break you. Her mouth clamps down around your clit and sucks, wet and deep and insistent, her tongue flicking rapid and precise. You feel it like lightning through your spine. Your hips jerk, your thighs shake, and you moan helplessly into the heat of her cunt beneath you, your breath fogging against the slick mess you left behind.

Her hands are gripping your ass again, fingers digging in hard as she pulls you back tighter, keeping your pussy right where she wants it—spread and dripping into her mouth. There’s no teasing in her now. Just hunger. Just revenge. Just satisfaction and punishment wrapped together in the wet, steady rhythm of her tongue.

She licks through your folds like she’s trying to drink you, collecting your slick and smearing it across her mouth, sucking your clit so hard you have to bite down on your own moan. Your body rocks forward again, your face buried in the curls framing her pussy, your breath hot and stuttering against the sensitive skin.

You can’t move.

You can barely think.

Every time you twitch, she moans into you. Every time you pant, she licks harder. Her tongue is relentless, fast and firm, licking circles around your clit and then flattening to press broad and hot over it until your hips roll helplessly back against her face.

And she doesn’t stop.

Not even when your legs start to shake.

Not even when your nails dig into her thighs.

Not even when you sob out her name into the wet heat between her legs.

She holds you there, mouth locked to your cunt, tongue slick and sure.

She holds you there like it’s everything she’s wanted. Like your wreckage is the thing she’s been building toward all night.

Her grip on your ass tightens, not to hurt, not even to restrain—just to feel it. The tremble in your muscles, the heat of your skin, the way your whole body twitches every time she sucks a little harder. She feeds off it. Every moan that escapes your mouth, every stutter in your breath, every slick roll of your hips against her face makes her groan into your cunt like she’s tasting something divine.

Her mouth is soaked now, flooded with your arousal, her tongue flicking fast and filthy, tracing tight circles around your clit before dragging down to lick through the mess you’re dripping into her mouth. She parts you with her thumbs, tongue plunging deep, then sliding down again to suck at your clit with obscene focus.

You can feel her breathing under you. Deep, greedy breaths like she’s inhaling the scent of you, living off it. Her chest rises and falls beneath your ribs, her groans heavier now, not from effort, but from pleasure.

She’s getting off on it.

You feel it in the way she moves, desperate but precise, like she's chasing something in herself too. Every time you gasp, her mouth seals tighter. Every time your body jerks, she holds you steadier, lips dragging over your cunt with open-mouthed hunger, tongue wet and unrelenting.

And when you start to cry out—really cry out—when the sounds start breaking out of you sharp and unfiltered, she moans deep and low, the vibration reverberating through your clit until you cry her name into the mess between her thighs.

Her breath hits your soaked folds, hot and quick and shaking now. You can feel her shifting under you, her own cunt pulsing, her thighs flexing around your head like she’s chasing friction herself. But she doesn’t stop to touch. Doesn’t chase her own high. She’s chasing yours. She wants to drag you there first. Wants to watch you fall apart from underneath you.

"God, listen to you," she pants into your cunt between sucks. Her voice is wrecked. Starving. "You sound so fucking good like this."

She sucks your clit again, harder this time, drawing it between her lips and circling her tongue until your hips jolt with the sudden rush of pressure. Her hands are slick with your arousal now, gripping your thighs, guiding your cunt tighter to her mouth like she wants to drown in you.

And she’s groaning constantly now. Every sound you make is fed back through her mouth. Every twitch of your hips makes her lick faster. Every gasp punches more heat into her own core, her cunt swollen and untouched and aching beneath your chest.

She doesn’t stop.

Not when your legs start shaking harder. Not when your thighs threaten to close around her head. Not when your face is soaked with the slick heat of her pussy, your cries muffled against her skin.

She just grips you tighter.

Licks deeper.

Moans louder.

And waits for you to break.

Your cries are starting to come faster now, pulled ragged from somewhere deep, too messy to muffle against her skin. Your hips rock helplessly, driven by instinct more than control, chasing every flick of her tongue like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to your body.

And Emily is insatiable.

Her mouth doesn’t ease up. Her tongue stays locked to your clit, flicking harder, then circling, then flattening in steady, pulsing waves that make your thighs tremble uncontrollably. She sucks again, deep and wet, and when your body jolts in response, she lets out a low sound—primal and possessive—against your cunt.

Then her hands shift.

One of them slides lower, fingers dragging through the slick mess you’ve soaked her with, gathering it lazily like she has all the time in the world. She groans into your cunt again, your taste thick on her tongue, and then she presses two fingers against your entrance without warning.

You gasp—loud, shattering.

She pushes in deep.

The stretch is perfect. Immediate. Your body clamps down, slick gushing around her knuckles, and she fucks you slow, deliberate, mouth never leaving your clit. The angle is sharp like this, her hand curled beneath you, but she knows your body like she’s memorized every nerve. She adjusts with ease, fingers curling down, just slightly, just enough—

You scream into her thigh.

She’s found it.

She hums, satisfied, and begins to rub—light, rhythmic pressure against your g-spot, stroking it over and over while her tongue flicks fast and tight around your clit. Your body locks up. Your stomach clenches. Your legs threaten to give out again, but she holds you steady, buried in the mess of you, lips soaked, chin slick, moaning as your walls flutter around her fingers.

"That’s it," she murmurs, breath hot against your skin between licks. Her voice sounds drunk on you. "Right there. Let it happen."

Her fingers thrust again, hitting the same spot, and your vision whites out.

Her other hand returns to your ass, gripping, guiding, keeping you open for her mouth while her fingers work you from the inside out. It’s overwhelming. You’re soaked. So open. So exposed. Your slick is coating her chest, dripping from her wrist, your cunt clenching down hard around her hand as she pushes in deeper and curls her fingers again.

She groans with it, the sound wrecked and wild, her mouth never leaving you.

"God, you're fucking pulsing," she pants, her voice gone rough. "You're so close. I can feel it. You're gonna cum for me, aren’t you?"

You nod, frantically, hips stuttering.

It hits all at once.

There’s no warning beyond the desperate clench of your thighs and the way your hips twitch in a last, broken attempt to move. No words make it past your lips—just a sound, raw and unrecognizable, torn from your throat as your whole body locks up.

Your cunt tightens around her fingers with violent precision, fluttering in frantic, helpless pulses. Your slick floods her hand, hot and gushing, drenching her wrist, spilling over her palm as she keeps fucking you through it. Her fingers keep curling into that soft, swollen spot inside you, and her mouth is still on your clit, licking in fast, hungry circles, refusing to let you come down.

You cry out again, legs shaking hard, your body spasming forward until your face is buried fully in her cunt, her slick smearing across your cheek as your mouth drags against her folds. Your whole body trembles, arms giving way completely, your chest pressed into the heat of her hips as you sob against her.

You’re soaked.

You can feel it everywhere—slick dripping down your thighs, pooling between your bodies, streaking down the insides of your knees as you convulse through the aftershocks.

And she doesn’t stop.

Not right away.

She draws it out, tongue still moving, fingers still fucking up into you until your cunt clenches so hard it aches, until you’re whining into her skin, overstimulated and trembling, nails clawing weakly at the sheets beside her legs.

Only then does she ease off.

Her fingers slow.

Her tongue stills.

And you collapse, panting, broken open on top of her, your slick painting every inch of skin she’s touched.

She exhales beneath you, breath warm against your soaked folds.

“Good girl,” she murmurs, voice low and spent. Her thumb drags a lazy circle into the crease where your ass meets your thigh.

Emily doesn’t move much at first. Just breathes. Deep, steady pulls of air that rock your body gently where you lie slumped over her, still trembling, still pulsing with aftershocks that haven’t fully settled.

Her fingers slide out of you slow, dragging your slick with them. It’s obscene, the sound wet and broken between your thighs. You flinch at the loss, overstimulated, sore, but you don’t pull away. You can’t. You’re limp and leaking, stretched out over her body like you’ve melted from the inside out.

She hums beneath you, satisfied.

Then you feel her shift.

Not to get up.

Not to clean.

Just enough to lift one arm from the bed, her hand drifting up to her chest where your slick has spilled down her sternum, pooling in the valley between her breasts, smeared across her skin in warm, glistening trails.

She drags two fingers through the mess, slow and indulgent, collecting it like she wants to keep it.

You feel her laugh under you, quiet and low, almost reverent. Then her palm spreads the slick across her breast in lazy, circular motions. She’s not cleaning herself off. She’s playing. Her fingertips trace through it, dragging your come around the curve of her chest, gliding over her nipple until it hardens beneath her touch.

Her skin is wet with you. Shining. Her breast rising and falling with every breath as her fingers swirl through your slick again, then pinch lightly at her nipple, teasing it to a peak.

"You’re still dripping," she says, voice low and almost amused. "You’ve made a mess of both of us."

She cups her own breast, slick running over the sides of her hand, thumb rubbing lazy circles around her nipple.

Her other hand returns to your thigh, fingers dragging slowly across the tacky sheen of your skin. You’re still twitching. Every brush of her knuckles sends a pulse through your cunt, still tender, still swollen and raw. She feels it. She knows. Her thumb strokes lazily near the crease where your thigh meets your hip, not touching your center, not yet, but close enough to make you shift, soft and involuntary.

“You soaked me,” she murmurs, voice curling into your ear from beneath you. “Look at this.”

You try. You tilt your head, neck weak, and catch a glimpse of her chest through your lashes. Your slick is everywhere. It glistens across the slope of her breast, shines in the hollow between them, glues strands of hair to her collarbone. Her fingers dip into it again, gathering more, dragging it up over the swell and back down, painting herself in you.

“I should make you lick it off,” she says, tone thoughtful now. Almost playful. Her hand slips between her breasts, slick smearing down the center of her chest. “One slow pass with that pretty tongue. Every drop.”

Your breath stutters.

Her fingers move again. Not to clean. Not even to tease. She presses two of them together and pulls them apart, watching the thin string of slick stretch between them, then smear down the slope of her sternum again.

You try to shift. To lift yourself. But she presses her palm into the small of your back and keeps you there.

“Not yet,” she says, the command soft, almost affectionate. “You’re not done resting.”

Her hand slides up your spine, slow and firm, then down again, mapping the shape of you.

“You came so hard for me,” she whispers, more to herself than to you. “Felt you pulse all over my fingers. So fucking wet.”

You tremble again, cunt clenching at nothing, sore and empty and still aching.

Her palm cups your ass, squeezes once, then drags down between your thighs. She doesn’t push in. Doesn’t rub. Just traces the mess.

“You’re still leaking,” she says, sounding almost proud. “Still dripping for me.”

Then she brings her fingers back up to her chest, smearing more of you across her breast, thumbing her nipple again with a little sigh. Her eyes flutter closed, and for a second, she just breathes.

Completely relaxed.

Covered in you.

You stay there for a moment, chest rising and falling against her body, face still buried in the dark curls between her thighs, the scent of her sweat and your cum clinging to your skin. Your pulse has started to slow. The twitching in your limbs has dulled into a heavy throb, warm and aching in a way that doesn’t hurt, just fills you. Every inhale tastes like her. Every exhale makes your muscles sink deeper into the soft, radiant heat of her.

Finally, you breathe. Really breathe.

Air in. Air out.

And when your arms stop shaking long enough to hold your weight, you lift yourself off of her. Your thighs are soaked. Your mouth is slick. Her fingers are still wet from playing with your mess, and her chest is gleaming in the low light, streaked with your cum in warm, glistening trails.

You turn around slowly, limbs dragging with exhaustion, with satisfaction, with something deeper. Emily watches you with hooded eyes, her hair spread wild across the pillow, her mouth wet, her skin flushed.

You crawl over her, straddling her hips, the slick between your thighs catching against the soft hair at her mound. You can feel her warmth beneath you, the steady press of her breath, her cunt still pulsing gently where it rests against you.

You hover there, just for a moment. Your hands plant on either side of her shoulders. Your knees bracket her hips.

Then you lean in.

Your mouth finds hers without hesitation.

The kiss is slow. Not soft, not delicate, but slow. Her lips are wet with your cum, with sweat, and you kiss her through it. Deep and open and shameless. She tastes like heat and salt and slick, and you let it linger, tongues dragging, mouths parting, breath shared between teeth.

She hums into your mouth, low and pleased, her hands sliding up your thighs. Not grabbing. Just holding. Touching you now like she’s allowed to, like you’ve earned it.

You break the kiss only when your lungs beg you to, and when you do, you press your lips to her jaw. Then her throat. Then lower.

You drag your mouth down her chest, licking as you go, tracing the curve of her collarbone, the dip between her breasts. Your tongue finds the slick first, warm and sticky, still shining in the low light. You lick a long, slow stripe across the top of her left breast, gathering it onto your tongue, tasting the sharp edge of yourself where she smeared you.

She exhales hard, head falling back.

You do it again. Slower.

Your tongue circles her nipple next, wet and stiff beneath your mouth. You suck gently, then drag your tongue lower, licking the mess she spread across herself, chasing every drop like a promise.

Her hand slides into your hair, not pushing, just resting. Her hips shift beneath you. Her breath goes ragged again.

Your mouth moves across her chest in slow, deliberate passes, tongue dragging through every streak of your slick still clinging to her skin. It’s warm now, spread thin by her fingers, made sticky and soft by the heat of both your bodies. You taste salt and skin and something sweeter underneath, the musky traces of your own orgasm where it still lingers in the hollow between her breasts.

Emily groans softly when you lick across the top of one, then lower, your tongue circling her nipple. You close your lips around it and suck, gentle at first, letting the fullness of her breast fill your mouth. Her hand tightens in your hair, fingers threading through with just enough tension to hold you there.

"Just like that," she moans, voice low and fraying. "Keep going."

You drag your tongue down the curve of her breast, licking up every smear of slick she painted herself with, then switch sides, licking up the swell of the other, your lips open, breath hot. Her nipples are already hard, flushed dark, and each time you suck one into your mouth, her hips shift beneath you. Slow. Subtle. Restless.

You feel her thighs part a little wider. Feel her cunt press up against your soaked inner thigh. She’s wet again, you can feel it, heat blooming between her legs, the mess of both of you smearing where your bodies touch.

You flatten your tongue and lick across her sternum, chasing the trail of slick she smeared there earlier, and when you glance up at her, her eyes are barely open. Her mouth is parted. Her chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow bursts.

Then her hand fists in your hair.

“Sit up,” she says, voice low, the authority returning in full.

You obey immediately, breath catching as you lift your head from her chest, your thighs still straddling hers, your cunt wet and aching where it brushes against the soft curls above her mound. She rises with you, using that grip in your hair to pull you upright, chest to chest, her breath hot against your neck.

“You want to get off sucking on my tits?” she murmurs. “Then you’re going to do it my way.”

Her hands slide down to your hips and grip hard. She shifts underneath you, bends her knees, and presses up until your cunt grinds directly against hers. The sudden friction makes your breath stutter, your head fall forward onto her shoulder.

She rocks into you once. Firm. Deliberate. The slick between your bodies catches, clit to clit, lips parting, heat blooming where you’re both soaked and swollen. You cry out into her throat, but she’s already moving again.

“Take what I give you,” she growls, pulling you tighter, guiding your hips until your cunt drags hard over hers again, the pressure deep and messy and hot.

You whimper.

Her mouth finds your shoulder. She bites, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your hips jerk against her. She moans low in your ear as your slick smears against her skin, the mess of both your arousals building between your thighs.

"Keep your mouth on my tits," she says, voice sharp and breathless. "Now."

You drop your head again instantly, lips finding her breast, tongue circling her nipple before sucking it deep into your mouth. She hisses through her teeth and ruts up into you harder.

"That’s it," she pants. "Grind that messy little cunt into mine. Just like that."

Your mouth works her breast as your hips begin to match her pace, cunt dragging over hers in slow, aching strokes that make your thighs shake. The slick between you only makes it better, every roll of your hips louder now, wetter, filthier, the heat rising so fast it steals your breath.

You switch sides, mouth sealing around her other nipple, licking and sucking as she claws at your hips, dragging you into her, groaning each time your clits slide together.

She’s soaking wet. So are you.

And she’s not letting you stop. Not until she’s ruined you all over again.

Your hips fall into rhythm with hers, messy and desperate. Every grind of your cunt against hers sends heat licking up your spine, your thighs trembling from the pressure and the pace. The wet slide of your bodies meeting is filthy—slick clinging and pulling, lips parting and dragging, clits catching just right, again and again.

Her pubic hair is soaked.

You feel it with every motion, coarse and soft and warm, matted with your slick and hers, sticking to your inner thighs, to your cunt, to your skin where it presses flush against your own curls. It adds to the friction, to the mess, grounding you in the rawness of it. The way your bodies fit. The way her cunt glides against yours with no resistance, just heat and need and wet, endless need.

You can hear it. The obscene sound of your pussy grinding against hers, wet and sharp and rhythmic, loud in the space between your panting breaths.

Emily groans under you, deep in her throat, her hands still gripping your hips like she’s controlling every move.

"That's it," she pants. "Let me feel how soaked you still are."

You bury your face in her chest again, tongue dragging across the sweat-slick curve of her breast, tasting the salt and heat, the trace of your own cum where it’s dried into the curve of her skin. You take her nipple into your mouth again, sucking harder now, almost frantic with it, tongue swirling and flicking, then pulling her in deeper until she’s gasping through her teeth.

Her nipple stiffens in your mouth, pebbled and sensitive, and you suck harder, your lips slick from the sheen of sweat and cum and saliva. You switch sides again, trailing your tongue down the valley between her breasts, licking up the last of what you’d spilled on her earlier, then sealing your mouth over her other nipple, letting it drag over your tongue before you suck it deep and hard.

Her breath stutters. Her hands slip, grabbing fistfuls of your ass now, grinding your cunt harder into hers. The pressure builds fast, the heat unbearable. Every roll of your hips sends your clit dragging over hers, both of you slippery and swollen, every inch of contact sparking through you like fire.

You whimper against her breast, sucking harder, teeth scraping gently before your tongue soothes. She arches into you, cunt grinding up into yours with more force, her clit catching against your clit just enough to make your hips buck, to make your moan break open across her chest.

You lick her again. Bite softly. Suck until her nipple slips wet from your mouth and you catch it again.

Not thrown, not dramatic—just heavy. Like the weight of it finally caught up with her. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment, jaw slack, throat exposed. And beneath you, you feel the way her body shifts. The way her hips roll harder, deeper, like the rhythm is coming from somewhere inside her now, not from control, not from dominance, but from the low burn of need she’s no longer holding back.

She’s wet. You can feel it everywhere. The heat of her cunt dragging slick over yours with every grind, every roll, every slow slide that presses clit to clit until it starts to feel unbearable. The soft tremble in her thighs. The way her stomach tenses when your hips meet. The little catches in her breath, sharper each time you angle just right.

Her hands aren't guiding anymore. They’re clutching. One hand tight on your hip, the other sliding up your back, palm flattening between your shoulder blades like she’s grounding herself, anchoring her own unravelling to the curve of your spine.

Her breath stutters when your cunt drags a little harder over hers, the angle shifting just enough to send pressure sharp and steady through her clit. Her thighs flex beneath you. Her head turns, lips parted, a sound half-formed on her tongue.

You shift your weight again, hips tilting to give her more, to meet her motion with deeper pressure. Her breath catches and releases in a sound that isn’t a moan, not fully—just a raw exhale, hot and full of tension, like she doesn’t trust her voice yet.

She’s close. You can feel it.

You don’t ease up.

Your hips keep grinding, your cunt slick and aching, sliding over hers with every press and drag. Her wetness matches yours stroke for stroke, the heat between you thick and filthy, but it’s her chest that pulls you back in.

You shift your weight just enough to dip your head again, breath hot against her skin. Her nipples are flushed and slick, glistening in the low light from the attention you’ve already given them — but not enough. Not yet.

You run your tongue across the curve of her breast, slow and steady. Then again, closer to her nipple, letting the tip of your tongue flick just once before you pull back. She lets out a low whine, hips jerking, chasing yours.

You smirk against her skin, then press your mouth fully to her breast again. You suck, hard this time, sealing your lips around her nipple and drawing it deep, letting the pressure build until her breath punches out through her nose in a sharp gasp.

“Fuck,” she mutters, hoarse. “You don’t stop, do you.”

You don’t answer. You just suck harder.

Your tongue flattens and circles, slow at first, then faster, teasing the sensitive skin until she squirms beneath you, one hand tightening in your hair, the other gripping your thigh. You moan around her nipple, low and hungry, and the vibration makes her hips jerk again.

Then you pull back with a wet pop and move to the other side.

Your fingers come up to pinch the one you just left, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, keeping it stimulated while your mouth moves to the next. You drag your tongue in a slow spiral around the areola, not touching the centre yet, just playing with the edges, teasing her until her chest rises to meet your mouth.

You finally suck her nipple into your mouth and let your teeth graze — just a little — just enough to feel her twitch beneath you. Then your tongue soothes it, circling faster now, lips sealed tight.

You keep the rhythm going back and forth until both nipples are stiff and raw and flushed deep pink, until she’s panting like she can’t breathe through it, like it’s almost too much.

“Jesus Christ,” she breathes, voice shredded. “You’re gonna make me cum just from that.”

You hum around her nipple, tongue still working, your cunt dragging slow and heavy against hers with every roll of your hips. You pinch again. Just a little rougher. Her whole body twitches.

Her nipples are so sensitive now. You can feel it in the way she bucks when your tongue flicks just right, in the way she grinds up into you every time your fingers roll or twist.

You glance up — her head’s tilted back, lips parted, eyes dark and glassy with lust. Her hands move constantly now, like she doesn’t know where to touch. Your ass. Your back. Your thighs. The back of your neck. She can’t stay still, can’t stop moving, and you haven’t even given her enough yet.

So you give her more.

You bring both hands up and cup her breasts fully, squeezing softly before dragging your thumbs across her nipples again. She shivers hard. Her hips jolt. Her clit catches yours in a perfect, sudden grind that makes both of you gasp.

You keep going.

You suck harder, draw her nipple deep into your mouth and press your tongue against the roof of your mouth, grinding it gently while you roll the other between your fingers. Then switch. Again and again. Each time a little more pressure. A little more heat. A little more bite.

“Look at you,” she breathes, head tipping forward, eyes lidded and watching you now. “You’re soaking my fucking cunt and you’re still sucking on my tits being a good girl for me.”

You moan into her breasts, wet and open, and the sound makes her laugh — not mocking. Just low and breathless and wrecked.

Your mouth keeps working her nipples, teasing and sucking, licking and pulling, until her body’s trembling beneath you again. Your cunt stays grinding against hers in a slow, messy rhythm that doesn’t stop building. Her slick is everywhere. Yours too.

She grabs the back of your neck, yanking you closer, forcing your mouth tighter around her breast.

“Harder,” she growls.

You obey.

You suck harder, rougher, tongue moving faster, until her nipple slips from your lips with a wet, obscene sound and you catch it again, this time with your teeth. You graze just enough to make her hiss, then suck it deeper. Your fingers twist the other until she gasps and moans, one leg wrapping around your waist to hold you tight.

Her clit catches yours again. Your hips jerk. Her nipple stiffens even more in your mouth. You can barely think past the heat now, the smell of sex and sweat and skin, the wet slide of her cunt against yours and the way her tits fill your hands, her breath catching every time your mouth moves.

She’s not close anymore.

She’s past that.

She’s suspended — right on the edge — and so are you.

Your hips grind harder now, cunt dragging slick over hers in long, aching strokes that make your legs shake. The friction is searing, wet and thick and perfect, every press of your clit to hers another surge of heat that builds and builds until it’s everywhere.

Emily’s panting beneath you, her body taut, chest flushed and rising in sharp bursts. Her hands grip your ass, guiding you, pulling you down into her cunt with every grind, harder, faster, her thigh locking around you like she’s trying to keep you there, locked in the heat and the mess.

Your mouth is still on her tits. You don’t stop. You suck her nipple deep and hard, tongue swirling, lips tight, and she screams, loud and cracked and wrecked, as her whole body jerks up into you.

“Fuck, just like that, don’t stop, don’t stop,” she gasps, voice breaking, breath catching as her cunt grinds up into yours in frantic, sloppy thrusts. “I’m, I’m gonna—”

You feel it hit her.

Her hips buck wildly under yours, cunt pulsing so hard you feel it with every roll of your hips. She’s soaking wet, wetter than before, and it gushes between you, slick and messy and hot as she cums, moaning through her teeth, mouth open and raw.

You don’t stop.

You can’t.

Your hips keep moving, chasing it, riding her through it, cunt grinding against hers so hard now that the wet slide is filthy, obscene, loud, nothing but slick on slick and gasps and heat.

She’s still cumming when it hits you.

Your orgasm slams through you, sharp and overwhelming, tearing a cry from your throat as your clit pulses against hers, your whole body locking up, thighs trembling. Your hands clutch her tits, not to tease now but just to hold, to ground yourself as wave after wave of pleasure rips through you.

You cry out into her chest, mouth open, tongue dragging over her nipple as your hips stutter, grind, buck through it, your cunt fluttering against hers with each clench, the slick between you endless.

You don’t know where you end and she begins anymore.

It’s just heat. And wet. And breath. Nerves blown wide open, your whole body riding that last wave with hers, grinding until it’s too much, until your thighs give out and you collapse against her, trembling, your face buried in the curve of her neck.

You’re both still panting. Shaking. Drenched.

Your cunt is still twitching against hers, sensitive and messy, soaked in both your cum, the aftermath hot and sticky where your bodies are still pressed tight. Her hand slides weakly up your back, not to guide this time, but just to hold.

You feel her kiss your temple. A soft, shaky thing.

Your breath evens out first. Not fully calm, but less frantic, less desperate. Emily’s chest moves steady beneath you, her hand sliding up and down your spine in slow, grounding strokes. The heat between your legs is still sharp, every brush of her slick pubic hair against your cunt sending tiny shocks through you, but you’re too exhausted to move.

“Stay right here,” she murmurs. Her voice is quiet, warm, almost hoarse from everything she’s just pulled out of you. “Don’t even think about getting up.”

You let out a weak laugh, your face pressed into her shoulder. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

Her lips press against your forehead, then linger there. A kiss, not hungry this time, not claiming, just gentle. “Good.”

You let your body melt into hers, chest to chest, legs tangled, cunt still pressed against hers in the warm, ruined mess you’ve made together. Her hands pet softly down your spine, fingers tracing sweat-slicked lines. Your breaths slowly start to sync.

It’s quiet, except for the soft sound of your breathing, the occasional twitch of your hips when an aftershock flares through your clit, the stickiness of your release cooling between you.

You don’t know how long you stay like that.

But when you finally lift your head to look at her, her eyes are on you, soft and dark and still wrecked, and her lips are parted like she wants to say something, but all she does is kiss you.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The room smells like sex, sweat, and heat. Sheets ruined beneath you, bodies sticky with the mess of each other. But Emily doesn’t care. She just keeps holding you, her fingers combing slowly through your damp hair, her palm warm against the curve of your back.

“You did so well,” she says softly. “Taking everything I gave you. Letting me—” she cuts herself off, sighs against your skin. “I pushed you hard tonight.”

Her other hand slides down to cup your ass, careful now, soothing. She traces the sore heat she left earlier, fingertips gliding over bruised skin with tenderness that almost undoes you more than the spanking did.

You sink deeper into her. She shifts slightly, reaching for the blanket bunched at the edge of the bed. She drags it over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders. The warmth is instant, and you sigh into it, into her.

She doesn’t talk much after that. Just keeps kissing the side of your head, brushing her lips over your hairline, your temple, the corner of your eye. Little touches. Little reminders. Each one softer than the last.

Emily doesn't say anything for a long while. Her hands keep moving, slow and sure, like she's relearning every inch of you in the quiet. Your skin hums under her touch, but the urgency is gone now. What lingers is warmth. Stillness. Something deeper than just physical need.

Her fingers trace up your spine, then down again, dipping into the curve of your waist like she’s memorizing the shape of you. She hums quietly when you press a kiss to the hollow of her throat, her skin still damp, still tasting faintly of sweat and salt and the remains of something wild. But the edge is gone. There’s no sharpness in it now. Just the soft pulse of contentment, shared in the hush between heartbeats.

You shift a little, letting your leg drape across hers, thigh to thigh, cunt still pressed to her hip in the mess of both of you. And she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. She welcomes it, welcomes you, her hand slipping under the blanket to rest at the small of your back.

“I love when you're like this,” she says eventually, her voice sleep-rough, threaded with fondness. “Soft. Relaxed. Mine.”

You don’t answer with words. You just nuzzle closer, your nose brushing the underside of her jaw, your arm curling tighter around her waist. Your chest is heavy with something full and slow and safe. You’re still aching, still sore, but it feels good now. Earned. Shared.

She kisses the top of your head again. No rush. Just her lips against your hair, lingering longer than before.

“I’ll get us a towel soon,” she murmurs, barely audible. “Just… not yet.”

You hum in agreement, too comfortable to move, too wrapped in the scent and heat of her to care about the stickiness between your thighs or the sheets underneath you.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing, now fully in sync, rising and falling like waves. Outside the window, the world keeps going, but in here, there’s only her. Only you. The warmth between your bodies, the comfort of her hand on your back and her heartbeat under your cheek.

She shifts beneath you just enough to get a better hold, her arms wrapping around your waist, tucking you closer. You sigh into it, into her, the last of your tension slipping out of your bones.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” she asks after a moment, so quietly you almost miss it.

You shake your head without lifting it. “No. You were perfect.”

She lets out a slow breath, one of those long exhales that comes from someplace deep. Her lips find your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

Little kisses. Slow and weightless. Not greedy. Not claiming. Just there.

“I liked watching you fall apart,” she says softly, like a confession she’s only now ready to give. “You’re beautiful when you let go.”

The words settle into you like warm water.

You lift your head just enough to look at her. Her eyes are half-lidded, hair damp against her temples, mouth slightly open like she’s still catching up to the quiet. You brush your fingers along her jaw. Trace the edge of her lips. You don’t kiss her. Not yet. You just look.

There’s something grounding about this moment. Not just the stillness of it, but the rightness. Like you’ve come back to yourself and found her already there waiting.

You lower your head again, this time resting it over her heart. Her hand returns to your spine, slow and steady. The weight of her body beneath yours, the warmth of her skin, the throb between your thighs—it all blurs together, into a comfort that’s full and earned.

Time slows. Then stops.

And the next time either of you speaks, it’s not to say anything at all.

Just the soft sound of her humming. A kiss pressed to your hair. The two of you, wrapped around each other, too entangled to separate. Too sated to care.

When the world returns, it will come gently.

The sheets are wrecked beneath you, damp and twisted, but neither of you makes a move. You feel her shift once, like she might reach for something, but then she settles again, her arm curling tighter around your back.

You’re both too comfortable to care. Too worn out to do anything except stay exactly where you are.

And maybe later one of you will get up. Maybe you’ll deal with the mess, the soreness, the cleanup.

But not yet.

That hesitation breaks you. You launch forward, arms circling him, pressing your face into his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt rough against your skin. He lets out a sound that is neither sigh nor sob, just a release of something held too long, and then he’s clutching you back, fingers tangled in your shirt, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Neither of you speak at first. Words feel too thin for the swell of what crashes between you. You breathe him in, the smell of his skin, his hair, the faint trace of cold air that clings to him. His lips press against the crown of your head in a frantic pattern, as if trying to anchor himself with the shape of you.

“I thought about this,” he whispers at last, voice hoarse, as if it hasn’t been used in days. “Every night. I thought if I could just hold on long enough, I’d get back to you.” His hands tighten at your waist, almost shaking. “But nothing came close to this. Not even in my head.”

Your throat burns. You shift just enough to look at him, your palms framing his face, and he leans into your touch with a desperation that steals your breath. His eyes are wet, red at the edges, but burning with something rawer, deeper. He presses his forehead to yours, and the quiet stretches again, heavy but alive now, filled with heartbeats and the fragile miracle of him being here, with you.

When he kisses you it’s not careful. It’s messy, clashing, a collision of hunger and grief and need. Your hands clutch at him, trying to pull him closer when he’s already pressed against you. His breath hitches, breaking against your mouth, and you taste salt, taste him, taste the months of absence unravelling into something feverish and unstoppable.

The kiss deepens, and with it comes a hunger that has been caged for too long. Spencer’s mouth moves over yours with a rough insistence, almost clumsy in its urgency, but it only makes your chest ache harder, because it’s him, it’s real, it’s everything you’ve missed.

You tug at his jacket, fingers fumbling, frustrated by the barrier of fabric. He catches your hands for only a second, as though he might slow you, but then he lets go, ripping the jacket off with a jerky motion, tossing it to the floor.

Your shirt is next, his fingers catching on the hem, pulling it upward, and you lift your arms without breaking the kiss. The shirt lands somewhere behind the couch, forgotten.

His hands are everywhere, clutching your waist, sliding up your back, pulling you closer until there is no space left to close. You tug at his shirt, desperate, the fabric refusing to move fast enough, and he breaks away only long enough to strip it over his head before crashing back into you.

You rise from the couch together, clinging, stumbling, his lips never straying far from yours. It’s messy, hurried, the kind of collision born from months of longing sharpened into something raw. He pushes you against the hallway wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding against the heat of your skin.

You gasp into his mouth and he drinks it in, lips tracing down to your jaw, your throat, biting harder than he ever has before.

You let out a sound you didn’t mean to, raw and sharp, and his grip tightens at your hip as if that sound alone could undo him.

He kisses like a man starved, like someone trying to reclaim not just your body but every day he spent without it, without you. Your back thuds against the bedroom door, and with a frantic twist he pushes it open, guiding you through without letting you go.

There’s no neatness to it, no grace, only the heat of stripping away months of separation with each layer shed. His mouth finds yours again and again, desperate, as though kissing you is the only way to prove he’s free, that he’s home.

By the time you reach the bed, shoes, clothes, pieces of both of you are scattered in a trail across the floor, the apartment marked by your reunion.

He pushes you back onto the mattress, breath ragged, eyes dark and alive in a way you haven’t seen in months. He hovers there for just a moment, staring down at you, his chest heaving, and you see it—how close he is to breaking, how much he needs this, how much he needs you.

He hovers above you, chest heaving, lips hovering close but not touching. His gaze roves over your skin like he’s already imagining what he’ll leave behind, the bruises, the marks, the evidence. When he dips his head, his teeth catch at your throat, sharp enough to sting, and you gasp, your wrists tightening instinctively in the sheets. He pulls back just enough for you to see the faint curl at his mouth.

“You’re mine,” he says suddenly, voice rough, almost broken, not even directed at you so much as dragged out of him, like a truth he’s been chewing on in the dark for too long. His gaze moves over you, fevered, frantic. “I need—everyone needs to see. To know. You’re mine.”

The words send a shiver through you, not frightening, but sharp and real. His lips fall to your neck, biting down hard again making you gasp, as he groans against your skin like the sound fuels him. He lifts his head again, hair falling into his eyes, and you see the shift, the raw edge of something claiming him as much as it claims you.

He pulls back from your throat, breathing hard, lips swollen, the faintest trace of your skin already reddening where his teeth caught you. His hand cradles your jaw, almost tender, but his eyes are wild, restless, flicking over you like he can’t stop imagining what he wants to do.

“I can’t stop at this,” he says, his voice low, frayed, as though it costs him to admit it. “Not tonight. I need more. I need to put my mark everywhere, I need to claim you in every way I’ve thought about.” His thumb strokes your cheek, the touch at odds with the desperation in his words. “Please. Tell me I can. Tell me I can take what I need.”

You can feel the tremor in him, the way he’s holding himself back, the way restraint is shredding at the edges. He presses his forehead against yours, his breath uneven, muttering again, softer this time, almost broken. “I won’t unless you let me. Say yes. Say I can have you like that.”

“Say I can bite you, bruise you, mark every inch until no one could ever mistake who you belong to. I need to hear you say it.”

Your pulse hammers in your throat, every nerve alight with the force of his need, the way he’s teetering on the edge of breaking. You tilt your head back, giving him more of your throat, your voice unsteady but sure.

“Yes,” you whisper, then stronger. “Yes, Spencer. Do it. Mark me. Take what you need.”

The sound he makes is almost guttural, a ragged exhale that shudders through his whole body. For a heartbeat he closes his eyes, as though those words alone are enough to undo him. When they open again, they’re darker, hungrier, the last tether of restraint snapping.

“Thank you,” he breathes, but it comes out more like a vow than gratitude. His hands clutch at your wrists, dragging them up over your head, holding them pinned for a moment before he pushes off the bed. He crosses to the closet with a suddenness that makes your chest tighten, rummaging until he pulls out coils of rope.

The sight of it makes your pulse race, a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your body. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. You know what he wants, what he needs, and you give it to him without a word, lifting your wrists in silent permission.

He ties you with shaking hands, not from hesitation but from too much urgency coiled inside him, the knots rough and fast. The rope bites into your skin just enough to remind you of its presence, firm and unyielding. He secures your arms above your head, then moves down to catch your ankles.

He binds your ankles to the bedframe with a grip that feels deliberate, almost punishing, his fingers rough as they finish the last knot. When he leans back, breath uneven, eyes dragging across your restrained body, he looks possessed by the sight. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip. “Perfect,” he breathes, and this time it’s not for him. “All mine.”

He steps back, only barely. The distance does nothing to temper the heat in his gaze. He rakes a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, and looks at you like he’s already undone. “Don’t move,” he says. It lands somewhere between a command and a confession. “Not until I’m finished. Not until every part of you shows who you belong to.”

Then he’s over you again, heavy and intent, and the first bite lands just below your throat, sharp enough to steal your breath. His mouth lingers there, lips sealing around the mark as if tasting your pulse, sucking until the skin burns red beneath him. He moves lower, teeth dragging along your collarbone, your shoulder, every scrape carving a deeper ache into you. Each mark is a vow. Each bruise a warning.

His mouth finds your chest, heat pouring from him as he latches on. One hand covers a breast with unyielding pressure, kneading in a way that’s far from tender. His teeth graze the other, catching on soft flesh before sinking in, hard enough to rip a cry from your throat. The sting floods you, bright and immediate, but his tongue is there right after, soothing, circling, claiming.

The ropes hold you open, nothing to do but feel. Your body arches instinctively, seeking more, every nerve sparking beneath his mouth, his hands. You moan, loud and needy, hips jerking against restraints you can’t escape. Slick gathers fast, thick and unbearable, a throbbing heat that pulses harder when you feel him grind into your thigh, the rigid press of his cock leaving no doubt he’s just as lost in it as you are.

“Fuck,” he groans into your skin, teeth closing over the curve of your breast, sucking deep. “You sound so good like this. Strung up. Taking everything.” He tweaks your nipple between two fingers, sharp and sudden, making you gasp. Your sound fuels him. His hips press harder, chasing friction, desperate and rough against your thigh.

You writhe. There’s no other word for it. The sound of the sheets beneath you grows louder, the bed creaking as your body strains to meet him. Every drag of his mouth, every scrape of his teeth, sends a deeper ache flooding between your legs, wetness spilling onto your skin. You can feel it, slick and hot, and so can he.

His mouth stays at your chest like he’s starving, unable to leave it. He palms one breast roughly, fingers digging into flesh, thumb sweeping across your nipple until it’s aching. The other, he takes between his lips, biting down slow and deep. The pressure borders on cruel, but you welcome it. You crave it. The sharpness of pain, the heat that follows, the flick of his tongue that feels too soft, too tender, against the mark he’s just made.

He does it again, slower this time, dragging the moment out. His lips close over the bruise and suck until your back lifts from the mattress. The ropes dig into your skin, holding you down even as your body tries to rise to meet him.

You’re unravelling under him. Every time he switches sides, every time his mouth leaves one breast swollen and flushed to claim the other, the ache in your core deepens. Your nipples throb, hypersensitive, and the contrast between the warm wet of his mouth and the sharp edge of his teeth makes your breath catch in your throat.

When he slaps the side of your breast, the sound startles you. You cry out. He does it again, harder this time, and the sting only tightens the clench of your cunt. You’re soaked. You know it. He knows it. His cock ruts against your thigh with increasing urgency, a smear of wet heat left in its wake.

He won’t stop. Can’t. He’s biting you like you’re his to devour, like he’s carving himself into your skin. You welcome every one of them. Your body sings for it, trembles for it, bound and stretched and shaking from how badly you want more.

When he finally lifts his head, his chest heaves. His lips are swollen, damp, flushed. His breath comes in harsh pulls, and his eyes— His eyes burn. They drag over you slowly, taking in every bruise, every flush of red he’s left blooming across your chest. One hand stays on your breast, thumb circling lazily around your nipple, the rhythm a cruel tease that leaves you gasping.

He spreads his fingers wide, pressing against the warm skin, then moves lower, trailing them over every raised mark as though counting them. His touch is slow, almost reverent in its precision, but there’s nothing gentle in the way his jaw tightens. Something animal scratches just under the surface.

His thumb presses into a fresh bruise and your whole body flinches. He watches you twitch. Watches your lips part. Watches how the ropes strain as you try to move. A breath escapes him, half-whisper, half-growl.

“Look at you.” His voice is ragged. “Everywhere I touch, I leave something behind.” His thumb finds another mark and presses into the tender skin until your eyes water. “Everyone will know you’re mine.”

Your thighs tremble at his words. The ache inside you pulses deeper, more urgent, wetness dripping down to the sheets. Your breasts are swollen, flushed and marked and aching, and still, he hasn’t had enough. His hands linger, squeezing, shaping, then letting go only to watch them bounce back, blemished and beautiful under his gaze.

He leans forward. His breath ghosts over your skin. Then his mouth drops lower.

He kisses down your stomach, soft at first. Lingered touches. Almost gentle. Then his teeth return, scraping lightly along your belly, nipping the soft flesh just above your navel. You twitch under him, wrists pulling at the rope, hips tilting toward his mouth.

But he only chuckles, low and pleased. “Can’t even keep still,” he murmurs, voice thick with heat. “That’s why I have to tie you down.” His mouth finds a spot just above your hip and bites down hard enough to leave your legs shaking. “So I can take my time.”

He kneels between your legs, gaze dropping to the wet, glistening heat between them. His breath catches, and he exhales hard through his nose, visibly straining against the urge to take you.

His hand slides between your thighs. Not to give, just to tease. Fingers barely brush your folds, light enough that you question if it happened at all. Your hips jerk, searching for contact, but his other hand presses you flat. Holds you still. Keeps you trapped beneath his weight and will.

And then his mouth finds your inner thigh. Hot. Heavy. He bites. Sharp. Unapologetic. You cry out again, louder, and his tongue is already there, soothing, tasting, sealing the bruise into you with heat and breath and want.

He doesn’t stop. Not yet. There are still so many places left to mark. When he pulls back, he doesn’t rush. He lingers, watching the shape of the bruise rise beneath his lips, admiring the flush of red turning purple at the centre. It’s only when your breath catches that he lowers his head again, this time to a fresh patch of skin further down your thigh, teeth dragging slow before biting in with purpose. Another mark. Another place that belongs to him.

His hand drifts closer, fingers tracing the inside of your thigh, so close to your centre it makes your whole body tighten. The contact is featherlight, maddening, a whisper of touch that barely grazes your slick folds. Instinct takes over. Your hips rise from the mattress, seeking more, but the ropes around your ankles hold firm, taut and unforgiving, stealing the freedom to chase what you need. He watches the movement, the desperation, with a glint in his eyes that borders on cruel satisfaction.

His thumb circles your clit with no pressure at all, just a ghost passing over already sensitive skin, a tease that sends a fresh rush of slick down your thighs. He bites the opposite leg hard, the sharp pain flaring bright, the bruise left behind darker than the rest. Your thighs are shaking, trembling from strain and ache, from pleasure denied and the heat spreading like fire under your skin.

Still, he doesn't touch you properly. Not yet. He switches between slow drags of his mouth across your inner thighs and maddening strokes of his fingers that stay just out of reach. A rhythm with no pattern, meant only to tease, to unravel. Your cunt aches, wet and empty, fluttering with need. Every brush of his fingers makes your breath catch, every scrape of his teeth forces another sound from your throat.

He pulls back to look at you. Your thighs flushed, covered in his mouth, his bite. Your chest rising too fast, body tense and shaking, skin shining with sweat and arousal. His hand rests just above your cunt, fingers damp with the proof of your need, and he stares at the way your body pulses for more. His cock jerks against his stomach, twitching with restraint he’s struggling to hold onto. He wants you wrecked. Wants you undone. Wants it slow enough to last.

“All mine,” he says again, quieter now, like it’s sacred. His thumb grazes your slick folds, barely a touch, but enough to make you whine—a raw, needy sound that slips out before you can swallow it.

Your wrists twist against the rope. You arch again, chest heaving, hips rolling upward as if you can summon more from him by sheer will. His mouth presses another hot kiss to the inside of your thigh, tongue sliding lazily over a bruise, but it's not enough. It’s not what you need. You need his fingers, his mouth, his cock, anything solid and deep and real.

“Spencer,” you breathe. It’s barely a sound, more broken air than voice. “Please. I’ve been so good for you. Please… touch me.”

The words fall quiet, like you’re afraid they’ll break the spell between you, but they land hard. You see it immediately—the way his eyes darken, the tension that coils tighter in his shoulders, the hand between your thighs suddenly going still.

“You’ve been perfect,” he replies, low and rough, the edge of restraint fraying in his voice. His thumb brushes you again, this time with the lightest hint of pressure. “So fucking good for me.”

He lifts his head. Locks eyes with you. And what you see there makes your breath hitch. Hunger, yes, but more than that. Possession. Worship. Obsession. He moves then, slow and sure, pressing the pad of his thumb against your clit and circling just right—firm and steady and overwhelming.

You cry out, loud and sudden, your body jolting at the pressure. It crashes into you all at once, every inch of you already strung tight and ready to snap. The heat that floods through you is blinding. Your moan echoes between the walls and his chest shudders in response, like the sound alone is enough to unravel him.

His fingers slide through your slick, dragging slow and deep between your folds, parting you with reverent precision. He finds the spot that makes your hips jump and circles it again, then again, each time slower, more deliberate, as if memorizing what makes you fall apart.

His mouth returns to your thigh, dragging his teeth across bruised skin with lazy ownership. Another nip, then a kiss, and all the while his fingers never stop, the rhythm building until you’re gasping, thighs trembling, your entire body tuned to the movement of his hand.

“That’s it,” he rasps against your skin, grinding slowly against your leg as he watches you fall apart. “So good for me. Just like this. Letting me take my time.”

The ropes, the marks, the control—it's a language spoken in sensation, in shared rhythm. Every part of you answers without hesitation. You give it freely, without holding back. All of you.

He leans down again, kisses your thigh where the bruise is deepest, and then his fingers curl inside you.

You gasp. Your back arches. He moves slow at first, dragging his fingers through your slick heat, curling them with a precision that feels devastating. He finds that spot inside you and presses, slow and firm, then pulls back just enough to do it again. And again. Until your body trembles with every stroke.

His other hand finds your hip, fingers digging in hard, nails dragging downward until red marks bloom in their wake. The pressure, the scratch, the way his fingers stretch you—all of it crashes together, making your breath come in broken pieces.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The sound of your moans, the wet glide of his fingers, the way your cunt clenches greedily around him—it’s all the answer he needs. He watches your body move under him, every reaction winding that hunger inside him tighter. His mouth is parted. His breath ragged.

You’re soaking his hand, slick coating his fingers and palm, dripping onto the sheets beneath you. And still, he doesn’t stop. Each curl of his fingers comes with purpose, pushing deeper, stroking with precision. Your moans build, tangled with the sound of your thighs slapping faintly against his wrist, the bed groaning beneath you.

Then, without warning, his mouth is there.

Your thighs tremble, muscles locking and releasing in broken rhythm as the wave pulls tighter. You’re not breathing so much as gasping, shallow and frantic, every part of you tightening around the heat he’s pouring into your body. Spencer’s tongue moves with maddening focus, a controlled chaos in the way he circles, flicks, then presses—flat, heavy, devastating. Each stroke hits a little different, a little deeper, never giving your body time to settle. There’s no mercy in the rhythm. Only hunger.

His fingers curl again, perfectly timed with the flattening of his tongue, and your whole body arches like you’ve been struck. You cry out—loud, sudden, a crack in the still air—and he groans against you, the vibration humming straight through your cunt. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch. Just keeps going, lips sealed to your clit, dragging sounds from you that feel primal, unfamiliar, ripped from someplace deeper than speech.

The ropes creak with your every struggle, your wrists aching now, bound tight against the headboard, but the ache is nothing compared to the pleasure clawing its way up your spine. You’re soaked. Drenched. Every glide of his fingers spreads it wider, makes it filthier, your slick coating his hand, his wrist, dripping down between your cheeks.

His palm presses harder into the bruises at your thigh, thumb digging in near the edge of the newest mark, and the pain sharpens everything. Your pussy clenches violently around his fingers, and he moans again, louder, desperate. He shifts just enough to keep control, his weight keeping you pinned, his mouth never leaving you. He’s relentless. Intent. Like he’s memorizing how to destroy you with precision.

You’re gone. No shape to your thoughts, just fire. You buck helplessly against him, thighs shaking, back arched, sobbing his name in pieces. You can’t hold still. You can’t get free. And you don’t want to.

His fingers curl again, angled so perfectly you feel the stars behind your eyes scatter. He presses. Holds. The pads of his fingers dragging along that raw, electric spot deep inside you while his tongue circles once, twice, then flicks so fast your breath stops in your chest.

The world shatters.

You don’t mean to scream, but it rips out of you anyway. Your whole body locks, hips lifted off the bed in a trembling arc, wrists straining against the ropes, back bowing so violently the air leaves your lungs. The orgasm hits like a crash, all heat and white-noise, everything tightening in on itself before bursting open.

He groans into you, sucking harder, fingers still fucking you through it, keeping you high, keeping you wrung out. The pressure is too much, and not enough, and somehow still building even as you’re falling apart around him. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably, shaking under his hands, every inch of you soaked, fluttering, raw.

“Look at you,” he rasps, voice hoarse, lips slick with you as he lifts his head for just a breath. His fingers don’t stop. “So fucking pretty when you cum. So loud for me.”

You can’t speak. Your chest is rising too fast, skin flushed and shining, tears caught at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity. He watches the way you fall apart, breathes it in like it’s the only thing keeping him steady, his cock grinding against the mattress now, chasing relief but never leaving you.

And then he’s back on you, tongue dragging over your clit again. You scream, the sound strangled and wrecked. It’s too much. Too sharp. Your body jerks violently, another aftershock rolling through you, slick pulsing around his fingers. He fucks you through it, hand steady, tongue ruthless, holding you down with the weight of his mouth and the press of his palm into the bruises he made.

Your entire body convulses, twitching under his grip. You can’t stop shaking. You don’t even want to.

“Don’t stop,” you sob, and it barely sounds like words, just breath and ache. “Spencer, please don’t stop.”

He groans again, his cock dragging against the mattress with unrelenting need, and he pulls his fingers free only to press them against your clit in slow, slippery circles. The sound of it is obscene—slick, wet, greedy—and he watches every reaction like it’s sacred.

“You’re mine,” he says low, voice frayed, wild around the edges. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to hear you beg like that.”

You nod frantically, tears slipping free now, throat raw from moaning, from gasping his name. You’re gone. All reason burned out of you, left only with the feeling of his mouth, his fingers, the truth of what he’s done to your body.

He leans in again, tongue parting your folds as he groans deep, dragging it through the mess he’s made of you, tasting you like he’s addicted to it. His fingers return, thrusting in deep, curling again, thumb circling your clit without pause.

Your second orgasm rises faster. Meaner. Brutal in the way it builds, the way it owns you. You scream again, breath breaking apart as your body seizes under him, the ropes keeping you bound as your legs shake, vision blurring, every nerve alight with fire.

You don’t know how long it lasts. Time has dissolved. There’s only the heat, the wet, the stretch, the grip of his hand on your thigh. The marks he left burn hotter now, a map of where he’s touched, a living memory of his mouth and teeth.

You fall back into the bed, wrecked, trembling, pulse hammering through every limb. His hand slows. His mouth softens. Gentle now. Worshipful. His fingers slip free, and the loss makes your body twitch, over-sensitive, raw and swollen.

He lifts his head, gaze meeting yours, and the look he gives you isn’t smug. It’s reverent. Hungry still. But so full of awe you feel the burn behind your eyes again.

“I could do that forever,” he says, and his voice is a wreck, deep and trembling, as if he’s the one who’s been undone.

And still, he hasn't even fucked you yet.

His eyes never leave yours. Dark. Burning. Intent. You see it—the precise moment something inside him shifts. The second he makes the choice to ruin you.

A low growl rumbles from his chest, vibrating through your skin, sinking deep into your core. Then he doubles down. His tongue sharpens to a ruthless flick, relentless against your clit, while his fingers curl harder, pressing again and again against that devastating spot inside you. Perfect. Unforgiving. Expert.

The pressure on your thigh increases until it becomes a vice, his palm locking you down, giving you no escape. You're spread open, pinned to the bed, every inch of sensation forced deep into your body until you can’t separate pleasure from pain. Your back bows in one sharp motion, a cry caught high in your throat, trembling there as the first shockwave hits.

It doesn’t wash over you. It explodes.

White-hot pleasure erupts through every nerve, a burn so total it’s blinding. You jerk hard against the restraints, thighs spasming, mouth open in a wordless scream that finally tears loose as your climax crashes through you. Raw. Shattering. He stays locked to you through it, mouth never leaving your clit, tongue gentling only slightly, soothing and tasting while his fingers stay deep inside, coaxing each final pulse from your cunt. Drawing it out. Refusing to let you fall.

It borders on pain, the way he keeps going, and still, you want it. You give it. Body trembling, twitching, too far gone to speak.

When your limbs finally collapse, you melt into the bed, nothing but heat and sweat and aftershocks. The ropes keep you upright, wrists strained above your head, legs parted. You’re limp and wrecked, every inch of your skin aching. Your chest heaves. Bruises throb. Sweat clings to every curve.

Spencer lifts his head slowly. His lips are wet with you, chin glistening. He looks at you like a man starved.

Then, without a word, he slides his fingers out. The sound is slick, obscene in the hush of the room, and you feel every drop of it. He holds them up for just a second, watching the way your body jerks, then brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean. He groans low, slow, deep in his throat like he’s tasting something holy. Like he’s been waiting his whole life for it.

The sight alone sends another flicker of heat through your body, weak but real, a ghost of pleasure echoing in your still-throbbing core.

He moves quickly after that, his own need finally overtaking him. There’s urgency in every part of him now. He fumbles with the rope at your ankles, hands shaking, movements clumsy with desperation. The knot resists him at first, but he rips it loose, dragging the binding free. Blood rushes back into your legs, sharp and tingling, pain blooming as nerves reawaken.

He doesn’t touch your wrists. Doesn’t free your arms. He leaves them stretched above you, tied tight to the headboard, the rope biting into your skin as your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven gasps.

And he just looks at you for a breath. Long enough to make your skin prickle. His eyes are darker than before. His body tense. His cock flushed and leaking against his stomach.

He's not finished.

Not even close.

The blunt head of his cock drags through the wetness he’s already wrung from your body, slick and eager. That first push punches the breath from your lungs. The stretch is sharp, unforgiving, pleasure and ache twisted so tightly together they become the same thing. You cry out his name, your voice wrecked with need, and your back lifts from the bed in one violent jolt. His breath stutters against your neck, a broken sound torn from somewhere deep as he sinks deeper, inch by inch. The pace falters, messy and aching with how much he wants this, how long he’s gone without it.

When he finally bottoms out, buried deep inside you, everything stills. His body trembles, muscles locked, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder, damp curls clinging to skin already slick with sweat. His chest rises and falls against yours, every breath a struggle. The fullness is overwhelming, dizzying, your cunt fluttering around him like it knows nothing else, like it refuses to let him go. It steals your breath. Your vision blurs. Your nerves scream for more.

Then his teeth sink into your shoulder. Not soft. Not restrained. They hit deep, sharp enough to make you cry out again, the sting a perfect contrast to the molten stretch of him inside you. The bite tethers him to you, grounds him even as it sets your body alight. The sound he makes against your skin is not human. It’s guttural, something primal, raw with possession and relief.

When he starts to move, it’s messy and frantic. Control forgotten. He pulls out just far enough to slam back in, the force of it shoving you up the mattress. Every thrust tears a new sound from your throat. Each collision feels like a promise kept too late. It’s all hunger now. The pace builds fast, erratic, your sweat-slick bodies meeting with sharp, breathless rhythm. His teeth scrape your skin again. His mouth hovers close, always moving, always claiming.

The relief is blinding. Each push is a purge. Each thrust feels like his body is pleading for something it never thought it would have again. He is everywhere. Bruising you. Stretching you. Filling you in a way that feels endless. You feel it in your lungs. In your ribs. In the places where his hands grip you, tight enough to leave reminders.

He doesn’t stop. His hips keep pounding into you with growing desperation, but his head lifts from your shoulder. His eyes meet yours. Wide. Glazed with something darker than lust. They rake down your body, slow and consuming, cataloguing the wreckage he’s made. You watch him take it in.

His gaze catches first on the bite. The mark he left. A purple crescent already blooming on your shoulder, skin broken where his teeth sank deep. He growls, low and wrecked, something torn from his chest that rumbles between you like a warning. His thumb brushes across the mark, rough, unyielding. It’s not gentle. It presses into the sore flesh until you flinch, until the pain sharpens and your cunt clenches tight around him.

He groans, loud and guttural, and drops his forehead against yours.

Then his hips slam forward, one sharp thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. He watches your skin, watches the bruise darken beneath his thumb, blooming like a flower fed on pain and possession. His eyes stay locked there, drinking it in.

His gaze drifts lower, tracing the constellation of bruises along your hips, each one formed by the grip of his hands. They’re vivid now. Red and rising. His fingers tighten again, locking you to the bed as his rhythm stutters into something even more ragged.

He shifts his weight, covering you, pressing more of himself over your trembling body. His mouth finds your collarbone. Tongue hot and deliberate, tracing the bruise he left there, a silent act of devotion. His mouth is savage and soft all at once, as if every press of his tongue is an apology he’ll never speak aloud.

He’s losing rhythm. Losing the shape of control. Every thrust is harder. Deeper. Wrecked.

"Every mark. Every single one. I want you to see them tomorrow and remember how this cock felt. I want you to ache with it."

His voice breaks something open in you. The words sink beneath your skin like another bruise forming from the inside. He’s unravelling in real time, undone by the sight of your body covered in the evidence of him. Your slick clings to him. His chest is heaving. And still he moves, chasing something more.

He finds your throat again, mouth dragging up to the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, and sinks his teeth in hard. The bite is brutal. He doesn’t ease up. Doesn’t pull away. Just holds it there, pressing deeper until your skin throbs under his teeth, until you cry out again, too wrecked to think.

The thrusts come fast now, his hips slamming into yours, punishing and desperate. Sweat drips from his temple onto your chest. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, wet and raw and rhythmic.

He fucks you like he’s trying to stay inside you. Like leaving your body would destroy him. Like being buried in you is the only thing that keeps him breathing.

You’re shaking. Jerking with every bite, every sharp press of his cock as it hits deep again and again. Your body can’t keep up. The edge rushes toward you and you have no defense. You’re gone. Owned. Every inch of you claimed.

His fingers dig into your hips with bruising force, grinding you into the mattress. He’s using your body like a lifeline, chasing his own destruction.

"You see what you do to me?" His voice is ragged against your ear, breath searing across your damp skin. "You make me a fucking animal. Look at your skin. Every mark."

His hand slides from your hip, wide palm dragging over your side until it finds one of the fresh bruises on your ribs. He presses down, hard enough to make you gasp, the pain sharp and immediate.

"You feel that? That's me. That's going to be there for days. You'll feel me every time you breathe."

A broken moan slips from your throat. You don’t recognize it. You don’t care. The stretch, the sting, the filthy sound of your bodies colliding—it’s all too much.

"Spencer..." His name falls from your lips, breathless and hoarse, lost against the damp of his shoulder.

"Say my name again."

His voice drops lower. Commanding. Shaken. He shifts his angle and suddenly the head of his cock drags across something electric inside you. Your whole body tightens. You cry out, voice cracking.

"I want to hear it. I want you to forget every other name when I'm inside you."

"Sp—Spencer," you gasp, nearly choking on it as he slams into that same spot again. The pleasure spikes hard, sharp as a blade, and your body jerks under him.

"That's it." His voice tears apart, words strangled, barely coherent. "God, the sounds you make. The way your cunt just... clenches around me. Like it's trying to keep me here. You trying to keep me here?"

You nod, but it's a mess of a motion. Your body says it for you. The way it grips him. The way you pulse around him. You want him to stay. You want him inside you until the bruises fade, until every mark is gone, and even then you’ll want him again.

And he knows it.

He feels it in every shudder of your body, every moan ripped from your lungs, every bruise painting your skin like a brand of devotion.

He’s not stopping. Not until he’s left you with nothing untouched. Not until you carry him everywhere.

Not until you cum again, choking on his name.

His mouth finds the fresh bite on your shoulder, tongue laving over the swollen skin, slow and heavy. His teeth press down again, not enough to break skin, but promising more. A deeper ache blooms beneath the surface. The bite and the stretch hit at once, sharp and searing, your cunt clenching around the thick, relentless drag of his cock.

His free hand twists into your hair. He doesn’t tug. Just holds you steady, guiding your head until you’re forced to look at him. His eyes are almost black now, pupils wide and blown, hunger spilling from the thin rim of color that remains.

"Look at me. Look at me when I'm fucking you. I want to see it. I want to see everything I'm doing to you behind those eyes."

You meet his gaze and it’s like falling into something too big, too fierce. He looks ruined by need, eaten alive by it, and yet he still wants more. There’s fury in it. Possession. Heat that borders on madness. It should scare you. Maybe it does. But your body answers before your mind can. Your pussy tightens around him, fluttering in a surrender that has nothing to do with control.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he breathes, awestruck and unraveling. "Taking every inch. Letting me ruin you. Letting me mark this perfect skin."

His thrusts lose any last trace of rhythm, hips snapping forward in a ragged, punishing pace that drives the bed into the wall with every slam. The sound is obscene—wet, fast, relentless—and the slick echo of your bodies meeting fills the room like a second heartbeat.

His forehead presses to yours. The air between you is ragged, breath shared, mouths brushing but not kissing. Each exhale from him fans hot across your lips.

"You like this, don't you?" he whispers, his voice low and wrecked. "You like feeling me claim you. You like knowing you're going to be sore tomorrow, that you're going to feel me for days. That you're mine."

You can’t find words. Everything in you is unraveling, stretched too thin. All you can do is nod, frantic and helpless, your body rising to meet each desperate thrust, a full-bodied yes that screams through the silence.

He groans, deep and savage, the sound of a man unspooling.

"Yeah," he grunts. "Yeah, you do. My good girl. My perfect, ruined girl. All mine."

His hand trails from your hair down to your stomach, slick with sweat. He doesn't pause. Fingers find your clit and press, thumb circling rough and fast, the friction too much. Perfect. Agonizing. It sends a jolt straight through you, pleasure flooding back in full force, raw and biting.

Your stomach coils, the tension building again, high and tight and brutal. You’re balancing on the edge of something you won’t survive intact. The pressure of his cock inside you, the sharp ache of the bruises, the brutal grind of his thumb—it’s all too much, and yet not enough.

His eyes drop. He watches you beneath him, your body straining against the rope, your arms drawn taut. The sight seems to tear something open inside him. His expression fractures, pure need spilling across his face.

"Need more," he growls, the words nearly swallowed by the force of his breath. "Need to be deeper. Need to feel all of you."

His hands find your knees, curling around the backs with a grip that shakes. He lifts and folds you in half, your legs pressed back toward your chest, thighs trembling under the strain.

The change is instant. His cock sinks in deeper, heavier, a stretch so sharp it robs the air from your lungs. The groan that tears from him sounds like it's pulled from the base of his spine.

He fucks into you harder, deeper, the angle forcing him to hit a spot that makes your eyes roll back, that makes your whole body seize around him. You sob, soundless at first, then full-throated, throat tearing raw as he drives into the heart of you with every thrust.

Your wrists strain against the ropes. Fingers curl uselessly. There’s nothing you can do but take it.

His gaze locks on the slick slide of his cock inside you, watching himself disappear again and again, hips rolling with merciless intent. His jaw clenches, eyes wild. Then he drags his gaze upward, slow and hungry, over your belly to your chest.

The sight of your tits, pressed tight together by the bend of your body, stops him. The bruises darkening there pull a noise from his throat. Something rough. Possessive.

His thumbs stroke your thighs as they tremble in his grip, calloused skin dragging over oversensitive flesh.

"Look at you," he breathes. His voice catches. "Fuck, look what you let me do to you."

He stares at the purpling marks on your chest, vivid and blooming, the teeth-shaped bruises he left there hours ago.

"My marks. Right there. On display for me."

He thrusts harder, a deliberate push that punches a cry from your lungs.

"You're so fucking beautiful like this. Tied up and bent in half for my cock. Taking me so deep. Your pretty tits pressed together, wearing my bruises. You were made for this."

His words are a filthy, hypnotic chant, weaving through the haze of your pleasure. His grip on your legs tightens, his fingers digging in, and you know without a doubt that by morning, there will be ten perfect matching bruises on the side of your thighs.

The pleasure is a live wire, sparking through your veins with every deep, grinding thrust. He finds a rhythm that is both punishing and exquisitely precise, each movement calculated to drag the swollen, sensitive head of his cock over that perfect, blinding spot inside you. The world narrows to the feel of his hands on your skin, the sight of his intense, focused expression, the sound of his ragged breathing, and the overwhelming, stretching fullness that is both a claiming and a completion.

You are moaning openly now, a continuous, broken stream of sound that is half his name, half meaningless pleas. Every part of you is singing, straining, coiling tighter and tighter toward a shattering peak.

You can feel the tension coiling in his own body, the way his thrusts are becoming less controlled, more frantic, the way his fingers tremble where they grip your flesh. The air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat, charged with the imminent, explosive release you are both racing toward. He is holding on by a thread, his own control fraying as he watches you come utterly apart beneath him, poised to follow you over the edge into oblivion.

The thread of his control, stretched so taut and thin, finally snaps. It isn't a gentle unravelling but a violent, seismic break. A raw, guttural shout is torn from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated release that seems to shake the very walls of the room. His hips stutter, losing all rhythm, becoming a series of shallow, frantic jerks as he buries himself to the hilt inside you and lets go.

You feel it the moment he cums. A hot, pulsing rush deep within you, the first thick jet of his release hitting your deepest walls. It triggers your own undoing. The coil of pleasure that had been wound to an impossible tightness in your core suddenly, violently, unravels. Your orgasm doesn't crest; it detonates. A white-hot shockwave of pure sensation erupts from where you are joined, radiating outward in a paralyzing rush.

It seizes every muscle in your body at once. Your back arches off the bed as far as the ropes and his weight will allow, a silent, breathless scream caught in your throat. Your cunt clenches around him in a rapid, rhythmic series of spasms, milking his cock for every last drop of his release, each pulse wringing a broken groan from his lips.

The pleasure is all-consuming, a tidal wave that drowns out every other thought, every other sense. It’s a full-body convulsion of ecstasy that leaves you trembling, boneless, and utterly wrecked. Your vision whites out at the edges, the world dissolving into a haze of sensation—the hot, wet feel of him pulsing inside you, the brutal, perfect stretch of him, the aftershocks of your own climax that feel like smaller, echoing earthquakes shaking you apart.

He collapses over you, his full weight a heavy, welcome anchor that pins you to the mattress. His forehead presses into the sweat-damp pillow beside your head, his entire body shuddering through the last waves of his climax. His breath comes in ragged, shattered gasps against your ear, each one a hot, humid puff of air. You can feel the frantic, slowing hammer of his heart where his chest is crushed against yours.

For a long, timeless moment, neither of you moves. The only sounds are the ragged symphony of your breathing and the wet, soft sound of his cock still nestled deep inside you, spent and softening.

The air is thick and heavy with the scent of sex, a primal, musky perfume that hangs over you both like a blanket.

Slowly, carefully, his grip on your legs loosens. His hands, which had been vise-like, now stroke down the backs of your thighs with a tenderness that feels shocking after the previous brutality.

He gently guides your legs down, unwinding your body from its contorted position. A soft, involuntary whimper escapes you as your muscles protest the movement, the shift causing him to slip almost out before he settles his weight again, keeping himself sheathed within you. The feeling of him, still inside you in the quiet aftermath, is profoundly intimate. It’s a possessive, grounding presence, a physical tether to the storm that has just passed.

His body is a warm, heavy blanket atop yours, and you can feel the fine tremors that still occasionally wrack his frame. One of his hands comes up, his fingers clumsy with exhaustion, to gently work at the knot binding one of your wrists. The rope falls away, and your arm drops to the mattress with a leaden thud, the blood rushing back in a painful, prickling wave of sensation. He repeats the process with your other wrist, his movements slow and deliberate, his touch surprisingly gentle on the abraded skin.

With your hands finally free, you don't move them. You simply let them lie limp at your sides, every ounce of your energy utterly spent. He doesn't pull out. He remains nestled within the warm, clenching aftermath of your body, his softening cock a quiet reminder of the connection you still share. He shifts his weight slightly, just enough to take the bulk of it off you, but he keeps his hips pressed flush against yours, refusing to break the contact.

His lips find your shoulder, not in a bite, but in a soft, lingering kiss placed directly over the darkest of the bruises. It’s an apology and an absolution all at once. His breath begins to even out, his shuddering subsiding into a deep, contented stillness.

The frantic, desperate energy that had consumed him is gone, replaced by a heavy, sated lethargy that sinks into both of your bones. You are both adrift in the silent, hazy aftermath, bound together not by rope, but by something far more profound and exhausting.

The silence in the wake of your shared climax is profound, broken only by the ragged, slowing cadence of your breaths. The weight of him is a sanctuary, his skin slick and warm against yours. For a long time, neither of you moves, lost in the hazy, saturated stillness. Then, a sound breaks from him—a ragged, shuddering sigh that is more felt than heard. It’s a sound that carries the weight of three months of hell.

His face is still buried in the crook of your neck, but you feel the first hot, wet drop against your skin. Then another. A quiet, broken sob wracks his frame, a tremor that goes straight through your soul. His arms, which had been holding you with possessive strength, now cling to you with a desperate, almost fearful vulnerability.

“I dreamed of this,” he whispers, his voice cracked and raw, muffled against your skin. “Every single night on that thin cot. I’d close my eyes and it was this. Your scent, your warmth, the way it felt just to hold you...” His sentence fractures into another quiet sob, his body trembling with the force of emotions too long suppressed. “I thought I’d never get it back. I was scared they’d stolen it forever.”

Your own eyes well up, tears tracking silently down your temples and into your hair. Your hands, now free, come up to cradle his head, your fingers threading through his damp curls. You hold him as he shakes, as three months of fear, anger, and brutal isolation finally find their release against your skin. You don’t shush him. You just hold him, letting him pour out the poison of that place into the safety of your embrace.

“I’m here,” you murmur, your lips moving against his temple. “You’re home. You’re in our bed. They didn’t steal anything, Spencer. You fought your way back to me. You’re here.” You repeat it like a mantra, a soft litany against the nightmare of his memory.

He lifts his head finally, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy, his beautiful face blotchy with tears. He looks utterly shattered, and more beautiful than you have ever seen him. He frames your face with his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks with a reverence that makes your heart ache.

“You were my only thought,” he confesses, his voice hoarse. “The only clean thing in that entire fucking place. Your voice on the phone. Your letters. The promise you made me… that you’d be here. That we’d have this.” His gaze sweeps over your face, drinking in every detail as if committing it to memory all over again. “I clung to it. It was the only thing that kept the walls from closing in.”

“I meant every word,” you whisper, pulling his mouth down to yours in a kiss that is nothing like the frantic, hungry ones from before. This kiss is soft, slow, and deep, a sealing of a promise finally kept. It’s a kiss full of three months of missed mornings and lonely nights, of fears unspoken and a hope that refused to die. It tastes of salt tears and shared breath and a love that has been tempered in fire.

“I’m never leaving this bed,” he murmurs, a ghost of his old humour touching his voice, though it’s thick with emotion.

You smile, a real, true smile that feels like the first one in months. “Good. You’re not allowed to.”

The room is quiet, heavy with the weight of everything that just happened. You both lie tangled together, sweat-slick, trembling, bodies still pulsing with the remnants of the intensity you shared. Spencer’s chest presses against yours, his arms wrapped around you almost desperately, holding you close, but neither of you moves. Words feel too heavy, too fragile, and for a long moment, there is nothing but breath, heartbeat, and the silent acknowledgement of what passed.

Your faces are so close that you can feel each other’s warmth radiating in waves, the brush of skin over skin grounding you, tethering you in a reality that feels almost unreal after the intensity of what happened. Spencer burrows his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your hair, of your skin, as if memorizing it again, imprinting it on himself in case the world ever tries to take it from him. You shiver in response, and he tightens his hold, a low hum vibrating through him, the sound of someone who is both exhausted and terrified of letting go.

You lie there entwined, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart under your ear—a sound you had feared you might never hear this close again. The frantic energy is gone, replaced by a deep, thrumming contentment, a peace that settles into your very bones. The bruises will ache tomorrow. The memories will sometimes surface. But in this moment, there is only this: his breath in your hair, his skin against yours, the profound rightness of being whole again.

He lifts his head just enough to look over your body, taking in the swell of your breasts, the marks along your thighs, the fingerprints left from where he held you down. Every new mark, every darkening bruise, every faint trace of his hands on your skin sets off a fire of protectiveness inside him. He needs to tend to you. He needs to make sure you’re okay.

“I need to… I need to take care of you,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough, almost shaking. His hands brush your hair from your face, sliding down your shoulder to cup it, gentle now where moments ago they were urgent and demanding. He presses a soft kiss over the largest bite mark, lingering, as if the pressure of his lips can soothe both the pain and the memory of it.

Slowly, carefully, he shifts, guiding you upright against his chest. His hands are everywhere at once, steadying you, touching lightly, memorizing where he needs to be gentle. “Come with me,” he whispers, voice low, almost reverent. “We should… get cleaned up. I should treat those bite wounds.”

He doesn’t rush the movement, simply guides you with a hand at the small of your back, his other hand finding yours, lacing your fingers together as he leads you from the warmth of the bed into the cool, tiled silence of the bathroom.

The light he flicks on is soft, not the harsh overhead glare, and it casts the room in a gentle, forgiving glow. He turns on the shower, testing the water with his hand until it steams, a cloud of warmth billowing into the room.

He steps in first, never letting go of your hand, and guides you under the spray with him. The water is a perfect, blissful heat that cascades over your shoulders, washing away the sweat and the lingering evidence of your passion. He reaches for a washcloth and a bar of soap, the simple, clean scent of it filling the air. He works up a rich lather, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Turn for me,” he murmurs, his voice a soft vibration in the steamy space.

You obey, presenting your back to him. His touch is exquisite, a world away from the frantic grasping of before. The soft, sudsy cloth glides over your skin, over the slope of your shoulders, down the length of your spine. He is meticulously careful, avoiding the darker bruises, skirting the tender bite marks with a reverence that makes your throat tight. He washes your arms, his fingers gently massaging the muscles, paying special attention to your wrists, where the rope had held you fast. He doesn’t scrub, he anoints, each pass of the cloth a silent apology, a promise of care.

He turns you back to face him, his eyes dark and soft in the mist. The washcloth moves over your collarbones, over the swell of your breasts, and you watch his face, the absolute concentration there, the deep focus he applies to this simple, loving task. He washes every part of you with the same tender attention, kneeling to run the cloth down your legs, his touch firm and soothing on your tired muscles. He is worshipping you, not with words, but with action, washing away not just the physical remnants of the night, but the ghost of his own desperation.

When he is finished with you, he quickly, almost efficiently, soaps himself. It’s not rushed, but it lacks the ceremonial care he gave you. This is a practicality. His focus remains entirely on you, even as he rinses the suds from his own skin.

He turns off the water and reaches for a large, fluffy towel, wrapping you in it before he even considers one for himself. He pats you dry with the same infinite care, blotting the water from your skin, his touch lingering on the now-clean marks he left behind. He leads you, swaddled in warmth, back to the bedroom and sits you gently on the edge of the bed.

“Stay right here,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead before crossing and retrieving a small, white first aid kit.

He kneels on the floor before you, opening the kit with a quiet click. His hands are sure and steady as he selects an antiseptic ointment. “This might sting a little,” he says, his voice low, his eyes flicking up to yours for permission. You nod, and his touch is feather-light as he dabs the cool cream onto the bite mark on your shoulder where the skin had broken.

His brow is furrowed in concentration, his full attention on minimizing any discomfort. He follows the ointment with a small adhesive bandage, smoothing the edges down with the pad of his thumb.

He does the same for the other small breaks he's made to your skin, his movements methodical and gentle. Once the bandages are in place, he takes a bottle of aloe vera lotion, pouring a generous amount into his palm. He warms it between his hands before taking one of your wrists.

He begins to massage the lotion into your skin, his thumbs working in slow, circular motions over the faint red marks left by the rope. The lotion is cool and soothing, but his touch is what truly heals, a constant, gentle pressure that seems to seep into your very bones, easing the memory of strain. He spends a long time on each wrist, not stopping until the skin has absorbed every drop and feels supple and new under his fingers.

He looks up at you, his task complete, his eyes searching yours. The atmosphere is so soft, so sweet, it feels sacred. He has taken the violence of his need and transformed it, through this meticulous care, into something profoundly loving. He has tended to every mark, not to erase them, but to honour them, and to honour you.

The first aid kit is set aside, its purpose fulfilled. For a long moment, Spencer remains on his knees before you, his hands resting gently on your thighs, his head bowed as if in quiet reverence. The only sound is the soft, steady rhythm of your shared breathing in the hushed room. Then, he lifts his gaze to yours, and the look in his eyes—full of a weary, overwhelming love—makes your heart stutter.

Without a word, he rises and guides you back, shifting you both until you are nestled deep within the pillows, the soft comforter pulled up to your waists. He doesn’t simply lie beside you; he gathers you into him, moulding your body to his as if trying to erase any possible space between you. One arm curls beneath your neck, his hand cradling your head, while the other wraps around your waist, his palm splayed possessively against the small of your back. Your leg hooks over his hip, and you bury your face in the warm, familiar hollow of his throat, breathing in the clean scent of soap and the essential, unique scent that is simply him.

You lie like that for what feels like an eternity, simply soaking each other in. The frantic, desperate energy of before has been utterly spent, washed away and bandaged over, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep calm. His fingers trace idle, lazy patterns on your skin—over your shoulder, down your arm, across the bandage on your collarbone—each touch a silent reaffirmation of his presence, his reality.

“I kept my promise,” he whispers into your hair, his voice a low, drowsy rumble you feel more than hear. “I endured. I held on. For this. For you.” His hand stills, pressing firmly against your back, holding you even closer. “It was the only thing that made sense in there. The thought of coming back to this. To you. Right here.”

You tilt your head up, your nose brushing against his jaw. “And I kept mine,” you answer softly. “I never let go. Not for a second.” You press a soft, lingering kiss to the pulse point at the base of his throat, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart against your lips. “You’re home now. Really home. And I’m never letting you go again.”

A shuddering breath escapes him, and he shifts to look down at you, his eyes glistening in the dim light. The intelligence, the quickness that usually lives there is softened by exhaustion and emotion, leaving only a raw, tender honesty. “Promise me,” he says, his voice thick. “Promise me we never have to be apart like that again. Promise me that every night from now on, I get to fall asleep just like this. With you in my arms.”

Tears well in your own eyes, but they are tears of relief, of a happiness so fierce it aches. You bring a hand up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking the arch of his cheekbone. “I promise,” you vow, your voice unwavering. “Every single night. No matter what. You’re stuck with me, Spencer Reid.”

A real, genuine smile—the first one you’ve seen in three long months—touches his lips. It’s a little wobbly, and it doesn’t erase the shadows under his eyes, but it is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He dips his head, capturing your mouth in a kiss that is achingly sweet and impossibly soft. It’s not a kiss of hunger, but of belonging. A seal on the promise you’ve just made.

He breaks the kiss and simply rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. “Then I’m home,” he breathes out, the words a sigh of ultimate contentment. “I’m finally home.”

You barely have time to breathe before Spencer is up from the bed. He crosses the room with a speed that startles you, hands reaching before he even fully closes the distance. When he pulls you against him, it is not gentle, not the tentative touch you remember. It is desperate, rough in its urgency, but the warmth in it is unmistakable. His mouth finds yours like he has been starved of the taste, and you feel the tremor in him, the way he nearly shudders with relief just from having you close again.

Every detail is sharper than usual. The press of his chest against yours. The grip of his fingers at your waist. The faint scent of soap clinging to his shirt, not his own but the prison’s. He kisses you like he needs proof you are real, like he’s been carrying the weight of missing you every second since you last touched.

The kiss does not slow.

It crashes forward, all teeth and heat, his mouth moving against yours like he has been choking on absence and finally found air again. His hands clutch at you, palms sliding over your body in a rush, greedy and restless, tugging at fabric as if he could peel away the time apart with his fingers. He presses you back until the edge of the bed bites against the back of your thighs, his body crowding yours like he cannot stand a single inch of distance.

He tastes like desperation, like weeks of loneliness sharpened into need. The sound that slips out of him is ragged, half groan, half sigh, and it vibrates against your lips. His hand cups your jaw, almost rough with the strength of it, then drags down to your throat, thumb tracing your pulse that stutters under his touch. He growls something under his breath about how much he missed you, how he thought about this every night, and his words spill fast, tumbling like he has to force them out.

His hands drag at your clothes and you beat him to it, fingers fumbling at his waistband, tugging at his pants even as he yanks at yours. It is frantic, uncoordinated, a tangle of hands pulling, tugging, desperate to tear away anything that dares to stay between you.

When he growls in frustration, you laugh breathlessly into his mouth, gasping as you finally shove his shirt off his shoulders. “Too slow,” you bite out, and he answers by pushing you flat on the bed with a roughness that makes you gasp.

You grab him back just as hard, pulling him over you, mouths meeting again in a kiss that is more collision than anything else. His teeth catch your bottom lip and you moan into it, hips lifting into his with a sharp grind that pulls a groan straight from his chest. He responds instantly, rolling against you with an urgency that makes your whole body jolt.

“God, I missed you,” he mutters against your skin, words muffled as his mouth drags down your throat. The sound of him is raw, broken in places, and it drives you half-wild. You clutch at his hair, tugging his head back just enough to catch his mouth again, kissing him like you’ll never get enough, like you’re trying to brand the taste of him on your tongue.

You pull at his pants, shoving them down his hips, and he helps you with quick, jerking movements. The second he’s free, you’re reaching, wrapping your hand around him, making him stutter against your mouth. The noise he makes is guttural, his hips thrusting into your grip without thought. His hand shoots out, gripping your wrist, not to stop you but to steady himself, because he is shaking with it, with you, with everything he has been holding in.

“Please,” you whisper, and the word cracks through the heat, sharp and needy. Your legs hook around his waist, dragging him down, urging him closer, and he curses under his breath, the sound rough and desperate. He pushes your clothes lower, fumbling with speed that makes seams strain, and you lift your hips to help, to get rid of everything, anything, just to feel him skin to skin.

“You don’t know what it’s been like. Every night. Every single one, I thought about this. About you spread out under me like this.” His tone is rough, fraying at the edges, but threaded with something deeper, something softer, like he is afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t pour every word into you.

He drags his palm down your thigh, forcing your legs wider, grinding himself against you in an urgent rhythm that makes both of you gasp. You clutch at his back, nails digging in, but he only groans at the sting, rolling his hips harder. “So fucking wet already. You missed me too, didn’t you? Couldn’t get yourself off the way I do.”

Any response is lost in the sound of his mouth crashing back onto yours, messy and consuming. His teeth nip at your lip, his tongue pushing past your own, and when you whimper he swallows the sound like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His cock presses hard against your thigh, hot and heavy, and when you reach for him again he snarls low in his throat, grabbing your wrist and pinning it to the bed above your head. His eyes are blown wide, dark and wild, and the sight of him like this makes your chest ache even as your body pulses with need.

“You’re mine. Do you hear me?” His voice breaks, almost pleading beneath the command. “No one else touches you. No one else gets to have this.” His hips jerk forward, rubbing against your slick heat, and you cry out at the sensation, clutching at his shoulders with your free hand.

“Spencer—please—”

That one word makes him snap. His hand fists the base of his cock, lining himself up with a rush of impatience, his breath stuttering out as the tip slides against you.

The shock of him filling you knocks the air from your lungs. It’s too much, too sudden, but you cling to him anyway, nails dragging down his back as you gasp against his mouth. The stretch burns in a way that makes your eyes flutter shut, and the sound that tears from your throat is messy, broken, but you don’t care. You need him too much to care.

His groan rips free, deep and guttural, his forehead pressing against yours as if he cannot stand the thought of being anywhere but right here. “Fuck. So tight. God, I’ve been dreaming of this—waking up hard and aching every damn morning because I couldn’t have you.” His hips snap forward, hard and unrelenting, and the bed creaks beneath the force of it.

“Yes—Spence, please—don’t stop,” you breathe, the words tumbling out fast, desperate, feeding the wildness in his eyes. He groans deep at the sound, snapping his hips harder, dragging another cry from your chest. You lock your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting his thrusts with your own shameless grinding. His mouth is everywhere—on your throat, your jaw, your shoulder—biting, sucking, claiming you with every kiss.

Every thrust is a confession, every movement frantic, messy, desperate. He grips your hip hard enough to bruise, forcing you to take every inch, muttering against your lips between ragged breaths. “Say you missed me. Say no one else makes you feel like this.”

Every slam of his body into yours knocks the thin mattress against the wall, rattling the frame, but you only arch up for more. “Missed you,” you pant into his ear, clutching at his shoulders like you’ll fall apart without the anchor of his body. “Missed the way you fuck me. No one else—no one else feels like this.”

The words make him growl, his hand sliding up to press over your throat, holding you there just enough to make your breath stutter. You whimper, not in fear but from the thrill of it, hips jerking against his in frantic rhythm. “Harder,” you beg, voice breaking. “God, give it to me, Spence, I can take it.”

The sound he makes is almost feral, his pace turning brutal, each thrust deep enough to make you cry out. Your fingers fist in his hair, yanking his head down so you can kiss him, sloppy and wet, teeth clashing, spit slicking both your mouths. You moan into it, every sound spilling against his lips, every plea tangled with the rough drag of your bodies.

He continues with a sharp thrust that rips a scream from your throat. You cling tighter, legs trembling around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back as you meet him stroke for stroke. The room feels too small to hold the noise, the slick slap of skin on skin, your breathless moans, his hoarse grunts as he fucks into you like a man who hasn’t touched heaven in months.

His cock drags through you with every relentless stroke, stretching you wide, the thick head catching on that tender spot inside that makes your vision blur. You are soaked, so wet that each thrust sounds filthy, obscene, the slick slap of it filling the room and pushing you closer to the edge of unravelling. Your walls clutch around him, desperate to hold him, to milk every inch, and he groans low in your ear at the way you squeeze him. He groans against your throat, teeth scraping as though he wants to mark you just to prove you’re real.

“Christ, baby,” he rasps, his voice roughened by strain. His thrusts grind deep, purposeful now, making your whole body jolt with the force. “You’re dripping for me. So fucking wet I can feel it running down my cock.” His teeth graze your ear and you whimper, arching against him, helpless for more.

His hand leaves your throat to grip your breast, squeezing rough, fingers digging in like he wants to leave his shape there. He pinches your nipple hard enough to make you cry out, then soothes it with a roll of his palm, his mouth biting at your neck while he thrusts harder. “Perfect tits, perfect pussy. You were made for me. Look at you taking me so well.”

You moan, words spilling out between gasps, “Feels so good—Spence, don’t stop, please—”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he growls, snapping his hips harder, your slick coating him as he drives into you. “I love how needy you are. Love watching you fall apart on my cock. You’re so fucking tight around me, squeezing like you never want to let go.”

Your body clenches in response, walls fluttering around him, dragging another groan from his chest. He bites down on your shoulder, the sting sparking pleasure straight through you, and when his hand slides down between your bodies to rub at your clit, your scream shatters in the small room.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he pants, voice unsteady but firm, his thumb circling brutally fast as his cock pistons into you. “Gonna make you cum all over me. Gonna ruin this bed with how wet you are.” His thrusts are deep, unrelenting, and your nails rake down his back as your hips jerk, trying to take him even deeper.

“You feel like heaven, sweetheart. I’ve been starving for you, I can’t—” His breath hitches, hips faltering for a moment before he slams back into you with a guttural sound. “Shit. I don’t want to finish yet. I need this to last. I need every second of you.”

With a suddenness that steals your breath, Spencer pulls out, leaving you trembling and needy, gasping for more. Before you can protest, he’s flipping you over, the sheets rough against your skin as you land on your hands and knees. He doesn’t give you a second to adjust before he’s pressing back into you, the new angle making you cry out with the sheer fullness.

He wraps his hand around your hip, holding you in place as he starts to drive into you again, each thrust hitting deeper, harder. The room seems to shrink around you, the only sound his harsh breaths and the slap of skin against skin. You brace your palms on the mattress, pushing back to meet him, the friction making sparks fly through your veins.

His grip on your hip tightens, fingers digging in like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, like the thin barrier of his body against yours is the only tether he has left. Every thrust is a collision, rough and unrelenting, and you can feel the desperation in him, the way he’s fighting the pull of his own release just to draw this out.

His thrusts are brutal, unrelenting, the kind of pace that feels like punishment and salvation at the same time. His grip on your hips is merciless, dragging you back to meet every snap of his body, and the sound of skin slapping fills the room in sharp, filthy rhythm. The mattress creaks beneath you, loud enough that anyone outside could hear, but neither of you care.

“Harder,” you manage, voice wrecked, and the sound of your plea tears another growl from his throat. His fingers dig bruises into your skin as he obeys, slamming into you faster, the wet sounds obscene and echoing in the cramped space.

Your palms slip against the sheets, knuckles white as you hold on. He leans forward, grabbing a fistful of your hair to yank your head back, forcing your spine into a curve that makes you cry out. His breath is hot against your ear, his words filthy, unfiltered.

“Take it. Every inch. You wanted me, now you’re gonna feel me for days."

The words send heat racing through you, pooling low in your stomach, your body clenching tight around him. He hisses at the sudden grip, pounding into you harder, chasing his own release with a single-minded hunger that has you falling apart under him.

You’re both loud, messy, desperate, your bodies colliding with a pace that feels reckless, obscene, like two people who know time is short and refuse to waste a second of it. The air is thick with sweat and the scent of sex, every thrust dragging you closer to the edge, every filthy word spilling from his mouth driving you higher until you’re trembling, breaking, unable to hold back the sharp cries that tear out of you.

Your whole body seizes as the climax rips through you, sharp and relentless, your nails clawing at the thin mattress while your voice cracks open with a ragged cry. The pleasure crashes over you in waves, every thrust dragging it out, every drag of him inside you keeping you locked in that blinding rush until your arms nearly give out.

Spencer doesn’t slow. If anything, he uses the grip of your orgasm around him to drive harder, fucking into you with a frantic rhythm that borders on savage. His groans are raw, guttural, spilling out without restraint. “So tight—fuck—you’re gonna milk me dry.” His words tumble out in broken fragments, cut off by the force of his thrusts, by the mounting tension pulling his body taut.

You’re still reeling, overstimulated and shaking, when you feel him slam deep one last time. His body grinds against yours, trembling, his fingers crushing into your hips as he spills inside you with a hoarse, almost broken shout. His hips jerk through it, messy and uncoordinated, desperate to bury himself as deep as possible, to leave nothing untouched.

For a breathless beat the world narrows to the pounding of your hearts, the sweat-slick heat between your bodies, the desperate way he holds on. Then, instead of collapsing over you, he pulls out with a ragged groan and falls onto the bed beside you, chest still heaving. His hand finds you instantly, tugging you into his side, needing you pressed close.

You curl against him, skin sticking to skin, your cheek against the damp flesh of his shoulder. He drags you higher, lips finding yours in a messy kiss that tastes of sweat and need, then softer ones pressed along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth like he can’t stop touching, can’t stop proving to himself you’re real.

His fingers trace over your body with restless reverence, mapping every curve as though he has to relearn you after so long without. His palm drags over your hip, your thigh, then up to cup your breast, squeezing gently, thumb brushing your nipple until it hardens again. He doesn’t push, not yet, just strokes you, keeping you close, breathing you in like he needs every second to anchor him.

You can feel him, softening against the mess between your thighs, then twitching faintly against your hip as his refractory period ticks away, as the promise of more builds again. His kisses grow hungrier the longer he touches you, his tongue sliding into your mouth with a low groan, his free hand tangling in your hair to hold you there.

Every brush of his lips, every glide of his hand says the same thing. He’s not done. Not even close.

He presses a gentle kiss to your temple, then the edge of your jaw, like he can’t stop himself from confirming that you’re actually here. His lips move slowly, softly, over your skin, brushing your collarbone and up along your throat, tracing lines that make you shiver in ways that have nothing to do with urgency. Every kiss is quiet, almost tentative, but full of need—the need to prove to himself that after all the dark months, all the empty nights, you are real and you are here.

Your hands find his chest, brushing over the damp skin, and he leans into your touch, eyes closing as if to soak it all in. His fingers drag down your side, linger on the curve of your hip, then circle over your waist again, slow and careful. You tilt your head, letting him guide the small movements, every brush of his thumb and fingertips like a whisper that says he cannot believe this is happening, cannot believe he’s allowed to touch you again.

Finally, his mouth finds yours, softly, lingering in a kiss that is nothing like before, nothing frantic or desperate. It is quiet and consuming, tasting you, memorizing you, a kiss meant to remind him that the world has not taken you away. He lets it deepen gradually, hands sliding up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as though he needs the proof of you.

He pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours, breath mingling, chest rising against yours. “Hi,” he whispers, voice low and cracked, soft but trembling with everything he hasn’t said in months.

You smile against him, voice husky, barely above a whisper. “Hi,” you reply, your fingers tangling in his hair, brushing the damp strands at his nape.

The two of you stay like that, wrapped together, letting your bodies press and settle, letting the heat linger where it belongs. His chest rises and falls against yours, each breath a reminder that he’s real, that you’re real, that this moment is yours. Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck, and he tilts his head into your touch, lips brushing the top of your hair, a soft sigh escaping him.

You barely have time to settle against him before you feel it—the twitch of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh, growing harder with every heartbeat. He shifts closer, a low groan ripping from his chest as his mouth finds yours in a frantic, desperate kiss. Tongue sliding, teeth nipping, hands tangling in your hair as if he needs you to stay with him, here and now.

His hips press against you, testing, dragging over your slick skin until your own shiver meets him. “God, I can’t wait,” he rasps against your lips, voice rough and ragged. “I need you again. Need to feel you… now.”

You murmur your own desperate agreement, pulling him closer, letting your hands roam freely over the damp planes of his chest and shoulders. Every kiss is hotter than the last, messy and wild, and you feel him stiffen fully against you, thick and hard, dragging wetly over your folds as if he’s teasing himself on you.

You arch into him, the slick heat of your arousal coating him as your hands dig into the firm planes of his back, holding on as though letting go would shatter the fragile tether of being this close. His groan vibrates against your lips, raw and needy, and you feel the way his cock twitches insistently, dragging over your folds in a slow, torturous tease that makes your thighs tremble.

He bites at your lower lip, tugging just enough to make you gasp, and his hands roam hungrily over you, gripping your hips, kneading the curve of your ass, and sliding up to press your torso flush against his chest. Every touch is urgent, desperate, but beneath it is that quiet reverence, the way he’s savouring your body as though he’s memorizing it after months of absence.

He doesn’t wait, not a second longer, and slams into you with a force that leaves you breathless. Every thrust drives you forward, chest to chest, skin against skin, wet and slick, your body clenching around him as if you could fuse together. The room fills with ragged moans and wet, obscene sounds, the mattress creaking under the weight of both of you.

His hips drive into you hard, every thrust sharp enough to make the frame rattle, but there’s a tremor in him, a ragged edge that has nothing to do with pace. His forehead presses to yours, his breath hot and uneven, and between the filthy sounds of your bodies colliding, his words spill out, cracked open and unguarded.

“I thought I forgot what this felt like,” he pants, the strain in his voice almost breaking him. His lips brush your cheek, soft even as his cock pounds into you. “But I never forgot. I’ve dreamed about you every single night.”

Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him down until his mouth crushes to yours, the kiss messy, wet, desperate. You moan against his lips, and his hand clamps harder around your hip as if holding you will stop you from vanishing.

When he tears his mouth away, his voice is hoarse. “I was so scared they’d take this from me forever. That I’d never touch you again. The only thing that kept me from losing my mind in there was knowing you were out here waiting for me.”

The confession punches through you harder than any thrust. Your walls seize around him, dragging a guttural groan from his throat, and his hips falter, stuttering before he drives even deeper, like he’s trying to bury himself inside you, to prove you’re real.

You gasp his name, clutching at his shoulders, and he presses his lips to your temple, his voice low, raw, almost reverent. “I need you to know… you’re the reason I’m still breathing. I don’t care what happens to me, but if I can make it back to you—if I can hold you like this again—it’s worth surviving for.”

Your vision blurs as his thrusts grow rougher, frantic, each one a confession in itself. He drags his teeth over your throat, groaning when you squeeze around him, and his words come hot against your skin, broken but full of truth.

“You’re everything, sweetheart. My light. My reason. I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

“I didn’t know if I’d ever get to hold you again,” he says, voice cracking with the weight of it. His hips slam forward, driving so deep you cry out. “But now you’re here, and I swear I’ll never forget how this feels. How you feel.”

Your eyes flutter shut, overwhelmed, but he won’t let you drift. His fingers curl under your chin, tipping your face toward him so he can watch you while he pounds into you. His gaze is wild, hazel eyes burning with everything he’s kept locked away.

“You’re the only thing that’s real to me,” he groans, his words tumbling over the wet slap of your bodies colliding. “Everything else disappears when I think about you. When I’m inside you, I remember who I am.”

You whimper his name and his hand trembles where it clutches your hip, holding you open for him. The desperation in him is consuming, a man terrified of time slipping too quickly. His mouth hovers over yours, not quite kissing, his words brushing your lips with each ragged breath.

“I don’t know how long they’ll keep me here,” he admits, raw honesty cutting through the lust, “but I’ll survive if I know you’re waiting. I’ll survive for you.”

Your chest tightens at the sound of it, the way his voice breaks when he says it. You grip his face with both hands, pulling him down to kiss you hard, messy, desperate. He moans into your mouth like it’s the only answer he needed, thrusts faltering for a moment before he slams back into you with a guttural cry.

Your body arches under his, pleasure cresting, and you cling to him like you’ll never let go. His confessions blur with the sound of your moans, every word and every thrust branding you, desperate proof of a man clinging to light in a place that’s tried to strip him of it.

You wrap your legs tight around his waist, urging him closer, deeper, feeling his cock fill you so completely that you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. The room is a cocoon of heat and need, the world outside forgotten in the face of this reunion.

His thrusts are rougher now, like he’s trying to drive out every lonely night, every thought that clawed at him when the walls closed in. His breath catches with each push, and the sound of it tears right through you, jagged and pleading. You answer with a broken cry, clinging to him with everything you have, your hands roaming his shoulders, his jaw, the damp strands of hair at his temple, needing to feel all of him at once.

His lips find yours again, frantic, the kiss hot and unsteady. Teeth clash, tongues tangle, and he groans like he can’t bear to let go. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, sweat sliding down between you, and he whispers your name as if the syllables themselves are his lifeline.

You tilt your head, brushing your lips against his cheek, his jaw, breathing him in like you could anchor him here with the simplest touch. “I’m here,” you breathe, the words trembling, a promise more than reassurance. His body shudders at it, hips faltering before he slams deep again, chasing you, chasing the only thing that still feels alive.

Your legs tighten around him, pulling him deeper, keeping him close. The bed creaks with the rhythm of his desperation, every thrust a declaration, every moan an unravelling. You arch beneath him, your chest pressed hard to his, the sound of your breaths tangled together until you can’t tell which belongs to you and which belongs to him.

Your voice breaks out of you before you can stop it, not words at first, just sound, raw and aching, the kind that’s been caged in your chest for too long. You grip his face, forcing him to look at you even as his body drives into yours, and the tears sting your eyes from the weight of everything you’ve been holding in.

“I miss you,” you choke out, fierce and trembling. It’s not delicate, not sweet. It’s gutted truth, dragged out of you with every thrust. “I miss you so much I can’t breathe half the time. I go to bed in our apartment and it feels empty, it feels wrong without you. Every morning I wake up reaching for you, and all I get is cold sheets.”

His rhythm stutters, a sound breaking from him that’s somewhere between a moan and a sob. His hand cups the side of your neck like he needs to hold you in place, like he can’t stand the idea of you slipping away.

You drag him down, lips brushing his ear, your words spilling hot against his skin. “I hate walking through the world without you. I hate sitting across from your empty chair. But I swear to you, Spence, I’m doing everything I can to get you home. I’ll do anything it takes. You’re not going to stay here. Not when you belong with me.”

His breath shudders against your mouth, and you feel it—how badly he needs to believe you. His hips slam forward again, ragged, like he’s trying to fuse himself to you, like he wants to bury every piece of his fear inside you. You clutch at him, holding his jaw, forcing his eyes back to yours so he knows you mean every syllable.

“You’re not alone,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I’m with you. Always. Even when they lock you away, even when the walls close in, I’m still here. I’ll never stop fighting for you.”

The way his eyes burn into you then makes your chest ache. He thrusts again, harder, groaning your name like a prayer that’s finally reached his lips. The desperation between you twists into something sharper, something unbreakable—every kiss, every thrust, every gasp of air a promise that no prison, no time, no distance could take this from you.

His mouth finds yours again, messy and unsteady, the kiss a collision of hunger and grief, like he’s trying to swallow every second he’s lost with you. You cling to him, kissing him back until your lips ache, until your lungs scream for air, because stopping feels impossible when you’ve spent so long apart. His hips drive harder, every thrust shaking through you, the desperation pouring out of him with each ragged groan.

Your hands are everywhere—his hair damp at the nape of his neck, the sharp line of his jaw, the slick heat of his back where the muscles strain under your touch. You’re memorizing him, burning him into your palms, terrified of the moment he’ll have to go back and leave you aching all over again.

“I can’t lose you,” you whisper against his skin, your words almost swallowed by his broken moan. “I can’t.”

“You won’t,” he rasps, his voice cracking. His thrusts falter, then slam harder, deeper, like he’s trying to seal the vow inside your body. "I won't let it happen."

His thrusts are erratic now, hips slamming into you with a desperation that rattles the frame of the bed. His forehead presses to yours, sweat dripping, lips brushing, the sound of his breathing ragged and breaking. You can feel the edge approaching, sharp and unbearable, but it won’t tip without more, without him. The frustration spills out of you in a plea, your voice cracking on the words.

His forehead presses to yours, his lips brushing yours on every ragged breath, and he groans your name like it’s the last thing tethering him to the earth. The pace grows uneven, harder, and you feel him unravelling with you, both of you hanging on by a thread.

“Spence—please—I’m so close, I just need—”

You can’t even finish before his hand drops between you, fingers finding you slick and swollen. He groans low at the feel of you, the tremor in his voice almost undone. “I’ve got you. Let go for me, sweetheart.”

His thumb circles your clit, clumsy at first from the angle, but relentless, desperate to pull you over with him. The added touch makes your body jolt, every nerve strung so tight you can barely breathe. You cry out, hips bucking against his hand, against his cock buried deep inside you, chasing the wave that’s just cresting.

The tension inside you snaps all at once, crashing over you in a wave so strong it rips a cry from your throat. Your body clenches around him, spasming, every muscle shaking as you shatter beneath him. His name tears from your lips, strangled and desperate, and the sound of it drags him over with you. He slams deep, groaning your name like it’s salvation, his body shuddering violently as he spills into you.

He doesn’t stop his hand until the aftershocks leave you twitching, whimpering, too sensitive to bear. Only then does he slow, his touch softening, rubbing lazy circles as if coaxing every last drop of release from you. His forehead stays pressed to yours, both of you gasping, trembling, clinging like the world might collapse the second you let go.

The aftershocks roll through you, leaving you limp beneath him, trembling and overrun. Spencer stays buried deep inside, his body pressed flush to yours.

He’s shaking, breath catching in uneven gasps, face buried in the crook of your neck. For a long moment, the room is nothing but the sound of your panting, the sharp creak of the bed subsiding into silence, and the heavy weight of his body settling over you like he can’t let go.

Your fingers weave into his damp hair, stroking through the strands even though your own hands are trembling. You don’t want to let go either. His skin is hot and slick, the faint tremor in his muscles betraying how much he was holding back. When he lifts his head, hazel eyes catch yours, wet and burning, his mouth parting like he’s about to speak but the words falter.

“I don’t want this to end,” he whispers finally, voice hoarse, the confession cutting through you.

Your chest twists, because you don’t either, and yet the clock on the wall doesn’t care about what either of you want. You smooth a trembling hand over his cheek, brushing damp hair back from his face, forcing yourself to meet his eyes even though it hurts.

“I know,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Neither do I. But it has to. For now.” Your thumb sweeps along his jaw, memorizing the shape of him. “But it’s not forever, Spence. I’m not leaving you here. I’m going to bring you home. I need you to believe that.”

His lips part, a soft, ragged sound spilling out of him as his forehead drops against yours. For a moment he just breathes you in, like he’s pulling your promise deep into his lungs, storing it for when the nights get too long.

His jaw tightens, a sound escaping him that’s somewhere between a groan and a sob. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your damp skin with the softest touch. He kisses you hard, messy and full of need, then softer, lingering as if trying to taste every last second he has left.

You can feel him softening inside you, but neither of you move to separate. Instead, you keep him close, your legs locked around him, unwilling to break the connection. His arms wrap around you, holding tight, his body heavy but comforting, his weight something you welcome after all those nights he was gone from you.

Time is running out—you both know it—but you refuse to let it rush you. You stroke his jaw, his hair, tracing him with tender desperation. “When you come home,” you whisper against his lips, “I’ll never let you sleep alone again. We’ll make up for every second they stole from us.”

Spencer’s breath shudders, his eyes squeezing shut as he presses his face into your shoulder. “That’s the only thing keeping me alive,” he admits, voice breaking. “The thought of you waiting. The thought of us after this.”

You hold him tighter, kissing the damp strands at his temple, your own tears sliding down into his hair. You soak him in, the heat of him, the weight, the sound of his uneven breath, because soon you’ll have to leave, and the cold reality of that makes you clutch him harder.

But there’s something else in his eyes when he finally looks at you again, something not just desperate but fierce. Hope. The kind that refuses to die even in a place designed to kill it. You see it burning in him, fragile but alive, and it takes root in you too.

“Soon,” you promise again, your lips brushing his. “Soon you’ll be home.”

The sharp buzz overhead breaks the spell, followed by the low, mechanical voice announcing the five-minute warning. The sound cuts through you both, jarring and merciless. Spencer stiffens against you, and for a moment neither of you move, as if refusing to acknowledge it could make the world hold still.

But then his hand slides from your cheek, slow and reluctant, and you both begin the quiet work of gathering yourselves. You dress in silence, clothing clumsy against damp skin, the air heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. Every button fastened feels like a countdown, every piece of fabric another barrier between you and the warmth you’re desperate to hold onto.

When you’re done, he reaches for you again, tugging you into his arms with a force that’s almost desperate. His forehead rests against yours, and he takes his time breathing you in."

You press your palms to his face, holding him there. “Listen to me. Hold on. Every night you make it through, every morning you open your eyes, it’s one day closer to home. To me.”

He swallows hard, eyes glimmering with everything he feels but can’t say, and his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your lips. “Then I’ll endure,” he murmurs, voice low but precise, weighted with a promise. “I’ll endure everything if it means the next time I see you, I can stay. I’ll endure because I know you’re waiting, and I’ll never stop fighting to get home to you.”

His eyes search yours, glassy and burning, and then he kisses you, not hurried this time but slow, deep, as if he's able to freeze this moment. When he pulls back, his hands are firm at your waist, unwilling to let go too soon.

A sharp knock echoes against the door, reverberating through the small room. Spencer stiffens for a heartbeat, his chest still pressed to yours, and you feel the tension coil between you. The knock comes again, firmer this time, followed by the dull click of keys in the lock. A pause, as if the guard is measuring just how long he can let you linger, and then the door swings open.

You and Spencer stay where you are, pressed together, breathing each other in, neither willing to move. The guard clears his throat softly, a polite warning that your time has ended, and Spencer’s jaw tightens. His hands tighten slightly at your waist, pulling you impossibly close, as if he could defy the minutes slipping away.

Finally, he exhales, slow and deliberate, and presses one last, lingering kiss to your temple.

"I have to go," he whispers, but his feet don't move. His eyes are fixed on yours, drinking you in like he's trying to carry this image with him back to his cell.

You nod, throat too tight for words, and force yourself to take a step back. The space between you feels cavernous, even though it's barely a foot. Spencer's fingers slip from yours reluctantly, the loss of contact like a physical ache.

He straightens his shoulders, and you watch as he pulls on the mask he wears to survive in this place—the careful composure, the guarded expression. But his eyes remain soft when they look at you, holding onto the tenderness you've shared.

"Reid," the guard says again, gentler still, but with an edge that means business.

Spencer takes a shaky breath and turns toward the door, his steps measured and deliberate. At the threshold, he pauses and looks back over his shoulder. The fluorescent light catches the unshed tears in his eyes, and for a moment he looks so young, so vulnerable, that your heart breaks all over again.

"I love you," he mouths silently, the words meant only for you.

"I love you too," you whisper back, your voice barely audible.

Then he's gone, disappearing down the corridor with the guard beside him. You hear the echo of their footsteps growing fainter, the sound swallowed by the institutional walls and locked doors that separate you from him.

You stand alone in the small room, the silence deafening after his presence. The chair he sat in still holds the impression of his body, and you can still smell him, still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin.

Outside, the world continues, indifferent to the love you've left behind these walls. But inside, you carry him with you—his promise to endure, his fierce hope, the way he looked at you like you were his salvation.

There was Spencer, standing near the couch with Maya's baby cradled perfectly in his arms. The jar nearly slipped from your suddenly nerveless fingers as every thought in your mind narrowed to this single, overwhelming image. He was so gentle, so naturally at ease with the tiny life cradled against his chest, and something deep inside you shifted violently, like a switch being thrown that you hadn't even known existed.

The baby looked impossibly small in his arms, her chubby legs dangling while her little hands explored the fabric of his shirt with that curious, grabbing motion babies made. But it was Spencer's face that completely undid you. His usual sharp, analytical expression had melted into something softer, more open than you'd ever seen. There was pure wonder there, unguarded and beautiful, the kind of expression people wore when they held something precious and fragile.

Heat bloomed low in your belly, sudden and fierce.

The response was immediate and overwhelming, flooding your system before you could even process what was happening. Your body recognized what your mind was still catching up to: Spencer Reid holding a baby was the most attractive thing you'd ever witnessed in your life. Every biological imperative you possessed roared to life at once, demanding attention, demanding action.

He was talking to her, his voice pitched in that gentle murmur that made your knees weak, and the baby was responding with soft coos and gurgles. Her tiny fist tangled in his shirt as if she was claiming him, and Spencer let her, his large hand moving to cup the back of her head with such careful reverence that you felt your breath catch in your throat.

The longing that crashed over you was visceral, immediate, and so intense it left you dizzy. You could see it so clearly it felt like prophecy: Spencer holding a baby that was yours and his. Spencer with his eyes full of that same tender wonder as he cradled your child. Spencer being the perfect father you suddenly needed with a desperation that overwhelmed you.

Your hand pressed against your stomach without conscious thought, fingers splaying across your shirt as if you could already feel life growing there. The want was consuming, primal, reducing you to pure biological need in a way that should have embarrassed you but instead only intensified the heat spreading through your body.

He was rocking her slightly, an unconscious swaying motion that looked as natural as breathing, and you realized with a jolt that this was what Spencer would be like with your own children. Patient and devoted and impossibly gentle. The image of him soothing a crying baby with whispered facts about stars, teaching a toddler to read with infinite patience, filled your mind with such vivid clarity it felt like memory.

Your breathing grew shallow as your body continued its betrayal, responding to the sight of him with an intensity that made your skin feel too tight. You could feel the change beginning, that telltale shift in your scent that signalled the start of something you'd never experienced quite like this. Heat had always been manageable before, predictable, something you could control. But this was different. This was being triggered by pure emotional response.

The baby began to fuss slightly, and Spencer responded immediately, his voice dropping to a soothing murmur as he adjusted his hold. The care he took, the way he seemed to instinctively know what she needed, made your pulse race and your body temperature spike. Every nerve ending felt hypersensitive, every breath bringing with it a fresh wave of need that you were rapidly losing the ability to suppress.

Maya was saying something about Emma being tired, but her words felt distant and unimportant compared to the sight of Spencer gently bouncing the baby in his arms. His shirt was slightly wrinkled where tiny fingers had grabbed at it, and there was wonder in his expression, pure and unguarded in a way that made your chest tight with emotion.

This was what had been missing. This was what your body had been waiting for without you even realizing it. Not just any partner, not just Spencer in general, but Spencer like this: protective and nurturing and so naturally paternal it made every instinct you possessed scream that he was perfect, that he was exactly what you needed to build a family with.

Maya reached for her daughter, and you watched Spencer reluctantly pass the little one back, his hands lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. There was something almost bereft in his expression as he let go, as if he was already missing the weight of her in his arms. The sight made your heart clench with fierce affection and desire so tangled together you couldn't separate them.

Somehow you managed to force your legs to move, carrying you forward on unsteady steps until you were offering Maya the jar of apple sauce. Your smile felt strained as she accepted it with grateful thanks, her words washing over you like white noise. All you could focus on was Spencer, the way his eyes lingered on the baby even after she was no longer in his arms, the soft expression that remained on his face like an afterimage.

Maya gathered her things and headed toward the door, still talking, still thanking you both, but you barely registered her departure.

And then they were gone.

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving you and Spencer alone in the sudden quiet of your living room. The silence stretched between you, filled with the weight of everything you'd just witnessed, everything you'd just felt.

Spencer stood by the door looking dazed, as if he was still processing what had just happened, still feeling the phantom weight of the baby in his arms. His hair was slightly mussed from where little fingers had grabbed at it, his shirt wrinkled and bearing a small wet spot from baby drool, but he looked beautiful.

He looked like everything you'd ever wanted and hadn't known how to ask for.

You remained frozen halfway across the room, your entire being focused on him with an intensity that felt dangerous. Your heart was racing with that steady thrumming beat that meant your body was preparing for something significant. The need coursing through you was unlike anything you'd experienced, primal and consuming and focused entirely on the man standing ten feet away from you.

Spencer's head lifted slowly, his attention drawn away from his memories by something he couldn't ignore. His nostrils flared slightly as he caught the scent that now filled the room, rich and unmistakable. His eyes found yours across the distance, and you saw the exact moment recognition hit him. The way his pupils dilated, the way his breath caught, the way his entire body went still as he took in your changed state.

His gaze locked on you with an intensity that made your pulse race even faster, and you knew there was no hiding what seeing him with that baby had done to you.

The air feels heavy, thick, almost humid with the weight of something you cannot name but feel in every nerve. Spencer is still by the door, one hand resting loosely on the frame, his eyes tracking you as if he cannot quite decide if he should move or wait for you to come to him.

His gaze is sharper now, locked on you, his pupils swallowing the warm hazel you know. Your scent must be pouring into the space between you in an unrestrained flood. You can feel the heat of it under your skin, pressing outward, demanding to be noticed.

Your body moves before your mind can catch up, closing the distance in quick, uneven strides. Spencer’s shoulders twitch in surprise, his weight shifting back as if he might take a step away, but then you’re on him. Your hands fist in his shirt, dragging him down, and your mouth crashes into his with force.

He makes a small, startled sound against your lips, the kind that vibrates straight into you and stokes the heat already building under your skin. His breath is warm and quick, mingling with yours as you press harder, desperate to feel more, to taste more. The kiss is messy, unpractised in its urgency, your teeth catching on his lower lip, your tongues sliding together in fevered strokes.

Your fingers are everywhere, tugging at fabric with no patience for precision. You feel the flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips as you pull his shirt off, hearing it hit the floor. He’s trying to keep up, his own hands clumsy as they find the hem of your shirt and push it upward, knuckles grazing heated skin.

It’s reckless, the way you pull at him, the way he lets himself be pulled. Every movement is fast and uneven, driven by something you can’t quiet, something that feels like it’s been waiting under the surface for far too long.

When you break the kiss for air, your lips stay close enough that you can feel the trembling exhale he gives. His eyes are wide, his pupils still blown, and you know without a doubt that he’s reading every ounce of your need. You don’t bother hiding it. You don’t think you could if you tried.

You crush your mouth to his again, tasting the change in him, and his response is instant. His hands are firmer now, sliding under your shirt to tear it away without care for the fabric. You’re moving together toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss, stumbling through the hallway, bumping into the wall in your urgency. Each step is a blur of breathless kisses, of clothes tugged and dropped to the floor.

His shirt is already gone, your own falling somewhere behind you. You push his pants down over his hips, fingers brushing hot skin, and he groans into your mouth. His hands are working at your waistband just as frantically, stripping away anything in his way. By the time you reach the doorway, there is nothing left between you but heat and skin.

Spencer’s kiss is rougher now, his rut rising with every second, his body crowding yours as if he can’t get close enough. You feel his breath against your cheek when he parts from your lips just long enough to draw in the air heavy with your scent, and it sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with the cool air of the room.

You hit the mattress hard enough to bounce, a gasp tearing from your throat, and before you can even push up on your elbows, Spencer is there. His hands clamp around your hips, hot and unyielding, hauling you down the bed until you’re flush with the edge. The look in his eyes is molten, pupils wide and unsteady, his rut pulling every last shred of control from him.

He drops to his knees, crowding in close, the heat of him sinking into your skin before his mouth even touches you. His fingers dig into your hips, keeping you exactly where he wants you, and then his tongue is on you.

Spencer’s mouth is on you before you can even catch your breath. His tongue drags through the mess of your heat, tasting you like he’s starving, and when he finds your clit, it’s like a live wire under his mouth. The sharp tug of pleasure makes you cry out, hips jolting, but his grip only tightens, anchoring you to his face.

He groans when your slick coats his tongue, the sound rough and hungry, the kind that vibrates through you until your toes curl. Every breath you take is thick with the scent of rut, the air heavy with his need, but he doesn’t give in to it. Not yet. His cock hangs hard and aching between his thighs, twitching with every roll of his tongue, dripping without a single touch.

All his focus is on you. On your clit. He licks in fast, wet circles that make your stomach clench, then seals his lips around it and sucks, pulling a sharp whimper from your throat. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, muscles fluttering with the strain of holding still, but he doesn’t let up. If anything, your reactions spur him on, his mouth working harder, tongue flicking and pressing until you're clenching the sheets beneath you.

His groan vibrates against you, the sound raw and primal, and it makes your spine arch off the bed. You know he can taste the shift in your scent, the hormonal surge pouring off your skin, flooding the air between you. It only drives him deeper into you, like every part of him is tuned to what you need.

It’s overwhelming, the way sensation keeps piling up without pause, like he’s determined to wring every drop of pleasure from you before he lets himself give in. Your fingers twist in the sheets, nails dragging hard against fabric, but your hips won’t stop moving, chasing him, grinding into the heat of his mouth because it’s impossible not to.

And he takes it. Every push, every moan, every sharp gasp that spills out of you. He drinks it in, rut-sick and desperate, eating you like you’re the only thing that can quiet the ache tearing through him.

Your fingers knot in the sheets, desperate for something to ground you, but nothing can. Not when his mouth is on you like this, tongue stroking in slow, devastating circles that make it impossible to think.

The room feels hotter than it should, every breath thick with the scent of your heat, rolling off you in waves that demand to be answered. You can feel the way it coils inside you, hungry and insistent, pulling at every nerve until your whole body feels tuned to him.

Spencer groans against you, the sound sinking into your skin and pulling a ragged cry from your throat. He tastes you like he’s been starving, slick dripping over his tongue, filling his senses until he’s drowning in you. You know what it’s doing to him. You can see the way his cock throbs in the air between his thighs, neglected, leaking, begging for attention. His rut is already twisting through him, you can feel it in the rough edge of his touch, in the way he keeps you pinned to the edge of the bed with no chance of escape.

The pressure at your clit is unbearable, his tongue flicking in quick, ruthless strokes that drag you closer and closer to the edge. You want to tell him, want to beg for more, for his knot, for all of him. The words form on your tongue but break apart before they can leave your lips, dissolved by the sharp pleasure racing through you. All that comes out are half-formed sounds, gasps that stutter into the air, a pitiful attempt to translate the need clawing through your body.

You can’t move. Every time your hips try to lift, to grind harder against his mouth, his grip tightens and hauls you back down. He groans like he loves it, like your helplessness feeds him. The slick he licks from you is endless, coating his mouth, shining on his chin, your body spilling it for him in a constant stream.

The pleasure builds in slow, torturous waves, each one cresting higher than the last. You can feel the tension coiling tighter, your muscles clenching around nothing, your breath coming in short, uneven pants. Spencer’s rhythm never falters, his tongue working you with single-minded focus, as if he’s determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from your body.

Then—just as you teeter on the edge—he pulls back.

Your whine is immediate, high and desperate, but he doesn’t give in. Instead, he presses a single, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, his breath hot against your damp skin. His voice is wrecked when he speaks, rough with restraint.

"Look at me."

You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His lips are slick with you, his pupils blown so wide there’s barely any hazel left. The sight alone sends another pulse of liquid heat through you.

"I want to watch you cum," he murmurs, before diving back in.

This time, he doesn’t hold back. His tongue laps at you with renewed hunger, his fingers spreading you wider as he devours you like a man starved. The pressure is perfect—just shy of too much—and when he slips two fingers inside you, curling them just so, you shatter.

Your climax crashes over you with startling intensity, your body locking up before melting into the mattress. Spencer doesn’t let up, his mouth working you through it, drawing out every last shuddering wave until you’re gasping, oversensitive and boneless beneath him.

Only then does he pull back, lips still glistening, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. His eyes are dark, possessive, fixed on the way your body trembles in the aftermath.

"Good?" he rasps.

You can only nod weakly, still trying to catch your breath.

Spencer’s smile is slow, satisfied.

"Good."

Then he’s on you again.

Spencer’s mouth abandons your thigh, his breath hot as he kisses up your body. His lips skim your hipbone, your stomach, the shuddering curve of your ribs, each touch fleeting but deliberate. When he reaches your collarbone, he lingers just long enough to drag his teeth over the spot where your pulse jumps.

You arch into him, fingers knotting in his hair, but he catches your wrist and presses it into the mattress. His grip is firm, his voice a low rasp against your ear.

"Patience."

For the first time since his rut slammed into him, you feel him hesitate. His weight shifts as he pulls back, reaching blindly toward the nightstand. His chest heaves, sweat damp at his temple, and you realize what he’s doing when you hear the faint crinkle of foil.

“No,” the word breaks from you, raw and frantic, your voice tumbling over itself as you claw at his shoulders. “Don’t—don’t do that, please. I need you, Spencer, I need it. I want you to cum in me, fill me up, breed me until it takes—please, I want your pup, I want it so bad—”

Your babbling hits him like a strike to the gut. His hand freezes around the foil packet. His head drops, forehead pressing to yours, and you feel the sharp tremor rip through his body. The condom slips from his fingers and lands forgotten on the sheets.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice shredded. His hips grind against your thigh, cock throbbing hard, slick at the tip from how long he’s been ignoring himself. “You can’t—don’t say that unless—” He cuts off, shuddering, pupils blown wide as your words echo in his head.

You’re gasping, desperate, the heat burning through you unbearable now. “I want it, I want you. Knot me, Spencer. Please. Please don’t stop.”

He’s trembling, holding himself back with everything he has, but you can’t let him. Not when your body is on fire, not when the need inside you feels deeper than instinct.

“Spencer,” you gasp, clutching at him when he tries to pull back.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging him closer, forcing him to feel how badly you’re shaking under him. “I’m not saying it because of the heat,” you whisper, voice ragged but steady enough to cut through his doubts.

“Please. Don’t use protection. I want you to cum inside me, impregnate me. I want you to know, when you look at me, that that I’m carrying your child.”

His breath is ragged, chest pressed hard against yours, but his eyes are wild, conflicted, pupils swallowing the hazel whole.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he rasps, voice breaking.

“Yes, I do,” you plead, kissing his mouth, his cheek, wherever you can reach. “You’ll be such a good father. I want to give that to you. I want your baby. I want to be the one who makes you a dad.”

He shudders, forehead dropping to yours, and you feel his cock twitch against your thigh, aching and desperate.

He shakes his head, but his hips betray him, grinding down against you, cock sliding through the slick mess between your thighs. His self-control is shattering right there in your hands.

“God,” he groans, voice breaking, “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I do.” You cup his face in your palms, forcing him to see you, to see how clear your eyes are even through the haze of heat. “I know exactly what I’m asking for. I want your knot. I want you to fuck me full until it takes. I want to give you a family.”

The sound he makes is guttural, torn straight from his chest. His control, what little was left, finally breaks. His mouth crashes to yours, messy and hot, tasting of your own arousal as he pins your wrists and pushes you down into the mattress. His cock grinds against your soaked folds, slick sliding against slick, both of you trembling with need.

He doesn’t line himself up so much as slam forward, the tip of his cock catching and then sliding deep in one desperate thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs. You cry out, arching under him, the stretch sharp and perfect.

Spencer’s groan tears out of him, raw and broken, forehead pressing hard to yours as he bottoms out, buried to the hilt. His hips stutter like he’s barely hanging on, like the feel of you around him is more than he can take.

“Fuck—” he gasps, his voice harsh, wrecked with need. “You’re so—You’re so tight.”

You can’t answer, not with words. Your mouth opens, but all that spills out is a ragged sound, a half-whine, half-moan that vibrates against his lips when he kisses you again. His thrusts start shallow, shaky, his restraint already fraying with every slick slide of his cock inside you.

The heat has you keening, your nails dragging down his back, desperate to pull him deeper, harder, faster. Your body pulses around him, urging him on, every instinct inside you screaming for his knot, for him to breed you until you’re filled, claimed, and his.

“Spencer,” you sob against his mouth, your thighs locking around his hips to hold him in place, to stop him from pulling away. “Please—fuck me, don’t hold back.”

He doesn’t.

With a roar that echoes through the apartment, Spencer starts to move. It’s not gentle, not this time. It’s raw and primal, his body driving into yours like he’s fighting to claim something that’s always been his. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, punctuated by your gasps and his grunts.

He’s relentless, his hips slamming into you with a force that shakes the bed. The headboard hits the wall in a steady rhythm, the noise a counterpoint to the slick wetness of his cock inside you.

Your eyes lock onto his, the intensity of his gaze never wavering even when you tighten around him, trying to pull him deeper. His hands are everywhere, gripping your thighs, your hips, your wrists, leaving bruises that you crave.

He fucks you like he’s trying to break something—like he’s fighting his own instincts, his own fears—but you can see the pleasure in his eyes, the way his pupils shrink to pinpricks when he hits that perfect spot inside you.

You can’t hold back your moans. They spill out of you in a constant stream. You end up mewling against his neck just trying to hold on. Your teeth sink into the soft flesh at his shoulder, and he groans, his grip tightening on your hips. His cock pulses inside you, stretching and filling and owning every part of you.

"Your heat is driving me fucking mad. I can feel how much you want this."

Spencer’s rhythm continues to build quick, frantic, primal now. Each stroke punches a moan from your throat, your head falling back against the pillow as your body writhes beneath him. He’s everywhere—his breath in your ear, his hands gripping your wrists against the mattress, his cock sliding deep inside you, stretching you, filling you until there’s nothing left but him.

His thrusts turn brutal, every snap of his hips punching the air from your lungs. You’re clawing at his back now, nails dragging over sweat-slick skin, but he only drives into you harder, fucking you down into the mattress like he’s trying to mould your body to fit his.

“God—” his voice is ruined, guttural, torn apart with need. “You’re taking me so fucking deep. You’re made for this. Made for me.”

You sob his name, thighs quivering as you cling tighter, locking your ankles behind his back to hold him there, to keep every inch of him buried inside you. The pressure is unbearable, delicious, your whole body begging him to give in.

“You want me to fill you?” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged. “You want my cum, want me to knot you so it stays?”

“Yes,” you cry, grinding up against him, desperate. “Breed me, Spencer. Fill me, please. I need it.”

His cock jerks inside you at the words, his rhythm faltering for a split second before he slams back in, harder than before. The sound that rips from his throat is animal, desperate, his hips pounding into yours with raw intent.

“I’ll fuck you so full you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. You’ll feel me for days—” his voice breaks on a groan, his thrusts deepening, “—and then you’ll feel me inside you even longer when it takes. When you’re heavy with my pup.”

Your whole body clenches around him, the filth of his words making you cry out, your nails sinking into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. He doesn’t slow down. If anything, he chases your reaction, slamming into you harder, deeper, each thrust angled to wring every last gasp from your throat.

“You want me to ruin you for anyone else? Want to be full of me until your body can’t hold any more?” His tone is vicious, ragged, like he’s unravelling with every word.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” you sob, clinging to him, lost to it. “I only want you. Only you. Please, Spencer, cum inside me, make me yours."

He groans into your neck, his teeth scraping your skin, his cock driving so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach. His pace is frantic, almost violent, his control completely gone as he fucks into you like he’s chasing the inevitable.

“You’re mine,” he growls against your skin. “I’m going to knot you, breed you, make sure everyone knows you belong to me.”

The words tear through you, heat crashing in your stomach, and you arch beneath him, offering everything. His hand slides between your bodies, palming your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it hardens under his touch. He groans, lowering his mouth to your chest, sucking you into his mouth hard enough to make your back bow.

Your whimper breaks into a moan when he bites down lightly, his cock pistoning into you at the same relentless pace. His tongue soothes the ache as his free hand kneads your other breast, rough and greedy, like he can’t get enough of you anywhere.

“Perfect tits,” he pants against your skin, flicking your nipple with his tongue until you’re keening. “Want to see them swollen when I’ve knocked you up. Want to see them bounce around while my cock’s still inside you.”

The filth of it makes your walls spasm around him, your nails dragging down his back, leaving red trails in their wake. He feels it, growls against your skin, and thrusts even harder, so deep you cry out.

“You like that? You like the thought of me fucking you pregnant, watching your body change because of me?” His teeth catch your nipple again, sucking, tugging, until you’re squirming under him, too far gone to speak, only nodding, moaning, gasping for him to never stop.

His hand tightens around your breast, holding you still while his cock slams into you, filling you to the hilt with each brutal thrust. He’s rutting against your body like nothing will ever be enough, like he could fuck you for hours and still want more, his voice breaking against your chest.

“Say it,” he demands, voice shaking, lips still wet against your skin. “Tell me you want me to fill you up. Tell me you want my knot.”

Your answer is a strangled cry, your body already giving him everything he’s demanding, but he won’t let you escape with just that. His mouth trails up from your chest, teeth scraping over your collarbone, breath hot and wild in your ear.

“Say it,” he growls again, hips pounding into you so deep the bed frame groans. “Say you want my knot locking you open, keeping me inside until every drop’s in you.”

“I want it,” you sob, nails biting into his skin. “I need it, Spencer, please—need you to fill me, breed me, don’t stop.”

A guttural sound rips from his throat, half growl, half moan, as if your words are feeding straight into his blood. His thrusts go harder, sharper, the headboard smacking the wall in a furious rhythm. His hand clamps your jaw, forcing your head back so you can’t look anywhere but at him.

Your breath shatters, a broken moan spilling out as your hips rise to meet him, desperate, shameless. His words have you fluttering tight around him, your body begging for it even as your voice stutters with need.

He feels every clench, every tremor, and his grip on your hips turns bruising. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re already milking me, already begging for it. This heat’s got you ready to be bred, doesn’t it? You want me to pump you so full you can’t even think of anything else.”

“Yes,” you cry, the plea falling apart in your throat. “Yes, yes, Spencer, do it, make me yours.”

He bends lower, his lips at your ear, his voice a low, wrecked rasp. “I’ll breed you until your belly’s heavy with me. I’ll keep you knotted all night if I have to, make sure you’re marked, claimed, ruined for anyone else.”

His words have you clenching uncontrollably, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from how much you want it, how badly your body aches to be filled and stretched, owned in every way.

“You’re mine,” he snarls, snapping his hips so hard you cry out.

His cock slams deep and unyielding, every thrust shoving you higher into the mattress until you can barely breathe from how much he’s taking from you. His mouth is at your ear again, his words dripping with raw hunger, every syllable like a claim burned into your skin.

“Gonna knot you so hard you won’t be able to think straight. You’ll be trembling, glassy-eyed, begging me to stay inside you.” His hips slam into yours. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be fucked dumb on my knot, so used up you can’t stop shaking?”

You sob his name, clinging tighter, unable to find the words.

His laugh is low, guttural, breath hot against your cheek. “When I knot you, it’s gonna wreck you. You’ll be drunk on it, babbling, begging me not to pull out. And I won’t. I’ll keep you stretched around me, plugged full of my cum until there’s no room for anything else.”

Your cunt clenches down hard, sucking at him, and he groans, hips stuttering for the first time. His hands grip your thighs, forcing them wider, as if he needs to remind you how thoroughly he owns you.

“Everyone’s gonna know you belong to me. You’ll walk into work, into the damn grocery store, and they’ll smell it on you. My scent all over your skin, dripping out of you, your body screaming that you’ve been bred.” His teeth sink into your neck, possessive, bruising. “You’ll carry me with you everywhere, and no one will doubt who put it there.”

You’re crying out beneath him, your body bowing into his, every nerve alight with the filth he’s feeding you.

“I’ll knot you over and over until your begging me to let you rest. Until you’re desperate for me to split you open again, to lock us together so you can feel me emptying inside you. You’ll beg for it in your sleep, you’ll wake up wet and aching for me, and I’ll give it to you. Again and again, until you’re ruined for anyone else.”

His thrusts turn ragged, deeper than before, each one shoving his cock so far inside you that your breath catches. He’s losing control, his voice breaking with a raw edge.

“Beg me for it,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his hairline. “Beg me to fill you up. Tell me you want my seed.”

Your voice comes out shattered, trembling between gasps. “Please, Spencer—please breed me. I want it all, I want you to cum in me, to knot me. I need you to make me yours.”

The sound he makes is half snarl, half groan, his hips driving into you hard as his knot starts to swell. The pressure is relentless, the thick base of him stretching you wider, forcing your body to take him inch by inch. The burn is sharp, making you cry out, your thighs trembling around his waist.

“Take it,” he grits out, burying himself to the hilt, holding you flush against him as his knot locks inside. The fullness is overwhelming, the seal of him pressing deep, unmovable.

And then it hits—hot, heavy pulses flooding into you, his cock jerking violently as he empties himself inside. His cum pours into you in thick, forceful spurts, filling you so fast it gushes around the seal of his knot, every twitch pushing more into your womb. You can feel it everywhere, the heat of it spreading, your body clamping down around him helplessly.

“Fuck, yes—take all of it,” he pants against your mouth, his words broken by groans. “I’m breeding you, filling you so deep you’ll never forget who you belong to. Every drop stays in you. You’re mine.”

You whimper beneath him, overwhelmed by the sheer force of it, the way your body milks him for more.

“You’re gonna my child,” he growls through clenched teeth, rutting his cock into with sharp movements.

The intensity of his release doesn’t stop—it keeps pouring, hot and endless, his knot jerking inside you with each deep surge. You feel stretched, plugged, filled to the brim, your own body shaking with the effort of taking everything he gives.

The first hot rush of his cum inside you rips your climax from you so violently it feels like your body explodes around him. You scream his name, back arching off the bed, every muscle seizing as the heat of his seed floods you. Your cunt spasms around his knot, clutching at him in frantic waves, milking his cock.

“Yes—fuck, yes, cum on my knot,” he groans, hips grinding harder against you, driving his release deeper with every pulse. “Your body knows who owns it. You’re squeezing me so tight, taking it all, begging me for more without even saying it.”

You sob beneath him, nails digging into the sheets, unable to control the way you writhe against him. Every spurt inside you makes the pleasure crest again, your orgasm dragging out endlessly, each contraction pulling another sharp cry from your throat. The knot is swollen thick and heavy at the base of his cock, locking him deep, forcing every last drop of his release into you.

“I can feel you clenching,” he pants, voice breaking, teeth grazing your ear. “Your cunt’s sucking me dry."

The pleasure is unbearable, your orgasm refusing to stop, wracking through you in brutal waves as his cock twitches inside. The gush of his seed keeps coming, spilling in thick pulses that make you shake apart under him. You can’t catch your breath, can’t think past the way he fills you, the way your body grips him so desperately it feels like you’ll never let go.

“You’ll stay tied to me until every last drop takes,” he growls into your hair, his thrusts shallow now, the knot keeping you locked tight. “By the time I’m done, there won’t be an inch of you untouched by me. Everyone will see it in your walk, in your smell—you belong to me.”

Your climax peaks again, dragged higher by the weight of his words, by the steady pump of his cock still spurting inside. You cry out, broken and raw, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as the release tears through you, your body clinging to him like you’ll never recover.

The frenzy ebbs slowly, leaving you both gasping, slick with sweat. His body slumps over yours, chest heaving against your breasts, his cock still buried to the hilt, knot swollen and unyielding. You can feel every pulse of him inside you, the heavy warmth of his cum sealed deep where your body cradles him.

For the first time since he touched you, the air feels still. His breath fans over your neck, slow and ragged, his lips brushing your damp skin as though he can’t bear to be even an inch away. You shift slightly, and the movement reminds you of how completely he’s lodged inside you. The knot stretches you open, impossibly thick, a constant reminder of how thoroughly he’s claimed you.

He murmurs something low against your ear, not words at first, just the sound of his relief. His hands soften where they hold your waist, his fingers now stroking lazily at your skin. There’s no urgency, no frenzy—just the warm weight of him pressed into you, the deep ache of being full, and the quiet knowledge that you’re his.

You can feel his heartbeat slowing where his chest is pressed against yours, his whole body gradually unwinding. The contentment settles heavy and sweet between you, like a blanket. He kisses your temple, gentle this time, lips lingering as if to savour the quiet.

Neither of you speaks. You don’t need to. The knot keeps you joined, holding you in this suspended moment where everything else falls away. The frantic fire of your heat has calmed for the moment, leaving only the soft, satisfied glow of being filled and kept.

His thumb drifts over your hip, absent, soothing. He exhales into your hair, a sound almost like wonder, and you let your eyes close, sinking into the steady rhythm of him inside you, the warmth spreading slow and deep. Locked together, you feel safe, claimed, complete.

Every shift, every shallow breath reminds you of how full you are, but there’s no urgency anymore. Just the heavy stillness of being completely claimed.

Spencer doesn’t move much, save for the lazy circles his fingers draw against your skin. His mouth brushes slow kisses along your temple, your cheek, sometimes just nuzzling into you as though he’s trying to melt closer. His breathing evens out, the frantic edge burned away, leaving only the steady rhythm of his heart beat.

You let yourself sink into it, eyes fluttering shut. The ache between your thighs settles into something sweet, a reminder of how deep he’s reached. Your body adjusts gradually to the swell of his knot, the constant stretch making you shiver whenever you shift even slightly beneath him. Still, it feels right—like your body was made to hold him.

The minutes pass in unhurried silence. The heat of him pressed against you, the gentle weight of his hand on your hip, the soft brush of his lips when he tilts his head, all of it lulls you into something close to peace. You can feel him softening gradually, his knot slowly losing its grip, each pulse easing until the stretch lessens.

You should be relieved, but as the knot deflates, something inside you stirs. The emptiness creeps in before he’s even pulled out, your body already restless, needy. The haze of your heat flares sharp again, curling low in your stomach, a hunger you can’t quiet.

He shifts against you, groaning quietly, and you know it’s not just you. The edge in his movements is back—the rut clawing its way up again. He draws his hips back, the slow drag of his cock slipping free of your swollen body, leaving you open, slick, aching. The cool air hits your sensitive skin and you whimper, already clenching around nothing.

Spencer lifts his head, eyes dark, wild all over again. His hand slips down between your thighs, spreading you open, smearing the mess he’s made of you with his fingers. “Still wet for me,” he pants, voice already roughening, the control he found in the quiet gone as quickly as it came. “Heat’s not letting you rest, is it? You’re still begging for it.”

The loss of his knot is unbearable. Your hips lift into his hand, desperate, the needy sound spilling from your throat before you can stop it. His cock twitches heavy against your thigh, hardening again with frightening speed.

Your body aches with the emptiness, the dull throb of your heat clawing back to the surface. His fingers slide over your folds, teasing, gathering slick without giving you the stretch you crave. It makes your voice crack when you finally manage to speak.

“Please,” you whisper, then stronger, desperate. “Please, Spencer… fill me again. I need it.”

He groans low in his chest, his hand pausing like the words alone nearly undo him. You clutch at him, thighs parting wider, shameless in your begging. “Don’t make me wait,” you gasp, writhing against his hand. “I can’t—I can’t stop wanting you inside me.”

His cock presses harder against your skin, the weight of it a promise. His mouth finds your throat, teeth grazing, breath harsh as he forces restraint for just a moment longer. “You’re going to beg every time, aren’t you?” he mutters against your pulse. “Heat’s got you aching for me, aching for my seed.”

You nod frantically, hips tilting to chase his hand, tears of frustration pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Yes,” you plead, broken and raw. “I want it again. I need you to fill me. Please, Spencer.”

The calm has shattered. The fire is back, hotter than before, pulling you both under as he lines himself up and thrusts back into your soaked, swollen cunt.

He drives into you hard enough to make the bed creak, his breath ragged against your ear. “Gonna put a baby in you,” he grits out, voice breaking as his hips snap forward. “Fill you so deep you can’t help but take it.”

You cry out, body gripping him tighter, and it only spurs him on. His hand comes down over your stomach, pressing against you as he fucks into you. “Right here,” he growls, his tone harsh, desperate. “Gonna make it swell with me. Everyone will know you’re mine.”

You whimper at his words, your body clenching down hard around him, and Spencer’s rhythm falters for a moment like the thought alone nearly undoes him. His palm stays flat over your stomach, pressing down, owning the space that isn’t even rounded yet but already belongs to him in his mind.

“Gonna watch you change for me,” he groans, hips still pounding into you, the sound of your bodies obscene in the quiet. “Gonna see you soften, see you glow… you’ll look like a goddess carrying my child.” His mouth is at your jaw now, hot, insistent, his words spilling between harsh breaths. “Breasts heavy, belly round, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

The images fall over you like waves, one after another, his voice hoarse with conviction. His hand squeezes over your belly as if he can already feel it there, as if his seed has already taken root. “You’ll be so fucking needy. Hormones will make you ache for me every second and I’ll give you everything you want. Every time you beg, I’ll fill you again. Never gonna leave you unsatisfied.”

Your head tips back against the pillow, overwhelmed, body thrumming at the sheer force of his need. He pushes deeper, angling to hit you where it makes your breath catch, relentless and reverent all at once.

“You’ll be soft all over,” he rasps, eyes catching yours, dark and wild. “Plush for me to hold. I won’t be able to keep my hands off you. I’ll worship you every night, fuck you slow and hard until you’re shaking, make sure you know how perfect you are like that.” His thrusts drag deep, grinding against your walls, pulling gasps from your throat.

Your nails clutch at the sheets, the intensity of it winding tighter and tighter inside you. He doesn’t stop talking, can’t stop, too lost in the vision of you heavy with his child. “I’ll watch you swell for me and I’ll never let you forget who did it. Everyone will see it and know you belong to me. That I made you a mother.”

Every word hits you as hard as his thrusts, your body clenching around him like it’s desperate to give him what he’s demanding. His voice breaks into a ragged groan, the sound torn out of him. “Fuck, just imagining you like that… glowing, aching for me, begging for my cock even when I've already impregnated you—” He chokes off on a gasp, pounding harder, the bed rattling beneath you.

You cry out, back arching, the pleasure too sharp to hold onto. His hand stays splayed over your stomach, anchoring you to every word, every brutal thrust. His lips find your ear again, his voice a broken growl. “You’re gonna be perfect pregnant. Perfect. Mine.”

The thrusts are brutal, rocking you into the mattress, every movement shoving a helpless cry from your throat. His mouth drags over your jaw, teeth catching your skin, breath ragged as he fucks into you like he’s starved. “Can’t stop picturing it,” he groans, hips slamming forward, voice wrecked. “The way you’ll fill out, soft and glowing while you carry what we made.”

The filthy edge of his rut claws at him, but he slows, grinding into you instead of slamming, just to feel every flutter, every pull. He buries his face in your neck, kissing, biting, breathing you in. “You’ll look like a goddess,” he whispers against your skin, almost reverent despite the heat behind it. “I’ll spend every day worshipping you.”

The sheets are damp beneath you, your skin slick with sweat, his body hot and solid against you. He grips your hip tight enough to bruise, panting through his teeth as he ruts into you. “You won’t ever go without. I’ll keep you swollen, stuffed, satisfied, until you can’t remember what it feels like not to have me inside you.”

Your body trembles under him, but the bite of his words softens into something else as he noses against your throat. His mouth lingers there, lips dragging over the damp skin where your mate mark rests, teeth grazing, tongue soothing before he bites down again, harder this time. A sound breaks from your chest, sharp and desperate, and your hand flies to his hair, tugging him closer.

You tilt, catching his jaw, guiding his mouth up to yours. The kiss is messy, desperate, tongues colliding, teeth knocking. You can taste yourself on him, salt and sweat, and the flavour of it makes you moan into his mouth. He swallows the sound, one hand cupping your face, the other locked around your hip like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

His cock drags inside you, slower now, grinding with deep precision that makes you shudder. You reach between you, slipping your hand down to your swollen clit, rubbing tight circles until your hips stutter. He growls at the sight, batting your hand away only to replace it with his own. Two fingers slide slick over you, pressing just right while he thrusts shallow and precise.

“Spencer,” you gasp, nails clawing at his back, leaving red lines in his skin. His eyes catch yours, blown wide, wild, and when you whisper his name again it comes out like a prayer. He kisses you hard, wet and hungry, before breaking off to scent against your throat. His nose drags along the line of your neck, inhaling deep like it feeds him, like your smell alone is enough to unravel him.

You mirror him, turning your face into his neck, nipping and sucking at the damp heat of his skin. His mark is there, high and raw, and you mouth over it greedily, biting until he gasps. The sound vibrates against your lips and his hips jerk, driving deeper, harder, until you both groan.

“Please,” you pant into his hair, legs tightening around his waist. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

He lifts his head, lips shining, and crashes his mouth back to yours. Every kiss is wetter, more frantic, a clash of breath and teeth and tongue. You taste his growls in your mouth, feel them roll through his chest into yours.

The air between you is thick with scent, the musky tang of sex and sweat, but also the raw bond pulling tighter. You can’t stop rubbing your face against his throat, mouthing at his mark until he shudders. His teeth sink into yours again in answer, rough enough to make you cry out, the sting flaring and settling into molten heat.

Your clit throbs under his touch, his rhythm perfect now—press, circle, drag—syncing with every deep thrust. Your moans mix with his, bodies moving like instinct alone is driving you, every nerve strung tight. His fingers slip lower, teasing the edge of where he splits you open, brushing the spot where his cock pounds in. The double sensation makes you jerk, clutching his face with both hands, kissing him until your lips sting.

Your body trembles on the edge, but you don’t want it to end, don’t want to lose the aching sweetness of being kept right there with him. His cock grinds deep, dragging against the spots that make your stomach clench, his rhythm unhurried now, designed to keep you hanging in that desperate, delicious balance.

Your lips trail along his jaw, finding the spot on his throat where his scent pours strongest, pressing open-mouthed kisses there until you can feel his pulse hammering beneath your tongue. You scrape your teeth over the mark you’ve left on him before, and his whole body jolts, hips bucking hard against yours.

He answers in kind, dragging his lips down your neck until he finds the claim etched in your skin. His mouth closes over it, sucking hard enough to make your toes curl, his growl vibrating into your flesh. The sharp sting of his bite blooms into heat, mingling with the steady grind of his cock, with the sweep of his hand slipping down between you. Fingers part your folds, wet and swollen, circling your clit with a maddeningly slow pressure.

You whimper, nails sliding up into his hair, tugging at the damp strands as your thighs fall wider for him. He pulls back just far enough to watch your face, sweat shining across your cheekbones, lips parted around broken moans. His thumb circles faster, perfectly in time with the roll of his hips, until you’re shaking with the effort of holding on.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice catching, eyes locking to his. The plea is all breath and desperation, your chest heaving as you clutch at his face, kissing him hard, sucking his lower lip between your teeth. His moan spills into your mouth, rough and unrestrained, as if he’s teetering right there with you.

Your voice is shaky when you pull your mouth from his, your forehead pressed to his as his hips work deeper and deeper inside you. His thumb circles your clit with maddening precision, his body taut with restraint, but you feel how close he is, how badly he’s holding on.

You catch his face in your hands, forcing his hazy eyes to meet yours. Your lips brush his, trembling but sure, and you whisper against his mouth, “Spencer… cum in me. Let me make you a father.”

The words detonate in him, ripping the control from his body. His hips slam forward hard enough to jolt the bed, a guttural sound tearing from his chest as he spills inside you. His cock pulses deep, filling you in hot, relentless bursts as his knot swells thick, locking you to him.

The plea shatters him, detonates in him, ripping the control from his body. His whole body seizes, hips slamming forward with brutal force as he breaks, spilling into you in thick, desperate bursts. Each pulse of release drags a raw groan from his throat, his cock jerking deep inside you as if his body is determined to imprint the promise into your womb. The flood is hot, endless, every spasm wringing another surge until he’s panting raggedly against your mouth, still rutting to bury it deeper.

The pressure, the sudden fullness, the sheer force of him claiming you breaks you open. Pleasure surges white-hot, your cry muffled against his throat as your orgasm crashes over you. You pulse around him, gripping and milking him until he’s shaking, lost, panting against your ear.

His knot swells, locking him inside, grinding the last waves of release into you. The sensation tips you over, the fullness and heat and the way he’s trembling against you all fusing into one blinding rush. You cry out, clutching him tight as your climax continues, your body milking him, coaxing every drop from him until he’s shaking.

“Mine,” he groans, teeth sinking into your mark, voice breaking on the words. “You’ll carry my child, make me a father."

Your bodies are locked together, trembling through the last pulses of release, breaths ragged and uneven. His knot throbs where you’re sealed around him, each tiny twitch keeping you sensitive, fluttering against the thick swell that holds him inside. Neither of you can move, making every touch sharper, every breath shared between your lips heavier.

He strokes his nose along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth with trembling reverence, his hand spreading low over your belly again as if he can already feel the life he’s just spilled into you. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice frayed but tender, each word hot against your skin. “So perfect for me. Taking all of me, keeping me right here."

His hips shift faintly, the knot tugging deep, and you both gasp at the stretch, the sensitivity. He groans low, forehead pressing against yours, eyes squeezed shut.

Your fingers tangle in his curls, pulling him down into a slow kiss, mouths sticky-sweet and desperate but unhurried now, savouring the closeness. You nip gently at his lower lip and he answers with a soft bite over your mark again, a shiver running through you both.

“I’ll keep you full,” he murmurs, lips grazing your throat, lingering at the tender skin of your bond mark. “I’ll give you everything you want. You’ll never have to doubt what you mean to me.” His voice cracks, but the words are steady, heavy with devotion. “You’ll be the mother of my children, and I’ll never stop worshipping you for it.”

He kisses the mark again, slow and reverent, while his hand cups your cheek, guiding you back to meet his gaze. “Look at you,” he whispers, awe softening every line of his face. “Mine. Always mine. And I’m yours.”

Time slows around you, the world shrinking until there’s nothing but the heat of his body pressed against yours, the steady thrum of his pulse where your chests touch. His knot still holds you tight, a dull, heavy ache that has softened into something comforting, anchoring you together. Every breath you take draws in his scent, sweet and grounding, wrapping you both in its haze.

Spencer shifts just enough to pull the blanket up over you, his arms winding around you protectively. His lips press a lazy kiss to your temple, then linger there, his breath fanning against your skin as if he’s too tired to lift his head again.

You hum, your cheek pressed against the damp skin of his chest.

His fingers find yours under the blanket, tangling gently, holding you even as sleep starts to pull him under. You feel the tiny jerks of his body as it tries to relax around the knot, his breathing evening out, his weight settling heavier into the mattress. He sighs, a soft, helpless sound, and nuzzles closer, his curls brushing your forehead.

The warmth is overwhelming, but not in the frantic, fevered way it was minutes ago. It’s heavy, drowsy, like being cocooned. The throb between your thighs fades into a distant awareness, replaced by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear.

You close your eyes, sinking into the safety of him. His body twitches once more, then stills, breath deepening. The last thing you hear before sleep pulls you under is a faint whisper against your hair, so quiet you almost wonder if you dreamed it.

“My everything.”

-

Spencer could see the familiar golden sunshine spilling through the open curtains in a way that seemed to saturate the air itself. You were there, standing in the living room with one hand braced against the small of your back, the other resting over the curve of your belly. The sight stopped him cold. The soft swell beneath your touch was unmistakable, the fabric of your dress stretching gently over it, and the simple, content expression on your face told him this was exactly where you wanted to be.

A child’s laugh rang out from somewhere nearby. He turned, catching sight of a toddler darting past the coffee table with unsteady but determined steps, hair mussed and eyes impossibly familiar. You laughed at the sight, and the sound curled around his chest like a tether, drawing him toward you.

He crossed the room slowly, almost afraid that if he moved too quickly, the scene would dissolve. You didn’t move away when he reached you. Instead, you tilted your head toward him in silent invitation, and he stepped in behind you, sliding his arms around your waist from behind. His hands found their way to your stomach, splaying over the gentle curve. He could feel movement beneath his palms—faint, fluttering—something that made his throat tighten with a fierce kind of joy.

The child toddled back toward you, chattering in a language of half-formed words. You bent carefully to lift them, setting them on your hip with a practiced ease that spoke of hundreds of moments like this. The three of you stood there together, the golden light wrapping around you, his hand still warm against your belly while his other arm rested around your shoulders.

It was so vivid he could smell your shampoo, feel the fine strands of your hair brushing against his jaw, hear the soft cadence of your breathing. Nothing about it felt imaginary. It felt like memory, like a glimpse into something inevitable.

The scene began to shift, the edges blurring like watercolours bleeding into each other. Now you were in the kitchen, moving with the careful grace of someone deep into pregnancy. Your belly was larger here, stretched full and round beneath a loose shirt that rode up slightly when you reached for something on the counter. The afternoon light caught the curve of it, highlighting the way your hand moved in slow, absent circles over the taut skin.

The toddler was at your feet, small hands gripping your leg for balance while they babbled up at you with urgent, incomprehensible demands. You looked down with that patient smile he'd seen you wear with children before, but now it carried something deeper. Maternal. Completely natural, like you'd been born for this.

"I know, sweetheart," you murmured, your free hand coming down to smooth over their hair. "Mama's almost done."

The word hit him like a physical blow. Mama. Said so easily, so naturally, like it had always been yours to claim. Spencer found himself moving closer, drawn by some invisible current, until he was close enough to rest his hands on your hips from behind.

You leaned back into him without hesitation, and he could feel the solid weight of you, the way pregnancy had changed your centre of gravity. His hands slid around to cradle your belly, fingers spreading wide to encompass as much of the swell as possible. The baby was active, pressing against his palms with what felt like tiny fists or feet, and the sensation sent heat spiralling through his chest.

Small hands suddenly gripped his pant leg instead. He looked down to find those familiar eyes staring up at him, arms raised in the universal gesture of a child who wanted to be lifted.

"Up," came the simple demand, spoken with the kind of confidence that suggested it had never been refused.

He bent to lift the toddler, their slight weight settling against his side with a familiar ease. A small head tucked under his chin, the scent of warmth and something faintly sweet rising to meet him. Little fingers clutched at his shirt, the grip certain and trusting.

Spencer's breath caught in his throat. This was his child. His. The realization hit him with startling clarity as he bent to lift the small body into his arms. The weight was perfect, solid and warm and real in a way that made his chest constrict with emotion so fierce it bordered on overwhelming.

Tiny arms wound around his neck with complete trust, and Spencer found himself holding this little person who carried pieces of both of you in their features. The curve of their cheek, the way their hair fell across their forehead, the serious expression they wore while studying his face from inches away.

"Dada," was said, one small hand patting his cheek.

The word broke open something inside him. Dada. Not a stranger, not someone else's child he was holding in a dream, but his own. His child, looking at him with the kind of uncomplicated love that children gave so freely to the people who mattered most to them.

Spencer pressed his face into the soft hair, breathing in that distinctive scent of the two of you combined. His throat worked around emotions too big for words. This was what he'd been aching for without knowing it, what every cell in his body had been reaching toward. Not just you, but this. The family you could build together, the future that stretched out before them in endless golden possibilities.

The child settled more comfortably in his arms, head resting against his shoulder with the kind of boneless trust that spoke of absolute security. Spencer's hand came up to cradle the small head, fingers threading gently through the fine strands of hair.

When he opened his eyes, the toddler was watching you, their expression lit with something pure and unguarded. He followed the gaze, finding you bathed in the same light that had haunted his dreams, your hand still resting over the swell of your stomach. The sight pulled something loose in him, something fragile and aching, and he knew with absolute certainty that he would spend the rest of his life protecting this. Protecting you.

From across the kitchen, you watched with a soft smile, one hand still resting on your belly. The kitchen around you held the evidence of a life fully lived. Drawings stuck to the refrigerator with colourful magnets. A high chair pushed against the table. Toys scattered across the floor in the particular chaos that only children could create.

The light began to dim, shadows stretching long and soft as the scene melted into something quieter.

Now he was in a nursery, walls painted in gentle colours with a mobile turning slowly overhead. The toddler had grown sleepy in Spencer's arms during the transition, small body growing heavier against his chest, tiny fist clutching at his shirt with decreasing determination.

He approached the crib and lowered the child slowly onto the mattress, watching as they turned their face into the pillow with unconscious trust. A soft murmur escaped their lips, but they settled quickly, small hand curling around the stuffed animal.

You were standing at the foot of the crib, the rounded swell of your belly prominent beneath your shirt, watching with that serene expression that pregnancy had given you. Spencer moved to stand behind you, his arms coming around your waist, hands settling over the curve where your second child grew.

His palms moved in slow, gentle circles over the taut skin, feeling the occasional flutter of movement from within. The baby was active, pressing against his touch as if responding to the warmth of his hands.

You leaned back against his chest, your head falling against his shoulder as both of you looked down at the sleeping toddler.

The mobile turned lazily overhead, casting gentle shadows across the small face that carried pieces of both of you. Spencer's movements never stopped, one hand stroking upward along the swell while the other traced lower, encompassing as much of your belly as possible.

The baby shifted beneath his palms, and he felt you draw in a soft breath at the movement. His chin came to rest against your temple, breathing in the familiar scent of your hair mixed with something new, something that spoke of the life you were nurturing.

The mobile’s slow spin seemed to slow even further, the gentle creak of it stretching until the sound distorted. The soft golden haze of the nursery began to blur, edges dissolving like paint rinsed from a brush.

What rose in its place was the sound of steady breathing, warm against his ear. Spencer blinked, adjusting to the dim glow of the bedroom, the soft weight of night pressing around him. The haze of the dream clung for a moment, blurred edges and phantom echoes, until his gaze found you beside him.

You were asleep, your body curved toward his, hair spilling over the pillow in a dark halo. The sight of you stilled him. His eyes moved lower, to the swell beneath the blanket that rose and fell with each slow breath. Larger now, real in a way no dream could imitate.

The blanket shifted, and he caught the faintest movement from beneath. A small kick, so light it might have been imagined, yet it stole his breath. Spencer’s hand drifted down, trembling slightly as he rested his palm over the curve of your stomach. The answering flutter beneath his touch sent something fierce and tender flooding through him, so powerful he closed his eyes just to feel it fully.

You shifted in your sleep, brow smoothing as though soothed by some unseen comfort. Your hand, resting unconsciously low, brushed his as though you had been waiting for him. He stayed still, not daring to move, afraid to break the fragile perfection of the moment.

For a long time, he simply watched you. The curve of your mouth, the gentle rhythm of your breaths, the soft heat of your body pressed to his side. He leaned forward, pressing a quiet kiss to your temple, his lips lingering as if to anchoring himself to you.

The dream had shimmered with light, with the image of a nursery and a child who bore his eyes. It had felt achingly real, so sweet it almost hurt to wake from. But lying here, pressed against you, he knew the truth. The dream was only a shadow.

Reality was the warmth of your body curled against his. Reality was the gentle curve of your stomach beneath his palm, the quiet brush of your fingers against his in your sleep. Reality was the faint, miraculous flutter of life beneath his hand, proof of the future already written inside you.

He let out a slow breath, a smile touching his lips as he pressed another kiss to your temple. The dream had given him a glimpse of what might be. What he held now was better. What he held was real.

Spencer let himself drift, the steady rhythm of your breathing guiding him into sleep. And in the dark, with your warmth wrapped around him and the future resting safely between you, he wanted nothing more.

He pressed a kiss to your hair, breathing you in. You shifted faintly in your sleep, nuzzling closer, a sleepy sound catching in your throat that made his heart ache with tenderness. He held you tighter, not wanting to miss a single second of this, the simple miracle of you in his arms.

As his eyes drifted closed, he knew the truth. The dream had been sweet, but what he held now was sweeter.

Dreams had shown him glimpses of joy, but reality had crowned him with it. What he held was not a vision, not a fleeting wish, but the living proof that love was better awake than asleep.

When you walk back into the room, towel tucked around you, he glances up. Then down again, pretending not to notice the way your steps slow briefly as you pass him. You brush a hand over your neck without thinking. The line of your throat is damp, flushed from the shower.

He gets dressed while you towel off your hair. The two of you move around each other in that easy way that comes with habit, quiet and efficient. You pick out your clothes while he pours coffee into travel mugs. Neither of you talks much. You never really do in the mornings.

But he keeps glancing at you.

Not obviously. Just little flicks of his gaze. Like something’s on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t know the shape of it yet.

The scent, if it could be called that, is barely there. Something soft in the air, too faint to place. It settles behind his eyes, in the hollow of his throat. Not floral. Not clean like soap. Just warm. Familiar. It hits him the moment he wakes and doesn’t seem to leave.

It must be the dream still clinging to him. That glow, that comfort. The quiet gravity of something deeply good. It makes sense, in a way. A dream like that wouldn’t let go so easily. Of course it would leave something behind.

He doesn’t question it.

Just breathes it in, distracted, as he buttons his shirt and watches you move across the room.

It settles over him as you move through the apartment together, unspoken and unnoticed. You pass him the keys, brush past on your way to grab your bag. By the time the two of you step into the crisp morning air, it’s dulled again, barely noticeable. But it stays with him, tucked somewhere quiet, and every time he looks at you, that soft glow of the dream flickers behind his eyes.

The BAU is its usual mix of noise and motion. Agents moving through the bullpen. Phones ringing. The faint smell of burnt coffee curling up from the kitchenette. Spencer moves through it all in muscle memory. Files tucked under one arm. Coffee in hand. Mouth tight around a yawn he doesn’t let finish.

And still that warmth clings to him.

It’s stronger now. Not overwhelming, but firmer. More defined. He notices it in the way his fingers twitch when you brush past him on your way to your desk. The way his body leans toward you before his mind even realizes it.

You say something to JJ and laugh under your breath.

Spencer can’t hear the words. Doesn’t care. He’s watching your mouth, the curve of it, the way your hand lifts to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. That same subtle heat folds into the moment like soft breath against skin.

He tells himself it’s just the dream again. Still echoing through him. That’s all it is.

But the lie doesn’t land the same way this time.

He catches himself watching you too long.

You’re bent over a case file, scribbling a note to yourself. You tuck your pen behind your ear, unaware that he’s staring at the line of your neck. The collar of your shirt sits just off-centre, loose enough to tempt the imagination. Spencer swallows and drops his eyes, but it doesn’t help.

His thoughts wander.

The image flashes through his mind's eye. You, standing barefoot in the kitchen from his dream. Sunlight caught in your hair. Your hands resting on the curve of your belly, full and round. Heavy with his pup. Your shirt stretched soft over your skin, rising slightly each time you breathe. Your mouth parted, eyes warm. Inviting. Full of something he can’t name without trembling.

He doesn’t fight it.

He lets the image unfold.

He pictures your breasts heavier too, full and warm and sensitive under his touch. Thinks of how soft you’d be. How full. The way your clothes would cling, how his hands would span over new curves. How your back would arch with the weight of carrying what he gave you.

The scent is stronger now. Richer. He doesn’t know how long he can pretend not to feel it. Not to want what it’s pulling from him. The dream lives in him now, not just as a memory, but as a call.

The dream. The scent. The pull. It’s all folding together now. Every time you move, every time you speak, he feels the heat crawling under his skin. It doesn’t feel like passing interest anymore. It feels more like a need. Like something in his blood trying to take root.

Something in him wants it to be real.

More than anything.

By mid-afternoon, it’s unbearable.

Spencer shifts in his chair again, subtly adjusting the angle of his hips like it might help, like it might hide the pressure building between his legs. It doesn’t. The fabric of his slacks feels too tight, too rough. Everything is rubbing wrong. His thighs are tense. His jaw hurts from how hard he’s been clenching it.

You’re just sitting at your desk.

Typing. Reading. Occasionally reaching to stretch your arms overhead. There’s nothing provocative in it. Nothing intentional. You’re working. Focused. Quiet.

He watches the way your fingers tap the keys, how your mouth moves slightly when you read to yourself. You flip a page with your thumb and it’s like someone drags warm hands down his spine. You brush your hair out of your face and his cock twitches, insistent and heavy.

He looks away. Opens a case file. Reads the same sentence three times.

You reach for your water bottle and take a long sip, tilting your head back.

Spencer shuts his eyes.

He can feel it building. Tight and hot, sitting low in his abdomen like a coiled spring. It doesn’t make sense. There’s no logic to it. It’s not even lust in the way he knows it. It’s something deeper. More complicated. Like his body is trying to get his attention in a language he doesn’t speak.

He turns back to his desk and hunches over a report, hoping the shift in posture will do something to relieve the pressure. It doesn’t. Not even close. His mind keeps drifting, slipping into flashes of skin and warmth and soft weight against him. You, pressing into his lap with your shirt pushed up. Your thighs spread. Your belly round and swollen with his child.

The thought hits him suddenly, sharp and uninvited.

He presses his palm to the desk, jaw locked, trying to breathe through it. His hips shift again. He can feel the pressure building, too much and too sharp to ignore. He’s hard and aching, and the intrusive thought hits him before he can stop it.

He could sneak off to the bathroom.

Just for a moment. No one would notice. The idea roots quickly in his mind, vivid and hot and dangerous. He imagines the relief of it, just enough to stop the burn under his skin, to think clearly again. His hand twitches in his lap, half a second of temptation.

He stops.

Freezes.

The fact that he even considered it hits him like cold water. He’s never thought about doing something like that at work. Not once. That he nearly gave in now makes his stomach turn.

Something is wrong with him.

Spencer exhales slowly, reaches for his notepad, and writes:

hormonal imbalance

nutritional deficiency (low zinc or magnesium?)

delta rut? early onset?

omega proximity / compatibility response

psychosomatic (dream correlation?)

residual arousal from sleep state?

He stares at the list, jaw ticking.

None of it feels satisfying. The logic doesn’t land right. These aren’t answers. They’re guesses, and they do nothing to quiet the heat rolling under his skin. He circles "delta rut" and leans back in his chair, keeping his eyes on the paper, not daring to look at you again. Not when everything in his body is still pulling toward you with a need he doesn’t understand.

He wants to figure it out. He needs to figure it out.

Because if this is how strong it is now, he’s not sure what he’ll do when it gets worse.

-

Garcia’s office is a burst of colour against the beige monotony of the bullpen. Fairy lights twinkle around the edge of her monitor. There’s a small ceramic fox on her desk today, probably a recent thrift-store find. You glance at it as you step inside, the faint hum of the servers behind her filling the air.

She swivels her chair toward you, glasses tipped down her nose in that way that always makes you think she’s about to deliver life-altering news. “Well, well, my favourite agent graces my doorway. Are you here for intel, moral support, or to bask in my general aura?”

You lean against the side of her desk, scanning the many monitors cluttered with windows. “Mostly the aura.”

She beams. “Good choice. Intel is overrated anyway.” Her fingers tap idly at the keyboard. “Although speaking of intel, I’ve been monitoring a very suspicious transaction pattern that might be—oh wait, wrong conversation. You’re off-duty in here.”

You laugh, the warmth of her office seeping in. “Off-duty for the next five minutes.”

“Perfect. Enough time for me to tell you that your boyfriend is walking around today like he left his brain in another dimension.”

You smirk. “What, more than usual?”

“Please. This is next-level. I saw him in the kitchen earlier just… staring at the coffee machine like it had asked him a riddle.”

You think back to the morning, how he’d been sitting on the edge of the bed with his tie half-done, gaze fixed on you with that big, dopey smile that said he wasn’t thinking about the day ahead at all. “Yeah, I noticed. He was like that before we even left the apartment.”

Garcia tilts her head, intrigued. “Hmm. Love-struck, distracted, or scheming?”

“Probably all three,” you say.

She leans back in her chair, tapping the armrest like she’s building a case in her head. “So either you two had an exceptionally good night, or something else is going on.”

You shake your head gently. “No. We didn’t have sex last night.”

Garcia’s face flickers with a brief hint of disappointment, but she covers it with a quick smile. “Aw, I was half hoping you’d say yes. That classic ‘love is distracting’ excuse is cuter than whatever boring case stuff he's thinking about.”

You shake your head, amused. “Sorry to let you down.”

She shrugs, settling back in her chair with a thoughtful look. “Going off the pill isn’t exactly a quiet transition for everyone. My friend? The moment she stopped, her sex drive shot through the roof. I thought you and Spencer would be running through condoms like crazy by now.”

You shake your head with a small smile. “Honestly, I haven’t noticed any difference at all.”

Garcia quirks an eyebrow. “Really? Huh. Well, my friend’s experience was… something else.” She leans forward, a grin tugging at her lips. "Apparently the guy she was seeing went a little wild himself. Like, full-on rut mode. She said it was a bit like lighting a match in a fireworks factory. Chaotic, messy, but kind of unforgettable.”

She sits back, waving a hand as if brushing the story away. “Anyway, have you caught wind of what’s going on between Carter and Harper lately?”

You blink, caught off guard. “No, what?”

She leans in, lowering her voice just a touch, even though no one else is around. “I mean, come on. They’ve been sneaking around for weeks. I saw Carter duck into the archives room just yesterday, and Harper was right behind him. They barely noticed me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “The archives? That place is basically a closet with dusty files.”

Garcia nods, smiling. “Exactly. They’re trying to keep it under wraps, but you know how it is. I also caught them sharing a lunch break in the little courtyard yesterday. Sat close enough to be whispering, definitely not talking cases.”

You chuckle. “Sounds like it’s pretty serious then.”

“Could be,” Garcia says with a shrug. “Or just the usual workplace thing that feels huge to everyone else. But I swear, I’ve never seen Carter so distracted. Usually he’s all business.”

You think about it. “Yeah, now that you mention it, he’s been spacing out a lot. Might explain a few things.”

Garcia grins. “Oh, and the best part? Yesterday, I caught them trying to sneak out together at the end of the day—like they didn’t want to risk someone seeing. I almost knocked on the door to say, ‘Hey, you’re not fooling anyone.’”

You laugh quietly. “I love that you’re so on top of it.”

Garcia shrugs, but the smile fades just a bit as she leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “But seriously, speaking of people who need a little help, the new guy in finance? I swear, he’s got a knack for turning the simplest tech stuff into a crisis.” She shakes her head, exasperated but amused. “He called me three times yesterday alone. First, because he wasn’t sure if he should update his software before logging into the server. I explained it once, but apparently, he needed it twice. Then, he called back because he couldn’t find the USB ports on his monitor. I swear, those things aren’t invisible.”

She laughs softly, then rolls her eyes. “And that’s not even the half of it. This morning, he emails me asking if he should restart the computer if the printer isn’t working. I thought, okay, reasonable. But then, a few minutes later, he calls me because he thought he broke the system by unplugging the mouse to move desks. He sounded genuinely panicked, apologizing like it was the end of the world.”

Garcia throws up her hands. “It’s like I’m his personal tech support hotline twenty-four seven. And I’m trying to be patient, but seriously—it’s exhausting.”

You grin. “Maybe he’s just trying to find any excuse to talk to you.”

Garcia freezes for a moment, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “Don’t you dare put that idea in my head.” She leans back, crossing her arms. “Now every time he calls, I’m going to wonder if he’s trying to ask me out. I’m not emotionally prepared for that kind of awkward.”

Before you can answer, her phone starts ringing loudly on the desk. She shoots you a look of pure dread. “Oh no. It’s him. This is totally your fault.”

You grin and head for the door. “You’re welcome.”

Garcia stares at the phone like it’s a ticking bomb. “How am I supposed to answer now without imagining he’s about to propose or something?”

You chuckle as you step out. “Good luck.”

Garcia picks up the phone and clears her throat, forcing a professional tone. “Hello…”

You head back to your desk, mood lifted from the light banter. The warmth of the conversation lingers around you, wrapping you in a comforting embrace. The pile of paperwork waits, but it feels less daunting than it did just moments ago.

You settle into your chair, letting out a soft sigh as you dig back into the pile of paperwork. The afternoon sunlight filters lazily through the blinds, casting shifting patterns across your desk. You try to focus, but a faint awareness tugs at the edges of your attention.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Spencer watching you again. At first, you think it’s just the usual absent-minded stare he falls into when he’s lost in thought. But as the minutes tick by, it becomes clear he’s not distracted by numbers or cases today.

You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and his eyes catch the movement instantly. When your eyes meet, his expression softens. It’s fleeting but electric—a warmth that seems to flicker just beneath the surface, like a private scene playing behind his gaze that only he can see. You blink and look down, trying not to let the sensation linger too long.

Minutes stretch into hours. Each time you reach for a pen or adjust your papers, he is watching, his posture subtly shifting to close the space between you, even if only in his mind. You notice the way he leans just a fraction forward, the tension in his shoulders growing, though he never speaks of it.

When you stretch your arms overhead, a slow, unconscious movement, Spencer’s breath catches softly. His gaze sharpens, tracking every line and curve revealed in the motion. His fingers tighten briefly on the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, though his face remains composed.

You catch him glancing around the bullpen as a male coworker passes by, then shifting his body to block the sight of you, as if silently keeping you protected. His jaw tightens in a way you don’t quite understand, but it feels deliberate, possessive.

Your eyes meet again and his face softens, briefly shedding any trace of that sharp edge. The calm there makes you pause, but he quickly looks away, as though afraid you might see what lies beneath the surface.

Throughout the afternoon, Spencer’s quiet intensity hangs between you, like a current just beneath the water’s surface. His fingers drum softly against the desk, and you catch a flicker of impatience in the way he taps his foot. When the office grows noisy, he leans in, closing the space between your desks almost instinctively, as if proximity itself eases something restless inside him.

You notice how every casual brush of your hand against the papers draws his attention, how the faintest scent of you seems to pull at him in a way that makes his breath hitch for just a moment before he collects himself again.

By the time the clock edges toward the end of the day, that quiet pull between you has settled into something heavier. Spencer keeps his voice low whenever he speaks, the words themselves unremarkable, but the cadence weighted, deliberate. His eyes stray to your mouth when you answer, flicking back up quickly, but not before the smallest spark betrays him.

He adjusts his tie once, twice, as though the fabric has grown too tight. When you shift in your chair, crossing one leg over the other, his gaze follows without meaning to, a split-second delay before he forces himself to focus on the file in his hands. The paper crinkles faintly under his grip.

-

It had been building all afternoon, a slow and relentless pull that he could not make sense of. Spencer had tried to keep his head down, to focus on the case files spread out in front of him, but every time you moved, every time your voice threaded into the low background hum of the bullpen, something deep inside him reacted. It was not just distraction. It was sharper, heavier, an almost primal awareness that clung to him no matter how tightly he tried to shove it aside. Earlier in the day, he had quietly run through the possibility that this was an early onset rut. The thought had unsettled him enough that he had kept his head ducked over paperwork for nearly an hour, avoiding looking at you directly. But this did not match the familiar rhythm of a rut. The heat in his blood was there, yes, and the steady ache that urged him toward you, but there was something else layered beneath it. Something less predictable, more volatile. The urge to block you from view had been there since morning. Each time a male agent passed too close to your desk, Spencer found himself angling his body in subtle ways, shifting just enough to place himself between you and them. His pulse had jumped when one of them lingered a moment too long, making a joke that you smiled at. He told himself he was being irrational, but his jaw had gone tight before he could help it. Every small movement you made seemed to stick in his mind, feeding thoughts he did not have the discipline to quiet. The slow stretch of your arms overhead, the way your shirt shifted when you leaned forward to write something down, the absent motion of tucking your hair behind your ear. None of it was meant for him, but each moment lodged itself in his chest, sparking heat low in his stomach until his collar felt tight and his pants too small. Whenever your gaze met his, the world behind you fell away. The dream rose unbidden, vivid and whole, like sunlight spilling across a room he had never stepped into but somehow knew by heart. You were there in it, holding a child with his eyes, smiling at him like he had always belonged beside you. The way you looked back at him in that vision made something inside him tighten, a wordless certainty that this was not imagination at all but a memory waiting to happen. It left him unsteady, staring too long, the pull of it stronger than his instinct to look away. Now, as the day edged toward its end, the air between you felt too charged for him to ignore. He had stopped trying to understand it hours ago. All he knew was that he needed to get you away from here, away from the noise of the bullpen and the other men who might draw your attention. The thought of stepping out into the cooler air with you, of having the quiet and the space where no one else could look at you, was the only thing keeping his breathing steady. He packed up his files with more care than necessary, fingers curling around the edges as if grounding himself. His gaze still caught on you without his permission. He told himself he would figure it out later, when you were somewhere private. For now, all that mattered was getting you out the door and taking you home.

The apartment was quiet when you stepped inside, the familiar scent wrapping around him like something he could breathe in too deeply if he wasn’t careful. You dropped your bag onto the table, keys clinking against the wood, and bent to untie your shoes. Spencer lingered in the doorway a second longer than usual, coat still on, watching the curve of your ass, then the way the lamplight turned the loose strands of your hair into something almost glowing.

He moved through the motions, each action feeling slower than it should. The pull in his chest had followed him from the bullpen, a low, restless current that only grew stronger with every quiet sound you made. The click of a cupboard. The rush of water from the tap. He tried to focus on anything else, scanning the apartment for mail or clutter, but the edges of his vision seemed to tilt toward you without his permission.

When you glanced up from rinsing a mug, your eyes met his for the briefest second. That was all it took. The dream replayed, unbidden, as if it lived behind the surface of your gaze. You were holding a child in that golden light, sunlight spilling across your face, warmth radiating from every inch of you. The echo of that imagined joy was so vivid it hollowed out his chest. He blinked hard, the image lingering, and turned away before it could undo him completely.

Dinner was quick, both of you moving through the motions without much conversation. He tried to focus on the taste of the food, on the comfortable clink of cutlery, but every time you looked at him, the dream slid back into place in his mind. He found himself finishing faster than usual, eager to clean up and steer the evening into something quieter.

When you settled into the couch afterwards, curling into the corner with a blanket, Spencer sat on the other end, leaving space between you. He told himself it was for your comfort, but really it was for his own restraint. The warmth of the room, the soft light from the lamp, the faint scent of your shampoo, it all pressed in on him. He kept his hands folded in his lap, knuckles pale with the effort not to reach for you. His eyes drifted to you again and again, catching on the way you tucked your legs under yourself, the casual angle of your head as you looked at the television. The urge to move closer, to have you against him, felt like an ache he could not reason away.

He keeps his gaze on the television, but he is not following the story. Every time you lean forward or adjust the blanket, he feels that restless energy spike again. It is not that he does not want you. It is that he wants you too much, and the thought of dragging you into the current running through him feels selfish.

He shifts, clearing his throat softly. “I think I’m going to take a shower,” he says, keeping his tone casual. You glance over, smiling in that warm, easy way that always pulls at him. Unaware that he's using the shower as a cover to masturbate. He forces himself to return the smile before standing.

In the bathroom, the sound of the water running fills the space, steam beginning to cloud the mirror. Spencer leans his hands on the counter for a moment, head bowed, breathing slow and deliberate. He strips down and steps under the spray, letting the heat loosen his muscles. For a few minutes he stands still, letting the water drum against his shoulders, hoping it will cool the edge in his thoughts.

It does not.

His hand slides down, palm skimming over wet skin, before closing around himself. The first stroke is punishingly slow—a mockery of control. He bites his lip, tasting copper, as his hips jerk forward into his own grip. It should feel like surrender. Instead, it's a taunt: his body's furious reminder of everything he's not letting himself have.

His cock was slick, slick enough that his hand glided over it easily. He moved his palm in long, deliberate strokes from base to tip, then back again, savouring the smooth slide, the way his skin shone under his touch. Each pass sent a jolt through him that was impossible to ignore.

Behind closed lids, the fantasy played vivid and relentless. He saw you. Your skin flushed and glowing, a rounded belly stretched full and soft, swollen with his pup. He pictured your hands resting gently there, fingertips tracing the curve that held the life you both created. He imagined the weight of you leaning into him, the warmth of your breath against his neck, the quiet strength in your eyes as you carried what was yours together.

The image twisted through him, sharp and filthy. He imagined the way your breasts would grow full and heavy, the skin tender beneath his touch, how every shift you made would pull at his need even more. His knot grew, pulsing against his palm, making his hips jerk involuntarily with every stroke.

His breath grew ragged, chest rising unevenly as he worked his hips into the motion, faster now, hips moving with a restless energy that demanded release. The water splashed against his thighs and drummed against the tile, but the only sensation he truly felt was the slick friction of his hand wrapped tight, the slow, burning ache that spread through him.

Spencer’s fingers clenched around the base, thumb rubbing slow circles over the sensitive skin there. His other hand pressed flat against the cool tile wall, nails digging in lightly to steady himself as he fucked his fist with a desperate urgency. The tightness inside him was building with every stroke, knot swelling and pulsing with a deep, aching hunger.

He tried to keep his breath even, to keep the sounds of his need muffled beneath the rush of the shower. But every time he imagined your hand there instead, guiding him, every time he thought of you watching with those warm, knowing eyes, the noise grew louder, escaping him in quiet, stolen gasps.

His hips jerked forward harder, but it wasn’t enough. The need deep inside him throbbed, pulsing with a raw, aching need that demanded more. His free hand moved on its own, fingers pressing firmly against the sensitive flesh at the base, applying steady pressure that sent fresh waves of fire rippling through him.

The dual sensation of his fist fucking him and his other hand kneading the knot pushed him closer. Heat bloomed across his skin, thick and unrelenting. His breath caught and caught again, chest rising unevenly as every nerve screamed for release.

Behind his closed eyelids, the fantasy twisted deeper. He imagined slipping inside you, the tight warmth of your body stretched around him as his knot swelled and locked deep within you. The thought of being so utterly connected, of cumming deep inside your heat and filling you with everything he had, sent a fierce ache spiralling through his core.

His fingers tightened their hold on the knot, thumb pressing slow, firm circles that made the tension coil higher, the ache sharpen into a desperate need. His hips bucked in response, thrusting down with wild urgency, chasing the edge that now seemed impossibly close.

The release hit like a firestorm. Thick ropes of cum burst free, hot and relentless, spilling over his hand and dripping down his wrist in heavy, pulsing spurts. His body trembled violently, muscles clenching and shuddering under the flood of sensation. His forehead pressed hard to the cool tile, breath ragged and harsh as the last of the tension slipped away.

The image of you stayed vivid. The way your belly would swell, the way you’d lean into him with your body full and heavy with his pup. The promise of that future, the need to make it real, pressed down on him even as his breath trembled and his body trembled in the warm cascade of release.

As the last of his tension drained away, he slowly eased his hands away, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. The water rinsed over him but could not wash away the ache, the hunger still coiled just beneath the surface, waiting.

Spencer stepped out of the shower, the cool air hitting his heated skin like a shock. He reached for the towel, movements mechanical as he dried himself off. The release had helped, but only temporarily. That restless energy still hummed beneath his skin, quieter now but persistent.

He pulled on some sweat pants and a t-shirt, each motion deliberate as he tried to focus on anything other than the pull that kept drawing his thoughts back to you. The bathroom mirror had fogged over completely, and he dragged the flat of his palm across the glass, leaving a streak of clarity that framed his own reflection. His hair curled slightly at the edges from the shower, his pupils still blown wider than they should be.. His reflection stared back, jaw tight with tension that hadn't fully released.

He inhaled, slow, hoping it might ground him.

It was only then that he noticed the quiet. No low hum of voices or bursts of laughter from the television in the living room.

He pictured you instead, curled up, legs tucked under you with a book resting in your lap. Maybe your brow would be faintly furrowed in concentration, lips parted as your eyes traced each line of text. Peaceful. Content. Completely unaware of the chaos he was trying to keep at bay.

He lingered there a moment longer, staring at the fogged glass as if it might hold the answer to why it was getting harder to keep his distance. The imagined image of you was still clear in his mind, warm and steady in a way that felt almost dangerous.

With a final pass of his hand through his hair, he stepped away from the mirror and let the bathroom door fall shut behind him. The air outside was cooler, brushing against his still-damp skin as he made his way down the hall. Each footfall softened against the floor, instinctively careful, as though breaking the quiet might shatter the moment he was walking into.

Spencer's footsteps were quiet as he re-entered the living room. There you were, exactly as he had pictured: curled into the corner of the couch, a book resting open on your knees. The way your fingers curled around the spine was intimate and familiar, a peaceful picture of domestic comfort.

Your eyes lifted just as he entered, and you offered him that soft smile he loved, one that never failed to make his chest tighten with affection.

Spencer smiled, moving closer to where you sat. Your mug sat beside you on the side table, steam still rising from the surface in delicate spirals. Without hesitation, he reached for it and took a slow sip.

"Spencer," you said with mock indignation, though your eyes sparkled with amusement. "That's mine."

"Is it?" he asked innocently, taking another deliberate sip before setting it back down.

You shook your head with a soft laugh, the sound filling the peaceful space between you. The simplicity of the moment felt precious after the intensity of his dreams. He could taste the faint bitterness of the coffee, a gentle contrast to the sweetness of still being near you.

Just as Spencer settled beside you on the couch, a soft knock echoed from the front door. Both of you paused instantly, him with his hand still reaching toward your mug again, you with a finger marking your place in the book.

"Expecting someone?" Spencer asked, standing and moving toward the door with an alertness that came from years of habit.

You shook your head, equally puzzled, your eyes narrowing slightly as you followed him.

Spencer glanced through the peephole before unlocking the door and pulling it open.

Standing there was Maya, looking a little frazzled in that way new mothers often did. Balanced on her hip was her six-month-old baby, whose chubby fingers gripped a bright, colourful teething ring. The baby's eyes were wide and curious, taking in the room with an innocence that made Spencer's heart soften instantly.

"Oh, thank goodness you're home," Maya said with a relieved breath. "I'm sorry to bother you but Emma's been fussy all day and refusing her bottle. I'm completely out of apple sauce and I was hoping you might have some?"

"Of course we do," you answered from behind Spencer, already moving toward the kitchen, your voice calm and welcoming. "I'll get you some right now."

Maya stepped inside, the tension in her shoulders relaxing slightly now that help was at hand.

As she stood waiting, the child's gaze found Spencer immediately. There was a determined focus in those wide eyes, the kind only infants possessed when something truly captured their attention.

Spencer felt his expression soften completely. The baby reached out one tiny hand toward him, fingers opening and closing in that instinctive grasping motion babies made when they wanted something. Without thinking, Spencer extended his index finger, and those impossibly small fingers wrapped around it with surprising strength.

"She likes you," Maya said with a tired but genuine smile, watching as her daughter gurgled happily and tried to bring Spencer's finger to her mouth.

The baby's grip was warm and certain, and Spencer found himself completely captivated. He let her play with his fingers, marvelling at the delicate perfection of her tiny fingernails, the way her eyes seemed to hold entire worlds of curiosity and trust.

When she released his finger only to reach for him with both hands, Maya naturally shifted forward.

"Would you like to hold her?" Maya asked. "She's clearly taken with you."

Spencer nodded, his hands already moving with gentle confidence as Maya transferred the baby into his arms. The weight was slight but significant, settling against his chest with a natural ease that surprised him. His fingers moved carefully, one hand supporting the small head with reverence, the other cupping her back with steady patience.

The moment the baby was fully in his arms, Spencer felt something shift inside him. She was so warm, so trusting, her tiny body relaxing against him as if she belonged there. Her wide eyes looked up at him with that pure, uncomplicated attention that only babies possessed, and he found himself smiling down at her with a tenderness that felt both foreign and completely natural.

She reached up again, her small hand patting against his chest, then gripping a fold of his shirt with determined fingers. Spencer's breath caught slightly at the simple gesture. There was something profound about being trusted so completely by someone so small, so vulnerable. He could feel her breathing, steady and peaceful, could see the way her eyelids were starting to grow heavy despite her obvious fascination with him.

"Hi there, little one," he murmured softly, his voice taking on a gentle quality. The baby's eyes widened at the sound, and she made a small cooing noise that made his chest tighten with unexpected emotion.

Spencer found himself completely absorbed in the moment. The way she fit so perfectly in his arms, the trust in her sleepy eyes, the soft weight of her against his chest. He rocked slightly without thinking about it, a gentle swaying motion that seemed to come from some deep, instinctive place. Her breathing grew more even, her grip on his shirt loosening as contentment settled over her features.

For a few perfect minutes, the world narrowed to just this: the warmth of the baby in his arms, the soft light filtering throughout the room, the sense of peace that seemed to radiate from this tiny life he held so carefully. The feeling was familiar somehow, not quite like his dreams but close enough to send an overwhelming swirl of emotions through him. Recognition mixed with longing, hope tangled with something deeper he couldn't quite name. Spencer felt something bloom in his chest, a fierce protectiveness mixed with wonder.

Maya eventually reached for her daughter, thanking Spencer with a grateful smile as she gathered the baby back into her arms. You appeared beside them, holding out a jar of apple sauce with a warm smile.

"She doesn't usually take to people like that," Maya said softly, accepting the jar gratefully. "You're a natural."

Maya gathered her things and headed toward the door, the baby now content in her arms and the apple sauce tucked securely in her bag. "Thank you both so much," she called over her shoulder before heading home.

Spencer felt the weight of what had just happened settle over him. Holding that baby had intensified something he'd been trying to ignore, a deep longing that seemed to centre entirely on you.

The dreams, the gentle domestic mornings, the way his heart had raced when that tiny life had trusted him so completely—it all pointed to the same overwhelming need. He wanted this with you. Needed this with you. Needed to create a life together, to hold a baby that was yours and his, to build the family he'd seen a vision of in his dreams.

He should have been thinking about how gentle those few minutes had felt. He should have been turning the sensation over in his mind, as he always did with new experiences, cataloguing the small details so he could revisit them later. But something else was cutting through the edges of that memory, a slow, insistent awareness that drew his attention away from the front door and toward the living room.

You were standing there.

Halfway across the room, still and quiet, your gaze locked on him with an intensity that seemed to burn through the calm. It was not the idle glance of someone lost in thought. It was fixed, deliberate, heavy enough that he felt it pressing against his skin.

Then he noticed the scent.

It hit him in a wave, subtle at first but building quickly, weaving through the air until it curled around him, filling his lungs. It was yours. Undeniably yours. The familiar note that had always lingered when you stood close enough for him to notice, now magnified until it felt as though every breath he took was steeped in it. But there was something else in it too. A shift. A richness that had not been there before, or at least not like this.

The comparison came unbidden.

The scent from his dream.

That dream had been warm and impossibly vivid, a private world where you had been holding a child that was unmistakably his. In that imagined space, the air had been saturated with you, but softer somehow, laced with a quiet domesticity. What wrapped around him now was sharper, more urgent, like the same melody played but this time with a symphony accompanying it. He could not quite name the difference, but the recognition was instant and absolute.

His breath caught. The air felt heavier, almost weighted, as though it had been replaced entirely by that scent. It slid into his lungs with each inhale, until he could not tell where oxygen ended and you began. Every nerve in his body lit up in response, a rush of sensation that started low in his spine and climbed quickly, bypassing thought.

The wild, disoriented feeling that had blindsided him earlier roared back, but this time it was stronger. Unchecked. Tenfold. His hands curled slightly at his sides, the ghost of the baby's weight still there but rapidly overwritten by a more primal, immediate need.

And then there was your expression.

Your eyes were darker, your pupils wide, the sharp focus of your gaze pinning him in place. It was the way you looked when you were in heat, but altered in a way that made his chest tighten. The usual edge of it was there, the magnetic pull that set his pulse quickening, but beneath it was something deeper, almost consuming. Your mouth parted slightly, as though your body was ahead of your words, and the way you were standing — still, but not relaxed — told him that the distance between you was a fragile thing, waiting to break.

It had been a shit case from the start. The kind that builds slow and ends messy. Long hours spent tracing fragments of motive that led nowhere, a suspect pool bloated with red herrings, and a local department too focused on optics to let the team work cleanly. Dead ends stacked on top of each other until all that was left was the taste of failure and a long, silent ride back to Quantico. It was the kind of case that didn’t just stick in his mind, but in his body too. A heavy weight behind his sternum. A raw, static buzz at the base of his neck.

He scrubs a hand through his hair and sucks in a slow breath through his nose. It doesn’t help. His temples still throb. His fingers twitch with the need to do something, anything, other than think.

When he sees you round the corner into the hallway, soft and sweet with comfort, it only makes things worse.

Because you look at him like you always do. Like you’re ready to help. Like he isn’t a storm just barely held behind his teeth.

He doesn’t soften. Doesn’t speak to soothe you or offer reassurance. There’s no point. Not when the storm inside him is this loud. The only thing that makes sense is the image already building in his head, sharp and bright and specific. You, stripped bare. Bent for him. Open and dripping and waiting. That thought lands low in his abdomen like a punch, and for the first time all day, the tension narrows into something he can actually control.

“Go to the study,” he says. His voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t need to. It’s a quiet command, anchored in the kind of confidence that doesn’t invite questions. “Clothes off. Bent over the desk.”

He turns without waiting. Not needing to hear your response. He already knows you’ll obey.

His footsteps echo down the hall, into the kitchen, and he doesn’t rush. Each step is measured, the air stifling around him. The moment he reaches the fridge, he opens it like he’s settling into a ritual. Something practiced. Something clean. He grabs the pitcher and fills a glass with water, watching the way it swirls then settles.

He drinks slowly. Not to calm himself entirely. That isn’t the point. The frustration is still there, curling in his gut, keeping his hands tight and his mind sharp. But he lets the water cool the edges just enough to hold his grip steady. Just enough to draw out the moment.

Because he knows what's waiting for him.

You’re in the study now, naked, the lamp casting a low circle of light across your back. He can picture the way your spine curves when you lean over the desk, the way your thighs press together because you’re already wet for him. Of course you are. That’s half the reason he told you to wait. Not because he wanted to calm down. Because he wanted to picture it. To let his brain pull it forward like a photograph.

The air in the kitchen feels warmer now, but he doesn’t turn on a light. Doesn’t break the quiet. He drains the last of the water and sets the glass on the counter, slow enough not to make a sound. The weight in his chest is still there, but it’s changed shape. Tighter. Heavier. No longer aimless. It has a direction now.

He steps into the hallway again, slower now. More deliberate.

He doesn’t pause to collect himself or smooth out his expression. He wants you to see it. The tightness in his jaw, the shadow still in his eyes. He wants to be looked at like this. Wants you to know exactly what kind of tension you’re about to be on the receiving end of.

-

“Clothes off. Bent over the desk.”

When he says it his voice is calm. Too calm. It wraps around your spine and pulls every muscle taught.

You don’t ask why. You don’t follow with a question or wait for softness that isn’t coming. You just move. Your feet carry you down the hall, skin already warming with anticipation, with heat you haven’t had time to name. It builds fast, hot in your chest, pooling low in your belly.

The study is still as you left it. Dimly lit, smelling faintly of old books and wood polish. The lamp on the side table is the only thing casting light, a muted golden glow that stretches across the desk and reaches up the spines of the books lining the wall. It’s quiet in here, almost peaceful in its silence. You strip off your clothes piece by piece, each motion slow, deliberate. Not because he told you to be slow, but because you want to make this moment last. You want to feel it. His voice still ringing in your ears, the sharpness of it. The control.

You step forward, bare feet silent against the rug. The desk is cool when your skin meets it. You fold over, pressing your forearms down, head resting on your hands, cheek turned to one side. The position is familiar. Still, the air hits you differently tonight. Your spine arches without thinking, hips tipping to match the line of your shoulders. The surface beneath you holds steady, hard and unmoving.

Your breath fans out across your knuckles. You blink slowly at the shadowed corner of the room. The books, the soft pool of light, the faint scratch of your skin brushing the desk when you settle into place.

You don’t hear him. No footsteps, no door creak, no soft command to adjust. Just the house around you. Still. Settled. Alive with the quiet tension you’ve been left in.

You breathe slow and shallow through your nose. The desk warms where your chest meets the wood. Your nipples brush against it each time your lungs expand. The edges of your fingers twitch with restraint.

Behind your eyelids, you can see him. Standing in the kitchen. Drinking. Thinking. Dragging out each second, building up the anticipation, keeping you on edge,

You don’t shift. Don’t call for him. The silence stretches, and in it your body sharpens. The air brushes the backs of your knees, cooler where your skin is damp. Your thighs tense and release without meaning to. Your core pulses once, then again, and you know what he’ll find when he walks in. He’ll see how your body has bloomed for him without a single touch.

The doorknob clicks. Not fast. Not loud.

The ache spikes.

You stay where you are. Still bent, still bare. Still waiting.

The door swings open with a low whisper of hinges, the light from the hallway spilling in across the floor. Spencer steps inside without a word, his eyes landing on you immediately, drawn like a current.

There you are. Exactly as he left you.

Folded over his desk, bare from head to toe, your spine arched in a perfect line that dips at the small of your back and curves up into the soft swell of your ass. The muscles in your thighs shift as you adjust your weight, but only slightly, as if you’re holding yourself there with effort. Your elbows are planted firm, hands laid flat, face turned away, body obedient and still.

And your cunt is wet.

Glistening in the soft lamp light, lips parted, swollen with arousal. The slick shine of it catches his eye before anything else. The way you pulse around nothing. The way your body seems to call out to be filled, already aching and open and waiting. His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, watching.

The sound of the door closing behind him is quiet, but final. The weight of it sinks into the room like a shift in pressure.

Your body knows he’s there before you see him. You feel it in the air. That slow prickle across your skin. The flush that climbs from your chest to your face. You don’t look. You don’t ask. You feel his eyes on you, dragging over every inch. Your breath catches on the way in.

He’s not touching you.

He’s just looking.

And somehow that’s worse. Or better. You don’t know anymore. All you know is the heat. The unbearable stillness. The way your cunt clenches at nothing, needy and slick, your thighs already sticky from it. You shift once, only a fraction of an inch. You can’t help it.

Behind you, Spencer inhales through his nose, slow and steady, like he’s tasting the air.

He moves closer. A single step.

Still no contact.

He lets his eyes roam your body without shame. He lingers on the dip of your back, the way your ass curves up and out, how your slick folds twitch in the quiet. The shine between your thighs has only grown, proof of what he’s done to you without lifting a single finger.

Your fingertips press harder into the desk. Your breath quickens.

Still, he doesn’t speak.

Still, he doesn’t touch.

It’s like he’s trying to break you.

The silence, the stillness, the way his presence sits behind you like pressure at the base of your skull. You can feel it now. Thick. Heavy. His eyes tracking every breath, every tremor that moves through your muscles. You know he’s watching how you pulse, how your body begs without words, but still, he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t give you the smallest sign that your waiting is over.

Your thighs shake.

Your fingers curl into the wood.

He’s waiting for you to crack. To lift your head. To twist your hips back against him. To beg. You know that’s what this is. The tension hangs like a threat. Or maybe a promise. Either way, it coils tighter with every second.

But you don’t move. You don’t speak. Your body burns and clenches and pulses around nothing, and still, you wait.

What you don’t see behind you is his hand.

The slow way it presses to his own cock through the front of his pants, already straining against the fabric. His belt is loose, unbuckled with one hand before he even realizes he’s doing it. He palms himself once. Twice. His knuckles go white. His hips roll forward just slightly, a breath shoving out of his lungs at the sight of you, soaked and ready, waiting like you were made for it.

He doesn’t plan to be gentle.

The sound you make isn’t loud, not really. Just a small, broken whimper that escapes your throat without warning. But it’s enough.

He’s on you in an instant.

One hand grabs your hip, the other dragging his cock free with a rough pull. No words, no pause. He lines himself up and drives into you in one long, brutal push.

Your gasp hits the wood under your hands. You scramble for something to hold onto, palms sliding forward as your body adjusts around the sudden stretch. He doesn’t give you time. Doesn’t ease in. He buries himself to the hilt and stays there, chest rising behind you, jaw clenched, his fingers digging into the curve of your hip like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

Your walls clench around him, fluttering with the shock of it. He’s thick and hard and pulsing inside you, cock twitching as he holds still, just long enough to feel your body struggle to take him.

Then he pulls back, only to slam back in, harder than before.

His grip tightens.

Fingers digging into the meat of your hips, holding you in place as he begins to thrust with force that shakes the desk beneath you. The sound is obscene, skin meeting skin in a rhythm that has no patience, no tenderness, no restraint. Each snap of his hips punches a quiet gasp out of you, breath caught somewhere between pain and pleasure, but you don’t make him stop. You don’t ask for anything softer. You just take it.

The stretch burns. The pace is brutal.

He isn’t speaking. He isn’t even breathing evenly. Just low, rough exhales through his nose, teeth grit tight as he fucks into you like it’s the only way to tear the weight of the day out of his body. His cock slams into you, filling you over and over, so deep it feels like he’s carving the shape of himself into your spine.

Your forearms start to slide across the desk with each thrust, the friction dragging your skin along the wood. He doesn’t ease up. One hand slips from your hip to your lower back, pressing down to keep you from shifting too far forward. His palm is flat, but the weight of it pins you in place like a warning. Don’t move. Don’t dare pull away.

He slams into you again, and again, and again.

His grip bruising.

Your slick drips down the insides of your thighs, soaking him, slicking the base of his cock with every punishing thrust. The sounds coming from between your bodies are wet, filthy, and constant. You can’t breathe right. You can’t think.

Your fingers splay across the desk, searching for something to ground yourself against, but there’s nothing to stop the rhythm. Your toes curl against the rug. Your face turns harder into your hands.

He fucks you like he needs it to survive. Like if he stops, the rage in his chest might detonate. Like he’s chasing some kind of edge and he’s dragging you over it with him, whether your body’s ready or not.

The hand on your back climbs higher, wrapping into your hair, tugging just enough to arch you further. His cock punches deeper with the shift, hitting a spot that makes your entire body seize up, a sob caught behind your teeth. He doesn’t relent. Not even for that.

Your thighs are shaking. Your breath is shallow. His rhythm is relentless.

Your body can’t keep up. The pace, the stretch, the thick slide of him filling you over and over—there’s no room left to think. Just sensation. Just the heat of him inside you, the raw friction that leaves your thighs trembling and your cunt aching with how completely he owns you in this moment.

Your slick coats everything, messy and warm, dripping down your legs with every snap of his hips. The pressure builds fast, blinding, curling deep behind your navel. Each thrust pushes it higher, and you can’t breathe without feeling it, can’t blink without the heat catching behind your eyes. Your moans come in broken bursts, no rhythm to them, just helpless sounds punched out of you by the force of his body slamming into yours.

Your elbows slip forward again and you let them, let your chest flatten to the desk so your hips tilt higher. You hear the ragged noise he makes behind you when you do, the sound deep and wrecked and barely human.

Your cunt clenches hard around him. You can feel how soaked you are, how he drags every time he pulls out just enough to slam back in, the glide impossibly wet. It makes the thrusts feel deeper, heavier, like he’s rearranging something inside you. You arch back into him without thinking, desperate to meet him, to take every inch. He growls low behind you, then fucks you harder.

Your eyes flutter closed.

Pleasure tears through you in waves. It doesn’t roll. It crashes. It builds from the inside out, fierce and fast and blinding. Your clit throbs with every slam of his hips, the pressure mounting with dizzy speed, and then you feel it.

That first sharp drop just before you go over.

Your mouth opens on a gasp. Your hand slaps flat against the desk. The muscles in your legs seize, your thighs shaking violently.

You’re going to come. You can feel it coiling, wild and sharp and inevitable.

His hand moves without hesitation.

One pulls your hip back to meet another brutal thrust, the other slides between your thighs, fingers slick the moment they touch your skin. He finds your clit easily, swollen and begging for attention, and he doesn’t tease. He doesn’t ease into it. He rubs tight, fast circles, matching the pace of his cock slamming into you from behind.

You cry out.

Your legs nearly give, muscles locking in place as the sudden surge of pressure wraps around your core like fire. He doesn't slow down. His fingers work you with practiced precision, relentless and sharp. He presses harder, dragging the pad of his finger over that spot again and again, catching just right with each roll of his hips.

Your whole body jolts with every thrust. The desk creaks beneath you. His cock drives in deep, thick and stretching, and now there’s nowhere to run. He’s got you split open, panting, dripping, and still, it isn’t enough for him. He wants more. He wants everything.

“Come on,” he mutters behind you, breath hot and uneven. “Cum.”

It isn’t coaxing. It’s demand. It’s a command layered over the sharp pressure of his fingers, the bruising grip on your waist, the way his cock fills you again and again with no sign of stopping. He’s forcing your body to obey, to break open around him.

Your clit pulses against his touch. Your cunt clenches tight. The pressure is unbearable now, your orgasm sitting just out of reach, dizzying and white-hot.

“Cum,” he says again, lower this time, meaner.

You do.

It hits all at once, fierce and blinding. Your walls clamp down around his cock, pulsing so hard you can’t hear anything for a second except your own heartbeat. Your legs quake beneath you, your mouth opens on a silent sob, and your vision blurs with the heat of it, the overwhelming rush of being pushed over that edge with no mercy.

Still, he fucks you through it.

Your orgasm hits with the force of something primal, your body jerking violently as the pressure breaks loose all at once. A sharp cry claws from your throat, raw and uncontrolled, as your cunt contracts and a hot gush of fluid sprays out of you. It coats his cock, his thighs, splatters onto the floor beneath you in heavy, audible drops. The hardwood is slick in seconds, wet shining in the lamplight, dripping down your legs and pooling at your feet.

Spencer groans behind you, the sound rough and guttural. He looks down and sees the mess—your slick smeared across the base of his cock, soaking through the front of his trousers, glistening on the floor—and it only spurs him on. There’s no pause, no catch in his rhythm. Just the slap of skin, the wet drag of his cock inside you, and the bruising grip of his hands.

You’re still clenching around him, spasming with the aftershocks, but it isn’t enough.

Not for him.

He shifts his stance, feet planted wide, and slams back into you with brutal force.

You cry out, the sound broken, caught between overstimulation and the helpless, spiralling pleasure still rolling through your body. Your cunt clenches again, still twitching around him. His cock drags through every aftershock, every tremor. He feels how your walls flutter, soaked and raw and fluttering around him like you’ve got nothing left to give.

His hand slides up your back again, shoving between your shoulder blades to push you flat to the desk. The angle changes, brutal and unrelenting. His hips snap forward, hard and fast, splitting you open all over again. You gasp against the wood, forehead pressed to your arm, nails dragging uselessly across the smooth surface.

He doesn’t stop.

His cock slams into you again and again, the sound of it wet and vicious, echoing off the walls. Your body jolts with each thrust, thighs shaking, pussy leaking more slick with every punishing stroke. It’s too much. It’s perfect. It’s everything.

He wants more.

He wants to pull it out of you again, drag it from your body until the pleasure sharpens into pain. Until your legs give out. Until you're crying from how badly you need to cum and how much it hurts to be kept there. He wants to push past your limit. Because he knows you’ll take it. You always do.

His rhythm turns feral.

The slap of his hips against your ass echoes louder now, sharp and fast, shaking the desk beneath your chest. Each thrust is harder than the last, driving you forward on the wood until your fingers scramble for something to hold. He doesn’t give you room to adjust. Doesn’t give you space to breathe. Just pounds into you with the full weight of his body, over and over, until all you can do is take it.

He’s muttering behind you now. Not to you. Not really.

“Fuck,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Look at you. Jesus.”

Another thrust. Deep. Cruel. Your knees nearly buckle.

“So fucking wet for me,” he breathes, voice low and uneven. “So goddamn perfect. So good like this.”

His words fall into the space between groans and ragged breaths, half-choked by how tight you are around him. His hand drags up your spine, fingers spread wide, possessive, before he fists a handful of your hair again and yanks your head back just enough to make your spine curve harder.

“Meant for this,” he growls. “Meant for me.”

He slams into you again, and your vision flashes white. Your thighs are shaking, slick dripping steadily to the floor, the wet slap of your bodies echoing in the stillness of the room. The desk creaks beneath you. Your skin is burning, stretched tight over a body no longer yours to control.

He keeps talking, half to himself, half to the obscene image of your body split open for him.

“Fucking mess. Look at you. Can’t stop cumming for me.”

You try to respond. A whimper. A sob. Something close to his name.

But he doesn’t slow.

His hand moves back to your hip, fingers bruising, his cock driving into you like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out. Each thrust pushes the sound out of you, leaves you gasping into the desk, body slick and overstimulated and trembling.

And still, he fucks you like he needs to break something just to breathe again.

You don’t know where the last orgasm ended and the next begins.

Your body’s gone hot and glassy, nerves stripped raw, every thrust dragging across a spot so sensitive it borders on pain. His cock splits you open again and again, relentless, thick and soaked in everything you’ve given him. The mess between your thighs grows wetter, filthier, every motion punching another cry from your lungs.

Your breath stutters, lips parted against the desk. You’re drooling, shaking, your knees close to giving out entirely.

He grips your waist tighter, thumbs digging in so deep you’ll feel it for days. He jerks you back into him, faster now, harder, the sound of his hips slamming into your ass loud and constant, obscene in the quiet of the study.

There’s no edge to brace against, no control left to hold. His cock drags over your soaked, aching walls and your body reacts without permission, everything inside you tightening all at once.

Your moan breaks apart as it leaves your throat.

Your cunt clamps down, spasming so hard it rips a choked curse out of him. The orgasm surges up like a wave and crashes over you with brutal force. You convulse, trembling from your scalp to your toes, crying out loud enough to echo off the walls. Your vision goes white behind your eyelids. Your legs buckle.

You feel yourself gush again, your breath catching with the force of it. The mess is everywhere. Between your thighs. Down your calves. Dripping from him.

But he doesn’t stop.

He groans, low and wrecked, and keeps fucking you through it. Every thrust pushes your orgasm higher, draws it out until it’s nearly unbearable. You sob against the desk, body spasming, completely undone.

Still, his grip stays bruising. Still, he fucks you like he owns the moment and every inch of your ruined, trembling body.

Your body barely recovers before he pushes you over again.

Every nerve is overstimulated, every breath a struggle. You try to lift yourself, try to shift or brace or breathe, but he’s already pulling you back onto his cock with another savage thrust, your slick making the slide effortless. His grip is punishing now, one hand spread wide across your lower back to keep you pinned, the other clutching your hip as he drives into you, deep and merciless.

You can’t take more but your body won’t stop giving.

Your cunt clenches around him, twitching uncontrollably, still leaking down your thighs, soaking the floor beneath you. You’re a mess of whimpers and gasps, moaning with every thrust that punches into you, the sounds ragged and raw. Your body doesn’t even know what it wants anymore. To be filled. To be fucked. To be given release until nothing’s left.

And he’s not stopping until that happens.

He mutters something again, breath hot against your spine. Something sharp, broken, low. His thrusts turn frantic, cock hammering into your soaked, aching cunt with the singular focus of finishing you.

And then it crests again.

A third orgasm tears through you without warning, sharp and overwhelming, your whole body convulsing around him. You scream—too raw to be quiet now—as your muscles seize and your cunt milks him in wave after wave of slick, desperate spasms. Your legs collapse. Your body falls limp against the desk, arms sliding forward, cheek sticking to the wood with sweat. You’re gone. Shaking. Spent.

That’s what does it.

Spencer growls behind you, something deep and animal. He grabs your hips with both hands and slams forward one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go. He stays there, locked against you, cock twitching violently inside your fluttering walls. His breath stutters, then stops, jaw clenched as his orgasm rips through him.

You feel the first hot pulse of it flood your cunt, thick and heavy. Then another. And another. His cock throbs with each release, filling you until you’re stretched around more than just him.

He stays there a moment, pressed tight, fingers digging deep enough to bruise. His cock pulses again, slower now, the last few shallow thrusts more instinct than rhythm.

Finally, he pulls back.

The drag of him slipping out of you is slow, deliberate. Your body twitches, a soft noise catching in your throat. Your cunt clenches again, trying to hold on, but it’s too much. You feel his cum start to leak out, slow and warm, a thick trail slipping down your inner thigh, glistening as it follows the path of your slick.

Behind you, Spencer watches it drip, chest still rising fast, sweat sticking his shirt to his back. His cock is still wet, slowly softening, hanging heavy between his thighs as he stares at the mess he made of you.

Spencer steps back just enough to see you fully. His hands remain on your hips, holding you in place, thumbs pressed into the bruises he’s left behind.

His cum leaks from you in slow, glistening trails. Thick and white, it oozes from your swollen, fluttering cunt, sliding through your folds, pooling at the crease of your thigh before slipping further. Another throb rolls through your body and more spills out, pushed by the faint clenching that hasn’t stopped, even now. The liquid drips onto the hardwood in long, deliberate drops, joining the rest of the mess already at your feet.

Spencer watches it happen. Every second of it.

He’s breathing hard, jaw tight, chest heaving beneath the fabric of his shirt. His cock is still half-hard, twitching with aftershocks, smeared with slick and cum. He doesn’t move to clean you up. Doesn’t speak. He just stares, eyes locked on the way your cunt struggles to close around nothing, still too stretched and swollen to hold him in.

More of his release slips out, warm and slow, coating your inner thighs, running over skin that’s already flushed and wet. It clings in strings to your folds, thick and obscene, catching the light as it stretches and falls.

He presses his thumb to the small of your back, not pushing, not guiding. Just holding you there.

Your breath stirs against the desk in shallow bursts. Your eyes are closed, lashes damp, mouth open and slack. There’s nothing left in your body that isn’t his. No part of you untouched. No corner that hasn’t been marked by what he’s taken.

Spencer’s eyes drag up your back, along your spine, then down again to the ruined mess between your thighs.

Only then does he exhale.

Spencer stays close.

His hand rests at the small of your back, steadying you as your body trembles from the effort of standing. You’re still bent slightly, sore and raw and too soft in your limbs to move with anything resembling grace. He doesn’t speak right away. Just keeps his hand there, warm and reassuring, waiting for your breath to even out.

Then, gently, he leans in close.

“Let’s go clean you up.”

His voice is quiet now. Low. The edge from earlier completely gone, replaced by something tender, something careful. You nod without speaking, your throat dry. He guides you with slow touches toward the bathroom, keeping close without pushing, one hand hovering near your hip, the other at your elbow in case you falter.

The light in the bathroom is soft when he flicks it on, golden and low from the wall sconce above the mirror. You blink in the brightness, skin flushed, legs still unsteady. Spencer touches your arm and nods toward the counter.

“Sit here.”

You brace yourself with one hand and lift, legs wobbling slightly before settling. The counter is cool against your thighs, and you let your shoulders rest against the mirror for a moment as the room stops spinning.

Spencer grabs a clean washcloth from the cabinet under the sink, runs it under warm water, and wrings it out with slow, practiced movements. He glances at you before stepping between your knees, one hand sliding behind your calf to adjust your position.

He’s quiet as he works.

The cloth is warm when it meets your skin. He starts with the inside of your thighs, moving with slow, gentle strokes, careful not to press too hard. His jaw is tight, not from frustration this time, but from focus. From the way he watches your body respond even in its exhaustion. You twitch when the cloth brushes over your swollen folds, and his hand steadies your thigh in response.

He’s methodical. Thorough.

There’s something reverent in the way he cleans you, in how he handles you like he knows exactly where the soreness lives and wants to soothe it. He moves the cloth lower, catching the last of the mess that’s leaked down your legs. His hand lingers after each pass, his thumb brushing your skin, as if anchoring you to the moment.

When he’s done, he folds the cloth neatly, sets it aside, and runs his hands up your thighs, grounding you. His eyes meet yours again, soft now, searching.

“Ready?”

You nod.

He helps you down carefully, hands at your waist, letting you lean into him when your knees wobble again. He doesn’t let go as he walks you to the bedroom, steps quiet, his touch never leaving your skin. The sheets are cool against your legs as you lower onto the bed, and Spencer follows behind you.

But he pauses at the edge.

His trousers are still soaked, clinging damply to his thighs where your slick and his cum have soaked through. His shirt is wrinkled and half-untucked, stained with sweat down the back. The scent of sex still clings to his skin, heady and warm, but the urgency has faded from his movements now. He bends forward, fingers working quickly at the laces of his shoes. They hit the floor with soft, dull thuds, one after the other. Then the pants.

He doesn’t strip down completely.

Just removes his shirt with a tug over his head, the fabric wrinkled and sweat-damp, then leaves himself in his boxer briefs. They cling to him, the shape of his cock still visible, though soft now, streaked faintly with what’s left of you. He doesn’t look down. Doesn’t acknowledge the mess. Just moves toward you, quieter than before.

He climbs into the bed with a slow exhale, shifting the pillows against the headboard until he’s sitting back, legs stretched out and knees bent. He opens his arms, and you come to him easily, your body already swaying with fatigue. He guides you close, one hand supporting your back, the other adjusting the blanket as he pulls it up and around you.

He leaves himself bare to the air, content with your warmth pressed against him. Your skin is still flushed. Damp in places. His fingers trace slow circles over your side, not for distraction, not to start anything again, but to keep you here. Tethered.

Your breathing slows, syncing with his.

Spencer leans his head back against the headboard and closes his eyes, the tension in his jaw finally fading. Not gone. Not forgotten. But eased, quieted by the weight of you against him.

His hand never stops moving.

Just slow circles, feather-light, over the curve of your waist. The same rhythm, over and over, like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far. You shift once, barely, and his arm tightens around you—not possessive, not demanding, just there. Holding. Anchoring.

The room stays quiet.

The study door remains open down the hall, a faint trail of light still glowing behind it. The scent of sex lingers faintly in the air, warm and human, but it’s fading now. Softened by the stillness, by the steady rise and fall of breath, by the way your bodies fit together beneath the weight of the blanket.

Spencer tilts his head, resting his cheek against the top of yours. His hand smooths up your spine this time, slow and careful. The warmth of his skin calms the last sparks of tension still flaring behind your ribs. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

You’re already half-asleep when he finally closes his eyes.

You don’t know what it is about her. It started on your first day and hasn't let up since. There’s something magnetic about the way she carries herself, so in control, like nothing phases her. She’s all dark eyes and sharper edges, long legs and measured steps, and when she smiles—it knocks the air right out of you.

This case came fast. A series of murders across the county. Women targeted, all with backgrounds in foster care. The kind of pattern that makes your stomach knot. You’d sat in the briefing room with your notes clenched too tightly in your hands, trying to keep your face neutral while Hotch laid out the facts. When he said you’d be riding with Prentiss, something in your chest tightened before you could stop it. She glanced at you across the table, unreadable as ever, then gave the smallest nod.

You’re meant to be interviewing a witness. A neighbour. Someone who might have seen something near the last crime scene. That’s what you were told, anyway.

The house is about fifteen minutes outside of town, tucked along a wooded edge of the road. The lawn hasn’t been mowed in weeks, and the shutters sag unevenly over dirty windows. Emily doesn’t say much during the drive, just keeps her eyes ahead and taps the steering wheel with her fingers now and then. She doesn’t need to fill silence. You’re not sure if you find that comforting or unnerving.

The woman who opens the door looks ordinary. Thin, tired. She wipes her hands on her jeans and glances between the two of you with a smile that feels too practiced.

Emily speaks first.

“Ma’am, we’re with the FBI. Just a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

The woman nods, steps back to let you in.

You follow Emily through the threshold, scanning the space instinctively. The air smells like dust and something chemical underneath. It takes a few seconds for your eyes to adjust. Then it happens.

The shift.

You see it before you understand it. The woman’s hand reaching for something near the couch. A glint of metal.

“Knife!” you shout, but she’s already moving.

Emily doesn’t hesitate. She’s there in a flash, intercepting the woman mid-swing. The force of it knocks the end table over. You try to step in, try to flank the attacker, but the unsub spins fast and lands a solid hit across your ribs that sends you sprawling to the ground.

Your vision jars for a second. Everything tilts. You can hear the fight still going.

Emily is relentless. She meets the next attack with a brutal elbow to the woman’s jaw, takes the knife with her free hand and tosses it aside. She moves like she’s been trained for chaos, like her body already knows what to do without needing to think.

She’s beautiful in motion.

Focused. Fearless. Her shirt pulls tight across her back as she pins the woman to the floor, muscles flexed and body pressed down with a kind of effortless control that leaves no room for argument. There’s a cut blooming red at her temple, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

The cuffs snap around the unsub’s wrists before you’ve fully caught your breath.

Emily straightens, breathing hard, hair falling over one shoulder as she looks toward you.

“You good?” she asks, voice low and calm but still edged with adrenaline.

You nod, already scrambling to your feet, breath shaky. “Yeah. She hit harder than I expected.”

Her gaze lingers on you a moment longer. She closes the space between you and checks your side with a light touch, fingers grazing the curve of your ribs. It sends a jolt through your entire body.

“She got you good,” she says, almost under her breath. “But you moved quick.”

You manage a faint smile. It feels like your skin is buzzing under where her hand just was.

Emily looks at you like she sees something she hadn’t before.

You don’t trust yourself to hold her gaze.

The walk back to the SUV is quiet. Your heartbeat hasn’t slowed since the moment she took that woman down. You tell yourself it’s just the adrenaline. The shock.

But the truth sits heavy in your chest.

It wasn’t fear that made your breath catch.

It was her.

Emily had barely looked at you after the takedown. She drove back in silence, one hand loose on the steering wheel, window cracked just enough to pull in air. Her face stayed calm, unreadable. You couldn’t stop looking.

Now you’re watching her through the glass.

She’s in the interrogation room with the woman she cuffed not even an hour ago. Your unsub. She doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t need to. Her tone is measured, even — but there’s something underneath it, something unshakable. She leans forward just slightly when she speaks, her fingers pressed lightly against the table. Her body language says she’s in control. Always has been. The unsub shifts in her seat, eyes darting. Emily doesn’t blink.

It’s not the first interrogation you’ve watched since joining the team. But it’s the first time you’ve felt something hot pool in your stomach over it.

You don’t understand what’s happening.

Your pulse has been out of rhythm since that fight. Since her hand touched your side, steady and sure, like it belonged there. You told yourself it was nothing. Adrenaline. The crash of the moment. But now, with Emily poised in the chair, gaze sharp, voice low and unrelenting — something inside you clenches again, and this time there’s no excuse.

She’s breathtaking like this. Commanding. Composed. Completely focused, like the rest of the world has narrowed into one point in front of her.

You’ve never looked at a woman this way before. Not like this.

And she’s not just any woman. She’s your colleague. She’s Emily Prentiss.

You drag your eyes away, force your gaze down to the file in your lap. Your skin feels too warm. You flip the page even though you haven’t read the one before it.

You’re not supposed to be thinking about her like this. You’ve never thought about any woman like this. And yet—

You glance up again before you can stop yourself. She tilts her head, studying the unsub, waiting out the silence in a way that makes it clear she’s already won. There’s something in the way she holds herself. Like she was built for this kind of pressure. Like she likes it.

And you? You’re losing your mind a little bit.

You cross your legs and press your thighs together, hoping no one notices the way your breath keeps catching in your throat.

She’s not even looking at you.

But she doesn’t need to.

She already has you.

It takes another couple hours to wrap the scene. The local police thank the team, their tone shifting now that the case has been closed. The unsub finally cracked under Emily’s calm pressure, laid everything out with the weary defiance of someone who knows they’ve already lost. There’s still paperwork to coordinate, final reports to skim, chain of custody confirmations. You try to focus. You really do.

But she’s still in your head.

You keep catching yourself watching her. Emily, standing by the whiteboard with her arms crossed, nodding at something Morgan says. Emily, phone tucked to her ear, jaw tight, eyes moving as she listens.

By the time you’re in the SUV again, you’re overtired and wound tight in a way that makes your thoughts feel like static. JJ rides up front. You sit behind her, your cheek resting briefly against the window until the cool glass becomes uncomfortable. Emily’s beside you. Not quite close enough to touch, but you’re hyper-aware of every movement she makes. The way her knee shifts. The way she exhales. The quiet clicks of her fingers unlocking her phone.

Back on the jet, there’s a lull. Hotch gives his usual rundown before sitting down to start on paperwork. Morgan and Rossi talk quietly over coffee near the back. JJ stretches across two seats and closes her eyes. Spencer is nose deep in a book. The cabin dims. Someone puts on music low enough not to disturb anyone. You sink into a window seat with your legs tucked under you and stare into the dark.

Emily slides into the seat across from you. Not next to you, not far away. Just close enough to look up and catch her eye if you’re brave enough.

You’re not.

She crosses her legs, opens a folder, reads by the low amber light above her. You try not to stare at her hands. Try not to wonder what it would feel like to be touched by them. The thought comes uninvited and too vivid, and it makes your skin prickle.

This isn’t you. You don’t feel things like this. At least, you didn’t.

But watching her fight today, watching her interrogate, watching her be — it unlocked something that hasn’t let go since. And the worst part is you’re not even sure you want it to.

You try to close your eyes.

Try to forget the heat of her body close to yours, the way her voice dropped when she asked if you were okay, the way her touch lingered for a breath too long.

But it follows you all the way home.

You barely register unlocking your front door. Just enough focus left to turn the deadbolt behind you and shuffle into the dark. The apartment is quiet, still smelling faintly of whatever coffee you brewed before leaving for the case. You drop your go-bag near the couch, strip down in the hallway, and leave your clothes in a trail to the bedroom door.

You don’t even shower. Just strip down to your underwear and crawl into bed, limbs heavy and sore from the day. You blink at the ceiling, trying not to think about the way your body reacted to her earlier. Trying not to remember how her voice sounded through the glass, calm and sharp and deliberate. Trying not to remember the heat that bloomed low in your stomach when her hand found your side.

You think of her.

The way her breath caught after the fight. The way her fingers brushed your skin like it was nothing. Like she didn’t even notice.

You do.

Sleep drags you under before you can stop thinking about her. Now, you’re dreaming, though it doesn’t feel like a dream yet.

It feels like warmth.

Like silk under your bare feet. Dim light flickering at the edges. The air smells faintly of something sharp and floral. You know it’s not your bedroom. Not your sheets. But you don’t care.

Emily stands in front of you.

Her black blouse is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves cuffed to her elbows, hair swept back like she’s just taken it down for the night. She looks at you the same way she did in the field. Confident. Composed. Her hands rest on her hips, her weight balanced easily like she could lunge forward without warning.

You should say something. Ask what this is. Why she’s here. But she tilts her head, and you lose the thought.

“You keep staring at me,” she says, her voice lower than usual. Smoother. “At work. In the car. Even after the fight.”

You try to speak. Nothing comes.

She steps toward you. One slow step, then another, until the space between you disappears. Her fingers brush your chin, tilting your face up to meet her eyes.

“You think I don’t notice?”

Your heart pounds. You know you’re dreaming now, but that doesn’t help.

Emily’s mouth curves into something wicked.

“You like watching me,” she murmurs. “Don’t you?”

She reaches out, hand sliding just under your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone.

“I don’t mind,” she says. “But if you’re going to look at me like that…”

Her other hand touches your hip, grounding you. Her thumb presses in just slightly, then drifts up your side, tracing the curve of your waist. Her touch is light. Teasing.

“I want to hear you say what you’re thinking.”

You shake your head, breathless. She smiles.

“Oh, you’re shy here too?”

She leans in, not to kiss you, but to whisper against your mouth.

“I like shy. I like making them squirm.”

Your breath catches. Her lips trail down the side of your neck, slow, deliberate. A kiss just below your jaw. Another at your collarbone.

Your hands twitch at your sides.

She takes your wrist, guides your hand to her waist.

“You can touch me.”

You do. Lightly, afraid you’ll break the illusion. Her body is warm beneath the fabric. Solid.

Emily pulls back just enough to look at you. Her eyes are sharp, hungry.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” she says. “If you don’t want that, stop me.”

You don’t move.

She kisses you like she owns the moment. Her mouth opens over yours, tongue teasing, never giving too much. You try to keep up, but she controls the pace. Every time you lean forward, she pulls back slightly, letting you chase her. Her hands slide down your sides, over your hips, grounding you again.

Her thigh presses between yours, slow pressure building.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

You shake your head.

She hums, pleased.

“Good.”

Emily kisses you again, slower this time. Deeper. Her fingers skim under the hem of your shirt, warm and steady. You flinch at the touch, but not from fear. Your stomach coils tight. Her hand moves lower, easing across your waistband.

“You want me to touch you?” she whispers. “All you have to do is say yes.”

Her fingers dip—

You jerk awake.

It’s instant. No slow rise to consciousness. One second you’re under her touch, her mouth, her grip. The next, you’re staring at your bedroom ceiling, heart hammering like you’ve run a mile.

Your thighs are clenched tight. Your underwear is damp. Your whole body feels strung out, like it didn’t get the memo that it was a dream.