Untitled

this weekend was everything but easy on lando. the car wasn't as good as it should've been at all, he didn't feel focused and the position he finished in on the race was definitely not something he was proud of. it was exhausting, and he felt irritated while all of the interviews and media duties he had afterwards. he could feel his body aching, screaming at him to just go and sleep already. go and have some rest already. so after finishing up, he searched for you, collected you from where you were talking to some people and dragged you to the parking lot. he didn't even want to drive, he let you sit in the driver's seat without a word. when you finally arrived to your room in the hotel, he barely said a word while the quick shower you shared. afterwards, he face planted on the bed,and fell asleep right away.

the next morning, he woke up in a rather grumpy mood, blinking his eyes open, staring at the ceiling for a little while. then, he realized where he was, in the hotel room, with you. he looked to his side, and there you were, wrapped around his left arm like a koala, still sleeping peacefully, lips a little parted, he found you adorable.

he tried to tug his arm free,just so he could turn to face you and get a little bit more comfortable,but you stirred awake as he moved.

"where are you goin'?" you mumbled half into the pillow as you grabbed onto his arm, letting out a tiny groan. "I'm just trying to get comfortable.." he sighed, going limp against the sheets again, letting you grab him and drag him as you wished. you pulled him closer to yourself, then draped yourself over him, planting a soft kiss on the middle of his chest. "how are you, baby?" you asked, voice a little muffled against his skin. "eh.. still tired" he said and it was followed by a yawn, he was clearly still tired, ready to fall back asleep any time soon. "yeah? you're a sleepyhead, aren't you?" you giggled softly, resting your cheek against his warm skin, smiling into your question. he groaned as an answer, throwing an arm over his face. "don't act like you're not one yourself." he finished his sentence then tilted his head, getting comfortable on the pillows again, probably wanting to sleep. "you're right" you smiled, because he wasn't wrong, "then let's sleep some more, yeah?" you suggested, but it wasn't really a question. you settled comfortably half on top of him and closed your eyes, trying to drift back off to unconsciousness.

however, you couldn't bring yourself to sleep again, so you just lay there, a hand slowly starting to caress his upper body, sliding over his chest, then down to his stomach, over and over again.

lando let out a quiet little hum at the touches, the sound low and barely audible. he didn't open his eyes, just shifted a little under your hand, his breathing slow and heavy, still lost in that sleepy haze. you kept going for a while, tracing lazy patterns across his warm skin, feeling the way his muscles jumped under your fingers when you crossed a ticklish spot. after a bit, you tilted your head and pressed a soft kiss on his chest again, then another one a little higher, then one om his collarbone. he made another small noise, something between a sigh and a sleepy groan, and his arm came up to rest loosely across your back.

you took that as an invitation, so you slowly shifted, swinging a leg over him so you were fully on top of him, straddling his hips. the change in position made him blink once, but his eyes stayed closed, lashes resting against his cheeks. he looked so soft like this, all tired and pliant beneath you. you leaned down and started kissing up the side of his neck, light and unhurried. just gentle presses of your lips against his skin, moving from the base of his throat up toward his jaw. he tilted his head a little to give you more space, still not opening his eyes, still completely relaxed under you. "feels nice.." he mumbled, voice a little raspy, and quiet.

"I know" you smiled, then started nibbling on his neck, which earned you a groan, and his hands gripped your hips. "none of that, or I'll have to fuck you, baby" he chuckled, and that sound made heat pool in your lower belly. he said it as if it was a bad idea, but honestly, you kind of wanted it, because it was always pleasant to start off a day with him inside you, so you decided to leave some more playful bites on his skin. "seems like you liked my idea?" he teased lightly, and one of his hands travelled to your thighs, then straight between your legs cupping your heat. you gasped at his sudden boldness and fell forward, starting to leave open mouthed little kisses on his neck once again, paired with a tiny whimper. his fingers were tracing along your folds through your panties, and it caused you to wriggle your bottom, trying to grind down onto his hand. "why so eager, hm? we have all the time in the world, it's still early." he wasn't wrong, because as you quickly glanced at the clock on the bedside table, it was only 7 am, and you suddenly started wondering how did you to manage to naturally wake up this early, but your thoughts were quickly cut off when lando pushed your panties aside, now caressing your bare pussy, dipping his fingers just with a little more strength around your entrance and it made you let out a sudden moan. it was still so early, you weren't even sure if your body processed what was happening, so, of course, you were sensitive as hell. "c'mere and kiss me" he murmured and raised his head just a little off the pillow, waiting for you to listen and kiss him. you, obviously didn't have to be told twice, leaned down and pressed your lips to his ones, immediately sucking his bottom lip in, because, why not? he groaned at the feeling and his fingers got more confident, now circling lazily around your clit, but it was enough for you to get wetter, and need him even more than you already did.

"c'mon lan.." you whined softly against his lips, shifting your hips again, trying to demand more friction. "what now, hm? you need more?" he chuckled again with a cocky smirk on his lips, and if he wasn't looking still kind of adorable with those sleepy, half lidded eyes, then maybe you would've gotten annoyed by his teasing, but this time, you just nodded instead. "yeah, want you.." you punctured your words with a kiss on his jawline, hips grinding down against his hand again. though, you'd lie if you said you weren't getting a little uncomfortable in this position, your legs were getting strained and you were still too weak to hold yourself up. "and want you on top.." you finally managed to tell him, which he luckily didn't mind at all. "sure baby, whatever you want", he pressed a peck on your lips, then with gentle ease, he flipped you onto your back on the bed. once you were settled comfortably, he hovered over you, parting your legs slowly, positioning himself between them, then he just leaned down and kissed you again. "better?" he asked after pulling away, and you answered him with a nod, then your hands flew down to his waist. you started messing with the waistband of his boxers, because obviously, those were the only things he was wearing. "want them off?" he asked, but his tone was teasing again, of course he already knew that you just wanted him to take out his cock. "mhm.. yeah, want you, babyy" you asked for it, and he didn't make you wait longer, he reached down and tugged himself free, already hard, because, who wouldn't get hard if their girlfriend would straddle them first thing in the morning?

lando should probably still be at least a little upset about yesterday's failed race, but it hasn't crossed his mind once since he's woken up, and that was perfectly fine, because now he was nudging your entrance with the tip of his cock through your panties, which, by the way, we're absolutely drenched by now. you let out a few quiet moans, arching into him, trying to get more friction, because apparently, lando wasn't trying to rush. other times you'd think this is sweet, but right now you found him hotter than usual for some reason, and you wanted to get him inside of you as soon as possible. he might have noticed your eagerness, because his hands finally started fumbling with the band of your panties, sliding them off of you slowly, throwing them somewhere further on the bed. he then looked in your eyes again and leaned in for yet another kiss as his hand touched you again, this time his middle finger slipping inside of you. you moaned softly into his mouth, happy to finally get something, and your still hazy mind already started floating away as he curled that finger. your hands came up to hold onto his shoulders as you needily deepened the kiss, a hand leaving his shoulder just to grab onto the back of his head, keeping him right there, kissing you. he added another finger and it made your hips buck up, chasing the feeling. "shh, just relax, yeah?" he soothed you, then he withdrew his fingers, which caused a small, desperate whine leave your throat. you were about to ask for more, for him to finally push in, but you didn't have to, because his wet fingers now were wrapped around his cock, stroking a few times before he aligned himself with your fluttering hole. "you gon' take all of me, baby, right?" his voice was quiet and low and he spoke, which was so unfairly hot and you nodded, "yes.. c'mon, how many times do I have to tell you that I want you?" you were sulking a little, it happened sometimes, even though he had his cock right against your pussy, ready to fuck you. you were just a little impatient sometimes, that's it. "sorry, pretty girl, just love to see you this needy" he grinned against your neck as he leaned down to kiss your skin, and he finally drove his hips forward, pushing into you.

the first thrust made both of you moan in pleasure, then he stilled after bottoming out. his body finally realized was happening, and exhaustion was catching up on him. he was actually so, so tired and so, so sleepy. he groaned, lifting his head from the crook of your neck, straightened up a little and gripped your hips, wanting to move and fuck you well as always, but he quickly came to the realization that this time, he won't be able to just pound into you. "what's wrong, hm?" you asked as you saw the frown on his face, a hand coming up to gently cup his face. "nothin', just a bit tired, or somethin", he shrugged it off and finally started to move, thrusting into you slowly, and as hard as he could bring himself to do so. you thought about asking if he wants you back on top, but you decided to skip the question as he thrust in deep and hard, suddenly punching a loud moan out of you. "fuck.. yes.." you whimpered, letting your head fall back against the pillows underneath you as both of your hands fell down next to you, weakly gripping the sheets, anchoring yourself. "mh.. you feel so good, baby" he moaned low as he picked up the speed finally, eyes closing, letting the pleasure take over him. he still wasn't going at his usual pace though, and for a second he felt a little bad about it, but when he opened his eyes and looked at your face, seeing you blissed out and hearing you moan for him so prettily, he realized that this is just fine, and sometimes slow is just as good as fast. he let himself fall forward again, resting his forehead against yours. "look at me, pretty girl" he whispered, and you opened your eyes and looked at him, another whimper immediately leaving you. he looked unfairly hot, actually, somehow he managed to always look way too hot, and you always lost yourself way too fast in those pretty eyes of his. "you know," he started, but he couldn't finish straight away because he just couldn't keep his little moans in control as you clenched around him, "I'm still pretty upset about yesterday.." he admitted, closing his eyes once again and letting his head fall against your shoulder this time, "but, fuck.. wakin' up to you like this makes it so much better." his voice now was barely above a whisper, and as he finished, he immediately started showering your sensitive skin in hot little kisses. "you don't have to act like it's okay, y'know.." you started talking, but your own voice got cut off for a second as he hits a particularly sensitive spot in you, moaning and gripping one of his biceps tightly, "but I'm happy that it's better, at least a little. I love you, baby" you reassured him, then tilted your head, placing a kiss on his temple. "I love you too.." he whispered, but how voice was breathy now. he was emotional, and when he got emotional during sex, it always ended up with him coming embarrassingly fast. at least it was embarrassing for him, you found it adorable. and hot, always so hot. "are you close?" you ask softly, a hand coming up to cradle the back of his head again, keeping his face against your neck, not wanting him to raise himself up, not wanting him to accidentally create a distance between you two. "fuck.. yeah, love this pussy so much, makes me wanna fill it up again and again.." he was moaning into your ear, and it sent shivers down your spine. suddenly, you felt the heat growing too, you felt your lower stomach tighten, and you clenched down on him hard. he let out a strangled groan at the feeling gripping your sides with both hands. "fuck.. 'm not gonna last.." he let out a whine, which genuinely pulled you so close to your orgasm that for a second you thought it was over. "mhm.. give it to me, lando" he moaned softly, your fingers tightening just a little in his curls, making him whimper again. his hair was his soft spot and you knew that, and also gladly used it against him. "are you.. fuck, are you close, baby? please cum with me, want to feel you squeezin' me.." his voice was strained now, clearly holding back. he was impossibly close, but he didn't want to come before you.

"yeah, so close, baby, so close.." you reached down with your free hand, wanting to rub your clit, but as soon as he noticed, he swatted your hand away gently, replacing it with his own.

"cum for me..please, baby 'm so close too.. " he nearly begged you at this point, and that was all you needed to be pushed over the edge. you suddenly arched into him, a strangled gasp, then cry leaving your lips as your orgasm struck over you, your fingers tightening in his hair borderline painful. "oh gosh.. fuck, lando.." you whimpered, feeling the intense pleasure ripping through you, and it just became more and more because he was still thrusting into you, now fast and without a real rhythm, just him chasing his own high. "take it, baby, fuck, take my cum, gon', fill you up so good.." and with that and a loud groan, he bottomed out and grinded hard against you, spilling inside your still pulsing heat. he couldn't help the nosies escaping him as he buried his face desperately into your neck once again, he just loved filling you up. he was probably the happiest man alive when you told him you have no problems with taking pills, because not being able to cum inside you sounded like absolute torture for him. but since this wasn't a problem, he could enjoy the feeling of your pussy milking his cock so we'll.

"ugh.. I'm fuckin' spent baby.." he giggled softly, his body giving out after such an intense orgasm and he just collapsed on top of you, breathing heavily. you hugged himself against yourself, his weight giving you a sense of comfort on top of you. "I'm tired too.." you laughed softly, then placed a few soft kisses on his face.

"I love you sooo much.." he mumbled against your skin, nuzzling his face into your shoulder, it was adorable. "I love you too.." you kissed the mess of hair, the only thing not pressed into your shoulder, then you went slack under him.

you glanced at the clock, reading nearly 8 am. so, you've basically just spent nearly an hour fucking. well, it was nothing new. you still had almost 4 hours until you had to be at the airport to get home, so you decided that a little more sleep wouldn't hurt. "sleepy?" you asked him, but his only answer was a barely audible hum, so that basically meant he was already falling asleep. he was still inside of you though, so you decided to clench around him. he jerked up at the sudden sensation with a groan and you couldn't help but giggle. he then pulled out of you slowly, then collapsed back on top of you. "at least one more hour of sleep, baby.." he mumbled, and he was already falling asleep again. you decided to not to fight the exhaustion either, closing your eyes, enjoying the warmth of his body surrounding you as you also drifted off again.

the end

The car drops her a half step past the entrance like the driver doesn’t want to block the curb too long. Zariah steps out into a slice of low overhead light and the door shuts behind her with an expensive thud. The building doesn’t announce itself. There was no line, no loud music spilling out. Just a matte black door and a man who looks like he’s part of the wall until you meet his eyes. 

Zariah gives her name. The man checks it once, then again without looking like he’s checking anything at all, and opens the door. 

Inside, things felt different. Not quite the music, more like a pulse under everything. Velvet seatings. Dark wood. People who speak in half-voices and don’t repeat themselves. 

Zariah pauses just inside, long enough to take it in. It was just a breath, nothing obvious. Her shoulders settle into their usual line, chin level, eyes forward. Zariah belongs in rooms. That part is muscle memory. 

A hand touches her elbow lightly, her spine goes rigid. 

“Saint-James.” 

Zariah turns. Malik. He’s familiar enough to ease the first second of it. Zariah’s seen him at fittings, at a campaign wrap, once backstage where he talked too smoothly to be anyone’s assistant. Tonight, he looked sharper, but same smile though. Same confidence that assumes a yes before it’s given. 

“You made it,” he says. 

“Mm.” A small nod. “For a minute.” 

Malik steps in beside her, hazel eyes boring into hers, not blocking, just aligning. 

“Come on. I’ll show you around.” 

Zariah lets him guide the direction not the movement. There’s a difference. He knows people here. That’s useful. He speaks in low tones as they move, greeting without stopping, names traded like small coins. When he introduces Zariah, his hand rests at the small of her back for a second too long, then lifts. 

“This is Zariah. Saint-James.” 

Heads turn. Not many. Enough. 

She offers the version of a smile that doesn’t invite questions. 

“Hi.” 

A woman in a silk slip dress made by some foreign designer studies her, then softens, “I know your face.” 

Zariah dips her chin once. “That happens.” 

A glass appears in her hand without her asking. She doesn’t drink it yet. She holds it, lets the cool settle into her palm. Malik leans in to say something near her ear. His breath brushes too close. Zariah tilts her head just enough to hear without giving him the rest of the space. 

“Good room,” he says. “Keep your face around.”

“Mm.” She takes a small step forward, easing the distance. “I’m not staying long, Malik.” 

They drift to a cluster near the bar. Four men, maybe five. Conversation tight. Phrases that loop around meaning instead of landing on it. Numbers, but not spoken like numbers. Very mysterious in a way that makes you wonder. Zariah listens without looking like she’s listening. That’s a skill she learned early. One of them glances at her, then at Malik. A beat. A question that never becomes a question. 

Malik answers it anyway.

“She’s good,” he says, easy. “She with me.” 

One of the men drags their eyes over Zariah.

“This you, Malik? Whatever happened to that French model you had on your arm during fashion week?” 

“You know that was all business,” Malik leans into Zariah, placing his hand on her lower back. “This is Zariah Saint-James. She’s gonna be the new face taking over the fashion industry. Ain’t that right, baby?” 

Hums of approval circulated.

Zariah stills. Not a freeze. A correction. She turns her head, just enough to catch his eye. Her voice stays light, even.

“I came by myself, actually.”

It lands clean. No edge. No apology. 

A couple of the men look away first. Malik’s smile doesn’t falter, but it tightens at the corners. 

“Yeah,” he says, like he meant it that way. “For a minute.” 

“For a minute,” she repeats, and lifts the glass to her lips without drinking. 

Zariah notices the details in the room now. How people stand angled instead of square. How no one laughs too loud. How eyes track movement without turning heads. This isn’t a creative room. Not really. It wears the shape as a disguise but the weight under it is something else. Something she clearly didn’t prepare herself for. Because this space was dressed up like any other she’d been in. But clearly, this room full of powerful people was another side of stardom she didn’t understand enough.

Malik introduces her again, this time to a man in a dark suit with a watch that probably costs more than what Zariah is worth. Older. White. The man’s gaze rests on her a fraction longer than it needs to. 

“Pleasure,” he says. 

Zariah meets it, steady. “Mm.” 

He smiles like that answer told him something. Zariah blinks away quickly.

Malik’s hand returns to her waist, guiding her half a step closer to the circle as if to anchor the introduction. She lets it sit there for a second, then shifts her weight, a small turn of her hips that leaves his hand with nowhere natural to land. It falls away. 

“I’m gonna grab something,” she says, already moving. Heart racing.

Stay,” Malik whispers, soft enough that it could pass for a suggestion. 

Zariah doesn’t stop. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

At the bar, she can breath better. She sets the glass down untouched and rests her fingertips on the smooth marble of the bar top. Her reflection glides along the surface, broken by light. Zariah smoothes the line of her dress at her hip, more to ground herself than to adjust anything. 

Her phone buzzed once. Zariah glanced at it. A text from a stylist about a call time tomorrow. She types back a quick answer, then locks the screen. Behind her, the private lounge continues like it didn’t notice her stepping away. 

Malik returns, closer than before. Zariah stiffens.

“You good?”

“I’m fine.” Zariah keeps her gaze on the bar, then turns to Malik. “I’m heading out in a second.” 

“Already?” Malik smiles, but there’s something under it now. “You just got here, baby.”

“I said a minute.”

Malik leans in again, voice low. “Don’t do that, Zariah. It’s a good look for you to be seen here. I called some connects. Got you on the list…the least you can do is play along. Don’t you want that Vogue spread?”

Zariah holds his gaze. 

“I’ve been seen.”

There was a pause. Malik’s eyes search her face like he’s trying to decide how far to push. It was making Zariah feel uncomfortable. 

“Come meet one more person,” he says. “Then you can go.” 

Zariah considers it. Quick. The room presses at the edges of her awareness. 

“One,” she says. 

Malik nods like he won something. They cross the floor again. This time, the path feels longer. Or maybe she’s more aware of it. The man Malik wants her to meet stands near a corner where the ambiance is softer. He looks up as they approach, already informed. 

“Saint-James,” Malik says. Like he’s placing a piece on a board. “Told you.” 

The man’s eyes take her in without apology. Dark. Unreadable. A face so chiseled it could only be described as a plastic surgeon’s work. 

“I’ve seen you. That shoot with Alberto Rodriguez. Stunning. Versace.”

“Thank you.” Her tone stays even.

“I’m Westley.” He smiles. “You’re in the right room.”

Zariah meets that without returning it, “I’m in the room I walked into.” 

Malik laughs under his breath like she said something charming. The man doesn’t laugh. 

For a second, no one speaks.

“…well. It’s nice to finally meet you, Saint James. Hopefully the next time we meet, It’s us working together.”

Zariah lets it sit. Then, she inclines her head, gives Westley a faint smile, small and final.

“I’m heading out.”

Malik’s hand ghosts at her back again, then stops when she doesn’t slow. “I’ll walk you.”

“No, you’re good.” Zariah turns slightly, enough to keep it polite, not enough to invite him to follow. “I got it.”

Zadiah moves toward the door with the same pace she walked in with. Composed. The man at the door opens it before she reaches for the handle. 

Outside, Zariah exhales, a real one this time, and steps onto the curb. For a second, she stands there, looking back at the black door like it might explain itself if she gave it long enough. 

It doesn’t. 

Zariah pulls her phone out to call her driver, thumb hovering over the screen. Then, she stills. 

A small thought crosses her mind. 

I should’ve said something.

The ride back felt longer than it should have. Zariah sits angled toward the window, city lights dragging across the glass in streaks of gold and white. Her phone sat in her lap, the screen dark. She picked it up once, unlocked it, then locked it again without doing anything. Her reflection stared back at her faintly in the window. Same face. Same poise. But there was something tighter around her eyes now. 

She exhales and leans back. 

By the time the car pulls up, most of the lights in the surrounding units are off. Her driver tells her goodnight. Zariah answers without thinking and steps out, her heels landing soft against pavement. Inside, the elevator ride was short. Too short. She watches the LED numbers climb, arms folded loosely, thumb brushing over her wrist. Not nervous. Just…aware. 

The elevator doors open. The hallway leading into the hall of her apartment building is dim, lined with soft recess lighting along the ceiling. Her steps are steady and cloaked by the hand-tuffted carpet runner in dark green as she walks to her door. Zariah reaches into her bag, pulls out her keys, and unlocks it. 

The door opens with a hiss. 

And the first thing she notices is the light. It’s already on. It wasn’t every light, but enough. The living room. The kitchen. 

He’s here. 

Smoke is sitting on one end of her sectional, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. No TV. No phone. Just him. And that was enough to make her pause. 

He looked up when she stepped in. Zariah pauses just past the foyer for half a second. Then, she sits her bag down on the coffee table. 

“When did you get here?” She asked, proceeding to take off her heels like everything is normal. 

Smoke doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay locked on her. 

Then—

“Where you come from?”

Flat. No extra weight in the words. That’s what makes it land hard. Zariah slips her other shoe off, placing them beneath the coffee table. 

“Out.” 

A beat

“With who?”

Zariah straightens, smoothing her dress down at her hips before turning to face him. 

“Some people from work.” 

Smoke’s gaze doesn’t break. 

“What people?” 

Zariah tilts her head slightly, studying him now. 

“Why you askin’ like that?” 

Smoke leans back just enough to rest against the sectional, but his eyes remained glued to her like he was seeing past the guard she was trying to obtain.

“Answer the question.”

Zariah’s jaw sets for a second. 

“I told you. Work people.”

Silence. It stretched just enough to be felt. 

Then—

“You was at that lounge on Mercer.” 

It wasn’t a question. Zariah’s eyes flicker once. She wasn’t surprised. Just confirmation that she knew he would be keeping an eye on her location. 

She folds her arms loosely. 

“…Yeah.”

“Who took you there?”

“My driver dropped me off. I went by myself.”

Smoke’s gaze sharpens just a fraction. 

“Don’t do that.” 

Zariah’s brows pull together. “I just told you—”

“Who brought you in?”

His voice doesn’t rise. It just tightens. Zariah exhales through her nose.

“A creative I know. Malik was there.”

Smoke leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees again. 

“Malik.” 

Smoke repeats it like he’s placing it somewhere. Then, he looks back at Zariah. 

“And you thought that was somewhere you should be.” 

There was no question in it. Zariah shifts her weight onto one leg. 

“I’ve been in places like that before.” 

“No,” Smoke says, cutting through it. “You haven’t.”

That hit. Zariah’s arms drop from where they were closed. Her posture straightens. 

“You don’t know every place I’ve been,” Zariah replies, voice firmer now. 

“I know that one.” 

Zariah studies him, eyes narrowing slightly. “You actin’ like I walked into something crazy, Smoke.” 

He holds her gaze. “You did.” 

Zariah’s lips press together. For a second, she looks like she might push back harder. 

“I was fine,” she says instead.

Smoke’s expression doesn’t change. “No, Z. You wasn’t.”

Short. Final. 

Zariah’s breath catches slightly, more from the certainty than the words themselves. She looks away for a second, then back at him. 

“I handled myself. Like I always do.” 

The corner of Smoke’s mouth twitched. Enough to part his full lips and reveal silver slugs. He watched her with a slight squint of his eyes. Because he knew. He always knew. 

“I’m sure you think you did, baby.”

That stung more than anything  else he’d said. 

Her chin lifts just a touch, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Silence again. This time more overbearing. Smoke leans forward more, closing some of the space between them without standing. 

“Look at me.”  

Zariah’s eyes snap back to his. She holds it. 

“I am.” 

Then, Smoke asks, calm and direct. “He put his hands on you?” 

Zariah stills. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides. 

“It wasn’t like that.” 

That’s not an answer. 

Smoke’s gaze doesn’t waver. 

“Did he touch you.” 

Zariah exhales. “…Yeah.” 

Another pause. 

“Where.” 

Her jaw tightens. 

“At my back. My waist. He was just—guiding me.” 

Smoke nods once, slow. “Guiding you.” 

He repeats it, but it wasn’t like he agrees. 

Zariah shifts her weight again. “I moved. I corrected it.”

“I know you did.” 

That catches her off guard. Her brows lift slightly. 

“You know?” 

“I know how you move.” His tone hasn’t changed, but something underneath it has. “And you still stayed.” 

There it is. 

Zariah’s shoulders drop just a fraction. 

“I was trying to leave without making it a thing.” 

Smoke sits back again, dragging a hand over his face once before letting it fall.

“You already was a thing the second you walked in there.” 

Zariah’s gaze softens, just a little. She looks at him for a long second, then speaks quieter. 

“I didn’t know it was like that. That he…that it was more than making connections. Helping my career. I–I didn’t realize he was tryna push up on me, Smoke.”

Smoke watches her. And for the first time, something shifts in his expression. Edged with something else. A softness rarely seen.

“I know you didn’t, Z. That’s the problem. Because he could have taken advantage. Like that nigga always do.”

Zariah exhales, slow. Her shoulders ease. She steps a little closer now, enough to close some of the distance. 

“I hear you.”

It’s quieter than anything she’s said so far. Real. Smoke holds her gaze a moment longer. Then, he leans back against the sofa, one hand resting on his jaw.

“Next time,” he says, voice steady, “you tell me where you goin’.” 

Zariah nods once. “…Okay.”

She means it, but she looks away right after she says it, eyes drifting toward the kitchen like the conversation might loosen if she doesn’t hold it. 

It doesn’t. 

The sofa creaks as Smoke Stands. He steps toward her, closing the space she left between them. Zariah’s shoulders tighten just a fraction as he stops in front of her. 

“Don’t look away.” 

Smoke’s voice stays low and firm. Her eyes lift back to his, slow and steady. Smoke studies her for a second. Then, his hand comes up, fingers settling under her chin, thumb along the side of her jaw. 

“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.” 

Zariah’s breath shifts. She doesn’t pull away. 

“Mkay,” she replies with a soft voice. 

“You walked into a space where nobody in there is who they say they are,” he says. “Not to you.” 

Zariah watches him, listening.

“…That wasn’t no industry lounge,” Smoke continues. “That’s a place people use to meet when they don’t want nothin’ traced back to ‘em. Deals get made in there that don’t got nothin’ to do with clothes or cameras. People walk in there one way and come out different. This industry will chew you up and spit you out, baby. I know it.”

Zariah’s brows pull together slightly. “I didn’t hear anything like that.”

“You wasn’t supposed to,” he answers, just as even. “That’s the point.” 

Zariah’s lips part, then press together again. Smoke’s thumb shifts against her jaw, grounding her attention back to him. 

“And that nigga, Malik?” Smoke goes on. “He ain’t no creative you just ‘know’. He move with people who use faces like yours to get in rooms easier. To make things look clean.”

Zariah’s posture straightens. She exhales. 

“He didn’t do anything to me. I wouldn’t have let it get that far, Smoke. I had it under control,” she says, a little firmer. “And I didn’t even expect to see him tonight. A friend of mine put in a word. I…I just…I figured it was just some exclusive party for A listers and I could—I could walk in there and—”

“I didn’t say he did anything.” Smoke cut her off. “I said he put you somewhere you shouldn’t have been. And that friend? I wouldn’t be surprised if they a part of it. So you need to cut them off.” 

Zariah’s gaze flickers, then steadies again. 

Smoke leans in just slightly, enough to make sure she’s locked in with him. 

“I’m in this enough to know how that goes,” he says. “I seen how fast it turns. You walk in thinkin’ it’s one thing, and next thing you know you tied to somethin’ you don’t even understand yet.”

Zariah swallows lightly. Smoke’s eyes stay on hers. 

“And I don’t play about what’s mine.” 

There’s no rise to his voice. No dramatics. Just fact. Zariah feels that one’s it sits heavy on her chest. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides, but she doesn’t break eye contact. Smoke lets that hang for a second before continuing. 

“So listen to me,” he says. His hand drops from her chin, but his presence doesn’t pull back. “When you go somewhere, you let me know first.” 

Clear.

“You don’t just show up anywhere off impulse. I don’t care who invited you.” 

Zariah nods, lips scrunched up. “Okay.” 

“If you walk into a spot and somethin’ feel off,” he continues, “you don’t stand there tryin’ to figure it out. You leave.” 

Zariah’s lips part slight like she’s about to speak but she lets him finish. 

“You call me,” he says. “I’ll come get you. I don’t care where you at.”

Certainty. 

“And if somebody put their hands on you,” Smoke adds, voice still low, “or make you feel any type of way…”

He paused, enough to let Zariah know he’s dead ass serious. 

“You tell me. And I’ll handle it. My way.” 

Zariah’s breath slows. “I will.” 

Smoke studies her, making sure. 

“Say it again.” 

Zariah’s eyes stay on his. “I’ll tell you.” 

Smoke hums, then he nods his head before leaning down to kiss her forehead, then her cheek, and ending with her lips. A soft peck that stirs her. Zariah breaks the kiss, exhales, then she looks at him. 

“I didn’t know—”

“I know, baby girl. Just…listen to me, okay? You know this shit triggers me when you go off doin’ shit that make me worried. I’m serious, Z. Don’t do this shit again.” 

She purses her lips, but ultimately gives him another kiss, falling into his big embrace that swallows her.

Correction. 

Weeks pass. At first, Zariah tells herself Smoke is just being attentive. Protective. Present. 

After the lounge incident, Smoke starts rearranging his life around hers in ways that don’t announce themselves immediately. It begins small enough to almost feel thoughtful. He starts picking her up from late shoots instead of sending a driver. He waits outside fittings in black SUVs with the engine running while she changes out of couture and campaign makeup under bright studio lights. When she lands in another city for a show, he’s already there before she reaches baggage claim, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, eyes scanning the terminal before they settle on her. 

Smoke never makes a scene. Never acts possessive in public. That’s what makes it harder to argue with. To everyone around her, Smoke looks dependable. Solid. The type of man women brag about having.production assistants smile when he takes garment bags from their hands. Publicists relax when he quietly checks exits and entrances before an event. Designers greet him like they trust him instinctively, even when they don’t know why. 

And Zariah hates that part a little because he’s so good at it. Too good at it. 

Her world keeps moving at full speed while his begins orbiting around it with frightening precision. Editorial spreads in Paris. Beauty campaigns in New York. Fashion week dinners packed with actors, athletes, stylists, investors, people who speak in air kisses and coded conversations. Zariah is everywhere lately. Her face is in windows three stories high. Magazine covers. Digital campaigns looping across giant screens downtown. And somehow, Smoke is always there now too. 

Not beside her. Near her. Outside the room. At the car. 

Watching. 

Waiting. 

The first few times, Zariah lets it go. She tells herself it’s temporary. That he’s going to go back to work doing what he does that’s so top secret and get bored of all the glitz and glam. That he’s trying to make a point after what happened with Malik and the lounge. But the weeks stretch and instead of easing up, Smoke becomes more involved. 

More structured. 

He starts asking for schedules in advance. What event. Which hotel. Who invited her. Who’s attending. What time she expects to leave. 

Not interrogations. 

Expectations. 

And that’s what starts irritating her. Because Zariah has spent her entire adult life moving independently through spaces exactly like these. She built her career on instincts, timing, reading energy, staying graceful under pressure. Men in fashion flirt. Men in entertainment hover. Wealthy people invite you places with hidden motives attached to every smile. She learned how to survive that years ago. So when Smoke starts appearing downstairs before she even calls for a car, something in her begins pushing back automatically. 

She stops texting updates as quickly. Leaves details out. Answers questions vaguely. 

“Just work.”

“A dinner.” 

“Somewhere in SoHo.” 

Nothing technically disrespectful. But it was enough for Smoke to notice she’s testing the edges of what he said in that apartment weeks ago. And Smoke noticed everything. Especially patterns. Especially when someone starts moving different on purpose. 

The irritation builds on both sides slowly, layered beneath long workdays and late nights. And the worst part is she can’t tell where protection ends and control begins anymore. 

Zariah’s up early, wrapped in a robe, hair slicked back into a bun, glass skin and fuzzy Louis Vuitton slippers on her pedicured feet. She’s standing at the kitchen counter with her phone propped against a glass of hot water with lemon and ginger. A call time gets pushed. A fitting added. A dinner penciled in. Her voice stays even, professional, the version of her that never slips. 

“Yeah, I can make that,” she says. “Send me the address.” 

She doesn’t mention it to Smoke. Not when she hangs up. Not when she toasts her sourdough bread to add slices avocado and sliced smoked salmon. Not when she walks past the living room where Smoke is sitting, reading. 

He glances up when she crosses. Zariah doesn’t stop. 

“I got a dinner tonight,” she says like it’s an afterthought. “Brand people.” 

Smoke nods, “what time?”

“Eight.” 

“Where.” 

Zariah takes a sip of her water. 

“I’ll text it.”

Smoke studies her for a second longer than usual. Then, nods again. 

“Aight.” 

And Zariah doesn’t text it. Not at eight. Not at nine. She’s already dressed and out the door by the time the reminder crosses her mind, heels clicking down the hallway, phone buzzing in her hand with another message that isn’t his. 

When she comes back, Smoke’s in the same spot. That’s the first thing she notices. Not the fact that he’s there. The fact that he hasn’t moved much.

Zariah steps in, sets her bag down, slips her heels off. 

“You been sittin’ there all day?” Zariah asks, light, like she’s asking about the weather. 

Smoke’s eyes lift to her. “Where you just come from, Zariah.” 

Zariah walks past him, heading toward the kitchen. That little fancy plate of French food wasn’t enough to settle her hunger. She considers ordering in some Pho from her favorite Vietnamese restaurant. 

“I told you,” she says. “Dinner.” 

“With who.”

Zariah opens the fridge, bends over, little cocktail dress rising up, almost revealing no panties. She scans it like she’s actually looking for something. 

“People from the brand.” 

Smoke doesn’t say anything right away. But his jaw ticks. Zariah pulls out a bottle of water, shuts the fridge, leans against the counter. 

“You ask a lot of questions,” she says, taking a sip.

There’s a small edge to it. A sassy little tone that reeks of an attitude that needs to be checked. 

Smoke watches her unblinking. 

“I asked you where, Zariah.” 

She shrugs one shoulder. “It was in the city.”

That’s it. That’s all she gives him. And she knows it. Something stills in Smoke. He’s locked. Smoke sets his phone down on the table beside him. Slow. Then, he stands. Zariah watches him this time. She doesn’t look away. Smoke walks toward her, closing space like an imposing shadow. Zariah straightens a little as he stops in front of her. She braces her hand on the counter behind her. Smoke’s eyes narrow slightly, orbs darkened with frustration. 

“You ain’t text me nothin’.” 

Zariah takes a sip of her water, avoiding his eyes as if the vase across from her on the dining room table was more interesting. 

“I was busy.” 

Smoke tilts his head. “I told you, Z. You go somewhere, you let me know.” 

Zariah lifts her gaze, chin lifting slightly. Defiantly. 

“And I heard you.” 

There it is. That fucking tone. 

Dismissal.

Smoke’s gaze tightens just a fraction. “But you ain’t do it.” 

Zariah shrugs, “I got there, everything was fine. It wasn’t a big deal.” 

Smoke stepped in closer to where she was nearly pressed between his solid frame and the countertop behind her. Her breathing shifted but she checked it as best as she could. 

“It was to me.” 

Zariah rolls her eyes. She pushes off the counter, standing fully now. 

“You can’t expect me to check in every time I step outside, Smoke,” she argues. “That’s not how I move and you know that.” 

More edge now. More bite. Zariah knows she’s pushing. Smoke watches her for a long second. Then, he exhales once through his nose. 

“You think that’s what it is.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

Zariah folds her arms. “I think you’re doing too much.” 

The silence was heavy. 

Then. “Say that again.” 

Zariah holds his gaze. Doesn’t flinch. 

“I said you’re doing too much.”

Smoke’s haha comes up, firm fingers gripping her jaw, turning her face just enough so she can’t angle away. 

“Don’t do that.” Smoke said, low. Controlled yet deep.

“I’m just sayin—”

“NO,” Smoke cuts in, sharper. “You talkin’ like what I said don’t matter. And that’s a problem for me.” 

Zariah’s eyes flash. “That’s not what I—”

“That’s exactly what you doin’.” Smoke’s grip tightens. “You hear me them weeks ago. Loud and clear.” 

Zariah’s chest rises and falls a little quicker now. 

“I did.” 

“But you moved like you didn’t.” 

There’s no way around that. Zariah looks at him, really looks this time. There’s something building in her too. It wasn’t fear. It was friction. 

“I’m not one of your operations,” she says. “You don’t get to run me like that.” 

Smoke scuffs. “Aight.” 

He releases her jaw. Steps back half a step, and that almost feels worse. 

“You right,” Smoke says. And it’s too calm. “I don’t run you.” 

Zariah’s shoulders ease slightly. But only for a second. 

“Which means,” Smoke continued, “you make your own decisions.” 

Zariah watches Smoks cautiously now. 

“And you deal with whatever come with ‘em. You don’t call me. You don’t tell me where you at. You don’t move how I told you to move—”

Smoke pauses. Not long. 

“You on your own with that.” 

Zariah’s brows pull together. “That’s not what I—”

“You wanted independence,” he says, cutting in, still calm. “I’m givin’ it to you.” 

Zariah studies him. 

This isn’t him trick to control her. This is him stepping back. And that doesn’t feel how she thought it would. 

“You serious?” She asks. 

Smoke nods. “I don’t chase grown decisions, ma. But don’t stand in my face and act like what I said ain’t carry weight.”

Zariah exhales. She folds her arms and juts that hip out. Lip poked. She looks at Smoke for a long second. Then, softer, but still holding onto herself: 

“That’s not what I was tryin’ to do. And you don’t mean none of that shit. Soon as I leave you gon’ be right there , outside, waitin’ on me. Tell me I’m wrong?”

Smoke cuts his eyes at her. Then, he walks off. Leaving Zariah fuming. 

Zariah spends the rest of the evening like she lives alone. That’s the first thing that gets under Smoke’s skin. 

Just…dismissal. 

She moved through the luxury apartment with that polished calm of hers, never quite looking at him, never quite acknowledging the weight sitting in the space between them. She replies to texts on the sofa with one knee tucked under her, laughing softly at something on her screen, walks past him like he’s furniture. 

Smoke says her name once. 

Zariah hears it. He knows she hears it because her shoulders tighten for half a second. But, she keeps on walking. That does more than attitude ever could because now she’s choosing it. And one trigger of Smoke’s, one thing that really ticks him off—being ignored. He watched her enter her bedroom. Smoke sits there another few seconds, jaw working once. 

Then, he stands. No rush to it. He rolls his shoulders once, loosening the tension sitting there. Smoke reaches for the watch on his wrist and sets it on the side table. Neatly. That alone would tell her everything if she saw it. Smoke never tosses things. When he starts setting items aside with care, he’s making room for discipline. He walks to the kitchen, pours a glass of water, drinks half, sets it down. Runs both palms over his face, then drags one hand across the back of his neck. 

Collecting himself. Not cooling off. Centering. 

By the time he reaches the bedroom, the bathroom door is cracked open from the steam, he pushes the door open wider and steps inside. Zariah is standing in front of her vanity, fingers hooking the thin straps of her sleek black cocktail dress. She tugs one strap down her shoulder, exposing smooth dark skin inch by inch, the fabric whispering at her elbows while she twists to face the mirror, grabbing her hair to pile it high, pinning it loose but secure with a claw clip. 

Smoke leans against the frame, hoody heavy against the door jamb, arms crossed over his chest, fitted black tee stretching across his pecs. His eyes track every peel of fabric like he owns the view. Tension crackles thick from the kitchen standoff earlier, her defiance still simmering hot under her skin. 

She sees him in the mirror, and now she’s taking off her strapless lace bra and matching thong. Completely naked and glowing like her body was slathered in liquid gold. That little performance almost makes him smile.

Almost. 

“You done?” Smoke asks. 

Her voice stays light. “With what?” 

“With this act you tryna put on to piss me off.” 

Zariah grabs a plum-colored silk robe from a wall mounted hook, hiding that beautiful body. 

“I’m getting ready to shower. Then I’m going to bed. I have a busy schedule tomorrow, Smoke.” 

Smoke closes the bedroom door. The click of the latch is small but it lands. Zariah’s fingers pause over the tie of her robe. Only for a second. Then, she resumes, adjusting the front of her robe like nothing changed. Smoke walks up until he’s directly behind her, watching her reflection instead of her directly. 

“You been real busy not seein’ me tonight.” 

Zariah shrugs one shoulder. 

“I’ve been minding my business.”

“That so.” 

“You got something to say,” she says, voice even, “say it.”

“I did.” His tone is lower now. “You ignored it.” 

Her chin lifts a little in the mirror. 

“Maybe I was tired of hearing it.” 

Smoke’s hand comes to the robe knot at her waist, fingers brushing the bow but not pulling it loose. Zariah finally turns them, eyes lifting to meet his. 

There’s a challenge there. Smoke matches that, boring his eyes into hers like he was asking her telepathically ‘you really wanna take it there, baby girl?’. His gaze dropped briefly to the robe that barely hugged her frame, the one she loved to put on after her showers. The one she wore whenever her skin was slicked with body oil so it could mold to her body in ways that had Smoke dickin’ her down to put her to bed properly. 

“You been pokin’ at me all night.” 

Zariah folds her arms over her chest. 

“Maybe you’re easy to poke.” 

That earns a quiet breath through his nose. And he wasn’t amused. 

He steps closer until there’s no way for her to forget he’s there. The heat of him reaches her before contact does. Her spine straightens automatically. Smoke notices. His hand slides to her jaw, thumb settling near her chin, guiding her face up. 

“Wrong answer.” 

Zariah’s lips part.

She means to say something slick. He sees it forming.

But the words stall when his other hand reaches down,  tugs the robe knot loose in one pull, then lets it fall open on its own. He takes a small step back, eyes downcast to admire her. Take in the view like she was modeling nudity for his eyes only. Robe parted wide and framing that long, elegant frame without hiding a damn thing. 5’10 of slim-thick lines hit different up close. Her long torso stretched down to a waist he could circle with both hands and still have room, dipping into hips that curved fuller from the side, that rich brown skin glowing warm.

Her chest rose steady with each breath, full and natural, nipples tightening just from the air or maybe his stare, elegant shape softening the sharp edges of her shoulders and collarbones. He clocked the subtle give in her stomach, toned thighs long from runway miles pressed together slight, calves flexing strong as she held runway poise even now. 

Smoke’s eyes never leave hers.

“That attitude you got,” he says quietly. “I’m ‘bout done with it.”

“You ain’t my bodyguard no more, Smoke,” Zariah snaps, voice laced brat-sharp. “Stop actin’ like you run shit. I do what I want.” 

Smoke chuckles low, rumble deep from his chest rolling out gravel-thick, his hand shoots out to snag her wrist before she grabs the front of her robe, pulling her half-turn into him, cedar scent faint mixing with her floral perfume. 

“Yeah, but who you come runnin’ to when you needed help? Who handled things to make shit easier for you? Roughed niggas up that got too close? Would kill anybody that so much as try you?” Smoke drawls slow, southern thick, free hand palming the front of his joggers where his thick bulge thickens obvious. “Yeah, but you was feenin’ for this dick. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you beggin’ me to fuck you in that dressing room. Remember? Or you forgot just like you forgot who the fuck I am. And when I say somethin’, you do as you told.” 

Smoke’s eyes never left yer face, unblinking and coal-dark, jaw set under stubble. 

Zariah yanks her wrist free, twisting away but stays close, turning full to shove her palm flat against his chest, pushing half-hearted, his pecs unyielding under her spore as fingers. Zariah leans in, chin high, lips curling into a smirk. 

“And wasn’t you the one that couldn’t wait to fuck me?” She fires back, hip cocked. “Ain’t never had a bitch like me in yo’ life. Soon as you got a taste, you obsessed, right? That’s why you still actin’ like a good little soldier. Now who’s in control now, big bad Smoke?” Her voice pitches taunt, one hand sliding down to trail the ridge of his abs where his tee clings, nails scraping light to test the flex. 

Zariah walks off, brushing past him. Smoke snorts  breath. 

“Control? Lil’ girl, you testin’ ropes right now.” Smoke growls. His large Pam clamps her hip, yanking her flush from behind, his hard dick against her ass. His beard grazes her cheek as his head dips. “That dressin’ room…you hiked that dress, spread your legs wide, pussy was drippin’ and beggin’ for my tongue first. Then you rode this dick cryin’ daddy til you squirted all on this dick. Obsessed? Yeah…I ain’t got a reason to deny shit. But you hooked, baby girl. Chasin’ this nut every night since.” Smoke’s fingers trail up the arch of her spine, his other hand cupping her ass cheek. 

Zariah gasps sharp, twisting her hips, bucking against him, but eventually she breaks the hold. 

“Hooked? Please. You stalkin’ my every move like a lost puppy.” She spits, laughing brittle, backing toward the bathroom door. “Body guard days over, but you still guarding this pussy like it’s yours. And I’m glad you know exactly how obsessed you are.” Her eyes flash, lips parting to rest her tongue at the corner of her mouth. 

Smoke steps forward, hands shooting out to brace the doorframe over her head, caving her without touch. 

“Mine? Damn right. Till you prove otherwise.” He rumbles. “Go ‘head, shower off that dinner, but don’t think slamming doors gon’ end this talk.” His eyes rake over her body, dick tenting the front of his joggers. Zariah places her palm flat against his chest before giving him a final shove to the ripple of muscle, the door swinging hard bang latch catching. The shower turned on beyond the door and as much as Smoke wanted to open that door, he waited. Waited until he heard that shower shut off.

Zariah is standing at the vanity in nothing but a towel, lotion bottle in hand, acting deeply interested in the label. She bends to reach for her toner in the cabinet beneath the sink. The bathroom door opens, the humidity in the bathroom turning the air chill. The fog on the glass began to disappear. The way she knows exactly where he is behind her without turning around. She just wants him to know she can ignore it. 

Zariah rises slowly, and sets her toner on the sink with careful precision. 

Still won’t turn. 

Zariah swallows. Her arms start to cross over herself instinctive. Smoke catches both her wrists and lowers them back at her sides. 

“No.” 

Zariah looks at him now, fully. Some of the bravado thinning at the edges. Because she knows this version of him. The one who gets calmer the more serious he is. He releases her wrists only after they stay where he put them. Then, he steps back half a pace and gestures toward the counter. 

Smoke steps behind her, broad hand spreading over the back of her neck for one steady second, claiming her attention. 

"Good," he says.

The steam from her shower clings to the air, thick and warm, fogging the mirror above the sink in faint swirls. Zariah stands there naked, skin dewy, water droplets tracing slow paths down her shoulders and the curve of her back. The towel lies discarded on the floor by her feet, leaving her fully exposed. Smoke’s hand lingers at her neck a beat longer, thumb pressing firm against her pulse, anchoring her in place. The heat of his palm seeps into her, carrying that familiar cedar scent that always seems to cut through everything else. Smoke's chest brushes her back as he closes the space. Zariah can feel the expansion of his black tee against her shoulder blades when he draws a controlled breath.

"Hands on the sink," he tells her, voice low and even. 

Zariah does not move right away. Her chin lifts a fraction, eyes flicking to his reflection in the mirror, holding his gaze there. Bold still, testing. 

“For what?” she asks, tone carrying that edge she knows gets under his skin, words clipped. 

Smoke doesn’t rise to it. His free hand slides down her side, large fingers splaying over her hip, gripping just enough. The veins in his forearm stand out as his muscles flex. 

“You know why,” he says. “All that mouth. Ignoring calls. Acting like rules don’t stick. Time to fix it.”

Zariah exhales through parted lips, a subtle shift, but her hands stay at her sides. Her posture remains upright, feet planted on the cool tile. Inside, she feels the pull, the way his presence makes the steam feel heavier, but she pushes back one more time.

 “I was busy. You act like I owe you every second.”

Smoke's grip tightens on her hip, thumb digging into the soft flesh there. He leans in closer, lips near her ear, breath warm against the damp shell. 

“Busy playin' games. Poking. Now I’ma show you. But that’s what you wanted, right?” His other hand lifts from her neck, trails down her spine, ending at the swell of her ass. He cups one cheek fully, squeezing hard enough to make her shift her weight.

"Hands. Sink. Now."

This time, her body responds before her mouth does. Palms flat on the cool porcelain edge, fingers splaying wide. She arches her back slightly without meaning to, ass pushing out toward him, skin prickling under the humid air. Her eyes stay on his in the mirror, defiant spark still there, but her breathing picks up, chest rising faster.

“That's better. So, you do as you told then?” he says, stepping fully behind her now. His feet plant wide on the tile, knees bracketing her legs as he positions himself. One hand stays on her hip, holding her steady. The other rears back, large palm open, veins bulging along his wrist.

The first smack lands solid across her right cheek, skin meeting skin with a sharp crack that echoes off the tiled walls. Her ass jiggles from the impact, flesh purpling instantly under his handprint. Zariah's fingers curl against the sink, a hiss escaping her teeth, but she bites down on anything louder.

 “That all?” she throws back, voice tight, trying to keep the bold front.

Smoke sees it. The way her thighs tense, pussy lips glistening between her legs from more than just the shower. He knows she’s wet, knows the defiance is her last push before she settles. His dick barely had room to grow in his joggers, that thick length pressing against the seam as he watched her in the mirror. 

“Keep talkin',” he warns, hand coming down again, harder this time, left cheek taking the full weight of his swing. The slap rings out wet in the steam, her ass bouncing, a fresh mark blooming dark against her skin.

Zariah gasps, knees buckling a touch, but his grip on her hip keeps her upright. Heat spreads across her backside, stinging deep. 

“Fuck,” she breathes, eyes narrowing at him in the glass. “You mad at me daddy?”

Smoke doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he delivers three quick spanks in succession, alternating cheeks, each one heavier than the last. Palm cracks against flesh, her ass rippling with every strike, turning hot and swollen under his assault. Her pussy clenches visibly, slickness dripping down her inner thigh, betraying how much she needs this correction. Smoke's free hand slides between her thighs from behind, thick fingers parting her folds roughly, middle finger plunging into her soaked pussy without warning.

“This what you wanted?” Smoke growls low, pumping in and out once, twice, feeling her walls grip him tight. She moans despite herself, hips bucking back. But he pulls out just as quick, smearing her juices over her ass before landing another brutal smack right where her cheek meets thigh.

Zariah's head drops forward a second, elbows locking on the sink, but she lifts it back up, meeting his eyes again. 

“Keep goin' then,” she challenges, voice breathier now, the bold cracking at the edges.

Smoke's chest rumbles with a low sound, approval mixed with hunger. That big dick throbs, straining as he tugs his joggers down with one hand, freeing the curved shaft and wide tip. Pre-cum beads at his slit, heavy length slapping against her bruised ass. But he ain’t done punishing her yet. Smoke grabs a fistful of her wet hair, pulling her head back gently but firm, forcing her to arch deeper. 

“Count 'em,” he orders.

His hand cracks down again, full force, the loudest yet. Her ass quivers, marked deep purple, heat radiating. 

“One,” she grits out, pussy aching empty.

Another on the other side, palm stinging his own skin from the velocity. “Two.”

Smoke spreads her cheeks with his thumbs, exposing her tight asshole and dripping slit, then spanks right across both, the impact jarring her whole body. 

“Three,” she moans, thighs shaking. Teeth chattering. 

Smoke leans over her, his dense midsection pressing into her back, shirt damp from the steam and her skin. His beard scraping her shoulder as he bites down lightly there, marking her while his hand rains down five more measured strikes, each one pushing her closer to breaking that last wall. Her counts come faster, voice turning needy, ass on fire, pussy clenching around nothing as viscous arousal slicks her legs. By the tenth, she is panting, body trembling in his hold, bold facade shattered into raw want.

 P-Please,” Zariah whispers finally, not begging wildly but settling, hands gripping the sink.

Smoke pauses, rubbing his palm over the abused flesh, soothing the burn while his tip nudges her entrance, thick head parting her lips. 

“Good girl,” he says, voice thick with possession. 

Then he thrusts in deep, stretching her pussy wide around his girth, filling her completely. His hips snap forward once, deep and punishing, fat dick buried to the hilt in her dripping pussy, stretching her walls tight around his thickness. 

When he eased that fat length inside her it opened her pussy with a slow burn, the girth demanding space as it sank deep. The curve to the right caught along her slick walls, dragging firm pressure against the sensitive ridge there with each inch that followed. Long and solid, bottoming out steady, filling her to the limit while her body adjusted around the thickness pulsing hot and full. Every shift would send that curve nudging the same spot over and over, building a tight coil low in her belly that made her thighs tremble without her meaning to. Zariah's breath catches sharp, body jolting against the sink, but Smoke pulls out slow, leaving her clenching empty, creamy slick coating his shaft. Not done yet. Her ass still needs more work, cheeks blazing hot under his palm prints.

Smoke's hand cracks down again, heavy and mean, right across both bruised globes. The slap echoes wet in the bathroom, her flesh rippling, thighs quivering from the sting. Zariah whimpers low, knees buckling inward, but his grip on her hip locks her straight.

“I don’t know why the fuck you act like you tough, baby,” Smoke growls, voice thick with that Mississippi drawl, low and gravel-rough, breath hot on her neck. His free hand fists her wet hair tighter, yanking her head back so her eyes lock on his in the fogged mirror. Dark brown gaze bores into hers, heavy-lidded and unblinking. “Why the fuck you keep actin’ up? Huh?”

Another smack lands harder, palm flattening her left cheek, sending fire blooming deep. Zariah’s legs shake harder, pussy leaking fresh wetness down her inner thighs, mixing with shower droplets on the tile. Zariah bites her full lip, trying to hold the sound, but a needy whine slips out anyway, body arching despite the burn.

“Why? Answer the fuckin’ question,” Smoke demands, leaning his solid chest heavier against her back, tee clinging damp to his thick torso. The weight of him pins her forward, broad shoulders eclipsing her reflection. His cream-coated dickthrobs hot against her thigh, pre-cum smearing her skin, but he holds off, rubbing her sore ass roughly with his rough palm, veins popping along his forearm whenever he would grip the flesh with his fingers. 

Zariah exhales shaky through parted lips, fingers digging into the sink edge, porcelain cool under her palms. That bold edge frays, but she pushes one last time, voice breathy and tight. “I heard you...just didn’t think…”

Crack. His hand swings full force, spanking the spot where ass meets thigh, jolting her whole frame. Her pussy clenches hard, clit twitching, inner lips trembling from the impact, visible drip falling to the floor. Her legs trembled bad now, barely holding her up.

“Didn’t think what? That I mean what I say?” Smoke presses closer, beard scraping her shoulder as he leans in to kiss the spot where his teeth was minutes ago, soothing it. He spanks again, rapid fire—three in a row, alternating sides, each crack louder, her ass swelling fuller, hot to the touch. 

“You went out there actin’ like my words ain’t shit. Ignorin’ calls. Playin’ like you run this. Nah, baby. That stops now.”

Zariah’s whimper turns into a gasp, body softening under the onslaught, shoulders dropping a fraction. She feels his control sink in deep, the dense gravity of his frame making the steam thicker, her vanilla-musk scent mixing with his cedar smoke. 

“Y-Yeah... I hear you,” she admits quieter, chin lifting less defiant, eyes holding his with that flicker—irritation yielding to the weight.

Smoke pauses, large hand soothing over the fiery flesh, squeezing possessive. But his voice stays mean, drawl dragging slow.

 “Too late for that hearin’ shit. You gonna learn tonight.” That dick nudges her slit again, thick head parting her soaked folds, teasing that creamy entry without giving it what it wants. One more spank, brutal across the fullest part of her right cheek, making her cry out soft, hips bucking back involuntary.

“Count the rest. And don’t make me ask twice.”

Her voice comes steady now, reined in, body present under him. “E-Eleven.”

Smoke’s hand lifts off her throbbing ass cheek, fingers digging into the heated flesh one last time before shoving her shoulders down firm. Enough with the slaps. Time to shut that mouth up proper. Her knees hit the wet tile with a soft smack, water slick under her shins. Zariah’s dark eyes lift to his, breath still ragged from the burn, but she don't hesitate. Her body shifts smoothly, settling low, full tits swaying as she balances on her heels.

Smoke steps up close, black tee clinging to his broad chest, sweat and shower mist beading on his deep brown skin. One thick hand wraps the base of his dick, pulling it free from where it hung thick and heavy between his muscular thighs. Almost as thick as her forearm, easy nine inches stretching out straight at first, then curving wicked at the tip like it know exactly where to hit deep. Girth thick around, veins bulging ropey along the dark shaft, skin a rich chocolate shade fading near the fat, flared head that's glossy with pre-cum leaking steady. Heavy balls swing low underneath, plump and full, hanging loose in that wrinkled sac, dark and musky from the heat. Whole thing pulses alive in his grip, smelling of clean soap mixed with his natural cedar-earth scent up close.

“See this dick right here, baby? You wanna talk back, runnin’ yo’ mouth like you run shit? Get this dick in that throat,” Smoke growls low, drawl dragging thick and mean, free hand tangling rough in her wet curls. He yanks her face forward, smearing the leaking head across her plump lips, leaving a shiny trail. “Suck big daddy’s dick. Put that mouth to work since you actin’ all tough. Throat it deep, show me you learned somethin’ tonight.”

Zariah parts her lips wide, tongue flicking out to lap the salty bead from his slit before she stretches her jaw open. Head disappears first, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks hard around the ridge, pulling him in inch by girthy inch. Those full Saliva spills quick, dripping down her chin. She trained for this, months of him working her down slow at first, gagging her till she took every curve without choking. Now she slides forward steady, throat relaxing open, feeling that bend nudge the back of her mouth then slip past her tonsils smooth.

The soft flesh of her lips stretches wide and presses flush against his shaft as she sinks lower, creating a tight seal that drags with each slow pull. Wet suction fills the quiet with each bob of her head, the sound thick and wet as her mouth works to take more. Heat and pressure builds around Smoke from the way her lips clamp and slide, her tongue pushing up from below while her throat opens to pull him deeper with every descent.

Zariah’s face pulls tight around that thick girth filling her mouth, her cheeks drawing inward in deep hollows that frame the shaft with sharp definition as she sinks lower. She maintains a steady rhythm of long, controlled pulls, her tongue pressing firm and flat underneath while her throat opens to swallow more with each descent, creating a constant wet drag and suction that tightens on the upstroke. Her jaw works visibly with the effort, lips sealed flush and sliding in a smooth, milking motion that builds pressure without pause.

Smoke groans deep in his chest, hips bucking shallow to feed her more. “Yeah, that's it, fuckin' swallow this big dick. You know how I like it, don't play. Deeper, baby, choke on it if you gotta, but don’t stop.” His voice rumbles harsh, hand guiding her head, thick fingers pressing her nose toward his trimmed pubes. His fat nuts slap light against her chin as she bobs, throat bulging visible with his length buried fully. Zariah gags once soft, eyes watering, but pushes through, humming low around him, tongue pressing flat underneath to stroke the bulging vein.

Smoke watches her work in the mirror, heavy-lidded eyes narrowing mean. “Look at you, all that fire earlier, now you slurpin' dick like a good lil’ girl. Shoulda did this from jump, keep that ass in line and yo’ throat full. Mmm, suck harder, baby. Drain these nuts dry.” His grip tightens in her hair, fucking her face, pulling out to the tip with a wet pop before slamming back in, curve hitting her gag reflex perfect every thrust. Her hands brace his thick thighs, nails digging into the dense muscle, feeling him flex under her palms as drool strings from her stretched lips.

Zariah’s pussy aches empty between her spread knees, thighs slick with her own drip mixing on the floor, but she focuses, hollowing her cheeks tighter, swallowing around his girth to milk him. Her nose buries in his coarse hairs finally, balls snug against her chin, holding him deep till her lungs burn. She pulls off gasping, strings of spit connecting her mouth to his shining shaft, then dives back, faster, head twisting side to side for friction.

“That’s my girl, train that throat right. You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I bust down yo’ neck,” Smoke grunts, free hand cupping her jaw rough, thumb smearing spit back in. His heavy balls draw up tight, dick twitching hard in her sucking mouth, but he holds off, drawing it out mean. “Keep goin’. Earn that forgiveness, baby.”

Zariah’s right hand wraps around the base of his thick dick, fingers barely meeting around the girth as she strokes up slow, twisting at the swollen head slick with her spit. She sucks deeper on the pull back, lips sealed tight around his veiny shaft, tongue swirling under the curve that presses her cheek out. Her left hand steadies on his heavy thigh, nails scraping light into the dense muscle as she bobs faster, throat opening wide to take him balls-deep again, humming vibrations along his length.

Smoke's eyes narrow sharp, watching her work from above. His big palm cracks down quick on her stroking hand, slapping it off his dick with a wet smack. 

“Nah, baby. Hands where I can see ‘em. Up behind yo head or on them thighs. This mouth mine now.”' He grabs a fistful of her wet curls tighter, yanking her head back just enough to pop his dick free, strings of saliva stretching long before snapping. Then he thrusts forward, burying every curving inch straight down her throat in one push, balls smacking her chin heavy.

Zariah gasps around the invasion, eyes watering, but puts her hands in her lap. Her throat bulges with his girth, the  bend lodging deep, cutting off her air till black spots dance. He don't let up—hips snap forward, fucking her face, pulling out to the flared head where she gasps ragged, then slamming back in, pubes grinding her nose.

“Fuckin’ tired of yo games, Zariah. All this bullshit you pullin’,” he growls low, thick and gravelly, voice echoing off the tile. Smoke picks up meaner, dick pistoning her mouth, heavy balls swinging to slap her jaw each thrust. “Back when I was yo’ bodyguard, dealin' with yo’ spoiled, uptight, prissy ass barkin' orders left and right. Actin’ like you own the world, snappin’ at me like I'm one of yo’ lil' errand boys. Had to bite my tongue, watchin' you strut ‘round thinkin’ you untouchable.”

Zariah’s knees spread wider on the slick floor, thighs quivering as drool pours down her chin, soaking her tits glossy. She gags hard on a deep plunge, throat convulsing around his pulsing shaft, but holds the position, hands laced tight in her lap, fingers twitching to grip something. That wet ass pussy throbbed neglected, juices trailing down to puddle under her.

Smoke grunts deep, free hand bracing the sink edge, muscles flexing in his thick arm as he rams harder, curve dragging her tonsils raw. “And now? Now you on this dick, slurpin’ like you starved, and still think you run shit? Nah, baby girl. I run it. Always did. Just lettin’ you play pretend till I remind this lil’ ass who in charge.” He yanks her hair sharper, holding her nose-deep, balls snug on her chin, grinding slow circles to stretch her throat wider. “Feel that? Feel daddy ownin' this mouth? You gon’ take every inch till I say stop. No more actin’ brand new.”

Zariah’s chest heaves desperate around the blockage, tears streaking her cheeks mixing with spit, but her eyes stay locked up at him, defiant spark fading to raw submission. She swallows around his girth, milking the veiny underside, tongue pressing frantic when he pulls back for air. Her hands stay put, obedient, elbows trembling from the strain as he resumes pounding, wet gurgles filling the humid air, his heavy balls tightening with each brutal thrust.

Smoke abruptly snaps his hips back, dick leaving her throat. Zariah sucked in a lung full of air, sniffling, teary eyes cloudy as she looked up at her daddy with a bite of her bottom lip. She’d sucked a few dicks in her twenty-nine years of living but she would have never thought a nine inch, veiny monster would fit down her throat. Normally, she would pat herself on the back, but right now, Smoke was pissed off. Her reward would come later. Right now, she’s a throat to fuck and nothing more. Her eyes went hazy from staring at his hard dick bobbing and twitching in her face, glossy and dripping with saliva. She knew he was close because his tip was a deep purple and it flared so wide it left the corners of lips raw. The map of veins along his shaft bulged in size, and his nut sack sat full and loaded with cum. 

“Open up.” Smoke commands.

Zariah does as she’s told, eager for more. That big dick slid in smooth and full, making her eyes roll. 

Smoke's hips jackhammer faster now, thick dick plunging her throat raw brutal snaps, the curve battering her tonsils. His balls draw up tight, slapping her chin wet and relentless, his breath turning into ragged grunts as the pressure coils low in his gut. Sweat beads down his solid chest, tee clinging damp to the full slabs of pecs heaving with each drive. He feels her throat spasm greedy around his girth, milking him closer to the edge.

“Eyes up here, Zariah. Look at me while I feed this throat,” he snarls, free hand clamping her jaw firm, thumb digging into the hinge to force her gaze up. Watery brown eyes meet his dark, heavy-lidded stare, hers wide and pleading, his burning with ownership. “Hands in yo’ lap. Fingers laced. Don't move ‘em.”

Zariah shifts quickly on her knees, pulling her elbows in to drop her hands to her thighs, palms up and fingers interlocking obediently in her lap like a proper slut. Her thighs quake wider apart on the tile, pussy clenching empty and dripping strings of arousal to the floor. Her jaw slackens under his grip, relaxing loose as he demands, lips stretched obscene around his pistoning shaft, drool bubbling out the corners to sheet down her neck and pool between her heaving tits.

“Good girl. There you go, relax that jaw. Let daddy bust,” Smoke growls deep, gravel scraping rough, pace turning erratic, hips stuttering as his dick swells thicker in her gullet. His balls contract hard, and he slams balls-deep one final time, grinding his pubes flush to her nose, holding  as ropes of hot cum erupt straight down her throat. Pulse after thick pulse floods her, warm, slightly salty jets coating her esophagus, forcing her to gulp convulsively around the buried length.

He don't budge an inch, big hand locked on her curls, the other on her jaw, keeping her pinned nose-deep while she swallows every drop—no spill, no waste. Her throat works visible under the skin, bulging swallows pulling his load down greedy, chest fluttering desperate for air around the blockage. Her eyes remain locked on his, tears carving clean tracks through the spit mask on her face, but that defiant spark's gone fully, replaced with raw, owned surrender shining back.

Smoke holds till the last twitch fades, dick softening just enough in the wet heat, then eases out slow, dragging the sensitive underside over her lolling tongue. Strings of cum-mixed saliva cling thick, snapping as the flared head pops free. She coughs hoarse, sucking air in big whoops, hands twitching in her lap but staying put, lips puffy and glossy. He strokes her cheek with his thumb, smearing the mess, voice dropping low and satisfied. 

“Every drop. That's how you take what’s yours. Don’t forget who run this shit.”

Smoke’s thick fingers loosen from her curls, sliding down to hook under her arms with that unyielding grip, hauling her up off the tile slow and steady. Her knees wobble jelly-soft, thighs slick from her own dripping need, but he steadies her full against his sweat-damp shirt, broad chest rising firm under her cheek. His big hand cups her elbow, the other spans low on her back, guiding her bare feet over the bathmat and out the steamy bathroom door.

He snags a clean washcloth from the sink edge first, soaking it under hot tap water till steam curls off, then presses it gentle but thorough to her chin, wiping away the glossy streaks of spit and tears. His thumb traces her swollen lips, the cloth dragging over puffy cheeks and her jaw, leaving her skin flushed warm and bare. 

“There. Clean slate, baby girl,” he rumbles low, voice that quiet thunder rolling deep from his chest.

The king bed dominated the dim space, sheets rumpled from earlier. He sinks onto the edge, thighs spreading wide like tree trunks, then tugs her forward to drape her naked body across his lap face-down. Ass up high, cheeks still blooming hot from the spanking, pussy lips peeking swollen and slick between spread thighs. His weight shifts the mattress deep, one massive palm flattening broad on her lower back to anchor her still, the other dipping into the jar of balm on the nightstand. A cool, thick shea and aloe mix he keeps stocked for nights like this.

His fingers dig in generously, spreading the cream in firm circles over her left cheek first, kneading the stinging heat away, thumb pressing into the tender underside where it meets thigh. Smoke switches to the right after a while, palms gliding slick, parting the globes slightly to smooth the balm down the cleft, grazing her puckered hole and dipping low enough to tease her soaked folds without mercy. 

“You know why that ass got lit up, Zariah,” he starts, tone even, dangerously calm wrapping each word like barbed wire, dragging vowels long and weighted. “Pushin’ me like that, testin' boundaries when I done told you how it's gone be. Mouth runnin’ reckless, darin’ me to snap. I spank you again and again if you keep triggerin’ this fire. Don’t make me prove it twice more tonight.”

His hand keeps working, the balm sinking in as her skin drinks it greedy, cooling the fire to a throb. Smoke’s palm cups one cheek full, squeezing soft, then leans down to press open-mouth kisses along the curve—lips dragging hot and wet, tongue flicking out to taste the salted balm on fevered flesh. Peck after peck trails inward, nipping the fullest swell before soothing with flat laps.

“Mmm,” he draws back, biting his bottom lip, her slick sticking to his goatee, “pussy puffy from me popping that ass,” Smoke takes two fingers, tapping her pussy lips, labia peeking through like petals. “I know you love it when daddy turns you out like a fuck doll…pussy leakin’ for it. But safety first, always. Top of my list. You play brat, defy what I say to keep you whole, that shit upsets me deep. I’d kill anybody—end ‘em slow—who so much as touches a hair on your head. Bleed ‘em dry for less.”

Smoke’s voice stays level, no rise, just that steel edge slicing through, breath ghosting her skin between kisses, one hand landing square on the sit-spot welt. Smoke pauses, hand stilling to pat her ass possessive, waiting till her breath evens soft against the sheets.

“Now, you know what I want you to do. Say it clear.”

Zariah shifts slightly across his lap, thighs clenching, posture holding upright even prone, spine straight, hands smoothing the bedspread once to ground herself. Her voice comes soft, that self-possessed edge threading through.

“…I’ll listen to what daddy says.”

“Good girl, keep goin’.”

Smoke’s palm resumes stroking the balm in, fingers parting her cheeks wider for a deep kiss right above where her puckered hole sat, his tongue circling lazy.

“…I—I’ll stop being m–mean to daddy…and understand t–that he’s trying to protect m–me, not control me,” her full lips press thin a beat, exhale parting them tense, brown eyes flicking back over her shoulder to hold his gaze steady. Even though her body couldn’t stop shaking.

“Mm. That’s my girl,” another peck lower, between the under cuff of her ass where her thighs met, “finish it.”

“H–He wants me to continue t–to be independent…but understand that m–my man w–wants and needs to step up. To provide, protect, a–and spoil me. To create a life for me w–where I can continue to be t–the phenomenal women that I am. The beautiful woman t–that I am. The sexy woman that I am.”

Her words came out even in some ways and shaky in others. No plea. Only quiet dominance and echoing his, her body relaxing fuller into his lap as the balm soaked deep. Smoke nods once, satisfaction etching his heavy-lidded stare. He gave his girl a final kiss planted firm on her tailbone, one large, calloused hand sliding up her slick spine to tangle light in her hair, tugging her head back gently for more eye contact.

“That’s my girl. Good job. Now…rest that ass here while daddy thinks up how to spoil you next.”

Smoke positions Zariah on her stomach across their bed. He spreads her thighs wide from behind and lifts her hips into the right tilt. Smoke dips his head and admires her pussy lips sitting in the shape of a heart below her ass that glistened from the balm. His tongue moves in slow strokes from the base of her pussy upward, gathering every bit of wetness. He seals his lips around the folds and sucks them clean with steady pulls before pressing soft kisses along the slick skin. His tongue dips inside to lick deeper then returns to lap and suck without rushing, working through the mess until only his mouth leaves her glistening.

Zariah’s body rocks with small shifts under his hold. “Yes daddy." Her voice comes thick. “Thank you daddy.” She pushes back a fraction as his suction holds on her clit. “I love it when you eat my pussy.”

Smoke keeps his pace while his voice rumbles low against her. “Stay open for me. Let daddy clean every drop. You taste so good when I take my time like this.” He kisses her tender entrance then sucks again, tongue circling slow. “That’s it. Give it all to me.”

Zariah shifts her hips back in a slow roll, pressing her soaked folds against Smoke's mouth. He meets each motion by sealing his lips around her clit and sucking with firm, steady pressure, drawing the swollen bud between his lips in a gentle pull before releasing. Her thighs tremble under his grip as she rocks again, grinding back for more contact.

"Oooo," she breathes out, the sound stretching long. “Fuck. Yes.” The words slip free between moans while her body keeps moving, seeking that same suction each time she pushes her pussy toward him.

Smoke's tongue works in skillful laps, flattening broad against her entrance before dragging upward to circle her clit again. His voice stays low and even, vibrating right against her skin.

 “That’s right, keep bringing it back  like that. Let me suck on this pretty pussy. You feel how wet you stay for me?” Smoke proves her opening with the tip of his tongue to catch some of that wetness. “I can taste every bit of it, so sweet and thick on my tongue. Gon’ fuck you so deep after this, stretch you open slow with every inch until you can't think straight. This pussy gon' take it all, and I'ma give it to you proper.”

Snoke sucks with more pressure on her clit as she rocks back once more, holding the pull for a beat longer before easing off to lick through her folds. “Tastes so damn good, baby. Can't get enough of how you drip down my chin.”

Zariah’s voice comes out husky between her moans. “You love this pussy, baby?”

Smoke answers without lifting his mouth, the words rumbling straight into her. “Daddy love this pussy. Best fuckin’ pussy I ever had.”

Zariah’s voice lifts soft and questioning as she rocks back once more. “Daddy?”

Smoke answers with a low hum that vibrates against her folds, the sound deep and steady while his tongue continues its work.

Zariah pushes again, her words coming clearer now. “Daddy I wanna watch you eat my pussy.”

In one smooth motion Smoke flips her onto her back, his hands guiding her body with controlled strength. He pulls the black tee over his head and drops it aside, leaving him fully naked as he settles between her open thighs. Zariah spreads wider for him, and he eases down to keep his mouth on her, licking and sucking with focused attention. She grinds her pussy into his mouth, hips rolling to meet each pull of his lips. Smoke gently pushes her thighs open further, holding them apart so he can slurp directly on her clit with wet, smacking sounds. He stays right there, working that spot alone because it builds her up fast. Her body tenses and then releases in a sudden rush as she squirts, the warm fluid spilling over his tongue and chin while he keeps sucking through every pulse.

Smoke stays locked between her thighs, refusing to ease up. His tongue drags in long, wet strokes that feel heavy and thick against her folds, each one landing with pressure that makes her hips twitch. Zariah’s pussy quivers under the attention, the sensitive skin pulsing and tightening as he circles her clit again and again. He holds her legs open wider with firm hands, keeping her spread so nothing interrupts the steady motion of his mouth. The wet sounds grow louder with every lick, and he focuses right there, building the heat until her body starts to tighten once more. She grinds down into him, chasing the sensation as the pressure coils deep inside. His tongue works without pause, thick and insistent, pushing her straight toward the edge until she breaks again, fluid spilling over his lips while he keeps sucking through the pulses.

Smoke stays locked in place, his mouth sealed over her pussy as he sucks deeper, pulling her swollen clit between his lips with steady pressure. His tongue follows in thick, wet drags that lap up every fresh trickle of her arousal, working in firm circles that make her thighs shake in the air. Zariah keeps her legs spread wide, knees bent and feet towards the ceiling, giving him full access while her hips roll in small, desperate circles against his face.

Her body reacts in waves. The muscles in her lower belly tighten and release with each pull of his mouth, sending ripples across her frame. Her rich brown skin glistens with sweat, the soft curve of her waist flexing as her back arches off the bed. Her breasts rise and fall faster, nipples tight and dark against the air. Inside, her walls pulse and flutter around nothing, clenching with every lick that drags from her entrance up to her clit. More slick heat spills out, coating his tongue and dripping down his chin as he swallows it down without pause.

“Uhuh, yeah baby.” Smoke rumbles against her, voice low and thick with command. “Keep those legs open. Let me feel you gettin' close. I want every drop this time. Right in my fucking mouth. Feed me.” His words vibrate through her core, pushing the tension higher. Smoke sucks again, lips sealed tight while his tongue flicks quick and firm right on that sensitive spot, building the pressure until her moans turn ragged.

Zariah’s hands fist the sheets. Her pussy quivers harder now, the inner walls squeezing in quick spasms that grow stronger with each pass of his tongue. The heat coils low in her belly, spreading outward until her toes curl and her breath hitches in short gasps. "Haah—Fuck," a sharp inhale caught in her throat, then she breathes out, the word breaking on a moan as another rush of wetness floods his mouth. Her hips jerk upward, chasing the sensation while her thighs tremble around his shoulders.

Smoke doesn't let up. He slides two fingers inside her, curling them against that spongy spot while his mouth keeps working her clit in wet, insistent pulls. “I know you feel it buildin’. Don't hold back on me. You gon’ give it all, you hear me?” His free hand presses her thigh wider, keeping her open as her body winds tighter. Her stomach flutters visibly, the muscles jumping under her skin. Her pussy clenches around his fingers, gripping and releasing in a steady climb toward the edge.

"I'll be your good girl—” Zariah gasps, voice cracking as the pressure peaks. Her whole frame locks up for a beat, then shatters. A hot rush pours from her, squirting in pulsing waves straight into his mouth. Smoke groans low and drinks it down, tongue still moving through the contractions that ripple through her walls. Her orgasm rolls on, body shaking as fresh slick spills over his lips and chin, her moans filling the room while he holds her through every last spasm.

Smoke lingers between her thighs after the last tremors fade, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses against her slick folds. Each one lands soft, his lips brushing over the swollen heat while his tongue gives the lightest flick to catch the lingering taste. 

“That’s a good girl," he whispers low against her, the words vibrating through her sensitive skin. “Took every bit of it just like I said. Look at you, still shakin’ for me.” His praise comes steady and warm, laced with that deep southern drawl that settles right into her bones.

Zariah’s breath hitches in the aftermath, her body still sprawled open on the sheets. Her rich brown skin gleams from the vanilla oil, a fine sheen of sweat tracing the narrow dip of her waist and the soft flare of her hips. Her breasts rise and fall in quick, shallow pulls, nipples drawn tight from the rush that just tore through her. Inside, her walls continue to flutter in small, involuntary pulses, the aftershocks making her thighs twitch around his shoulders even as she keeps them parted for him.

Smoke trails those kisses upward, dragging his mouth across the smooth plane of her lower belly. Each press of his lips leaves a ticklish, wet mark that cools against her heated skin, moving higher with unhurried purpose. His hands slide along her sides, palms broad as they frame her ribcage. When he reaches her chest, he pauses at one peaked nipple, drawing it between his lips with a firm, wet pull. His tongue circles the tight bud then strokes while he sucks, the pressure sending fresh sparks straight down to her still-throbbing core.

Zariah arches into the contact, a broken moan slipping free as her fingers thread into the sheets again. The pull at her nipple feels sharper now, heightened by how raw everything still feels below. Her other breast settles against his cheek when he shifts to give it the same attention, sucking deep while his tongue works in lazy, insistent laps. 

“So damn responsive,” Smoke rumbles between pulls, voice thick with approval. “Every part of you knows who it belong to.”

Zariah’s legs ease wider on instinct, the earlier tension melting into a loose, pliant sprawl. The muscles along her stomach quiver visibly under his path, and her hips give a small, involuntary roll upward as if chasing more of the contact even though he's moved on. Smoke keeps his mouth latched, alternating between gentle suction and firmer draws that make her back bow off the bed, her full lips parting around another shaky exhale.

Smoke stays latched on her nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth with sucks that make her whole chest tighten. His tongue works in firm circles, pressing and flicking against the stiff peak while his teeth graze just enough to send sharp little jolts straight through her. Zariah’s rich brown skin flushes darker across her breasts, the full weight of them rising and falling with every breath as he switches sides, sucking the other nipple just as hard, his broad hand cupping the first one to keep the wet heat from fading.

Her pussy responds fast, slick folds parting on their own as fresh wetness slips out in a steady drip that trails down toward the sheets. The sensation builds low and insistent, her clit twitching in time with each strong suck, the tiny bud swelling and pulsing without any direct touch. Her slim-thick thighs part wider on the bed, hips rolling in small, helpless circles as the throbbing between her legs grows heavier, matching the pull of his mouth.

Zariah’s long legs tremble as another rush of heat floods her core. She can feel it clearly now, the way her pussy clenches around nothing, dripping steadily while her clit jumps and aches for friction. Smoke doesn’t let up, his lips sealed tight around her nipple, sucking with that deep, focused technique hat leaves her gasping. His free hand slides down her side, palm broad against the curve of her waist, holding her steady as her back arches higher off the mattress.

“Look at that,” he says low, voice rough against her skin between pulls. “Your body tellin’ on you. Drippin’ all over just from this.” He drags his tongue across the sensitive tip one more time, then seals his mouth around it again, sucking harder until her clit twitches visibly with the next wave of wetness sliding free.

Zariah’s breath comes in short, shaky pulls, her full lips parted, eyes half-lidded as the pressure builds. Every strong draw from his mouth sends fresh heat straight down, making her pussy clench and release, more slick gathering and spilling out in warm trails. Her clit keeps twitching, swollen and sensitive, the empty ache growing sharper with each passing second. She rolls her hips again, seeking something, anything, but Smoke keeps her pinned with his weight and his mouth, focused entirely on working her nipples until the dripping and twitching leaves her shaking.

When he could see that pussy weeping the way he needed it to, Smoke releases her nipple with a slow drag of his lips, the wet pull leaving a shiny trail across her deep brown areolas. He rises over her, his thick frame blotting out the light above the bed as he lowers his mouth to hers. The kiss lands heavy and unhurried, his tongue pushing past her parted lips to stroke deep, carrying the taste of her own sex. Zariah meets him without hesitation, her full lips pressing back while her breath hitches against his. Her hands slide up his arms, fingers curling around the dense muscle there as the kiss stretches on, turning hotter with each slow pass of his tongue.

Her body stays open beneath him, thighs spread wide on the sheets. The steady drip from her pussy continues, warm slick sliding down the curve of her ass and soaking into the sheets right along with the puddle she made from squirting. Her clit keeps twitching, swollen and sensitive, each pulse sending fresh heat through her core. Zariah rolls her hips upward, seeking the press of his weight, the hard length of him brushing her inner thigh as he settles closer. Smoke's hand moves to cradle the back of her neck, holding her still while the kiss turns rougher, his teeth catching her bottom lip for a brief tug before his tongue claims her mouth again.

His hand lingers tangled in her curls, thumb stroking the nape of her neck in lazy circles 

“Spoil you proper now,” Smoke rumbles that reminder, voice vibrating through her bones. His big palms slide down her sides, gripping her hips firm to flip her upright in one smooth hoist, straddling his thighs now, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. That heavy and rigid, curved dick all thick-veined and standing tall from those low-hanging balls, say wedged between her pussy lips, tip glossy from pre-cum beading thick.

Zariah braces her hands on his full chest, fingers splaying over his pecs, feeling the dense muscle shift under her palms as he breathes deep. Glossy brown eyes lock on his heavy-lidded stare, lips parting on a soft exhale, posture straight even perched like this, thighs flexing to lift her hips. Zariah sinks down slowly, pussy lips parting wide around his girth, swallowing the flared head first with a wet stretch, inner walls clenching greedily as inches disappear inside. Halfway down, she pauses, breath hitching, hands smoothing over his pecs to steady herself. 

Smoke’s arms snake around her, one thick forearm banding her lower back, the other spanning shoulder blades, yanking her flush against him. Chest mashes to chest, her nipples dragging hard points over his skin, his beard scraping her jaw as he nuzzles close. “

“Ride daddy, baby girl,” Smoke growls low in her ear, hips snapping up suddenly, thrust punching deep, balls slapping her ass with a meaty smack. Zariah gasps, spine arching but Smoke holds her locked, pumping from below relentlessly now. Each buck rolls his pelvis up hard, curved dick spearing her g-spot dead-on, grinding the base against her swollen clit with every bury.

Thighs like steel pistons flex under her, driving up fast then slow, varying the rhythm to make her chase it, his arms crushing her closer, one hand fisting her ass cheek to spread her wider, fingers teasing her hole while he rails her pussy. Sweat slicks their skin, her juices coat his shaft glossy, dripping down to soak his balls. 

“Feel that? Daddy fillin’ you full, protectin’ this pussy ‘cus it's mine. Phenomenal woman takin’ every inch.” His voice stays that dangerous calm, breath tickling her neck between grunts, lips sucking marks along her collarbone.

Zariah rocks with him, hips circling intentional, walls fluttering tight around his length. Her voice was soft, edged with that self-possession. 

 “Yes, daddy...feels so good.” No begging, just owning the ride, thighs quivering as tension builds. He ramps it harder, arms vise-tight, fucking up into her like a machine, wet slaps echoing loud, her ass bouncing on his thighs, pussy creaming thick down his dick. 

Zariah’s moans spill out breathy at first, soft exhales pitching higher with each deep punch,,starting as hushed mmh's from deep in her throat, lips parting wider to let ahh's drag long and throaty, vibrating against where her mouth presses open near his collarbone. Tension coils her core tighter, breaths coming measured but ragged now, moans layering into nngh-ahh-mmh, each one punched out precisely by his upward drives, voice never cracking loud but husky-thick with need, edges fraying just enough to feel raw.

“Yes, daddy,” Zariah breathes into his neck, her hips working bolder, starting to throw it down now, lifting high to slam her ass back onto his thighs with snaps and deep grinds, pussy gripping his girth on every drop. “You fuck me so good. Fuck this pussy. Fuck me with that big dick.” Her thighs flex hard, bucking wilder to meet his thrusts, wet hole sucking him deeper, creamy froth building at the base where her pussy lips stretch taut around his veined curve. “Fuck, I love this big dick.” Her voice stays in that self-possessed tone, edged needy, no shrieks or pleas because she was owning every word as she grinds down, clit dragging his pelvis, walls pulsing greedy. 

Smoke’s grip tightens, one forearm locked across her lower back to mash her tits flush to his chest, the other palm cupping her ass full, fingers digging into the balm-slick cheek to yank her harder onto each buck. His toned hips piston up relentless, thick thighs bulging under her weight, curved length spearing her depths over and over. Those heavy balls swinging up to tap her perineum with heavy thwacks. 

“Fuck yes, baby girl, throw that pussy on daddy's dick like you ownin’ it, good girl, get your dick,” Smoke rumbles low in her ear, thick and commanding. “Look at you ridin’ this big Mississippi meat, creamin’ all over my balls. Feel how deep I'm feedin’ this wet hole? Huh? Stretchin’ you wide, hittin’ that spot ain’t I’m?” Smoke thrusts up and holds, tapping Zariah on the rump as she shakes all over. “All that boss shit disappear when I give you dick. You safe wit’ me, act like it.” 

Smoke rolls his pelvis on the upthrusts, grinding the fat base against her clit, varying the pace from slow deep grinds to three fast snaps, making her chase the friction. Sweat beads on his chest, his beard rasping her jaw as he turns her face to capture her lips in a messy suck, tongue thrusting in time with his hips. “Keep talkin’ to me, bad girl. Tell daddy how this dick rearrangin’ that tight pussy. You takin’ it perfect.” Smoke’s thumb teases her back entrance light, pressing the puckered ring while he rails her pussy, arms crushing her immobile against him, and Zariah was owning it even as she bucks wild.

Her pace picks up frantic, hips slamming down to swallow him balls-deep every time, pussy squelching loud around his girth, juices dripping warm down his sack to soak the sheets. Her moans turn into throaty-soft pleas now.

“Ahh-nngh-yes!” blending with his grunts, body trembling. Smoke feels her tighten vise-like, knows she's close, but holds back his own load, hips snapping sharper to drag it out.

Zariah’s walls clamp down vise-tight around his thick length, that deep coil snapping loose as the orgasm rips through her, body seizing rigid in his iron hold, thighs locking hard against his hips, back arching sharp but pinned flush by his forearm across her back. Her pussy floods him in hot gushes, creamy release squirting thick around his pistoning shaft, soaking his heavy balls and dripping messy down to the sheets below. Zariah can’t buck anymore, stuck impaled balls-deep on his curved girth, every ridge dragging her fluttering walls as Smoke keeps snapping up relentless, his hips rolling precisely to grind that swollen spot inside her over and over, forcing wave after wave to crash harder.

Moans pour from her throat uncontrolled, delicate but fractured, starting as a long, drawn out ‘ahhhh’ vibrating deep in her chest, pitching into sharp ‘nngh-nngh’ gasps punched out by each thrust, lips trembling open against his neck where her face buries hot and slick with sweat. They layer ragged, breathy exhales fraying at the edges ‘mmh-ahh-mmh’ blending into a throaty hum that shakes her frame, her voice husky-thick and edged raw, never shrill but owning the depth of it, body quaking helpless as she creams all over his big dick.

Smoke doesn't let up, thick arms crushing her immobile against him, his biceps bulging under her sliding palms, one hand palming her ass cheek deep to spread her wider, fingers splayed to feel her hole pulse and leak around him. His pelvis snaps up in deep strokes, curved head battering that g-spot without mercy, balls wet against her perineum through her flood. That thick length gleamed with her juices and he just kept fucking her pussy straight through the peak. Smoke turns her face to lock eyes with him, his heavy-lidded gaze burning steady into hers, full lips parting on a low grunt.

“Yeah, cum on this dick, baby girl, keep cummin’ on this dick.” Smoke growls thick in her ear. “Pretty pussy grippin’ me so tight, squirtin’ all over daddy’s balls. Stuck right here takin’ every inch while I hit that spot. Keep cummin’ for me, baby, flood this big dick, bad girl. You own this nut, pussy milkin’ me deep.” He varies the drives—three short punches to her depths, then a slow grind circling her clit with his base, drawing out the spasms, her walls sucking greedily even as she trembles locked.

Zariah’s body jerks in aftershocks, pussy clenching around him, more cream bubbling out to coat his veined length shiny, her thighs quivering helpless. All Zariah can do is moan throaty into his collarbone, ‘ahh-nngh-yes’ spilling fractured as he rails her sensitive hole. He feels his own sack tighten heavy, but holds it back, hips powering through her mess to chase every drop from her. He’d continue to edge himself as long as he gives his bad bitch plenty of orgasms. 

Smoke eases out of her spasming pussy with a wet pop, Zariah’s cream clinging thick in strings to his veined shaft, glossy from tip to base where her squirt and cream mixed in slick trails down his heavy balls. Smoke wastes no time and flips her over rough but steady, large hands gripping her hips to yank her ass high at the bed's edge, face pressed flat into the rumpled sheets, knees spread wide under his direction. One palm presses firm between her shoulder blades, forcing that deep arch in her spine until her spine hollows out perfectly, ass cheeks parting naturally from the stretch, lower back dipping sharp.

Her pussy blooms open in that position, lips puffy and flushed dark from the pounding, inner folds glistening raw and swollen, stuck slightly agape from his girth, unable to close full after the stretch. Cream leaks steady from that stretched, creamy hole, thick white rivulets bubbling out slow to trail down her inner thighs, mixing with squirt sheen that soaks the sheets beneath her knees. Above it, her pretty asshole winks in the cool air, the tight ring pulsing faint with each aftershock clench from her pussy below, pink-brown rim flexing open a fraction before snapping shut, begging subtle under the exposure.

Smoke stands planted at the edge, bare feet firm on the floor, thick thighs framing her as he lines up, messy dick heavy in his fist, curved length slapping once against her leaking slit to smear her own juices back over her clit. Then, he sinks in, crown breaching her folds with a squelch, inch after girthy inch parting her walls until his pelvis meets her ass full, balls nestling heavy against her clit. Slow strokes start, pulling back to the tip so her pussy lips drag reluctant along his ridges, then driving deep again, his hips rolling weighted to bottom out each time, grinding her depths before he withdraws again. 

“Zari…you daddy’s little bratty girl, huh?” Smoke rumbles low, thick and edged mean, one hand sinking deep into her left ass cheek, fingers digging to spread her wider. He watched his curved dick emerge shiny-coated in fresh cream, veins pulsing as her hole grips and tugs. “You piss me off just so I can fuck you like this? Bend you over and drill this good pussy deep?” Smoke popped her ass. “See how sweet you get when you finally let go?” 

“Yes, daddy,” Zariah gasps throaty into the mattress, voice husky-fractured from the stretch, ass pushing back instinctively to meet his plunge, her walls fluttering around the slow invasion. “Yes, sir, I do—want this dick so bad.”

Smoke grunts his approval, other hand claiming a full handful of her right cheek—palms rough and veined, overflowing with soft flesh, kneading hard as he pulls her onto him deeper, pace still controlled but forceful, balls tapping her clit wet on each burial. Her leaky mess coated him fresh, pussy slurping audible around the drag. 

“That’s right. Act up so daddy give you some dick, stretch this bratty hole wide. Piss me off on purpose, gettin’ that arch just right for me too. You love bein’ face down, ass up, leakin’ all over my balls while I stroke it slow like this? Huh?”

“Mmm-yes sir,” Zariah moans soft-edged, body rocking forward with each deep seat, tits dragging along the sheets, back holding that arch under his palm's pressure, thighs quaking faint as the slow grind builds the pressure anew.

 “Love it daddy, love pissin’ you off for this—fuck me deep, please sir.”

Smoke’s grip tightens on her ass, spreading her cheeks farther to stare down at the sight, thick dick disappearing into her gripping pussy, lips hugging tight on the outstroke, cream frothing at the base where her hole milks him greedy. He picks up a fraction, strokes still deep but adding a twist at the end to nudge her g-spot, heavy balls swinging to smack her clit. Sweat beads his sculpted chest, biceps flexing as he holds her steady, heavy-lidded eyes tracing the messy union.

Each withdraw dragged her puffy lips outward, clinging to his veined length before he fed it back in full, pelvis slapping her ass cheeks with a meaty thud that echoed off the walls. His large hands overflow with her flesh, thumbs digging into the crease where thigh meets cheek to pry her wider, exposing the way her hole stretches taut around his girth, inner walls visible in flashes of pink and slick as cream bubbles fresh at the seam. Her asshole keeps up its subtle pulse above, ring contracting in time with her pussy's greedy squeezes, a faint sheen of her own leak trickling down to gloss it further.

Zariah twists her neck, cheek lifting off the damp sheets, eyes glassy and desperate locking onto his over her shoulder, those lips he loved so much parted on heavy breaths, kinky hair spilling wild across her back. 

“Daddy–yyy,” she pleads raw, voice cracking high as one of her hands snakes down between her spread thighs, thumb finding her swollen clit to rub frantic circles, chasing the building coil. “Please sir, harder—gimme more dick, I need it deep.” Her hips buck back insistent against his controlled pace, ass jiggling faint in his grip, pussy slurping louder on the next plunge as her walls clamp down fluttering.

“Not yet, brat,” he growls thick, voice rolling low, free hand sliding up her spine to press her chest flatter, keeping that arch locked while his hips roll weighted, grinding the curve of his dick against her front wall on every bury. “You gon’ beg pretty for daddy first. Tell me how bad this pussy want it—how you act up just to get stretched like this, leakin’ all over me, nasty girl.” He watches her fingers blur faster on her clit, the way her thighs start quaking harder. “You feel how hard you holdin’ onto me? That stress been sittin’ in your body all damn week. Use me then, go ‘head.” 

“Daddy, yes, I'm your bratty girl, piss you off for this dick every time,” Zariah whines, head turning full to hold his gaze, eyes pleading wide while her fingers grind her clit ruthlessly, body rocking violently now between his strokes and her own touch. Her eyes go cross eyed as she gushes fresh around him, walls rippling wild as the pressure crests, her back bowing deeper under his palm, ass pressing back to take him to the hilt. “Daddy, daddy—I'm squirting, oh fuck sir, it's comin’—don't stop, talk me through it please!”

Smoke leans forward slightly, chest brushing her back as one hand releases her cheek to tangle in her hair, yanking her head back gently but firm to keep those eyes on him, the other palm smacking her ass once sharp to jolt her higher. His strokes stay slow but deepen, twisting at the base to nudge her g-spot while her fingers strum. 

“Good girl, there you do, baby girl, let it go for daddy. Feel that pussy squeezin’ me tight? You squirtin’ all over this dick, you can't help it. Push back on it, rub that clit harder—gimme that mess. You like bein’ handled, huh?”

“Yes—”

“That’s my baby right there.” 

His voice stays gravel-rough, guiding her edge with words as her body seizes, thighs locking, toes curling into the mattress, a sharp cry ripping from her throat.

Her squirt hits explosive, clear jets pulsing out around his buried length to spray his pelvis and thighs, puddling hot on the sheets below as her pussy convulses violently, clenching him in waves that force more cream to froth at the base. She stares back at him wild-eyed, mouth slack on gasps, fingers slowing sloppy through the aftershocks while he holds steady inside her, hips grinding minimal to prolong the clench, watching her leak mix with the spray in rivulets down her legs.

 “Good girl, just like that—daddy got you, keep cummin’ good tonight. There you go, let all that pressure out. Ain’t nobody gon’ take care of you like me. Daddy got you. Been a mean bitch for so long ain’t nobody fuck you stupid til I cam around,” Smoke pops her on the left cheek. “Quit actin’ tough and come get this comfort. Say, yes sir.” 

“Y–yes, sir.” 

 “Now we gettin’ to the good part. I’ma move when you ready, but when I do, you gon’ feel every stroke. You with me? Say it.”

Zariah exhales, “I’m with you, daddy.” She grips the sheets. 

“Talk to me, Zari. Words. You ready or daddy gotta give you a break?” 

Zariah sucks in air and lets it out meditating slow. 

“I’m ready, sir.” 

Smoke's grip shifts lightning-quick from her hair to her shoulders, thick fingers clamping down over the knobs of bone there, palms splaying wide across her upper back to yank her torso up off the soaked sheets, forcing that spine into a brutal arch. Her head snaps upright, chin tucking toward her chest while her eyes glaze over fucked-out, pupils blown wide staring dead ahead at the headboard, mouth hanging slack on drooling whimpers, tongue lolling faint as spit beads at the corner. The new angle spears his dick straight down into her core, her ass cheeks spreading obscene on his pelvis with every hilt, pussy lips puffing out bloated and raw around the veined stretch, cream and squirt foaming thick at the root to splatter his heavy balls on the upstroke.

Smoke rears back tall behind her, knees digging wider into the mattress for leverage, broad shoulders rolling fluid as his dense core tightens, abs flexing solid under sweat-slick brown skin that gleams. Those rounded delts bunch heavy, veins popping along his forearms as he hauls her back onto him harder, his hips snapping forward with punishing force now, no more tease, full throttle wrecking. Each thrust lands weighted and final, his pelvis crashing her ass with claps that ripple flesh outward in waves, her cheeks clapping back against his thighs while her entire frame jolts forward violently, tits swinging beneath her to smack her ribs. The bed frame groans protest under the onslaught, pure power uncoiling from that grounded stance, thighs thick and corded pumping relentlessly.

Zariah’s body's a live wire in the pound, pussy walls seizing erratic around his plunging length, clenching desperate to hold him but fluttering loose on the withdraw, gushing fresh squirt in erratic sprays that arc down her quaking thighs to puddle wider on the sheets. Every bury shoves her forward an inch before his shoulder grip reels her back, her ass meat compressing flat against him then bouncing rebound, ripples traveling up her spine to make her curls lash wild. Her thighs attempt to lock rigid then spasm open, toes scrabbling, curling into the mattress as her belly sucks in hollow, ribs heaving under sweat-sheened skin, fucked-out stare fixed unblinking ahead, lashes fluttering half-mast while tears streak silent from the corners, jaw slack wider on guttural cries that pitch higher with each rip through her depths.

“That little mean streak disappear fast when I touch you right. You been wantin’ this all day. Nah, stay right there I wanna watch you take it—look at my girl—take this dick tearin’ you open,” he rasps, drawl thickening hot over the wet slaps, one hand sliding from shoulder to tangle back in her hair—yanking her head higher to deepen the arch while the other digs  into her shoulder, pinning her steady for the ram. His chest heaves, heavy breaths fanning her neck as he leans over partial, hips pistoning machine-like, balls swinging to batter her clit, smearing her mess back up her folds. 

“Feel daddy rearrangin’ your guts? You soaked the whole damn bed beggin’ for it—now wet this dick up  again while I pound you stupid. Arch that back deeper, push this ass on me—gimme that grip, baby. You gon’ relax for me or keep fightin’ me, baby?”

Zariah chokes out a keen, body betraying full surrender—hips grinding back frantic despite the overwhelm, pussy convulsing in fresh spasms that squeeze him vise-tight, walls undulating a massage along every vein as another squirt builds from the core. Her arms buckle, elbows to the sheets, fingers clawing fabric while her tits drag heavy across the damp cotton, nipples scraping raw. Her entire frame shudders electric with the force, ass lifting instinctively to meet his slams even as her vision blurs white-hot ahead. Sweat rivers down her cleavage, pooling in her navel before dripping off to mix with the flood below, thighs slick and trembling spread wide around his pistoning thighs.

Smoke grunts approval low, pace ratcheting inhuman, thrusts blurring to a frenzy that shakes her teeth, his solid midsection slapping her ass endless while those large hands anchor her, veins throbbing prominent down his forearms from the haul. Sweat beads thick on his brow, trickling into the heavy stubble framing his jaw that’s set hard, dark eyes locked on the destruction between her legs, watching her hole gape briefly on pulls before swallowing him balls-deep again. 

“FUCK, just like that—pussy talkin’ back to daddy, on every stroke.” His voice coaches steady through the chaos, drawl wrapping command around her haze as her body hurtles toward shatter again, the room thick with their slap-echo and her broken pleas. “Breathe through it. You can handle it. This what happen when you act like you don't need me tellin' you what to do. Next time you think about steppin’ out of line, you remember how this dick feel stretchin’ you open and makin’ you cum so hard you can't even talk.” 

Smoke yanks free with a wet pop that leaves her hole gaping, pink inner walls fluttering visible, clenching air desperate around nothing while thick strands of her cream stretch and snap between his retreating length and her wrecked folds. Frothy white coats his dick heavy from root to tip, balls glossy-slick swinging low and heavy beneath, veins pulsing prominent along his curved shaft.

 “Flip over, clean this dick spotless, baby,” Smoke orders, cutting sharp through her haze as one large hand strokes himself base-up lazy, smearing her mess while the other pats her ass firm to roll her.

Zariah twists compliant on trembling limbs, spine sinking into the drenched mattress as she sprawls supine, hair fanning wild across the pillow, belly quivering faint under the aftershocks. Her thighs splay wide, knees bending hooks toward her shoulders to bare everything, pussy on full display. Lips swollen fat and parted like it wanted to stay just like that from now on, flushed deep around the edges from the tear-up, inner pink glistening obscene under a sheen of her own squirt that drips lazy from her stretched entrance. Her clit hood peeled back partial, pearl throbbing exposed and raw, folds puffy-ridged from friction with cream beading fresh in the creases, entire slit pulsing like a heartbeat begging refill.

Smoke kneels up tall between her legs, knees bracketing her hips as he feeds his dick forward, tip bumping her lips expectant. Zariah cranes her neck, tongue darting out to lap broad from balls upward, tracing the heavy seam salty with her tang before sucking one orb full into her mouth, cheeks hollowing while her hand cups the other, rolling it. Up the shaft next, flat laps cleaning veins groove by groove, swirling the flared head to hollow her cheeks around it vacuum-tight, sucking her cream off audible with slurps that echo wet, spit mixing fresh to dribble down her chin as she moans low vibrations against him. His free hand dives between her thighs unhurried, palm cupping her mound full before thick fingers part those bloated lips wider, middle and ring sliding through the slick valley, parting her petals to expose that clenching core.

Feels like firework sparks when he rubs. Thick fingers coarse-knuckled dragging pressure perfect over her clit first, circling the hood lazy to make it twitch and swell fatter under the pad of his thumb joining in, then dipping lower to trace entrance rim where her walls suck greedy at the intrusion. That sweet pussy yields butter-soft inside, hot velvet clamping instant on the shallow probes, gushing syrupy response that coats his digits knuckle-deep. Each pass through her folds sends jolts electric up her spine. Zariah’s thighs jerked, spread while her hips buck faint to chase. Her outer lips drag sensitive along his palm skin, inner ridges fluttering as he massaged with his fingertips that scoop cream back up to smear her clit renewed, building that coil tight again with every glide.

Zariah polishes him thoroughly, tongue polishing the underside ridge before popping off clean with a gasp. Her hand wrapped around the base firm now to stroke with a upward twist, the skin gliding smooth over the cleaned glans while her gaze locks with his from below. Sultry heat simmers there, lids heavy-lidded fuck-drunk but sharp with desire, full lips curving wicked as teeth catch the bottom one, dragging slowly, holding his stare unblinking, challenge wrapped in surrender. Smoke groans deep, torso folding forward lean as his mouth crashes hers hungry—tongue thrusting his claim deep to tangle hers messy, tasting her own flavor shared while fingers keep working her pussy, two now plunging knuckle-deep to curl and hook against that front wall.

The kiss breaks on her whine, his beard rasping her chin, then his lips trail fire down her throat, nipping her collarbone before his palms scoop under her breasts heavy, thumbs flicking her chocolate nipples side-to-side to make them diamond-hard. Smoke kneads them, fingers sinking deep into the yielding flesh to shape and bounce them palm-to-palm, mouth latching hot over one peak to suck with a vacuum pull while his teeth graze faintly. His tongue lashes flat on her areolas before nibbling gently. Her strokes quicken on his dick, thumb swiping pre cum at his slit.

Smoke releases her nipple with a wet smack, lips glossy from the pull as his gaze lifts heavy to lock hers, dark eyes boring deep, one thumb still circling the slick peak lazy while the other hand squeezes her other titty, flesh spilling between fingers. 

“Good girl, Zariah,” Smoke rumbles faintly, voice dipping low like thunder. “Daddy proud of you…takin’ this dick so deep, stretchin’ that pussy perfect. Handlin’ yo’ punishment like a champ too, ass sore but you stayed right there, took every lick without runnin’.That's my baby.”

Zariah gasps sharp, hand tightening its stroke on his girthy dick, twisting from base to tip with precum and spit slicking the glide. Her eyes fluttered half-shut before snapping back to him.

 “Yes,” she breathes out needy, hips rolling faint into his stalled fingers still buried knuckle-deep in her folds.

Smoke chuckles low, free hand sliding up her thigh to anchor as he pulls his fingers free with a squelch, strings of her arousal snapping clear. 

“Mmm, yeah…and that's why daddy spoil you rotten. Fuck you good whenever you crave it, eat that sweet pussy till you flood my face. You mine to treat right.” His mouth brushes her earlobe feather-light, beard scraping her chin.  

“Yes, baby, you always know what I need,” Zariah moans velvety, arching her back to press her titties fuller into his palm, legs parting wider. “I love how you treat me. I'm your princess.” Her lips part on a whine, gaze sultry, locked.

Smoke nods slow approval, torso unfolding tall as he nudges her knees wider, settling heavy between her thighs, dick bobbing thick upright against her mound, tip nudging her clit. Zariah’s body's pliant now, limbs loose-jointed from the haze, so he hooks his elbows under her knees easy, folding her double with her thighs pinned to her chest, calves framing his shoulders tight. That pussy blooms upward obscenely, outer lips mashed flat from how spread open she is, inner folds splayed wide and quivering, entrance winking creamy-pink around the void, clit mashed prominent and pulsing under the weight of his dick resting heavy along her slit. Cream pools fresh in the crease, dripping backward to lube her puckered hole. 

Smoke notches his tip at her entrance, eyes never breaking hers, heavy-lidded stare pinning her soul-deep and thrusts in one long stroke, dick disappearing inch-by-thick-inch till his balls nestle snugly against her upturned ass, stretch burning visible in the way her walls bulge around all that girth. 

“Damn, princess, pussy grippin' daddy tight like I ain’t fucked you open,” Smoke praises, drawl stretching vowels lazy as his hips draw back on a slow drag, veins dragging friction along the inner ridges of her walls before snapping forward to bury fully again, pelvis slapping her ass with an audible wet sound. His Stroke pulls half-out next, her inner lips clinging reluctant to the retreat, then he plunges renewed, hitting that bottom with a grind that mashes her clit under his pubic bone. “You know who this belong to. Don't you? Say it for me.”

“Daddy’s pussy…daddy’s pussy.” Zariah whines. 

“I see you. See how you holdin'm’ on. How you lettin’ me own this. You doin’ so good for me, Zari. Real good, baby.” 

Zariah’s folded frame shudders, tits squished between her thighs as her walls clamp on the invasion, sparks exploding core-deep from the deep hits that kiss her cervix. Each thrust sends ripples through her puffy, pussy lips, cream frothing white at the seal where he bottoms out, her breaths punching out on the reentries while her eyes stay fused to his, wide and glassy with the lock, lips mouthing silent pleas. 

“All this dick, baby, take it all—daddy got you,” Smoke coos, pace building like a piston now, balls swinging tap-tap against her tailbone with every deep drive, his gaze unwavering intensely as he watches every twitch, every flutter, every jerk, every silent scream, every shake. 

Smoke's stare sharpen like a predator, jaw clenching, eyes narrowing to slits while his hands clamp on the backs of her thighs, thumbs digging meaty divots to pin her folded frame immobile. He snaps his hips downward piston-hard, big dick plummeting into her splayed pussy with a wet schlap that echoes off the walls, balls slapping her ass crack heavy before the recoil yanks him half-out only to hammer back in, burying full.

No words now, just breath hissing through his teeth, chest heaving as he tunnels, each drop stroke burying to the hilt, dick dragging brutal against her clamping walls that suck reluctantly at the retreat. His pace ratchets machine-steady, bedframe groaning under and the mattress dipping deep where his toes anchored. Sweat beads his temple and trails down, dripping onto her upturned tits that jiggle chaotic with every impact, nipples peaked tight from the frenzy.

Zariah's moans rip free raw, high-pitched keens fracturing into throaty wails that bounce off the ceiling, back arching futile against the fold as her thighs quake trapped in his hold. Her manicured acrylic nails rake fire-trails down his bulging biceps, carving pink welts into the sweat-slick skin that flexes corded under the gouge. Her calves locked rigid around his shoulders while her toes splay then curl tight, soles cramping from the building blaze. That battered pussy convulses wildly around his invading girth, cream gushing frothier at the seal with every plunge, inner muscles fluttering desperately to milk on those veins pulsing hot inside her. That curve hitting spots that make her dizzy. That tip kissing the back of her pussy, making her stomach clench. 

Tension coils her belly taut, breaths punching erratic as sparks ignite white-hot, walls seizing brutally on the next drop that kisses her spot, and she shatters. Squirt erupts forceful, clear jets arcing from her spasming slit to splatter his abs, soaking the shaft still lodged halfway as her pussy clamps and ejects, flooding the crease between her ass cheeks in hot rivulets that puddle onto the sheets, dampening it dark beneath her. Zariah’s body bucks helplessly in Smoke’s fold, eyes rolling on a scream that shreds hoarse while her nails dig crescent moons into his forearms.

Smoke grunts low once, chest rumbling the sound, before yanking free with an obscene squelch, dick springing upright glossy and throbbing, veins livid against the slick sheen of her release coating every inch from balls to tip. He unfolds her legs, thighs blooming wide as gravity settles her limp, then shoulders between them rough—head dipping low to seal his full lips hot over her quivering pussy. That thick tongue plunges flat and broad through her splayed folds, lapping the gush pooled in her entrance like a glutton, tongue flicking up to swirl her clit hood and those lips start sucking the pulsing nub vacuum-tight. Smoke smacked his lips wet, devouring every drop. His thick fingers splay her lips wider, exposing the pink inner clench still fluttering post-squirt, and he tongues deep inside to scoop the cream hollowing her out, beard scraping thighs raw as nose buries into her mound drag her scent full lungs.

Zariah stared down at him dumbfounded. She didn’t have the capacity to form words. He was eating her pussy up and even her twitching didn’t stop him from overstimulating her. 

Her vision blurred as aftershocks ripple through her, body slack against the soaked sheets, chest rising and falling shallow while her pussy throbs exposed, folds. Moans spill lazy from her throat, fracturing into his name drawn long and needy

“Smoke...Smoke…” her hips canting, rolling her slick pussy against his locked mouth, grinding her clit over his probing tongue that flicks non-stop like a propeller. Her thighs clamp his ears, heels digging into his back to pull him tighter into her drenched heat, cream smearing into his beard thick as she chases the friction through the daze, palming the top of his low cut ceasar with the deep waves.

Smoke’s growl vibrates low against her pussy before he lifts, his face slick-shined, eyes burning dark into hers, jaw set granite

“Gon’ nut so deep in this pussy, lock it down tight.” No pause, Smoke surges up fluid, knees bracketing her hips, one hand fisting the base of his dick slick-heavy to notch his tip bluntly at her fluttering hole, then he slams home in a single thrust, burying balls-deep with a meaty thwack that jolts her tits.

Silence is only broken by skin-slaps wet,  his powerful hips snapping, pulling that dick to drag slow, veins bulging against her pussy grip before dropping to grind deep with a roll of his hips. His pace builds, thighs flexing like steel under sweat rivers carving paths down his obliques, abs clenching ridge-defined with every plunge that stretches her walls around that curved dick invading her pussy. The headboard thumped the wall with dull thuds while his heavy balls swung to slap her ass cheeks spread wide, drawing creamy froth at the seal to drip down her crack.

Zariah’s moans pitch frantically while her hands claw his shoulders, gouging fresh welts into the flexing traps. Her Legs hook his waist and she locks her ankles to pull him deeper, pussy clenching, ridges pulsing hot inside, and her words tumbled desperate to coach him through. 

“This yo’ pussy, Smoke—cum in yo’ pussy, big daddy...fill this pussy up, give it all...show me who this pussy belong to. Tear it up, big daddy…stretch me out…ahhh–nnghhh–big ass dick…oh…big dick—yes, right there, right there, don’t stop, stroke it—yessss.” Her voice cracks husky, hips bucking in a counter-rhythm. 

Smoke’s groan shreds guttural, throat raw cords straining as his eyes bore into hers unblinking, heavy-lidded slits flaring wide with the lock. His muscles are cable-tight across his shoulders, biceps ballooning veins livid under her rake, traps bunching while his quads quake to brace the final drives. That big dick swells thicker mid-thrust, tip flaring to kiss her depths, and he erupts—balls drawing up tight, contracting, pulsing thick-hot ropes to flood her clenching channel and paint her walls white. His thrusts stutter shallow, grinding his thick seed deeper, damn near churning it to froth with her cream, that veiny beast jerking erratic against the flutter, that pussy milking every drop while an overflow seeps slow down her ass. His groan drags endless, chest heaving bellows against her neck, forehead dropping to hers sweat-slick as the last pulse fades, his body a heavy drape over her pinned frame. 

Smoke eases his thick, curved dick out of Zariah's soaked pussy inch by inch, letting her feel every ridge and stretch as he pulls free. The wet slide leaves her entrance fluttering, slick with their mixed fluids. He stays close, one broad hand resting on the curve of her hip while he watches her body settle.

“You took all that dick so good for me, baby. Real good. My pretty girl handled every inch. See? Ain’t gotta fight me all the time. C’mere, pretty girl.”

Smoke leans down and presses his lips to her forehead, then again just above her brow, then once more near her hairline. Three kisses that linger each time.

“Stay right there. Don’t move.”

Smoke stands, his heavy frame casting a shadow over her sprawled form. Zariah lies on her side like a goddess, long legs slightly parted, rich brown skin glowing with sweat and satisfaction, full lips curved in a lazy smile from being fucked so thoroughly. Her narrow waist and soft hips look even more inviting in the afterglow. Smoke steps away toward the bathroom first, turning on the jacuzzi tub so warm water starts filling with steady jets. The sound of bubbles fills the space. He then leaves the room entirely to head for the kitchen. 

On his way out. He glances back at her again. 

“Stay right there. I'll be back to get you in a minute.”

About ten minutes goes by and Zariah’s phone rings while she’s still sprawled on the bed, freshly fucked and glowing. She reaches for it lazily, answering with that professional tone she keeps for work. 

“Hey, it’s Z. Ellie…hey. Yeah, I’m here. What’s going on?”

Ellie, her publicist starts rattling off a packed schedule—more shoots, events, back-to-back bookings for the next month. Zariah listens, nodding along even though no one can see her, her voice calm and composed.

Smoke walks back into the room carrying the tray with her herbal tea and water. He sets it down, eyes locking on her. That look says everything without a word. He steps closer, takes the phone right out of her hand, and brings it to his ear.

“Ellie, right? Listen, she gon’ need a week off. Clear the next seven days—yes, a week. Y’all can make it happen.” His voice is final. He hangs up before the publicist can reply.

Zariah sits up a little, mouth opening to protest. “Smoke—”

He leans in and kisses her, slow and with tongue, cutting off whatever she was about to say. When he pulls back, his hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing her full lower lip.

“You gon’ need some rest and relaxation. I plan to fuck you and eat that pussy in every room of this place. You hear me?”

Zariah stares at him, that familiar tension flickering between them—her independence brushing up against his weight. Smoke doesn’t move. He just waits, eyes steady on hers. Slowly, she melts, no need to fight him when truthfully she could use a little break. And seven full days of back-to-back sex with her big, bad, man? Hell yeah. 

“Say it. Yes, daddy.”

Zariah exhales, shoulders softening the way they do when she chooses to meet him. Her voice comes out quiet but clear. 

The royal box had been an exquisite torture.

All day, you had sat among the lords and ladies of the Reach, the velvet cushion beneath you doing absolutely nothing to comfort the restless ache that had taken root deep in your belly. The sun had beaten down on the tourney grounds, the air thick with the smell of trampled grass and churned earth and the distant roasting meat from the feast-fires, but you had barely noticed any of it. Your attention had been fixed entirely, hopelessly, on the black knight.

Your husband. Every time his black destrier thundered down the lists, every time his black armor caught the sunlight and gleamed like polished obsidian, every time his lance shattered against an opponent's shield in an explosion of splinters, you felt it in the pit of your stomach, a clench, a slow molten roll of heat that had nothing to do with the summer sun. Your fingers gripped the arms of your chair. Your thighs pressed together beneath your gown, shifting against the wetness that had gathered there. Your breath came shallow and quick.

He had unhorsed three men before midday. Three, and each time he rode past the royal box you could have sworn he lingered just a moment longer when his eyes found yours. Blue and brown. The gods had given him one eye the color of a summer sky and the other the rich dark of freshly turned earth, and you were absolutely certain they had done it specifically to ruin you.

You shifted in your seat for the dozenth time, squeezing your thighs together in a vain attempt to relieve the throbbing pressure that had built between them. Lady Webber, seated beside you, leaned over with concern in her broad, honest face.

"Are you quite well, Your Grace? You look rather flushed."

"Perfectly well," you managed, not looking away from the grounds. Valarr was circling his horse at the far end, preparing for another pass. The way he sat in the saddle, the way his thighs gripped the horse's flanks, thick muscle flexing beneath dark steel, the easy confidence in his posture, the way he tucked his helm under his arm and ran a gauntleted hand through his hair, that silver gold streak on the left side catching the light—

"The heat," you added, gripping the arm of your chair until your knuckles went white. "It is only the heat."

But it was not the heat. It was remembering how those thighs felt when they were gripping your hips instead of a saddle. It was knowing exactly what that controlled violence looked like when it was unleashed in your bedchamber, when he was buried deep inside you and that same focused intensity was bent entirely on drawing scream after scream from your lips. It was the way his armor hugged his body and the way you knew every inch of what lay beneath, the lean muscle and warm skin, the trail of dark hair below his navel that you loved to follow with your tongue, the scattering of scars from a lifetime of training, the way his stomach tensed and jumped when you dragged your nails across it. It was knowing exactly what that body could do, the sounds it could wring from you, the positions it could fold you into, the seemingly endless stamina that left you wrecked and trembling and begging for more. And being forced to sit in polite company, smiling and nodding and making idle conversation, while he displayed all that power and grace and leashed violence before half the Reach—

By the time the final tilt was called and the tourney began to wind down for the day, you were fairly vibrating out of your skin. Your smallclothes were soaked through. You had imagined, in vivid and increasingly creative detail, at least seven different ways you wanted him to fuck you—bent over the railing of the royal box, on your knees in the shadow of the stands, on your back in the trampled grass with the roar of the crowd still echoing in your ears—and you had reached the point where you no longer trusted yourself to speak to anyone without your voice cracking.

So when the crowds dispersed and the lords and ladies began drifting, you did not drift with them. You walked straight toward the black and red pennants that marked the Targaryen tents.

His squire was a boy of perhaps five and ten, all gangly limbs and anxious eyes, and he was already struggling with the straps of Valarr's vambraces when you swept through the canvas flap.

You did not break stride. "Out."

The boy's eyes went wide as saucers. "Your Grace, I was just—"

"Now."

He fled. The tent flap barely had time to settle before you turned to face your husband.

Valarr stood in the center of the pavilion, still armored, his helm already discarded on a nearby table. His odd eyes found you immediately, and the corner of his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile, the smile of a man who knew exactly what he had been doing all day.

"My wife," he said. His voice was slightly hoarse from shouting commands over the din of the lists, and the roughness of it sent a shiver straight down your spine, straight to the aching place between your legs. "You dismissed my squire rather abruptly. Have I done something to offend?"

You crossed the space between you in four strides. The tent was warm, lit by a half-dozen candles that cast dancing shadows across the canvas walls. The air smelled of leather and oiled metal and the faint, clean undertone of his sweat, that particular scent of him that made you want to press your nose to the base of his throat and breathe him in until you were dizzy with it.

"You have been offending me all day," you said, stopping so close that the steel of his cuirass nearly brushed your bodice. Your voice came out low and rough, barely more than a growl. "Parading around on that horse. Riding like that. Looking like that. Do you have any idea what you put me through? Do you have any idea how many times I had to press my thighs together just to keep from moaning aloud in front of half the nobility of the Reach?"

His brows lifted slightly, but the smile did not leave his lips. It deepened, if anything, the corner of his mouth curling in a way that was positively smug. "I was competing in a tourney. It is generally what one does at a tourney."

"You know exactly what you were doing. Every time you rode past the royal box, you looked at me. You knew I was watching."

"Enlighten me," he said, his voice dropping into something darker, more dangerous. "What was I doing?"

You reached up and pressed your palms flat against his breastplate. The metal was warm from the sun and from the heat of his body beneath, and you could feel the faint vibration of his heartbeat through the steel, steady, strong, slightly faster than it should be.

"You were magnificent," you said, your voice dropping to barely a whisper. "Every pass. Every impact. When you unhorsed Lord Ashford's cousin, when that lance hit true and he went flying, I thought I might scream. Do you know what it does to a woman, watching her husband ride full tilt with a lance in his hand, fearless, perfect, everyone in the stands cheering his name? Do you know what it does to me, Valarr, watching you dominate every man who dares ride against you, knowing that same ferocity is going to be focused on me the moment we're alone?"

His mismatched eyes had gone dark, his breath had changed, grown shallower. He did not move. "Tell me."

"It makes me wet," you said, blunt and shameless, your eyes locked on his. "It makes me ache. It makes me want to drag you off that horse by your hair and have my way with you in the dirt in front of everyone. I was ready to climb over the railing and ride you right there in the royal box. In front of Lord Ashford. In front of Lady Webber. In front of the gods and every noble house of the Reach. I would have let them all watch. I was so far gone I would not have cared." His breath caught. Through his breeches, you could see the growing evidence of his arousal, the thick outline of his cock pressing against the fabric.

"You are playing a dangerous game, wife."

"I am not playing." You pressed closer, your breasts flattening against the hard steel of his cuirass, your lips nearly brushing his chin. "I have been sitting in soaked smallclothes for hours, thinking about your cock. Thinking about how it feels when you first push inside me. Thinking about how you stretch me, how you fill me so completely I forget my own name. Thinking about the sounds you make when you're close—that raw, broken groan you try to swallow. I have been thinking about it all day, Valarr. And I am done thinking."

He kissed you. It was deep, hungry and consuming, his mouth slanting over yours with a ferocity that matched everything you had been feeling all day. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming, demanding, and you moaned into the kiss as his free hand found the small of your back and pulled you hard against him. Your body pressed flush against the unyielding plane of his armored chest, the contrast of cool steel against your heated breasts making your nipples tighten to aching peaks. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that was pure filthy promise.

You fisted your hands in the collar of his gambeson, pulling him impossibly closer, and he made a sound low in his throat that vibrated through his chest and into yours. You could taste the salt of his sweat, the faint sweetness of the watered wine he must have drunk between tilts, the heat of him. Your body was on fire. Every inch of your skin felt electric, alive, aching. The slick heat between your thighs had grown almost unbearable; you could feel it on your inner thighs, could feel how ready you were for him.

"Help me," you gasped against his mouth, your fingers fumbling with the buckles at his shoulders. "The pauldrons. Get them off. Get everything off. I need to feel your skin. I need your cock inside me before I lose my mind entirely."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving, his lips red and slightly swollen from your kisses. His eyes were blazing with a hunger that made your knees weak.

"Tell me what you want," he said, his voice a rasp that sent heat pooling low in your belly. "Exactly. Tell me every detail, and I will give it to you."

"I want you on your back in this tent." You wrenched one pauldron free and let it drop to the ground with a heavy thud. "I want to feel every inch of you against me without this damned steel in the way." The second pauldron followed. "I want to strip you bare and put my mouth on every part of you. Your throat. Your chest. Your stomach." Your fingers moved to the buckles of his cuirass as you spoke, your voice growing breathier with each word. "I want to take your cock in my mouth and feel you get harder on my tongue. I want to taste you, Valarr. I want to taste your release when you spend down my throat. And then I want you on top of me, driving into me so hard I cannot walk tomorrow. I want to feel you come inside me, hot and deep, filling me up until I can feel it dripping down my thighs. I want you to ruin me, Valarr Targaryen, until neither of us can remember our own names."

He stared at you for a long moment, his breathing ragged, his eyes burning. The bulge in his breeches was straining against the fabric now, thick and unmistakable. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

"You," he said, the word barely more than a growl, "are the most infuriating, intoxicating, utterly maddening woman I have ever known."

"Less talking," you breathed, reaching for the final buckles of his cuirass. "More undressing. I want to see what I do to you. I want to see how hard you are for me."

You made quick work of the breastplate, your fingers moving with a speed born of pure, desperate need. The steel plate hit the ground with a clang that echoed through the tent, and then you were pressing yourself against his gambeson, the padded fabric still damp with his sweat, the heat of his body seeping through to meet your own. Your hands slid down his chest, over the hard planes of muscle, down his stomach, lower—

"Gods," you whispered, your forehead dropping to his chest as your palm pressed against the thick ridge of his erection through his breeches. He was hard as iron, hot even through the fabric, and he twitched against your touch. "Do you feel what you do to me? Do you have any idea how much I want you?"

His hands—still gauntleted, curse him—slid down your sides, over your hips, and settled on the curve of your backside. He pulled you flush against him, grinding his hardness against your belly, and there was no hiding what this was doing to him. The thick length of him pressed against you, and you whimpered at the feel of it, at the promise of being filled.

"I have some idea," he murmured against your hair, his voice strained. "I have been half-hard since the first tilt, watching you watch me. Do you know how difficult it is to ride with a cockstand?"

"Then why are you still wearing so many clothes?"

You dropped to your knees. His hands hovered in the air where you had been standing, and he looked down at you with an expression that was equal parts shock and raw, naked want. His cock was at eye level now, straining obscenely against his breeches, and you could see the damp spot where his arousal had already begun to leak through the fabric.

"You are kneeling in front of me." His voice was barely a whisper, rough and desperate. "In a tourney tent. Where anyone could walk in. Where anyone could hear you when I make you scream."

"Then you had better be quick about deciding what comes next." You pulled one greave free and started on the other, your fingers brushing deliberately against the inside of his thigh as you worked. He shuddered. "Though I should warn you—I'm not feeling particularly quiet tonight. And I'm not feeling particularly quick. When you finally put your cock inside me, I intend to take my time."

The second greave came off. You stayed on your knees, your hands resting on his armored thighs, your face tilted up to meet his gaze, your lips parted and your eyes heavy-lidded with want. The candles flickered. The shadows danced. And Valarr Targaryen looked down at you like you were the most terrifying, wonderful thing he had ever seen like he wanted to devour you whole.

"Stand up," he said, his voice rough as gravel.

"Make me."

He reached down and pulled you to your feet in one motion, his hands under your arms, and then his mouth was on yours again and you were being walked backward toward the cot in the corner of the tent. Your back hit the tent pole, and he pressed himself against you, one armored thigh sliding between your legs and grinding against your aching cunt through the layers of your gown. The pressure was maddening, not nearly enough, and the sound you made was absolutely shameless, a desperate, keening moan that would have been heard three tents away if anyone had been listening.

"Yes," you gasped, arching against him, rolling your hips to grind against his thigh. "Yes, please, yes, right there, gods, Valarr—"

He kissed down your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point, his tongue soothing the sting, and you dug your fingers into his shoulders through the gambeson, your nails biting into the fabric.

"I want you," you said, the words tumbling out of you like a prayer. "I have wanted you since the first tilt. I have wanted you since I woke up this morning wet and aching from dreams of you. I want you all the time, Valarr, every moment of every day. I want your mouth on my breasts. I want your fingers inside me. I want your cock so deep I can feel you in my throat. I want you to fuck me until I cannot remember my own name, until my voice is hoarse from screaming yours, until I am so full of your seed that it takes days to stop feeling it drip out of me—"

He stopped. His mouth stilled against your collarbone. His thigh stopped its maddening pressure between your legs. His hands, which had been sliding down to the small of your back, went still.

"What—"

"My love."

The tone made you freeze. It was tender. Affectionate. Entirely too calm for a man whose cock had been pressed against your belly moments ago, hard and wanting.

You looked up. His eyes were soft now, the hunger banked, replaced by something warm and unbearably fond. And lurking in the corner of his mouth was that quirk, that maddening, insufferable little quirk that meant he was about to say something you did not want to hear.

"I am so very tired."

The words did not register at first. You blinked, your body still humming with unspent desire, your cunt still clenching around nothing, your lips still tingling from his kiss. "What?"

"The armor. You cannot imagine. I have been carrying it all day in this heat. Every muscle in my body aches. My shoulders. My back. My..." He gestured vaguely downward. "...everything."

"I will soothe your muscles. I will soothe every part of you. That is precisely what I am trying to do." You pressed your palm against the hard length of him through his breeches to emphasize your point. He was still rock hard. Still twitching at your touch. "This does not feel like a man who is too tired."

His smile widened. He was enjoying this. You could see it in his eyes, the way the blue one sparkled with mischief and the brown one warmed with suppressed laughter. He was enjoying this entirely too much.

"You are very sweet," he said, and leaned down to press a kiss, soft, chaste, utterly infuriating, to your forehead. Then he gently removed your hand from his erection, his fingers wrapping around your wrist with infuriating tenderness. "But I fear I would be poor company. I can barely keep my eyes open. A man of two and twenty is not so spry as he once was. The spirit is willing, but the flesh..." He heaved a dramatic sigh. "The flesh is very, very tired."

"You are two and twenty. And your flesh is very clearly willing."

"An old two and twenty. The joints begin to protest. It is a terrible thing. The maesters have warned me about overexertion."

"Valarr Targaryen, I swear to every god in the Seven Kingdoms, if you do not put your cock inside me right now—"

"Perhaps tomorrow, my love." He stepped back, "After a proper night's rest. When my strength has returned. Then I will be able to give you the attention you deserve." His voice dropped, his eyes sweeping over your flushed face and heaving chest and the visible stiffness of your nipples through your gown. "Every. Single. Bit. Of it. I will take my time with you. Make you scream until you cannot remember your own name—wasn't that what you wanted? But I will only do it properly when I am not about to collapse from exhaustion."

He was already moving toward the armor stand, where a simple dark tunic and breeches lay waiting. You stood frozen in place, surrounded by the pieces of his discarded armor, your body still humming with unspent desire, your soaked smallclothes clinging to your heated flesh, your lips still tingling from his kiss.

"You cannot be serious."

He pulled the tunic over his head with deliberate, unhurried movements, covering the sweat-damp linen of his gambeson. He turned back to you, looking for all the world like a man without a care, his hair still tousled and that silver streak falling roguishly across his brow. The bulge in his breeches had—through what must have been monumental effort of will—begun to subside.

"I am always serious," he said, utterly failing to keep the mirth from his voice. "I shall send for wine. Something cool, to help with the heat. You look rather flushed, my love. And your breathing is quite... irregular. Have you been sitting in the sun? Perhaps you should lie down. In the cot. Alone. To recover your strength."

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"I have not been sitting in the sun. I have been sitting in the royal box watching my husband ride like a god of war and thinking about how much I wanted him to bend me over the railing and—"

"Careful," he said, raising a finger, his expression one of mock concern. "The canvas walls, remember? And I am so very weary I might faint at the details. Think of my delicate constitution."

You picked up the nearest object—a gauntlet—and hurled it at his head.

He caught it. One handed. Without looking away from your face. The man had been trained by knights of the Kingsguard since he could walk, and he caught it like it was a ball tossed by a child. He turned the gauntlet over in his hands, his smile widening into something that was pure, unrepentant mischief.

"Tomorrow, my love," he said, his voice dropping into something lower, something that promised and teased in equal measure. His eyes swept over you, lingering on your parted lips, on the flush that extended down your throat, on the way your hands were still clenched into fists at your sides. "I give you my word. Tomorrow, I will make you forget your own name. Tomorrow, I will have you in every way you described and several you have not yet imagined. Tomorrow, you will be so thoroughly satisfied that you will not be able to look at a tourney field without blushing for the rest of your life."

"Tomorrow," you repeated, your voice flat with disbelief and frustration and—gods help you—reluctant amusement.

"Tomorrow," he confirmed. And then he was at the tent flap, lifting the canvas, pausing just long enough to look back over his shoulder. His eyes raked over you one last time, and there was a flash of heat in them—a glimpse of the hunger he was so carefully restraining, a promise that he was suffering too, that every moment of this tease was costing him as much as it was costing you.

"Dream of me," he said, his voice a low, rough murmur that sent one last shiver down your spine. "Dream of what I'm going to do to you. In detail. I want a full report in the morning." And he winked.

The canvas fell closed behind him. You stood alone in the silence of the tent, surrounded by candlesmoke and the scent of him, your body still aching and your pride still smarting and your heart still racing and your cunt still throbbing with the orgasm he had denied you.

"Tomorrow," you muttered to the empty air, already beginning to smile despite yourself—a slow, predatory smile that promised retribution. "We shall see about tomorrow, my prince. You have made a grave tactical error. You have given me an entire night to plan." And somewhere outside the tent, you could have sworn you heard him laugh.

—

You woke to heat, a deep, liquid heat that was already pooling low in your belly, already drawing your thighs apart with an urgency that bordered on involuntary, already dragging you up from the depths of a dream you couldn't quite remember, a dream full of shadows and steel and a voice murmuring promises against your skin. Your body was responding before your mind could catch up, back arching slightly off the furs, fingers twisting in the linen sheets, a soft, confused sound escaping your lips that was half whimper, half question.

And then you felt it. The slow, deliberate, devastating drag of a tongue through your most intimate folds.

Your eyes flew open with a gasp that tore from somewhere deep in your chest. The world was waking up around you, ordinary and routine and utterly indifferent to the fact that beneath the furs, between your legs, was a head of brown hair with a distinctive streak of silver gold threading back from the temple like a bolt of lightning frozen in time.

"Valarr—" His name came out as a croak, half confusion, half moan, because his tongue had just circled the sensitive bud at the apex of your sex with devastating precision and your hips bucked entirely without your permission, your thighs clamping briefly against his ears before he pressed them back open with firm, unhurried hands. "What—what are you—isn't it—oh gods—"

He did not lift his head. He did not stop. He did not even acknowledge that you had spoken beyond a low, pleased hum that vibrated against your cunt and made your eyes roll back. His tongue flattened and dragged upward through your folds with a languid, unhurried thoroughness that spoke of a man who had all the time in the world and intended to use every single moment of it to reduce you to incoherence. One of his hands was splayed across your lower belly, holding you steady, pinning you to the cot with a casual possession that made your blood sing. The other was hooked under your right thigh, fingers dimpling your flesh, keeping you spread open for his attentions with an implacable gentleness that was somehow more devastating than force.

"Good morrow," he murmured against your cunt, the words shaped directly into your slick, heated flesh, and the vibration of his voice made you gasp and clutch at the furs beneath you.

"Isn't it—" You lost the words entirely as his tongue slipped inside you, just briefly, a teasing thrust that curled upward and made your hips roll in a helpless, seeking rhythm. "Isn't it a jousting day? The—the lists—you should be—you should be preparing—"

He hummed against you, a low sound of consideration, and the vibration coupled with the slow circle his tongue was tracing around your pearl nearly made you forget your own name, let alone your question. "The jousts have been suspended."

Your mind, hazy with pleasure and sleep and the insistent, expert pressure of his mouth, struggled to process this information with anything resembling coherence. "Suspended? Why would they—oh, right there, don't stop, please don't stop—why would they suspend the jousts?"

"The Bright Prince," Valarr said, pausing just long enough to press a hot, open mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, his stubble rasping against your sensitive skin and leaving a trail of pleasant friction in its wake, "has demanded a trial of seven."

"Who—Aerion?" You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down at him through the disheveled curtain of your hair. His mismatched eyes gleamed up at you from between your thighs, one the deep blue of sapphires, one the warm brown of aged whisky, both filled with a lazy, predatory satisfaction that made your stomach flip and your cunt clench around nothing. "Aerion demanded a trial of seven? Against whom? Why? What in the seven hells happened while I was asleep?"

Valarr sighed, a warm exhale against your slick, swollen folds that made you shiver from your crown to your toes. "A hedge knight. Ser Duncan the Tall. He struck Aerion to defend a puppeteer girl, and now my dear cousin demands blood and calls it justice." He pressed another kiss to your mound, the tip of his nose nudging against the thatch of curls there. "He has accused the hedge knight of assault and the knight has demanded a trial by combat. Aerion, being Aerion, has escalated it to a trial of seven."

"That's—that's absurd, Aerion is—" You gasped sharply as his tongue dipped back into you, long and slow and curling, cutting off your outrage with a wave of pleasure that made your elbows tremble. "Valarr, I'm trying to—to care about this, it's important, you must let me—"

"I am between your legs," he said, his voice muffled against your cunt, his tongue tracing idle patterns through your folds that made rational thought nearly impossible, "with my tongue inside my wife, and she is asking about my cousin."

"You cannot simply—wake me up like this and expect me not to—to have questions about a trial of seven when—oh, gods—"

He had found your pearl again, circling it with the very tip of his tongue, a feather light touch that somehow managed to be devastating in its precision. Your elbows gave out. You collapsed back against the pillows with a moan that was frankly indecent, one hand flying to his hair, your fingers threading through the brown strands and brushing against that distinctive silver streak that marked him as surely as a banner marked an army. He made a sound of deep, masculine approval against your flesh and redoubled his efforts, his tongue working you with a rhythm that was devastatingly precise, alternating between broad, flat strokes that covered your entire cunt and focused, pointed flicks against your pearl that made sparks dance behind your closed eyelids.

"I am trying," he said between strokes, his voice low and rough with satisfaction, "to apologize for yesterday. For my behavior. For my cruelty."

"You are trying," you managed, your voice breathless and trembling and utterly lacking the sharp edge you wanted it to have, "to distract me from being angry with you. You're trying to lick your way out of the trouble you caused."

He paused, just for a moment, and looked up at you with an expression of mock-innocence that was entirely undermined by the slickness glistening on his lips and chin. "Is it working?"

Your hips were rolling against his mouth now, your body chasing its pleasure without any input from your pride, without any regard for your dignity. "No. Absolutely not. I am still—I am still furious with you—"

He sucked your pearl between his lips, gentle at first and then not, a sudden increase in pressure that bordered on overwhelming, and the sound you made was absolutely humiliating, a keening, desperate cry that you would deny to your dying day.

"You sound furious," he agreed, releasing you with a wet, obscene pop, his voice dripping with satisfaction and something deeper, something hungrier.

"You left me," you gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him hiss. "You left me aching and desperate and so wet I was dripping down my own thighs, and you winked at me like it was a game, like I was a piece on a cyvasse board you'd already captured—"

"It was a game." He dragged his tongue through your folds again, slow and thorough, from your entrance all the way up to your pearl, savoring you like a man savoring the finest vintage. "A very enjoyable game. One I intend to play again."

"For you."

"For both of us." He pressed a kiss to your mound, then another just below your navel, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin, leaving a trail of tingling sensation. "I believe the terms of our game included a promise for tomorrow. And tomorrow, my sweet wife, has arrived. I woke before dawn thinking about this. Thinking about you. Thinking about how you looked when I left you—flushed and furious and so gods-damned beautiful I nearly turned around and took you right there on the floor of my tent."

You yanked his hair. Not hard enough to truly hurt, but hard enough to pull his mouth away from where you desperately, desperately wanted it. He looked up at you, his lips glistening with your arousal, his chin wet, his eyes dark and amused and slightly reproachful at being denied his prize.

"I have not forgiven you," you informed him, proud of how steady your voice sounded despite the fact that your thighs were trembling and your cunt was clenching around nothing and every nerve in your body was screaming for him to put his mouth back where it belonged.

"So you've said." He tried to lower his head again, but you tightened your grip, keeping him in place. A flash of something dangerous crossed his features, annoyance, yes, but also interest. He liked this. He liked you fighting back. It was, after all, why he had married you.

"You teased me," you said, and now your voice was steadier, fueled by the righteous indignation that had kept you awake half the night. "You worked me up until I was practically begging—until I was saying please and Valarr and I need you—until I would have done anything, anything you asked, just to feel you inside me. And then you patted my head like a well-behaved hound and sent me to bed alone, aching and empty and so frustrated I thought I might scream."

"I kissed your forehead."

"Worse." You glared down at him, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the fact that you were still flushed and panting and spread open beneath him, your slickness still visible on his face, your nipples peaked and visible through the thin linen of your shift. "It was a forehead kiss. The forehead kiss of a man who knows exactly what he's doing and is enjoying it far, far too much." You leaned up slightly, your grip still tight in his hair. "Do you have any idea how long I lay awake last night after you left me? Do you have any idea what I did, alone in your tent, thinking about you?"

His smile widened, slow and wolfish. "Tell me."

"Hours." You released his hair, letting your hand trail down the side of his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the proud cheekbones, the slightly too full lips that were still wet with you. "Hours, Valarr. Thinking about what I was going to do to you today. Planning. Scheming. Touching myself in the dark while I imagined all the ways I would make you pay for your cruelty."

His eyes darkened further, the pupils swallowing the irises. "You touched yourself."

"I did. Twice. It wasn't enough." You let your hand drop back to the furs. "Nothing I did to myself was enough. That's what you did to me. You ruined me for my own fingers, and then you left me alone."

"Planning and scheming," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hip bone that was almost reverent. "And touching yourself in the dark. That sounds very industrious. What did you decide? What punishment have you devised for your wicked husband?"

"I decided you need to suffer the way I suffered." You watched his face carefully, saw the flicker of interest, of anticipation. "I decided I would make you want me so badly you couldn't think straight, and then I would deny you. I decided I would tie you to this cot and touch myself in front of you and let you watch, and watch, and watch, and never once let you inside me. I decided I would make you beg the way you made me beg."

He was very still now, his breath warm against your hip, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that made your heart race. "That would be a cruel punishment indeed."

"You taught me cruelty. You should be proud."

"I am." He nipped at the sensitive skin just above your hip bone, hard enough to make you jump and gasp. "I am so very proud. My wife, a quick study in vengeance." His tongue soothed the sting of his teeth. "But I notice you are not tying me to the cot. You are not touching yourself. You are not denying me anything. You are lying here, spread open, wet and wanting, letting me taste you."

You smiled. It was not a sweet smile. "Where is your armor?" you asked.

Valarr blinked. The question was so incongruous, so utterly unrelated to the situation at hand, his face still wet with you, your thighs still spread, his cock visibly straining against his smallclothes, that for a moment he simply stared at you.

"What?"

"Your armor. The black plate. The gauntlets. The gorget. All of it. Where is it?"

"In the tourney tent, I imagine." He spoke slowly, warily, as if you were a strange beast that might bite him. "My squire would have cleaned and laid it out for inspection, as he does every morning before a day of—" He stopped. His eyes narrowed with suspicion and something that might have been dawning comprehension. "Why?"

You released his hair and sat up slowly, pushing yourself back against the pillows, drawing your knees together with a deliberate, pointed movement that made his eyes flick down to your thighs with undisguised regret. You looked at him with an expression you had been perfecting since last night, sweet on the surface, sharp beneath, like honey hiding a blade.

"Take me there."

"To the tourney tent?" His voice had gone very careful, very controlled.

"To the tourney tent. Where your armor is. Where your squire has laid it out so carefully."

His brows drew together, a furrow appearing between them. "You want me to stop—" he glanced meaningfully at your thighs, at the evidence of his attentions still glistening on your skin, at the obvious, aching hard on tenting his smallclothes— "this, and walk across the tourney grounds in full view of half the realm, to my tent, because you want to see my armor?"

"I want you to put it on."

The words hung in the air between you like a challenge, like a thrown gauntlet.

Something flickered in his eyes. "You want me to put on my armor."

"Not all of it." You let your voice drop into something lower, something darker, something that made his pupils dilate and his breath catch almost imperceptibly. "Just enough. Just the pieces I want."

He was silent for a long moment, studying your face, reading the intention there. Then he sat back on his heels, still kneeling between your legs, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The gesture was casual, almost lazy, but his eyes had gone very dark.

"You want me to fuck you in my armor." It was not a question.

"I want you to finish what you started yesterday." You sat up fully, drawing your knees together, letting the shift fall down over your thighs, letting him see that you were still in control of this situation despite the fact that your thighs were still slick and your heart was still racing and your cunt was still aching with the emptiness he had left. "You were in your armor yesterday. Every time I looked at you—on the field, in the tent, standing over me with your gauntlets dripping water—you were in your armor. Every fantasy I had last night, alone in this bed with my fingers between my legs, you were wearing your armor. I imagined the sound you would make when you walked toward me. I imagined the cold of the metal against my bare skin. I imagined you taking me in your armor, still sweating from the tourney, still smelling of leather and victory." She paused, watching his face, watching the way his jaw had tightened and his hands had curled into fists against his thighs. "And then you took it off piece by piece and left me standing in the wreckage of it while you walked away in a plain linen tunic like a common hedge knight."

"Like a hedge knight." His voice was flat, but there was an edge to it now, a sharpening.

"A hedge knight would have stayed and finished what he started. A hedge knight would have put his mouth to better use. A hedge knight would have fucked me until I couldn't walk straight instead of patting me on the head and sending me to bed." You raised an eyebrow at him, letting the challenge hang in the air. "So yes. I want you in your armor. I want to feel the steel against my bare skin. I want to hear it creak and clank while you move inside me. I want to remember exactly who I married—the prince who rides like a god of war and fucks like one too, not the man who is too tired and too smug and too busy playing games to bed his wife properly." You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift pointedly to the obvious bulge in his smallclothes. "Unless, of course, you are still tired. Unless yesterday's exertions were too much for you. In which case, I am sure there is a cot somewhere you can nap on while I find other, more satisfying ways to amuse myself at this trial of seven."

The threat landed exactly as intended.

His jaw tightened until you could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. His hands flexed against his thighs, the knuckles whitening. His breath came faster, his chest rising and falling beneath the thin linen of his tunic. And when he spoke, his voice was a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very air between you, a sound that sent a shiver straight to your core and made your nipples tighten to aching points.

"Get dressed."

You smiled. Sweetly. Innocently. The smile of a woman who had just won the first tilt of the day and was already planning the second.

"As my prince commands," you murmured, and swung your legs over the side of the cot with deliberate, unhurried grace.

He caught your wrist before you could stand. The movement was so fast you barely saw it—one moment he was kneeling on the bed, the next he was pressed against your back, his chest against your spine, his mouth at your ear, his fingers wrapped around your wrist like a manacle of warm, living steel. You could feel every inch of him through the thin linen of his tunic, the hard planes of his chest, the ridged muscles of his abdomen, and pressing insistently against the curve of your lower back, the hot, rigid length of his cock, still trapped in his smallclothes, still achingly hard.

"You are going to regret this," he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear, his breath warm and uneven, his voice a promise and a threat and a prayer all tangled together. "When I get you in that tent, surrounded by my armor, with no one to hear you scream and nowhere to run and nothing between us but steel and need—you are going to regret every single moment of bratty defiance you have given me this morning. Every sharp word. Every wicked look. Every time you pulled my hair and stopped my tongue and denied me what is mine."

His free hand slid around your waist, palm flat against your belly, fingers splayed wide, pulling you back against him so you could feel exactly how hard he was, exactly how much he wanted you.

"I am going to bend you over my shield," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more terrifying than a shout, "and fuck you until you cannot remember your own name. I am going to take you against the armor stand and let the whole camp hear you scream. I am going to put you on your knees in the middle of my war gear and use that clever mouth until tears are running down your cheeks and you are begging me—begging me, the way you made me beg with your eyes yesterday—to let you come. And I am not going to let you. Not until you have apologized. Not until you have taken back every insolent word. Not until you have admitted, out loud, that you are mine and that no one else—no hedge knight, no high lord, no god on earth or in the heavens—could ever satisfy you the way I do."

His teeth grazed your earlobe, a sharp, bright spark of sensation that made you gasp and arch against him involuntarily.

"Do you understand me?"

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. Blue and brown. Burning with a fire that matched your own. The dragon's eyes, you thought, and felt a thrill of something that was half fear and half desperate, aching want.

"Prove it," you said, your voice steady despite the trembling in your thighs. "Put on the armor. Show me the prince I married. And then maybe—maybe—I'll let you have what you want."

You pulled your wrist free with a sharp twist, stood, and began to dress with hands that only trembled a little. Behind you, you heard him exhale, a long, slow breath, the breath of a man steadying himself for battle.

—

Valarr walked a half-step behind you the entire way, close enough that the heat radiating from his body seeped through the thin fabric of your gown like a fever you couldn't shake, close enough that when you passed through a narrow gap between two pavilions his hand found the curve of your backside and squeezed hard enough to make you stumble mid stride, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with proprietary confidence before delivering a sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the confined space. You shot him a glare over your shoulder, heat flooding your cheeks. He smiled back, utterly unrepentant, his eyes glittering with dark promise and the kind of smug satisfaction that made you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.

The camp churned with the news of the trial of seven like a kicked anthill. Everywhere you looked, men and women clustered in tight knots, speaking in low, urgent voices that hummed with equal parts dread and morbid fascination. You caught fragments as you passed, snippets of conversation that floated past your ears barely registered—"Aerion Brightflame," spoken with the particular revulsion reserved for mad dogs, and "the hedge knight, seven feet if he's an inch, and the Reachmen have flocked to his banner," and "who in the Seven Hells will stand for the accuser against a prince of the blood?"—but the words washed over you like water over stone. Your focus had narrowed to a single point, a lodestone pulling you inexorably forward: the black and red pennants of the Targaryen tourney tent, snapping and twisting in the morning breeze ahead, their fabric tongues of dragonfire against the pale blue sky.

His squire was waiting outside, a gangly boy of perhaps fifteen with anxious eyes that darted about like startled sparrows and a perpetually worried expression etched into the soft planes of a face still waiting for its first proper shave. He straightened so abruptly when he saw you both approaching that he nearly tripped over his own feet, relief flickering across his features like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

"Your Grace—"

"Leave us," Valarr said, not breaking stride, not sparing the boy so much as a glance. "Stand guard. No one enters this tent. Not the hand himself. Not the High Septon. Not the Stranger incarnate. Do you understand?"

The boy's eyes went very wide, the whites showing all around the dark irises. He swallowed audibly, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing. "Yes, my prince. No one. Absolutely no one. I will guard the tent with my life. I swear it on my mother's—"

"See that you do."

Valarr held the tent flap open for you, the heavy canvas lifted high on his forearm, and you stepped inside, the cooler shadows of the interior washing over your flushed skin like a balm.

The space within was exactly as you remembered it from yesterday, you walked to the center of the tent, the trampled grass soft beneath your slippers, and turned to face him with deliberate slowness, letting him see the curve of your smile, the arch of your brow.

"Well, my prince," you said, your voice pitched light and teasing, a silk-wrapped needle, "shall we begin?"

He was already reaching for the gambeson draped over the stand, the padded linen garment rustling as he lifted it. "You wanted to put me in my armor. Put me in my armor. Every piece. Every buckle. Every strap."

"I want you to tell me," you said, stepping close enough that the hem of your gown brushed against his boots, taking the padded garment from his hands with deliberate slowness, your fingers dragging across his knuckles, "what you're going to do to me. Every detail. Every moment. While I dress you piece by piece."

His eyes darkened, the pupils swallowing the violet and the black alike. "You want a story?"

"I want a promise." You shook out the gambeson, holding it open for him. "I want to hear exactly what's waiting for me. Consider it... motivation to survive the day."

He slid his arms into the padded sleeves, and you stepped behind him to help guide the garment over the broad expanse of his shoulders, your fingers brushing the bare, warm skin of his arms, the corded muscle that flexed beneath your touch like a living thing. The gambeson was still cool from the night air, but beneath it, his skin was furnace-hot, radiating warmth through the padded linen. You moved around to his front and began to lace the garment closed, starting at his sternum and working your way down with excruciating slowness, your knuckles pressing against his chest with every pass of the cord, feeling the steady, accelerating thunder of his heartbeat beneath your touch.

"When I have you," he began, his voice dropping to that low, rough register that vibrated in your bones, "the first thing I am going to do is put you on your knees."

You sank down before him, not in obedience but to reach for the sabatons, kneeling at his feet to fasten the articulated steel shoes around his boots. The position was not lost on him; you watched his hands flex at his sides, the tendons standing out against the skin, watched his jaw tighten as he looked down at you kneeling before him with your hair spilling over your shoulders and your face level with his hips. "On my knees," you repeated, your voice soft and feigned innocent. "And then?"

"And then I am going to watch you take my cock out of my breeches. Slowly. No rushing, no tearing at the laces like you're unwrapping a gift. I want to see your hands on me—both hands, your fingers wrapping around my length, your thumbs tracing the ridge of the head. I want to see your face when you first feel how hard I am for you, how much I've been aching for you since I opened my eyes this morning." His voice dropped to something barely above a growl. "I've been half-hard since I woke up thinking about the sounds you made last night. Since I tasted you on my tongue. Gods, I can still taste you—salt and sweet and something I can't name but can't forget. It's been driving me mad all morning."

You fastened the second sabaton, your fingers steady despite the molten heat building low in your belly, spreading outward like wine spilled on silk. You reached for the first greave, the shaped steel plate cool against your palms. "Go on," you said, and your voice emerged steadier than you felt. "Tell me more."

"Then I'm going to put my hand in your hair—" he reached down and suited the gesture to the word, his fingers threading through the hair at your crown, tightening just enough to tilt your head back, to force your gaze up to meet his, "—and guide your mouth to me. And you are going to take me as deep as you can, until your lips meet the base of my shaft and your nose presses against my belly. I want to feel the back of your throat. I want to feel you swallow around me. I want to see tears in your eyes—not from pain, but from the effort, from wanting to take all of me, from being so full of me you can barely breathe." He paused while you buckled the first greave around his shin, your fingers working the leather straps through the buckles, pulling them snug against the padded linen beneath. "But I'm not going to let you finish me that way. Not today."

"No?" You looked up at him through your lashes, your hands pausing on the second greave.

"No." The word was a growl that seemed to originate somewhere deep in his chest, rumbling through the air between you. "Today, I want to be inside you when I spend. I want to feel you come around my cock, feel you clench and pulse and cry out my name so loudly that the whole Red Keep knows who you belong to. I want to fill you up until it drips down your thighs, the way you said you wanted yesterday, the way you whispered in my ear when you thought you were being scandalous. Every word you said to me yesterday—I remember all of it. Every filthy, beautiful, desperate word. And I intend to make every single one of them come true before the sun sets."

You rose, your body humming with anticipation like a plucked harp string, and reached for the cuirass. The black steel was cool and heavy against your palms as you lifted it from the table, the three-headed dragon crest seeming to watch you with knowing ruby eyes. You pressed the breastplate into place against his chest, and he held it there while you moved around behind him to begin fastening the side buckles. His eyes tracked you in the polished reflection of the armor, never leaving your face as your fingers worked methodically down his sides, pulling each strap through its buckle, testing each fastening with a sharp tug.

"Then I'm going to bend you over the armor stand," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble that vibrated through the steel beneath your hands, through your fingertips, into the marrow of your bones. "And I'm going to push your skirts up around your waist—slowly, so I can watch the fabric slide up the backs of your thighs, so I can see the curve of your arse inch by inch before I bare you completely. And I'm going to take you from behind, standing up, with my armor still on. You'll feel the cold steel of my cuirass against your back, hard and unyielding. You'll feel the chill of my greaves against your calves. You'll smell the metal and the leather mixed with the scent of us. But inside you, I'll be hot. Hot and hard and so deep you'll feel me in your throat, in your chest, in the very core of you."

Your breath caught in your chest like a trapped bird. Your fingers fumbled on the last buckle, the leather slipping through your grasp before you caught it again, and you heard him exhale, not quite a laugh, but something darkly satisfied, something that said he knew exactly what his words were doing to you.

"Then," he continued, relentless, merciless, "when I've had my fill of watching myself disappear inside you from behind, I'm going to carry you to the cot and put you on your back. And I'm going to take off my gauntlets so I can feel your skin with my bare hands. I'm going to hold you down, one hand between your breasts, pinning you to the mattress. And I'm going to fuck you slowly. So slowly you'll feel every inch of me, every ridge, every pulse. So slowly you'll beg me to go faster. And I won't. Not until you apologize for every bratty, insolent, maddening thing you said to me this morning."

You finished the last buckle of the cuirass with hands that trembled ever so slightly—you knew he could see it, could feel it in the minute vibrations transmitted through the steel—and reached for the gorget. The throat armor was shaped to cradle his neck, to protect the vulnerable hollow where his pulse beat visibly beneath the skin. "Apologize?" you managed, your voice emerging breathier than you intended, a half-octave higher than your usual register. "For what, precisely?"

"For pulling my hair when you knew it would drive me to distraction. For denying me what we both wanted because you were enjoying the game too much to end it. For threatening to find satisfaction elsewhere." His eyes burned into yours, twin flames of violet and shadow, and his voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, something that was somehow more commanding than any shout could be. "You are going to say 'I am yours, Valarr, and no one else's. My body is yours. My pleasure is yours. Everything I am is yours.' And then, and only then, will I let you come. Not a moment before. No matter how much you plead."

You swallowed hard. Your throat was dry as parchment left in the sun. "And if I refuse? If I'm stubborn and willful and refuse to give you the satisfaction?"

His smile was slow and wolfish and altogether dangerous, the kind of smile that would have made a lesser woman run for the hills. "Then I'll keep going until you don't. I can do this all day, sweetheart. I can bring you to the edge again and again and again until you forget your own name, until you forget why you were resisting in the first place, until the only word left in your vocabulary is 'please.' And then I'll make you wait a little longer, just because I can."

The gorget was in place, the final buckle secured beneath his left ear. Only the gauntlets remained on the table, and the helm—a sculpted thing of black steel with a dragon crest sweeping back from the crown like frozen fire. You reached for the gauntlets, the articulated steel fingers clicking softly against each other, but he caught your wrists in his bare hands before you could lift them.

"Leave them," he said, his voice rough as stone dragged over gravel. "I want to feel you. I've been waiting all morning to feel you."

And then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was a conquest and surrender woven together into a single act. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head back to expose the vulnerable column of your throat before his mouth descended. His tongue swept into your mouth with a hunger that bordered on violence, tasting of the wine he'd drunk before you arrived, tasting of want and need and barely leashed desperation. The steel of his cuirass pressed cold and unyielding against your breasts through the thin fabric of your gown, and the contrast of sensations, cold metal against your front, hot mouth against your lips, hard steel against your soft flesh, soft tongue sliding against yours, made your head spin like you'd drunk an entire flagon of the Arbor gold on the table.

You kissed him back with everything you had, with every ounce of frustration and desire and desperate wanting that had been building since yesterday, since this morning, since the moment you'd first laid eyes on him. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his gambeson where it showed above the cuirass, pulling him closer, closer, until the steel was pressed so tight against you that you could feel the steel imprinting on your skin through your dress.

"Gods," you gasped against his mouth, pulling back just far enough to drag air into your burning lungs, "I want you. I want you now. Right now."

"Then have me."

He walked you backward with the steady, unstoppable momentum of a tide, his armored body a wall of heat and steel pushing against your softness, until your spine hit the armor stand. The wooden frame rattled violently, a pauldron clattering to the trampled grass with a dull thud, a vambrace following it a moment later, and then his hands were on your hips, the heat of his bare palms searing through your gown, lifting you onto the edge of the campaign table with effortless strength. Your skirts bunched around your thighs, the fabric rucking up past your knees, past midthigh, until the cool morning air kissed skin that was already flushed and feverish. His armored body pressed between your legs, the steel of his cuirass shockingly cold against the heated, sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and you wrapped your legs around his waist with a desperation that surprised you, pulling him closer, the ridges of the armor pressing into your soft flesh in ways that would leave marks, and you didn't care, you didn't care at all.

"Tell me you want this," he said, his voice ragged, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants that mingled with your own. "Tell me you want me. I need to hear you say it. I need to know this isn't just—I need to know you want this as much as I do."

"I want you," you breathed, the words spilling out of you like water from a cracked dam, unstoppable and honest and raw. "I want you all the time, every moment of every day, until it drives me to distraction. I am yours, Valarr Targaryen. I am yours and no one else's, now and always, today and tomorrow and every day after. My body is yours. My pleasure is yours. Everything I am is yours."

He kissed you again, harder, more desperately, the careful control he'd maintained all morning finally snapping like an overwound harp string. One hand left your hip and you felt him fumbling between your bodies, working at the laces of his breeches with urgent, unsteady fingers, and then he was free, and you felt the hot, hard length of him pressing against your inner thigh, leaving a trail of slick moisture against your skin.

The first press of him against your entrance made you gasp into his mouth. You were still slick from his attentions this morning, your body still aching and empty from the interrupted promise of the night before, still desperate and ready despite—or perhaps because of—everything. And when he pushed inside you—one long, slow, relentless thrust that filled you completely, that stretched you in ways that walked the perfect line between pleasure and exquisite ache—you cried out so loudly you were certain the entire camp must have heard, certain the squire outside the tent must be blushing to the roots of his hair, certain the news would spread through the tourney grounds faster than word of the trial itself.

"Yes," you sobbed, your head falling back, your nails digging into the back of his neck hard enough to leave crescents in his skin, your inner muscles clenching around the sudden, overwhelming fullness of him. "Yes, yes, yes—"

He took you with a ferocity that drove the breath from your lungs in sharp, punched-out cries, each thrust hitting deep enough to make your vision blur at the edges. His bare hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise, pulling you onto him with every driving thrust, meeting your body with his own in a rhythm that was more storm than song. The armor stand rattled and creaked beneath you with the force of his movements, the remaining pieces of armor clanking against each other like discordant bells, and you had to brace one hand behind you on the table to keep from being driven backward onto the scattered steel.

The sound of it was utterly obscene, and you were past caring. The clank of steel against steel. The creak of leather straps straining. The wet, rhythmic slide of your bodies joining and parting and joining again. The raw, desperate, animal sounds tearing from your throat with every thrust, moans and gasps and half-formed words that might have been his name or might have been prayers. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, your ankles locking behind the small of his back, and the slight shift in angle made him hit a spot deep inside you that sent white lightning arcing up your spine, that made you scream, that made your inner muscles flutter and clench around him in involuntary spasm.

"That's it," he growled against your ear, his voice dark with satisfaction and unspent hunger. "Let them hear you. Let the whole camp hear who you belong to. Let the gods hear. I don't care. I want everyone to know."

"Valarr—Valarr—I'm going to—I'm so close, I'm going to—"

"Come for me." The command was a growl, a plea, a demand all at once. "Now. I want to feel you."

The command shattered what little control you had left. Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave in a storm, white-hot and blinding, starting somewhere deep in your core and radiating outward in pulses of pure, incandescent pleasure. You screamed his name so loudly your voice cracked and broke on the second syllable, your head thrown back, your spine arching, your body convulsing around him in rhythmic, milking pulses that drew a guttural groan from somewhere deep in his chest. The world went white at the edges, then gray, then nothing at all for a suspended moment of pure, perfect oblivion.

He followed you over the edge moments later, burying himself to the hilt inside you with a final, deep thrust, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your sweat-damp skin, his body shuddering with the force of his release. You felt him pulse inside you—once, twice, three times, four—felt the hot, flooding spill of his seed filling you, felt it begin to drip down your thighs even before he pulled out, a slow, warm trickle that traced paths down your trembling skin.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tent was filled with the sound of ragged, desperate breathing, yours, his, indistinguishable from each other, two sets of lungs working in tandem. The armor stand creaked beneath you with a final, settling groan. The fallen pauldron gleamed on the grass, its polished surface now smudged with fingerprints. Somewhere in the distance, a crier was calling something about the trial of seven, his voice high and thin and utterly irrelevant, a fly buzzing at the edge of a world that had shrunk to the space between your bodies.

Valarr lifted his head from your shoulder slowly, as if it weighed more than his helm, and looked at you with those eyes still hazy with the remnants of pleasure, still dark with hunger despite everything you'd just done, still burning with something that looked terrifyingly like devotion and his lips were kiss-swollen, and there was a mark on his neck where your nails had raked across the skin, and he was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

"I believe," he said, his voice hoarse and scraped-raw, the words emerging between still-labored breaths, "that I owed you a proper apology. For my behavior. For my presumption. For everything."

You laughed, a breathless, exhausted, utterly satisfied sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest and emerged as something between a giggle and a sigh. The movement made him shift inside you, still half-hard, and you gasped at the oversensitive friction. "Accepted," you managed, your own voice barely more than a whisper. "Though I should warn you—if that's how you apologize, I may need to find reasons to be cross with you more often."

—

Outside the tent, the squire stood at rigid attention, his spine so straight it was on the verge of snapping, his face the color of curdled milk, his eyes fixed on the distant treeline with the desperate intensity of a man who was trying very, very hard to be somewhere else entirely. His name was Edric, he was fifteen years old, he had been in Prince Valarr's service for exactly eight months, and he was fairly certain that nothing in his life had prepared him for this.

He had heard everything. Everything. The first moan had been bad enough, a high, breathy sound that had made his ears turn pink and his gaze drop to his boots. The second moan had been worse, drawn out and trembling, followed by a rhythmic creaking that could only be the armor stand, the armor stand, gods preserve him, the very armor stand he had polished that morning, taking a structural battering it had never been designed to withstand. And then there had been words. Words. The princess had said things—things he was fairly certain he should not repeat even under threat of torture—and the prince had responded in a voice so low and rough and possessive that Edric had actually taken three involuntary steps away from the tent flap.

Now there was screaming. Not the bad kind of screaming but the kind of screaming that made his entire body flush with heat and his throat go dry and his brain very pointedly refuse to form coherent thoughts.

He was going to die. He was going to die of embarrassment right here, outside his prince's tent, and the maesters would have to invent an entirely new category of death to explain what had happened to him.

Maybe I should have become a septon, he thought miserably. Septons don't have to stand outside tents listening to—

A particularly sharp cry rang out from within, followed by the unmistakable sound of something wooden and structural creaking in rhythmic protest. Edric squeezed his eyes shut and began mentally reciting the names of all seven aspects of the Seven. Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, Stranger—

The Stranger, he felt, was particularly appropriate. He was fairly certain he was about to die of embarrassment.

"VALARR—yes—right THERE—"

Edric opened his eyes and fixed them on a cloud that was drifting lazily across the morning sky. That was a nice cloud. Clouds were safe. Clouds did not make sounds that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his natural life.

He was so focused on the cloud—and on mentally reciting every prayer he knew, and on wondering whether it was possible to un-hear something through sheer force of will—that he did not notice the approach of the man until a shadow fell across him and a voice spoke from approximately two feet away.

"Where is my son's armor?"

Edric jumped approximately three feet into the air and spun around with a strangled yelp that he would deny to his dying day.

Prince Baelor Breakspear stood before him.

"Y-y-your Grace." Edric's voice cracked on every syllable, pitching upward like a boy of twelve instead of a squire of fifteen. "Prince Valarr's armor is—ah—it is—it is inside the tent. Yes. Inside. The tent. Where the armor is."

Baelor's eyes, the same deep blue as his son's left eye, narrowed slightly. "Are you quite well, lad? You look rather flushed."

"I am perfectly well, Your Grace. Perfectly. It is only the—the heat. The morning heat. Very hot this morning. Unusually hot. I was just—standing here. Guarding. As one does."

Baelor studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment, then seemed to decide that squires were simply peculiar creatures and not worth further investigation. "Good. I have need of the armor before—"

His hand was already reaching for the tent flap and Edric's soul departed his body.

"Your Grace, wait—"

Baelor stopped, his fingers an inch from the canvas. He had heard something.

A sound. A distinctly human sound. "Oh, Valarr—" The voice from within was high and breathy and unmistakably feminine, stretched taut with something between ecstasy and desperation. "Right THERE—don't stop—gods, don't you DARE stop—"

Baelor Breakspear's hand froze in midair. His fingers curled inward, retreating from the canvas as though it had suddenly burst into flame.

Edric wanted to die. He wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. He wanted to be anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms—the Wall, the deserts of Dorne, the smoking ruins of Valyria itself—anywhere but standing next to his prince's father while said prince was audibly, enthusiastically, thoroughly fucking his wife twenty feet away.

"I—Your Grace, I am under—under very strict orders—" Edric's voice was barely a whisper, his face now achieving a shade of crimson that would have impressed a painter. "No one is to enter the tent. Not anyone. Not for any reason. Those were—those were Prince Valarr's exact words. His very exact words. He was quite specific."

Another sound from within, a rhythmic creaking, the unmistakable clank of steel against something wooden, a low, rough, guttural male groan that was absolutely, undeniably, catastrophically Prince Valarr's voice.

Baelor stood frozen outside his son's tent with his mouth slightly open and his cheeks slowly, inexorably turning the color of a summer rose.

"Valarr! VALARR—I'm—I'm going to—I'm—"

A scream. Female. Ecstatic. Utterly, comprehensively unmistakable. It was the kind of scream that left nothing to the imagination—the kind of scream that painted a very detailed picture of exactly what was happening inside that tent, a picture that Edric desperately, desperately did not want to be seeing in his mind's eye.

And then, as if the scream had not been damning enough:

"VALARR! YES! YES, RIGHT THERE—FILL ME UP—DON'T STOP—"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Baelor Breakspear stared at the tent flap as though it had personally insulted his entire bloodline. His hand, still raised, slowly lowered to his side. His jaw worked soundlessly for a moment—opening, closing, opening again—like a fish that had been unexpectedly yanked from the water and was still trying to process its new reality.

"I..." He cleared his throat. "I... see."

"The armor," Edric whispered miserably, staring at the ground as though it might offer him salvation, "is... occupied, Your Grace."

Baelor's voice, when he finally found it, was remarkably steady for a man who had just been forced to confront the fact that his son was, at present, engaged in activities that would make a Dornish courtesan blush. "Occupied."

"Very occupied."

"Yes—like that—exactly like that—oh, gods, I can feel you so deep—"

"Extremely occupied," Edric amended, his voice barely audible. "Thoroughly occupied. Could not be more occupied if they tried."

A long, agonizing pause. From within the tent came the unmistakable sound of bodies shifting, the creak of the cot—the cot, gods, they had moved to the cot—and a low, breathy laugh that was definitely the princess.

"Well," Baelor said, and his voice had acquired a slightly strangled quality, as though someone had their hands wrapped around his throat, "it is... it is good that they are... that the marriage is... that they are clearly very..." He paused, searching for a word that would not make this situation worse. "...compatible.""

"Harder—HARDER—I want to feel you for DAYS—"

Baelor closed his eyes. He drew a long, slow breath through his nose. He opened his eyes again and looked at the sky as though beseeching the Seven themselves for intervention.

"Right," he said, to no one in particular. "Right. Well. I suppose... I suppose I shall find armor elsewhere. Ser Humfrey Hardyng may have something suitable. He is roughly my same proportions. Give or take. Or perhaps Lord Ashford keeps spares in the armory. For... for emergencies." He paused.

"VALARR, I'M GOING TO COME AGAIN—"

Baelor turned on his heel with the rigid, mechanical dignity of a man who had decided that the only way to survive this encounter was to pretend it had never happened. His movements were stiff, precise, the movements of a soldier retreating in good order from a battle that could not be won.

"I shall go now," he announced to the world at large. He took three long strides toward the main thoroughfare of the camp.

"Your Grace!" Edric called after him, his voice cracking with desperation. "Shall I—should I—do you want me to tell Prince Valarr that you came looking for him? When he is—when he is finished with his—with the armor?"

Baelor did not break stride. He did not slow down. He did not look back. If anything, he appeared to walk faster.

"You may tell my son," he said, his voice carrying back over his shoulder with a strained composure that was honestly quite heroic under the circumstances, "that I wish him joy of his morning. That I am pleased—very pleased—that his marriage is so... vigorous. That I am profoundly, deeply, inexpressibly glad that I did not walk into that tent. And that if either of them ever—ever—speaks of this in my presence, I shall deny it happened until my dying breath."

He paused, just for a moment, and added in a tone of immense, bone-deep exhaustion: "The Seven give me strength."

And then Prince Baelor Breakspear, the finest knight of the realm, disappeared around the corner of a supply tent with the speed of a man who had suddenly remembered an urgent appointment on the other side of the known world.

Edric stood alone, staring at the spot where his prince's father had been, listening to the sounds still emerging from within the tent—a rhythmic thumping now, another rising moan, and something that sounded distressingly like the cot beginning to splinter—and wondered if it was physically possible to die of embarrassment.

It was, he concluded, probably not possible. Which meant he would have to live with this memory for the rest of his natural life.

"Oh—oh—VALARR—"

user1 oh i'd never go outside again

user2 oscar should've slapped tf out of him

->user3 LIKE?!?? why are you outing my crush man!@!?!? ->user4 i would've exposed him right back 😭

user5 i mean she IS gorgerous so..

user6 he's so messy for saying that bruhh

user7 his reply being to blush

->user8 he was SPEECHLESS ->user9 bro was SO red oh my-

user10 now why the hell would he say that?? 😭

user11 lowkey scared to see bellingham's reaction to this

user12 oscar might need to hire security after this

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♬ Sade ‧ Paradise

Liked by judebellingham, oscarpiastri and 1,318,362 others

ynbellingham ooh what a life

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user1 vibes are perfect

user2 no selfie :(

->ynbellingham didn't want to embarrass the bros ->judebellingham alright ->jobebellingham that's crazy ->user3 well is she lying..?

user4 oscar still in the likes, he really dgaf

user5 you are such a sade song 💌

user6 TRULY living the life

user7 alright what do y'all think of oscar? judebellingham jobebellingham

->judebellingham no comment ->jobebellingham ⬆ ->user8 oscar you might wanna watch out... ->user9 either he doesn't gaf or he REALLY gives a fuck.....

user10 do you need a sister in law..?

user11 come on oscar daon't be shy... leave a comment

user12 why am i nervous for oscar now 😭

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ynbellingham posted a story !

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user1 WATCHING F1?!?!??

user2 of all races u picked the one oscar won....

user3 this face card mama

user4 a selfie after your last story is sooooo

user5 heyyyyy jude 🤭

user6 ty for this jude pic queen <3

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oscarpiastri posted a story !

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ynbellingham guess i picked a pretty good race to watch

->oscarpiastri if i'd known you were watching i would've invited you to the race

->ynbellingham didn’t want to give you performance anxiety yk 🤕

->oscarpiastri right right right ->oscarpiastri your presence would’ve caused a 20 car pile up

->ynbellingham see! glad you understand

->oscarpiastri also i do want to apologize for my teammate saying all that and having your comments full of people talking about me…

->ynbellingham it’s fine lol ->ynbellingham but you didn’t have to make your teammate say my name to get my attention ☺️

->oscarpiastri if i’d known that then i would’ve messaged you sooner 😉

->ynbellingham mhmm so you free anytime soon…?

->oscarpiastri i can make myself free if need be

->ynbellingham send your number so we can chat some more

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Liked by judebellingham, oscarpiastri and 3,118,262 others

ynbellingham omw 🛫

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user1 this hair is so so good i can't

judebellingham where???

->ynbellingham do i need to tell you everywhere i go? ->judebellingham YES ->jobebellingham 100% ->ynbellingham you're welcome to tag along ->jobebellingham I HAVE PLANS ->judebellingham IM on my way ->ynbellingham i was joking jude ->ynbellingham JUDE ->ynbellingham i hate you ->user2 THEY ARE SOOOO ->user3 such a little brother i canttt

user4 living my dream life im sick

user5 the face card is always so insane im speechless

user6 the hello kitty keychain... i knew i liked u for a good reason

->ynbellingham im a woman with excellent taste ->user7 TRUST we know mama

user8 wait but WHERE are you going...??

user9 Muse, the legend, the myth x

user10 loving your active era

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judebellingham recently 🍃

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user1 IS THAT.....

user2 no way did jude post oscar piastri before y/n

ynbellingham 🥐🏝📽

->user3 THE PASTRY KASURGLIU ->user4 this is conformation 100% ->user5 THEYRE INSANEEEE

user6 he's trying to distract us from how good he looks in the 1st picture

user7 did he just hard launch oscar and not let y/n do it!??? 😭

user8 them three all hanging out is still crazy to me

user9 HE MET THE FAMILY.....

->user10 AND WENT ON VACATION WITH THEM ->user11 oscar knew not to play with it came to y/n

user12 the way we all know that's oscar from his back is sooo-

user13 does this mean that oscar got the brothers stamp of approval

user14 girl the concept of oscar and all the bellingham's having family dinner is KILLING MEE 😭

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oscarpiastri Enjoyable one that!

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judebellingham 🙌😍🔥

->ynbellingham easy with the 😍 ->judebellingham damn my bad ->user1 she said "oscar is not a group project"... ->user2 that's HER man ->user3 the heart eyes was a little much 😭

user4 Killing it brother

user5 GO OSCAR🧡✨🏆

ynbellingham so so so proud 💗

->oscarpiastri thank you for coming angel 💗 ->judebellingham easy with the "so" ->ynbellingham this is why jobe is my favorite ->user6 jude takes the role of being the middle child very serious ->user7 he somehow always finds new ways to annoy y/n..

user8 MY GOAT OSCARRR

user9 okay ynbellingham be honest did they interrogate him..?

->ynbellingham lot's of threats but it ended with everyone getting ice cream so it was fine lol ->user10 not surprised 😭☠

user11 just tried to sneak in y/n...

user12 audibly gasped when i saw the 5th picture

user13 so deserved!! well done

jobebellingham where was my invite..?

->ynbellingham in the group chat.. ->judebellingham i have the messages!! ->user14 the kids are fighting again ->user15 omg they are such siblings i canttt 😭

user16 MY FAV DRIVER IS A WINNNNNER

user17 i can't believe he bagged THE y/n bellingham 😭

user18 he's got all the bellingham's approval how cute 🤭

user19 second to confirm it after jude did LOLLL

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✎…… this was going to be shorter but i just kept adding stuff mb <3

also if there are any jobe and jude names mixed up it's because i swear i have undiagnosed dyslexia

The way he fucks you: Slow and controlled. He's a man who's been denying himself for years (in many contexts) and now that he has permission to have one thing he's wanted above all else, he's going to savour every second. He maps your body like territory he's conquering inch by inch. He learns what makes you gasp, whimper, beg, and then he uses it. A merciless commander of his favourite battlefield. With the same brilliance he brings to the tourney field.

Pet names: "Little wolf" (only in private, only in bed, and it makes you feral every time), "my lady" (even when you're naked and begging, because the formality is part of the game), "sweetling" (rarely, and when he does use it you know he's feeling extra soft toward you)

High Valyrian: He uses it sparingly because he knows the power it has over you. The intimacy of a language you don't fully speak, the intimacy of it. He waits until you're close, until you're trembling, and then he switches: "Gevie" (beautiful), "Ñuha zaldrīzes" (my dragon, ironic and possessive because you're the wolf but he's claiming you in dragon-tongue), "Māzīs syt nyke" (come for me).

Post-sex: He holds you like you're something precious he's afraid will disappear. Traces your face with his fingers like he's memorising you. Whispers things into your hair: "I've wanted you so long," "You undo me," "I would burn the realm for you and I know I shouldn't." The vulnerability lasts maybe five minutes before he rebuilds his walls back to the prince (because he still feels ashamed to want you this much), but every one of those moments is yours.

MAEKAR:

Competence + control exchange (he's furious that he wants to submit to your authority outside the bedroom—you're his wife or his political equal and you command respect he has to give, and it makes him feral—so in bed he takes it all back, pins you down, makes you yield, forces the power dynamic back into his favour)

Possessive marking (bites and bruises in places only he'll see, but also places that will show, just barely, under your gown's neckline, so every man at court will know you're claimed)

Restraints (his belt, your own clothes, his bare hands—he doesn't need silk ties, he needs you helpless and teeth bared)

Rough silent dominance (the sex is almost wordless sometimes, specially in the beginning, just commands: "Turn over." "Spread your legs." "Breathe." and the silence makes every sound you do make sound ten times filthier)

The rare praise (he almost never praises, so when he does, a muttered "Good girl" or "Perfect, just like that", it hits like a physical blow, and he knows the power those rare words have so he rations them like a miser)

Reclaiming his wife (after social events where you have to be polite to visiting lords, where other men look at you with appreciation, or even want, he'll pull you into your chambers and fuck you still half-dressed, possessive and intense.)

Aftercare denial (he makes you wait, trembling and aching, before suddenly pulling you against his chest and the tenderness hits harder because he made you earn it, left you on the edge before claiming you with his strength)

Scent fixation (burying his face in your hair/neck and just breathing you in before he fucks you, like he's trying to get drunk on you)

The cold prince warming (Winterfell's cold draws something out of him; he runs hot naturally and in the Northern winter that contrast is more stark, he's your personal furnace, and he'll warm you with his body deliberately, strip you down and press skin-to-skin in the furs: "Let me warm you, wife, let me—" and the service aspect gets him off)

The awkward tenderness (he doesn't know how to be soft, so when he tries it's clumsy; his fingers too rough when he tries to be gentle, his words stilted when he attempts praise, and the awkwardness is somehow more intimate than smoothness would be)

Authority kink (he gets off on giving orders and having them obeyed ("Spread your legs," "Don't move," "Stay quiet") and watching you comply makes him harder than the actual acts themselves)

Duty-bound breeding (he frames getting you pregnant as duty, as obligation—"We need heirs, this is necessary"—but really he's obsessed with the idea of you carrying his children, of permanent claim)

The northman's endurance (winters are long in the North and so is he; he'll fuck you for HOURS on long winter nights, nothing else to do but tend the fires and tend to YOU, and his stamina becomes legend between you)

The crack (very rarely, after particularly intense sex, his mask will slip; his hand will tremble when he touches your face, or he'll pull you closer with something desperate in the movement, and you'll see the sheer need underneath the iron)

Praise starvation showing (he's spent his life as the overlooked fourth son, so when you praise him genuinely, tell him he's good, tell him you want him, he goes absolutely still, and then something ignites and he's on you with desperate hunger: "Say it again")

Throat-holding (his hand on your throat is about control, about feeling your pulse race, about the trust it requires. He doesn't squeeze, just holds, and it's more intimate than any kiss)

Wedding night do-over (months into the marriage, when he's actually in love, he'll recreate your wedding night, but THIS time with passion instead of duty, and the contrast destroys you both: "I want to do it right this time, want you to want me this time")

The Lord's hand always on you (in the great hall during meals his hand is on your thigh under the table, possessive and constant, and sometimes his fingers will slip higher, reminding you what's coming later, and you allow the touch grounds him)

Seasonal intensity (winter makes him MORE possessive—something about the isolation, the darkness, the need for warmth—he'll keep you in bed longer, fuck you more frequently: "Nothing else to do but keep you warm, keep you satisfied, keep you full")

Possessive sleeping (he cannot sleep unless you're in his arms, will wake if you try to move away, drag you back unconsciously, and the need for physical contact even in sleep betrays how deeply he's fallen)

Hate-fucking his own desire (sometimes he fucks you angry—angry that he wants you, angry that you make him weak, angry that he can't stop wanting you—and it's rough and desperate and he won't look at you until after)

The way he fucks you: Hard and controlled, especially initially. He's not trying to make love to you; he's trying to do his duty to you, prove something to himself while he's at it. But underneath the roughness is a desperate need he won't name. He'll pin your wrists above your head and fuck into you with mechanical precision, but his eyes are wild, burning. He'll bite your shoulder hard enough to bruise and then his tongue will trace the mark like an apology he can't voice.

Pet names: He doesn't use them. You're "Lady Stark" even when he's three fingers deep. You're "wife" (bitten off like a curse), then like a claim. The closest he gets to softness is a muttered "woman" that somehow sounds like "beloved" in his mouth every time.

High Valyrian: Rare. Cold and commanding. "Kostilus" (please, but it sounds like an order), "Māzīs" (come, snapped out when he's losing control), "Ñuha" (mine, branded into your skin like he's claiming territory).

Post-sex: He doesn't speak. Just pulls you against him with a grip that borders on bruising, buries his face in your hair, and holds. Sometimes his hands shake. Sometimes you feel his breath hitch like he's fighting something bigger than desire. He'll never say "I love you," but the way he clutches you in the aftermath speaks volumes. Nothing could take you from him. Nothing.

AERION:

Blood play (he bites until you bleed, licks the wound clean, mixes your blood with his—it's not about pain, it's about mingling, about becoming indistinguishable, about love as cannibalism)

Hair-pulling (your hands in his hair, yanking his head back, making him gasp—he's bratty and vicious until you pull hard enough and then he goes pliant)

Exhibitionism as claim-staking (he wants them to watch, wants them to see you choose him, wants everyone to hear you scream his name, wants the realm to know the wolf chose the mad dragon)

Degradation (call him "pretty," call him "desperate," call him a "temperamental little dragon" and watch him fall apart; he's been called brilliant and terrifying his whole life but no one's called him pretty like it's an insult and a caress)

You shaped Breeding kink (he's never wanted children with anyone else, the thought disgusted him, but you? He's obsessed with putting a child in you specifically, has spent years fantasising about it, wants to see you swollen with his seed, wants to bind you to him in the most permanent way possible—"You'd be so beautiful round with my babe," "Want everyone to see what I did to you," "Going to fill you until it takes"—it's possessive and primal and he can't think about anything else when he's inside you)

Humiliation play (making him perform, making him beg, making him prove he deserves you—he needs to earn it or it doesn't feel real)

Orgasm denial (he hates how much he loves being edged, being told when he can come, being controlled, but he's also achingly hard the entire time)

Oral fixation (his mouth is always on you—biting, sucking, licking, tasting—he needs his tongue on your skin like he needs air, will spend hours just kissing and biting his way across your body, sucking bruises into your thighs, your breasts, your throat, and when you're on your knees for him he nearly blacks out, watching his cock disappear between your lips is a straight up religious experience)

Bratty submission (his submission is never easy; he fights, he mouths off, he tests boundaries constantly, because he needs you to take it from him rather than have it given)

Mirror sex (he needs to watch himself break for you, needs to see his own degradation, needs the visual proof that you've undone him)

Jewellery/adornment fixation (he wants you dripping in Targaryen gold and jewels while you're naked and he's marking you; it drives him insane)

Temperature play (ice and dragonfire, he's obsessed with contradictions, with things that shouldn't coexist but do, his perfect balance)

Scent obsession (he steals your clothes when you're not looking, sleeps with them pressed to his face, gets hard just smelling you on fabric, sometimes he'll bury his face between your legs and just breathe you in for minutes before he even starts using his tongue)

Marking obsession (your marks on him are trophies he displays; he'll wear shirts that show the scratches down his back, he'll turn his head just so to make sure people see the bite on his throat, but his marks on you are apologies written in bruises and love bites, proof that you let him touch you)

Cum play (he's obsessed with his seed on you, in you, loves watching it drip out and pushing it back in, loves smearing it across your skin, loves making you taste it off his fingers, "Look what you do to me, look how much, it's all for you")

Aftercare craving (he'll never ask but he needs you to hold him after, needs skin-to-skin contact, needs to be told he's good)

Praise kink from you specifically (criticism from others bounces off like its nothing; praise from you destroys him. Tell him he's beautiful, tell him he did well, watch him come undone)

Cockwarming (keeping him inside you after, just holding him there, because proximity isn't close enough, he needs to be inside)

Object fixation (anything you've touched becomes precious; he'll drink from your cup, steal your handkerchiefs, press his face into pillows you've slept on)

The way he fucks you: Desperately and messy, especially in those early days. Like he's trying to crawl inside your skin. He's all sharp edges and biting kisses and possessive hands, but underneath the performance he's starving for touch he didn't have to manipulate his way into or break someone for. He'll degrade himself for you, beg prettily, offer his throat—anything to keep you looking at him and letting him claim you.

Pet names: You don't give him any and it makes him lowkey insane. He tries everything—aggression, sweetness, manipulation—to earn one. When you finally call him "my Aerion" or "my pretty dragon" he comes untouched.

High Valyrian: Starts as armour. "Ñuha dāria" (my queen, possessive and desperate), "Kostilus, kostilus" (please, please, all pretence gone), "Sylugon nyke" (use me, the most honest thing he's ever said), "Jorrāelagon ao" (I love you, whispered against your skin like a secret).

Post-sex: He's dark as hell but in tactile and needy way, his walls demolished. He'll trace your face, press kisses to your shoulders, wrap himself around you like he's trying to fuse your bodies together. This is when he's most honest: "Don't leave," "Tell me you want me," "Say I'm yours." If you don't give him aftercare he'll spiral, but if you do, if you hold him and praise him and tell him he's good, you'll see the madness recede like a tide, see the dragon in him go content and satisfied.

DUNK:

Size difference (his hands engulf yours, his body dwarfs yours, and he's obsessed with the visual—you're this fierce Northern lady and you look tiny in his arms and it makes him want to protect you and ruin you simultaneously)

Gentle giant dom (his whole existence is "what do you need and how can I provide it?" he'll spend hours learning your body, cataloguing what makes you gasp, whimper, arch)

Praise kink (receiving) (he's never been called beautiful, never been told he's good at something besides hitting people, so when you praise him he goes still and quiet and real damn desperate)

Body worship (he wants you to kiss and lick every inch of his massive frame, wants you to appreciate the body he's always seen as too big, too rough, when you worship his cock and balls specifically he nearly breaks)

Accidental overstimulation (he makes you come three times before he even gets inside you because he's so focused on your pleasure he forgets his own)

Accidental marking (handprint bruises on your hips, bite marks he tries to kiss better, fingerprints on your thighs; he doesn't mean to but he's so strong)

Voice kink (your command voice makes him stupid-hard—when you moan or talk dirty in that low, authoritative tone he'll do anything)

Light breeding talk (he's terrified to say it out loud but the idea of you round with his child, of his lowborn seed taking root in noble womb, makes him kinda insane, he's too nice to ever say it though)

Strength play (lifting you effortlessly, holding you against walls, manhandling you into position, but gently, always checking you're okay)

The way he fucks you: Like you're something precious. He'll work you open with his fingers (so much thicker than any lordling's), murmuring reassurance: "That's it, you can take it, you're doing so well." When he finally pushes inside he goes slow, watching your face for any sign of discomfort, and the restraint costs him. You can literally see him shaking with the effort of holding back.

Pet names: "M'lady" (always, even in bed), "little one" (size kink goes brrrr and makes him melt), "my heart" (when he's being devastatingly sincere and doesn't realise how loving he sounds)

High Valyrian: He doesn't know any and feels insecure about it. You're highborn, educated, you probably expect courtly sophistication. When you tell him you prefer the Common Tongue from him, that you prefer his rough Flea Bottom accent, it makes him dizzy with relief.

Post-sex: He holds you like you're made of glass. Peppers your face with kisses. Asks if you're alright at least seventeen times. Fetches water, cleans you gently, tucks you against his chest just to have you close. The aftercare is instinctive—he's taking care of you the way he takes care of his armour, his horse, anything he values because he has so little. Sometimes he'll whisper: "Can't believe you let me touch you. Can't believe you're mine."

LYONEL:

Impact play (hard spanking that leaves your marked, but he's laughing while he does it, drops an open mouthed kiss against the mark, clearly having the time of his life, "You can take it, wolf, I know you can, there's my girl")

Loud dirty talk + booming laughter (he doesn't whisper, he proclaims, "Going to fill you so full you're dripping for days," "Listen to those sounds you're making, fuck," and sometimes he just laughs, delighted by your body's responses)

Primal breeding (hair-pulling while he fucks into you from behind, biting your shoulder, holding you down; pure animal dominance, he knows better than to try and tame a wolf)

Public risk/semi-exhibitionism (fucking in tents during campaigns, against walls at feasts where someone might walk by, in the godswood where the risk of discovery makes it better and someone always hears you)

Cum play as marking (he loves smearing his seed all over your body—your breasts, your thighs, your face—or making you wear it under your gown at court dinners, loves the secret knowledge that you're marked, you can see his eyes twinkling every time he looks at you)

Strength play (lifting you effortlessly, fucking you against walls, holding you up while you're impaled on his cock)

Competitive (how many times can he make you come, how loud, how wet—he's keeping score and he's winning)

Exhibitionist breeding talk ("Everyone's going to know I fucked you," "You're going to walk into that council meeting with my seed dripping down your thighs," "Going to put a black-haired babe in you and let the realm wonder")

The way he fucks you: Hard and fast. He approaches sex enthusiastically, messily, and with full-body commitment. He'll throw you onto the bed and laugh at your indignant yelp before covering your body with his, all muscle and heat. He doesn't make love; he celebrates you.

Pet names: "Storm Queen" (his favourite, said with open pleasure), "my she-wolf" (possessive), "gorgeous creature" (when he's being appreciative), "there's my girl" (when you do something that particularly pleases him)

High Valyrian: He knows like three phrases and uses them all wrong but with such confidence you can't even correct him 😭 He'll try to dirty talk in Valyrian and completely butcher the grammar and you're too busy laughing/coming to care.

Post-sex: He's really affectionate, pulls you against him, plays with your hair, traces the marks he left on your skin with obvious satisfaction. Sometimes he'll sing, some tavern song or Storm's End ballad, while you're trying to catch your breath. He has no concept of embarrassment or vulnerability; this is just another form of intimacy to him.

VALARR:

DM Verse context: He's in love with Daeron's betrothed. Or Aerion's lover. Or the woman caught between one or both of his cousins in a toxic dance that's going to consume all of you (and likely kill someone). And he's the fool watching from the outside, wanting in, knowing he'll burn if he touches but reaching anyway.

Modern AU context: He's in love with his father's girlfriend. His father's fiancée. The woman who smiles at him over breakfast and sleeps in Baelor's bed and is going to become his stepmother. He's so thoroughly fucked it's almost funny. Except nothing about this is actually funny.

Forbidden fruit (every touch is stolen, every kiss is betrayal, and the wrongness makes it better in ways that shame him)

Guilt kink (he hates himself for wanting you and the self-hatred makes him desperate; he fucks you like he's trying to purge you from his system and fails every time)

Voyeurism (he's seen you with them; through cracked doors, across courtyards, and it's destroyed him, burned the images into his brain so he can't escape them)

Touching himself to memories of you with them (this is the WORST part because he'll replay what he saw, you with Baelor/Aerion/Daeron, and he'll hate himself while he strokes his cock to the memory, imagining it's him instead, and the self-loathing after he comes is crushing)

Stolen moments (quick and desperate in shadowed hallways, gardens at midnight, anywhere you won't be caught because discovery would ruin everything but the risk makes his hands shake)

Teasing/edging as delayed gratification (if he's already damned, he's going to make it last—he'll edge you for hours, make you beg, draw it out because these stolen moments are all he gets)

Comparative worship (he kisses you softer than they do, fucks you slower, gentler, because he needs you to know he'd treasure you if he could have you. DM: softer than Aerion, gentler than Daeron; Modern AU: more tender than his father)

Marking he'll have to hide (he wants to bite, to bruise, to claim (he's still a dragon even if others don't see him as one) but he can't, so he settles for kissing places no one else will see, leaving ghost-marks only you'll know about)

Praise kink as vulnerability (when you call him "my perfect prince" or "so beautiful when you fuck me" he melts, goes molten; he's been good his whole life and hearing it from your mouth makes it hit ten times better)

Light bondage (silk ties, leather belts; he needs you to restrain him, needs the choice taken away so he can pretend he's not choosing this)

Perfectionism in bed (he wants to be PERFECT for you: studies your reactions obsessively, adjusts technique, asks what you like, and the desperate need to be good enough bleeds into everything he does)

The confessor's burden (DM specific) (if you ever confide in him about problems with Aerion or Daeron, he'll comfort you appropriately, but later he'll replay the conversation and get off on your vulnerability, on the intimacy of you trusting him)

Slow sensory teasing (prolonged foreplay with fingers, tongue, silk, feathers; he's savouring you because he doesn't know when he'll get this again)

Modern AU specific:

Age-gap reversal (you're older, sophisticated, his father's equal, and he's the college kid who can't control himself)

Household proximity torture (you're always there: in the kitchen in the morning, on the couch in silk pyjamas, in the pool in a bikini that makes him want to gnaw his own arm off)

Forbidden fantasy (he jerks off thinking about fucking you in his father's bed, in his father's shower, against his father's desk, then nearly throws up from how guilty he feels over it)

Good boy corruption arc (he's never been reckless until you, never lied until you, never wanted something absolutely forbidden until you—you're unmaking his careful golden-boy persona and he's letting you)

Listening through walls (he's learned which walls are thin, where he can hear—and when you're with his father he'll press his ear to stone and listen to the sounds you make, hating himself, aching, hard and horrified in equal measure)

Scent obsession (he'll get close enough to smell your perfume, your hair, and later he'll try to remember it exactly while touching himself, and once he passed you in a hallway right after you'd clearly been with his father and he could SMELL sex on you and he nearly came untouched from shame and want)

Overstimulation seeking (he'll ask you to keep going even when he's too sensitive, even when it almost HURTS, because the overwhelming sensation grounds him in reality, proves this is really happening)

Mirror to his father (he's aware he looks like young Baelor, same dark hair, same build, and he uses it, styles his hair the same way, dresses sharp, anything to make you see the resemblance and want)

The way he fucks you: Like he's trying to memorise you through his skin, tender and desperate. Every thrust is "I love you," every kiss is "I'm sorry," every whispered praise is "Choose me." He can't fuck you without emotion bleeding through, it's physically impossible for him to separate the mechanical from the meaningful.

Pet names: He doesn't dare. You're "my lady" (DM) or just your name (Modern AU) and the formality/distance is armour that doesn't work. Sometimes, when he's breaking, he'll whisper "beloved" (DM) or "baby" (Modern AU) like a confession.

High Valyrian (DM only): Whispered sins he shouldn't speak—"Jorrāelagon ao" (I love you, and he does, and it's destroying him), "Kostilus henujagon" (please stay, even though you can't), "Ñuha mittys" (my mistake, said against your mouth like he's apologising to the gods themselves).

Post-sex: Guilt tastes sooo good. He holds you too tight and won't meet your eyes. Sometimes his eyes burn after tears (mostly due to guilt). He'll press his face to your shoulder and breathe you in like he's drowning. Sometimes he'll whisper things he shouldn't: "I'd give up the crown for you," (DM) / "I'd walk away from everything for you" (Modern AU), "I dream about you every night," "I'm going to the Seven Hells and I don't care."

DAERON:

Wine-sharing as intimacy (he'll take a mouthful of wine and kiss it into your mouth, or pour it across your skin and lick it off, the alcohol making everything hazy and warm, and sometimes he'll get you drunk WITH him so you can exist in that floating space together where nothing hurts quite as much)

Self-destructive exhibition (when he's spiralling he'll fuck you where someone might catch you—against the door while a feast happens outside, in the godswood where guards patrol, anywhere with risk—because part of him wants to be caught, wants the scandal, wants to burn it all down)

Lazy oral fixation (he'll spend hours between your thighs, drunk and dedicated, because focusing on you means not thinking about visions)

Light somnophilia (sleepy morning sex, half-awake and gentle, the only time he's soft because his defences are down)

Praise desperation (he's starved for affirmation, for being told he's GOOD, he's worthy, he matters; when you praise him during sex he falls apart, will bury his face in your neck and shake, and he needs the words as much as the physical pleasure)

Body worship from below (he loves lying back and letting you ride—his face, his cock—while he lazily praises you, because it means he can just receive for once instead of carrying the world)

Temperature seeking (he's always cold—the visions leave him chilled to the bone—so he seeks your warmth obsessively, will press his icy hands to your warm skin, bury his face against your neck, wrap himself around you like he's trying to absorb your heat, and the contrast makes you gasp)

The gift of laughter (on rare good days when the visions are quiet and the wine has him pleasantly buzzed instead of miserable, he's actually playful: tickling you, making you laugh, smiling against your skin, and the sex is light and sweet and you treasure these moments because they're so rare)

Reversal of caretaking (he spends so much time being taken care of—helped to bed, monitored, pitied—that when you're the one who needs comfort or care, he becomes almost manic about providing it, and he'll eat you out for an hour or fuck you exactly how you need, completely focused on your pleasure because it's the only time he feels useful)

Cum eating (he'll lick his own seed out of you or off your skin, because it's intimate and it grounds him)

The prophet's resentment (he resents that he needs you, resents that you're the only thing that quiets the visions, and sometimes he'll fuck you like he hates you for it, rough and graceless and mean, and he'll spit accusations: "This is your fault, you made me want this, I was better off alone")

Melancholy intimacy (the sex is tender and sad, like he's trying to memorise you before the visions come true and take you away)

Neediness masked as anger (he'll pick fights specifically so the makeup sex is intense, will say cruel things he doesn't mean just so you'll prove you won't leave, testing your loyalty through manufactured conflict)

Cum denial for himself (sometimes he'll fuck you and deliberately not let himself finish, will pull out before he comes and just stop because denying himself pleasure is another form of self-punishment, and you have to coax him or sometimes physically force him to let himself have good things)

Vulnerability (when he's drunk he sometimes cries during sex, clings to you, whispers prophecies he shouldn't, "I saw you burning," "I can't save you," "Stay with me, please stay")

The way he fucks you: Like every time might be the last time because in his visions it always is. He'll cup your face and stare into your eyes like he's trying to burn the image into his brain. He'll whisper your name like a prayer. And sometimes he'll just stop mid-thrust and hold you, because the weight of knowing is crushing him.

Pet names: "Darling girl" (sometimes teasingly if he's sober, lovingly if he's drunk), "my salvation" (because you are—you're the only thing keeping him sane), "sweet thing" (when he's eating you out, tasting you in some capacity)

High Valyrian: Mostly slurred but rather poetic, "Jorrāelagon ao" (love you, said like he's confessing a crime), "Kostilus henujagon" (please stay, even though the visions say you won't).

Post-sex: He holds you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows. Traces your face with shaking fingers. Sometimes he talks—streams of consciousness about visions, fears, futures he can't prevent: "I saw Summerhall burning," "I saw Aerion's madness consume him," "I saw you and I wasn't there to save you." Sometimes he just cries, silent tears soaking into your hair. Truth is he's in love with you. Has been since the first vision where you appeared crowned in snow and ice before you began burning and he can't tell if you're dying or transcending. Every time he touches you he's trying to change the future, trying to make this real enough that it overwrites the visions. It never works but he tries anyway. In every vision, he loses you. You burn or you leave or you fade, and he's always reaching for you, always too late. So he treats every moment like borrowed time. Fucks you like he's trying to anchor you to this reality. Loves you like it's the last thing he'll ever do (because it is).

DAEMON:

Version One context: He knew you while you were betrothed to Baelor

This is the version where he watched you at court, saw you promised to the Baelor, and wanted you with a longing that predates any rebellion. This Daemon has context—he knows your laugh, knows how you take your wine, knows the way you argue in council. He didn't just want to take you from Baelor. He wanted you to choose him instead.

Competence worship (he's watched you negotiate, watched you ride, watched you command, and every display of capability makes him want you more, not as a prize but as an equal, as a queen in the making)

Stolen tenderness (in the rare moments when he's not performing conqueror, when it's just you in a quiet room, he'll touch you gently—fingers tracing your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone—like he's memorising something precious he was never meant to have)

Laughter during sex (with you specifically, because you knew him before the rebellion fully consumed him, you remember when he could still be light, sometimes mid-fuck he'll crack a joke or you'll say something cutting and he'll laugh, genuine and warm, before the bitterness crashes back)

Face-holding intimacy (he cups your face in both hands when he kisses you, holds you there like you're the only real thing in the world, like if he lets go you'll disappear back to Baelor)

Praise ("You're brilliant," "Gods, you're magnificent," "No one else sees the world like you do" said quietly, reverently, in the aftermath when his walls are down)

Slow morning sex (when you've spent the night together and woken tangled up, he'll fuck you slowly, lazily, with none of the usual conquest energy, just want and familiarity and something dangerously close to love)

Protectiveness masking as possession (he positions himself between you and danger, his hand at your back in crowded rooms, his body shielding yours, and he tells himself it's about owning you but really he just can't bear the thought of you hurt)

Confession intimacy (he tells you things he'd never tell anyone else. doubts about what he's doing, fears about failure, the weight of the name he carries, all whispered against your skin in the dark while he's moving inside you)

Naming (not "my queen" or "she-wolf" but your name, every time)

Version Two context: He takes you as conquest

This is the version where you're already wed to the enemy, where he has less history with you, where taking you is more about the statement than the person. This Daemon is harder, colder, more willing to hurt.

Conqueror roleplay (he wants you to resist so he can overwhelm you, the fight makes the submission sweeter, makes it feel like victory over Baelor)

Possessive territoriality (marking you as his even though you're not, even though you never will be—it's about claiming what the crown denied him)

Hate-fucking energy (anger and want tangled so tight neither of you can breathe; he's furious you're married to them, furious you make him want you anyway, furious he can't just take and keep)

Sword kink (Blackfyre stays in the room, propped against the wall, a third presence, threat and promise; sometimes he'll fuck you with the sheathed blade pressed to your throat, cold Valyrian steel a reminder of power and if/when you lean into it, he only laughs and fucks you harder, whispering how you're meant for a conqueror instead)

Exhibitionist (he wants Bloodraven to know, wants Daeron to hear, wants Baelor to know, wants the whole damn realm to whisper, "Did you hear? The she-wolf spreads her legs for the Pretender")

Degradation ("Does your prince fuck you like this? Does your king make you scream like I do?" every insult is aimed at the Throne through your body and pleasure)

Primal dominance (hair-pulling, throat-holding, forcing you to look at him while he takes you, "Eyes on me, I said.. on me")

Ownership through defiance (he'll fuck you in their colours, tear the Targaryen red off your body and replace it with nothing but his marks, and eventually his own colours)

The way he fucks you:

Version One (knew you before): There's a sick duality to it. Sometimes it's pure conquest—hard, commanding, relentless. He's the warrior-king in exile and you're territory he's claiming. But other times, when the walls come down, he fucks you like he's coming home. Slower. Deeper. With eye contact that lasts too long to be just physical. He'll pin you down and fuck into you with brutal precision, but then he'll press his forehead to yours and breathe you in like you're oxygen, like he's missed you so much it physically pains him. The contradiction is soul destroying for you both.

Version Two (pure conquest): Like pure warfare. He'll pin you down and fuck into you with brutal precision, and the whole time he's watching your face—cataloguing every gasp, every moan, proof that you want him more than you want anyone else. There's no softness here, just raw possession.

Pet names:

Version One: Your actual name (said softly in private), "my queen" (challenge but with genuine reverence underneath), "she-wolf" (affectionate despite the teeth, teasing)

Version Two: "My queen" (pure challenge—he's calling you what you'll be when he wins), "she-wolf" (with teeth, possessive and wild), "prize" (dehumanising and he knows it, and does it purely to see you bare your teeth at him)

High Valyrian: Usually commanding, "Tepagon issa" (give to me, not a request), "Ñuhon" (mine, over and over like a brand), "Kostilus jaelagon nyke" (please want me—the only time he sounds vulnerable, spoken only if he knows you don't understand what he's saying, and he hates himself for it—more common in Version One).

Post-sex:

Version One: He holds you. Actually holds you, not just claims you. His hand will stroke your hair, trace patterns on your back. Sometimes he'll whisper things he shouldn't: "If I'd won—" (he never finishes that sentence but you both know how it ends). Sometimes he'll just press kisses to your temple and pretend, for a few minutes, that you're his and there's no rebellion, no crown, no Baelor. Then reality crashes back and his jaw tightens and the tenderness evaporates, but for those few minutes he lets himself be soft, lets himself imagine what you could have been.

Version Two: He doesn't do tender. He'll drag you against him, possessive and silent, and sometimes you'll feel his heart racing like he's just fought a battle (and he has—against himself, against wanting you this much). Sometimes he'll trace the bruises he left and his jaw will tighten. Sometimes he'll mutter: "You should have been mine. The crown, the throne, you. You were meant for me, not him."

Thing he won't admit:

Version One: He's not just fucking you to claim territory or make a political statement. He's fucking you because he loves you—has probably loved you since before he should have, since before the rebellion, since you were just Barthogan Stark's daughter at court and he was the legitimised bastard watching you from across feast halls. That's more dangerous than any war. Because loving you means he's not fighting for a crown anymore, he's fighting for you. And if you ever chose him freely, without conquest or coercion, it would undo him completely because a part of him would want to give it all up for you.

Version Two: He's not just fucking you to claim territory or send a statement. He's fucking you because he wants you—genuinely, devastatingly wants you—and that's more dangerous than any political game. Because wanting means weakness and Daemon Blackfyre cannot afford weakness. "Say the word. Say you want me and I'll take the throne. I'll crown you queen and fuck you on the Iron Throne itself."

You never say it.

(He's still hoping.)

AEGON I:

Prophetic obsession (he dreamed of you before he knew you, saw your face in flames and frost, your body crowned in stars, your womb as the forge for the prince that was promised, and when he finally touches you it felt like his entire life led to this moment)

Mythological breeding (this isn't about heirs, this is about fulfilling ancient Valyrian prophecy—the dragon and the wolf, fire and ice, the song that will save the world—he fucks you like he's writing fate itself)

Sister-wives trifecta (Visenya's fire—fierce and deadly; Rhaenys's warmth—soft and sweet; your ice—cold and burning—he needs all three elements to be complete, needs the contradiction you embody)

Sacred ritual (sex with him feels like religious rite; you're being consumed, worshipped, on an altar of dragon-bone and/or Northern weirwood)

Dream-sharing (he whispers what he's seen while he's inside you: "I saw our son on the Iron Throne," "I saw you crowned in ice and fire," "I saw the Long Night and you were the dawn" essentially prophecy as foreplay)

Dragon-bond (he wants to take you flying on Balerion, something of old Valyria, because wants you to feel the power he commands, wants the dragon to accept you as he has. He takes you flying, lands somewhere remote—a mountaintop, an empty beach, or simply the open sky—and fucks you against the dragon's flank while Balerion's heat radiates through you, the beast's breathing steady and enormous beneath you, and Aegon whispers, "He accepts you, he knows you're mine" while you're impaled on his cock with a living god at your back)

Claiming through titles (he doesn't just fuck you, he enthrones you; even before any official ceremony, he calls you queen, treats you as equal to his sister-wives, seats you at his councils, to him the political is inseparable from the personal)

Three queens, one king (he'll fuck you in front of Visenya and Rhaenys, not as humiliation but as inclusion—you're the third point of the triangle now. Sometimes it's not just witnessing, either, Visenya will hold you down while Aegon fucks you, her strong hands on your wrists or your throat, and Rhaenys will kiss you through it, touch you with eager hands, and Aegon orchestrates it like a battle: commanding, knowing exactly where everyone should be)

The Crown stays on (he wears the Conqueror's crown while he fucks you, makes you ride him while the Valyrian steel circlet sits on his head, and sometimes he'll place it on YOUR head mid-sex and watch you with something feral in his eyes, "This is what you look like as queen, this is what the realm will see")

Throne sex (he fucks you on the Iron Throne before it's even finished, you astride him while he sits on the half-built seat of swords, and the danger of the blades adds edge, just one wrong move and you'd both bleed, but he holds you steady, controls every movement, keeps you safe while making you understand the throne is as much yours as his)

Verbal dominance (he gives commands but frames them as questions: "You'll take me deeper, won't you?" "You want my seed, don't you?" "You'll give me a son, yes?" and the phrasing implies choice but his tone makes clear there's only one answer, and you give it more than willingly)

Orgasm denial (he'll edge you for HOURS, bringing you to the brink over and over, making you beg in Common Tongue and then Valyrian, teaching you the words for "please" and "mercy" and "I need you" in his language, and he won't let you come until you can ask properly, and if you turn those lessons back on him, and make him beg, on the rare moment his guard is lowered, even better)

Forced relaxation (you're both creatures of duty and vigilance, but he'll make you submit to pleasure, hold you down and eat you out until you stop thinking about politics or the North or anything but his tongue, and he's relentless about it, "You'll learn to take pleasure like you take everything else I give you—completely")

The way he fucks you: He'll position you exactly how he wants you (on your back, legs spread, open to him like the realm opened to dragons), and he'll watch constantly—how his cock disappears inside you, watches your face, watches fate happen. But there's reverence in it too. He touches you like you're something holy, something precious. Fucks you like you're the answer to every question he's ever asked the gods.

Pet names: "Northern star" (navigational but also his one true purpose), "my winter flame" (fire and ice in one), "the answer" (said with religious gravity, because you are), "ice-that-burns" (paradox made flesh), "ñuha brōzio" (my destiny, used more than your actual name)

High Valyrian: Used it often. "Ñuha brōzio" (my destiny, possessive and absolute), "Se dārilaros bona iksos kivio" (the prince/princess that was promised—he's not sure if he means your child or you, perhaps both), "Sagon sȳz syt nyke" (be good for me, because even destiny requires your cooperation), "Māzīs, ñuha jorrāelagon" (come, my love—the only time he uses a term of endearment and means it carnally).

Post-sex: He holds you like you're sacred. Traces your face like he's memorising constellations. Sometimes he'll talk—stream of consciousness about visions, prophecies, futures: "I saw a throne of swords and our son sitting on it," "I saw winter coming and you standing against it," "I saw us—centuries from now, in songs they'll sing forever." Sometimes he's silent, just staring at you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows. He'll pull you against his chest and you'll feel his heartbeat—steady, like the turning of the world—and you'll realise this is the only place the Conqueror allows himself to be simply Aegon. You're the only answer that matters. He's been searching for you across a lifetime (in dreams, in visions, in prophecy). You're the reason he conquered Westeros at all—because he knew you'd be here, waiting, the missing piece of something vast and terrible. He can't separate desire from destiny. Can't fuck you without thinking about prophecy. Can't touch you without seeing visions—your belly swollen with the prince that was promised, your hand holding Lightbringer, your face illuminated by dragonglass as you stand against the darkness. You're not just his lover. You're his prophesied queen. The ice to his fire. The song itself.

MAEGOR:

Pain/pleasure blur (he genuinely can't tell the difference and doesn't care to, biting that draws blood, gripping that bruises, fucking that feels like violence and transcendence in equal measure)

Combat arousal (if you argue with him, if you fight back verbally with genuine fire, he gets HARD. He doesn't want you broken and meek, he wants you fighting, and the sex after an argument is intense and almost equal, like he's fighting you into submission and you're fighting back and you both get off on the struggle)

Ownership through fear (you should be afraid and you are and it makes the wanting worse—for both of you)

Jealousy sex (when another man looks at you too long, when someone at court speaks to you with too much familiarity, Maegor will fuck you that night (likely after punishing, if not killing whoever it was) with barely controlled violence. Not to punish YOU, but to reassert his claim, to erase the other person's existence from your thoughts, "You think he could make you feel like this? You think anyone else could handle you?")

Breeding obsession (he wants heirs and he wants you destroyed making them; wants you swollen and aching and marked as his, wants the realm to see his seed took root in Northern womb)

Ownership through adornment (he commissions jewellery for you, usually heavy Northern pieces in silver and sapphire, but designed so they feel like shackles: a thick torc that sits on your collarbones like a collar, rings that connect with delicate chains, and he'll fuck you wearing nothing BUT the jewellery, getting off on how thoroughly you're marked as his)

Temperature play reversal (he'll heat stones by the fire and press them against your cold skin, watching you gasp and arch, obsessed with warming you, making the ice melt or he'll drag ice across your overheated skin after he's fucked you brutal and sweaty, and the care in the cooling is the only softness he can manage)

Degradation (he'll call you "wolf-bitch" and "Northern savage" but his hands are too gentle for how violent you've seen them be with others, and you both know there's a reluctant thread of respect at your refusal to break)

Claiming through destruction (he'll rip your gowns off, tear Northern furs, destroy anything that marks you as not-his because you're his now and the realm will know it)

Sleeping vulnerability (he only truly sleeps when you're in his bed, and he'll pull you against him unconsciously in sleep, hold you with a tenderness he'd never show awake—you've woken to find him curled around you protectively, his face pressed to your hair, and if you move he tightens his grip without waking)

Size and strength dominance (he's massive, built for war, and he uses it; he'll pin you with one hand, lift you effortlessly, manhandle you like you weigh nothing, and the casual display of power makes you clench even when it terrifies you)

Forced eye contact (he grabs your jaw and makes you look at him while he fucks you, "Look at me. Look at who's ruining you. Remember this." he needs you to see him, needs to be SEEN)

Hair worship (he's fascinated by your hair, he'll will bury his hands in it, wrap it around his fist while he fucks you, brush it himself sometimes in the aftermath with rough, unpractised strokes, and once you woke to find him just running strands through his fingers, watching the light catch in it like he's never seen anything so fine no matter how ordinary)

Battle-high fucking (he'll come to you straight from the training yard or from sentencing someone to death, or actual battle, still in armour, still bloody, and he'll fuck you with that violence still singing in his veins, using you to burn off the excess)

Possessive scarring (not just bruises—he wants permanent marks, wants his initials carved into your skin, wants you branded as his in ways that can never fade—he hasn't done it yet but you see him thinking about it)

Scent marking (he'll fuck you and then send you to court without letting you bathe, wants everyone to smell him on you, wants your hair to reek of sex and sweat and HIM, and when you walk into the throne room dishevelled and marked, his eyes track you with open possession)

Silence as dominance (sometimes he fucks you without saying a word, just watching you with those cold eyes, and the silence is MORE intimidating than any threat, but with him, also far more intimate, too)

Forced orgasms (he'll make you come over and over, overstimulate you until you're sobbing, prove that your body obeys him even when your mind resists, "See? Even this is mine. Even your pleasure belongs to me.")

Corruption kink (he's obsessed with the idea of breaking you down, taking the proud Stark wolf and turning her into something that begs for him, that NEEDS him, and he's patient about it, methodical)

Contrast fixation (you're everything he's not—Northern ice where he's Valyrian flame, ice where he's fire, merciful where he's cruel—and he wants to see how much of that he can corrupt, how much ice can melt before it's just water in his hands)

Bathing (this is the closest he gets to tender; he'll wash you after he's fucked you raw, rough hands surprisingly careful, and he won't speak but you'll see something complicated in his eyes every time)

The way he fucks you: Like conquest. Like war. Brutal and unrelenting. He'll pin you down with a hand on your throat (squeezing just enough to make you gasp), and he'll fuck into you with no gentleness, no mercy. But his eyes—his eyes are wild with something that looks like desperation. Like he's trying to anchor himself in you. Like you're the only thing real in a world he's burned to ash. He's heavy and huge and overwhelming, and he knows it, uses it. Every thrust says "mine," every bite says "stay," every bruise says "I was here."

Pet names: None. You're "woman," "wife," "Stark," "wolf bitch" (when he's angry). Endearments are weakness and Maegor the Cruel is not weak. (But sometimes, very rarely, he'll whisper "mine" like it's a prayer and a curse. And once, ONCE, in the absolute depths of vulnerability after you nearly died in childbirth, he called you "ñuha perzys" (my flame) and then he never said it again.)

High Valyrian: Used as weapon. "Henujagon" (stay, barked like an order), "Dohaeragon" (serve/obey, because you will), "Ñuha" (mine, branded into your skin with teeth and nails), "Tepagon issa" (give to me, not a request but a demand), "Sagon sȳz" (be good, and the threat in those two words could level cities).

Post-sex: He doesn't hold you gently. He claims you, drags you against him, possessive and silent. Sometimes his hands will shake and he'll hate himself for the weakness. Sometimes he'll trace the bruises he left and his jaw will tighten. Sometimes he'll mutter: "You're mine. Say it. Say you're mine." (It's the closest he gets to vulnerability.)

Very rarely—so rarely you almost think you imagined it—he'll press his face into your hair and breathe like he's drowning and you're air. His arms will tighten almost painfully. And you'll feel him shake. Just for a moment. Then it's gone and he's shoving you away and getting dressed and the king is back.

The thing he won't admit: He needs you. Not wants—needs. You're the only thing that doesn't flinch when he enters a room (anymore, you learned not to), the only thing that fights him (when you're brave or stupid enough), the only thing that makes him feel alive instead of monstrous. He'll never say it but you're not as breakable as he expected. He's broken queens before, gentle flowers who withered under his attention. But you're Northern, and the North is hard. You bend but you don't shatter. And that fascinates him. Enrages him. Makes him want you MORE. Every time he thinks he's finally broken you, you get back up. And he doesn't know if he wants to crush that entirely or preserve it forever.

BRYNDEN:

Omniscient voyeurism (he's WATCHED you for months before he ever touched you—through his network of spies, through his greenseeing, through birds and whispers—he knows how you touch yourself when you're alone, knows what makes you gasp, knows your tells when you're aroused, and when he finally gets you in his bed he uses all of it with devastating precision, and you realise with creeping horror that he knew, he's always known)

The weirwood witnessing (he'll fuck you in the godswood, pressed against the heart tree, and he swears he can feel the old gods watching through the carved face, that they approve, that this is sacred, and whether it's true or he's just insane doesn't matter because the blasphemy of it makes you come harder)

Prophecy pillowtalk (he sees futures while he's inside you; his eye goes distant and unfocused and he'll narrate what he sees: "I see you heavy with my child, I see you standing over my enemies, I see you crowned in weirwood leaves and raven feathers" and you can't tell if he's fucking you or the future of you)

Information as foreplay (he'll tell you secrets while he's fingering you—state secrets, dangerous knowledge, things that could get you killed for knowing—and the combination of his fingers curling inside you and his voice reciting treason in your ear makes you come so hard you forget half of what he said, which was probably the whole point)

The birds are watching (his ravens are ALWAYS present, perched around the room, watching with their black eyes, and he insists they stay, says they're part of him, extensions of his sight, and you're being fucked under the gaze of a dozen birds and Bloodraven's one red eye and you don't know which is worse)

Marking with meaning (he doesn't just bite randomly; every mark is placed, deliberate, forming patterns across your skin that mean something in old magic you don't understand, and he'll trace them afterward murmuring in the Old Tongue, and you think he might be binding you to him through sex magic and the terrifying part is you don't want him to stop)

The thousand eyes penetration (he'll blindfold you and then describe in EXACT detail what you look like from every angle—above, below, beside—because he's watching through the birds, through the shadows, through eyes you can't see, and he narrates your own body back to you: "Your thighs are trembling, you're so wet it's dripping onto the sheets" and you're disoriented and overwhelmed because how does he know)

Corruption through knowledge (he teaches you things you shouldn't know—blood magic, greensight techniques, secrets of the old gods—and every lesson ends with sex, classical conditioning until you can't separate learning from arousal, until forbidden knowledge makes you wet, until that Stark magic in your blood becomes another binder between you)

The three-eyed crow (sometimes during sex his personality shifts—becomes something older, stranger, less human—and he'll speak in riddles or prophecy, his voice layered like multiple people talking at once, and you're being fucked by something that's only wearing Brynden Rivers, and it should terrify you but you come anyway)

Forced confession through pleasure (he'll edge you for HOURS, making you tell him every secret, every thought, every tiny rebellion, and he already knows but he wants to hear you say it, wants you to confess while you're desperate and aching, and only when you've told him everything will he let you come)

The whisper network as dirty talk (he'll tell you what your enemies said about you today, what lords are plotting, who wants you dead—all while he's inside you—using state intelligence as pillow talk, making you paranoid and aroused in equal measure)

Artistic torture (he approaches your pleasure like a problem to solve, methodical and brilliant, and he'll bring you to the edge and stop, making notes (actual notes, he keeps a journal), testing variables: does this angle work better, does this pressure, does this word, and you're a study to him and it's dehumanising and so intensely hot you can't think straight)

The inverted (he's obsessed with contrast; his pale hands on your skin, his white hair falling across your face, the red of his eye against whatever colour yours are, and he'll position you in lamplight specifically to watch the shadows, the interplay of light and dark, making art of you fucking)

Magical stimulation (he swears he can use greensight to stimulate you mentally, that he can make you feel phantom touches, can reach into your mind and trigger arousal without laying a finger on you, and whether it's real magic or just psychological manipulation you've definitely come untouched while he sat across the room staring at you with that red eye)

Possessive documentation (he sketches you—obsessively—in margins of reports, on scraps of parchment, elaborate drawings of your body, your face, anatomically precise studies of exactly how you look when you come, and you found the collection once and it was extensive and deeply unnerving and also kind of flattering?)

The breeding obsession (he wants a child with you specifically to see what the genetics produce. Will your colouring dominate or his, will the child have his gifts, will they be beautiful or monstrous, and he talks about it clinically while breeding you, analysing probability like you're a fascinating experiment)

Sensory deprivation with narration (he'll blindfold and gag you, bind your hands, remove all your senses except touch and hearing, and then he'll narrate everything he's doing in that quiet, clinical voice: "I'm going to touch you here, you'll gasp, your pulse will quicken" and he's always right, he's studied you, and the predictive accuracy is horrifying and arousing)

The master of whisperers (in the early days, he'll orchestrate scenarios to make you need him, arranges for you to be threatened so he can protect you, creates problems he can solve, manipulates you into his bed through elaborate social engineering, and when you figure it out he doesn't even deny it, just smiles that slight smile and says, "And yet you're still here")

Ancient bloodlines (he's obsessed with the idea of mingling bloodlines; his ancient Targaryen/Blackwood blood with your Stark/First Men heritage, talks about it like alchemy, like you're creating something NEW, and he'll murmur genealogies while he's inside you, tracing your ancestry like it's foreplay)

The loyal hound routine (in public he's the King's servant, bows and scrapes and plays the loyal spymaster, but in private he's ruthless, dark and feral, and the contrast gets him off, the idea that the court sees him as one thing while you know the terrible truth of him)

Rewarding intelligence (when you figure something out, when you demonstrate strategic thinking or cleverness, he gets visibly aroused—his pupil dilates, his breathing changes—and he'll praise you lavishly while fucking you: "So clever, Lady Stark, I've taught you well", sapiosexual to a disturbing degree)

The way he fucks you: With unnerving precision and complete control. He's not passionate in the traditional sense, he's FOCUSED. Every touch is deliberate, calculated for maximum effect. He watches your face constantly with that red eye, cataloguing every micro-expression, adjusting his technique in real-time based on your responses. It's like being fucked by someone who's already read the manual to your body and memorised it. But sometimes (rarely) the control cracks. And then he's desperate and almost human, clinging to you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows, fucking you with something that looks almost like simple human need.

Pet names: He doesn't use them in the traditional sense. You're "my lady" (formal, distancing), "clever girl" (when you've pleased him intellectually), "mine" (stated as fact), and once, in absolute extremis, "my only truth" (and he looked shocked he'd said it).

High Valyrian + Old Tongue: He uses both—High Valyrian for commands ("Gaomagon" - do it, "Sagon sȳz" - be good), Old Tongue for the weird magical shit (words you don't understand, phrases that make the air feel THICK, and once he spoke something that made the candles flicker out and you came so hard you blacked out briefly).

Post-sex: He doesn't cuddle so much as arrange you. Positions you exactly how he wants, your head on his chest, his fingers in your hair, and then he'll talk. Not sweet nothings, he'll discuss philosophy, magic, the political situation, prophecies he's seen. He treats pillow talk like a debriefing. But his hand is gentle in your hair, and sometimes you feel him press a kiss to your temple so lightly you might have imagined it.

Sometimes he'll sketch you in the aftermath, your body relaxed and sated, and he's surprisingly talented, and the sketches are intimate in ways that make you feel more exposed than the actual sex did.

The thing he won't admit: You're the only person in the world he can't fully read. His birds tell him your actions, his spies report your words, his greensight shows him futures, but your thoughts, your interior world, remains slightly opaque. And that fascinates him, gives him something to obsess over. You're the one mystery he can't completely solve and it's driving him insane in the best way.

He's definitely used greensight to watch you across time—has seen you in the past, in potential futures, in moments that haven't happened yet or happened years ago. And he'll reference them during sex: "I saw you do this three years ago, you were alone in your chamber," "I've seen you pregnant with my child in six different futures," "There's a timeline where you killed me, you were magnificent." It's violations of consent across the space-time and your brain can't even process the ethics of it.

But for all his power and knowledge, he's lonely. Desperately, crushingly lonely. Everyone fears him or uses him and no one knows him. You're perhaps the second person who's seen the man beneath the legend and hasn't run. He knows every possible future. He's seen the timelines where you betray him, where you leave, where you die, where this ends in blood and tears. He knows the odds. He's the man who calculates everything.

And now you were like rabbits. It was the only way to put it. Everywhere, at any given time, you were being whisked away somewhere by someone.  

Isack in the gym, convincing himself that fucking you stupid burned far more calories and worked out way more muscles than any workout his trainer would give him. 

Gabi having you in his driver's room, desperately needing to feel your mouth around his cock, risking everything through those thin walls. 

Kimi sneaking into your hotel room when he found out how bloody good your tits looked in your pyjamas.  

And Ollie who would pull you aside after his media duties, making up any excuse to be inside you. To touch you. Feel you. Though you were sure he didn’t really need any.  

And when you all came together... it was an artwork of mess. Hours upon hours of mess. Soaking sheets. Sweaty skin. Sounds beyond your wildest dreams. Limits tested. Kinks discovered.  

Things, however, had come to a halt after fans became a little too suspicious of all five of you. Sourcing out different photos with you and each driver, claiming you were dating.  

Well... the truth was that you had no idea what you were. A group of friends who fucked? Maybe against some social construct, this was all unconventional. But you weren't sure if it mattered that much. 

Whatever it was you had, as the press correspondent, it was your job to put those rumours to an end. The memo to keep calm and back off hadn't been particularly well received by the boys. Of course, it was your job at stake rather than theirs. That's when you had suggested a beach getaway to the tropics. If they kept their hands to themselves till the break, those very hands would have the pleasure to go anywhere they'd like for one week.  

So here you were, standing outside some lavish house you had all pitched in to rent. The sun was glowing and the smell of salt lingered in the air from the nearby shores. White crystal sands glimmered under the sweltering heat. And any neighbours miles down the shore.  

"Now this is what I call a holiday," Gabi nodded with approval as you entered the house, Ollie pushing your suitcase right behind you. An open living space, multiple bedrooms, plenty of sunlight... yes, he could get behind this.  

You almost sighed at the sight of the large couch, soft pillows calling your name instantly. "Why can't it be summer break forever?" You groaned, flopping onto the couch with no decorum whatsoever, back relaxing as though you had been carrying a heavy weight for years.  

Ollie shook his head, grin wide on his face as he watched your arms wrap around a nearby pillow. "You make it sound like you're the one driving our cars," he said, amusement apparent on his face.  

You peeked an eye open, gaze narrowing as Kimi took a seat right next to you, arm sung over your waist. "You guys have no idea how difficult you make my life. It's like a warzone out there every other day. Kimi this, Isack that, Gabi here. And you," you pointed to Ollie. "I told you to quit staring during interviews." 

"Oh and that's the biggest crime I've committed," Ollie retorted dryly, rolling his eyes, knowing damn well he had done far worse.  

Isack tilted his head at you, squatting down near the couch to meet your eyes. "Don't start acting so innocent either, chérie. How many more shorts and tight jeans are you gonna wear, hmm? Poor Kimi's always rubbing one out before every practice," he murmured, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.  

You pursed your lips, legs shifting to press against one another while you struggled to peel your eyes away from Isack. You could hear Kimi grunt in agreement, sound muffled with his lips against your shoulder, fingers already beginning to creep. God, you had barely been on holiday for a hot five minutes and moves were already being made.  

You sucked in a sharp breath, pushing yourself off the couch, startling the boys. "Dibs the biggest room. And don't you neanderthals even think about sharing it," you huffed, arms folded before you turned on your heel and walked towards the stairs, feeling the numerous eyes watch your every move.  

Gabi gave his friends a blank look as he finally moved his eyes away from your hips. "Smooth, guys. Really smooth," he deadpanned.  

Isack stood up, eyes rolling. "Speak for yourself. You’re literally hard right now," he pointed out, head shaking.  

Ollie looked between the four of them, cogs starting to churn. When had everyone including him become so desperate? It's like they couldn’t function without you anymore. Your breath theirs. Their touch yours. They were the literal definition of simpletons. 

"We have a week here," Ollie started with a small exhale, fingers curling round the handle of your suitcase. "Let's not get too crazy, yeah? Can't tire her out already." 

Sure, the five of you were here with one idea in mind. But relaxing was still part of the equation. It was a holiday after all. Not a sex fest. 

Kimi nodded from the couch. "Agreed. Turns towards the middle of the week?" 

Isack tipped his head. "Sounds good." 

The first day had gone surprisingly quiet. Despite the endless flirting and innuendos spilled, all five of you were able to enjoy time together without being so handsy. Making dinner with just the light tipped fingers of Ollie's on your waist and Gabi's lingering kisses on the side of your head. Passing stupid jokes and stories around the table. Upsetting Kimi when you all purposely butchered the names of different pasta dishes.  

It was... sweet?  

So sweet you shouldn't have let your guard down. But you had.  

Ollie and Gabi had gone out to for a quick breakfast run seeing as you had finished all the bare ingredients you had brought on the way to the rental. Kimi was still fast asleep and Isack you assumed was working out.  

So you sat next to the kitchen island, still waking up with the rental's coffee in hand. You almost cried from how peaceful the morning seemed to be. No emails. Well, least nothing urgent. No phone calls from the team. No racing. Just the feel of sunlight and the coldness of the marble counter beneath you. 

Pure bliss.  

You blinked, lifting your head from the counter as the door closed shut. "Morning, Isack," you smiled, shamelessly watching the shine of sweat on his tanned skin and carved muscles. You knew he usually worked out shirtless but Lord...  

You were the one complaining about the boys before but right now... you weren't any better than them.  

Isack returned the gesture, taking his headphones out of his ears and tossing them on the nearby couch before nearing you. “Morning, chérie," he murmured, kissing the side of your head. 

You swallowed as he took your cup of coffee, swivelling it so his lips drank from the same spot as you did while his other hand rested over your hip. The heat seemed to radiate from him instantly, skin so warm it bothered you through the thin fabric of your pyjamas. You breathed in, pressing your legs together, hoping he wouldn’t notice.  

Isack contained his grin, placing the cup down. "Sleep well?" 

"Yeah... it was... it was good." You nodded absentmindedly, unable to look away from those stupid goddamn muscles. You weren't sure if they existed but Algerian Gods... Greek Gods, whatever they were called. It was like he had been carved like one. A slick trail of sweat on those washboard abs, veins tight around biceps and shorts hung almost too low on his hips.  

He smiled, amused. "That's good," he said, running a hand through his hair. He hummed quietly, dark eyes trailing over you carefully. "I need to go for a shower," he sighed, head shaking. "But it's a little hard when you keep eye-fucking me, chérie." 

You gave him a resigned look. "What am I supposed to do when you look like that?" You grumbled.  

A chuckled tipped from Isack's lips, hand moving from your hip to your knee. He tapped once. "Open up, baby. Show me what I'm doing to you."  

Isack groaned softly at the damp patch in the middle of those thin little shorts. His hand moved, thumbing the wet fabric. "Look at you," he teased, your immediate whimpers music to his ears. "My pretty little slut. Turned on just from looking at me. How pathetic are you, chérie?" 

Your lips jutted into a pout, heat beginning to spread through your skin. "Isack, please," you murmured, squirming on your stool while your fingers danced over his v-line.  

He swallowed at the dizzying traces. "You know how it works," he grunted out, pressing into your clothed cunt. "Tell me what you want, and you'll get it like the good whore you are." 

The words came bubbling from your mouth without a second thought. "I want your cock, Isack. Please. Till I'm shaking," you breathed.  

The tear of your shorts was deafening across the house, echoing and rebounding off the walls. You had not a chance to complain about the large hole across your wet cunt as Isack barely pulled his shorts down, rubbing his hard cock against your dripping folds, gathering all the slick he could around his angry head.  

"Oh fuck," you gasped, body jolting at the push of his cock on your clit, heat unfurling in your stomach instantly. The tease had you impatient, yet the lewd sound of lathering kept you wanting more.  

"So fucking wet for me, chérie," Isack breathed heavily, one hand moving to your jaw while the other shifted your body closer against him. The grin on his face was heavy as he prodded his tip around your entrance, dark eyes flickering to yours. "Want my cock? Does my pretty little slut wanna feel something? Yeah?" 

You nodded desperately, face rigid against the grip of his hand. "Please, Isa. I want it so bad." 

Isack wasn't sure what really dissolved his restraint. Your desperation or the nickname you had given. So sweet sounding, wrapped in a plea. What a sinful sound that was. 

You whimpered as his hips moved, thick cock pushing and still stretching your walls out despite the number of times you had felt him there. Your hand shot out to his forearm, gasping deeply when he took once long stroke back before pushing back in to start his rhythm.  

Nothing about it was slow or careful. You had asked to be fucked till you shook. And he was keeping the promise.  

His craft was brutal by all means. Mercilessly pounding against you, balls deep and flushed against you. The sound of skin slapping upon one another had become so loud so quick, it was a wonder Kimi hadn't already woken up. He had seized your voice entirely, leaving you unable to explain strikes of pleasure coursing through you.  

"Couldn't wait, could you?" Isack rasped, pushing his thumb into your mouth, groaning when he felt the tip of your tongue circle it. He chuckled. "You always act like we're so desperate. But you're just as bad as us. Wet over nothing. I bet you even dream about this. Being fucked so often. One after another. You like this as much as we do." 

Your brows furrowed at his words, poised with remark when he removed his thumb. But any futile rebuttal was silenced as his thumb trailed down the column of your throat. The thin air in your lungs burned while he pressed into you deeper, small curve of his cock pressing against that perfect spongy part of you.  

"Oh yeah... that's it right there, huh?" Isack grinned, watching you sink your teeth into your bottom lip harshly, your pupils blown wide. His hand on your hip shifted you once again, hooking one leg around his back while you fell against the edge of the kitchen island. It would've been uncomfortable if it wasn't for the sheer tingles of heat wavering over you with every deep thrust.  

"You gonna cum already? Are you that desperate, my pretty girl?" He taunted, feeling your walls tighten around him at his words. Jesus Christ… “Go on then. It won't be the only one," he grunted, thumb pressing a little tighter on your airway.  

You writhed against his grasp, pleasure searing right through you, leaving you seeing white as your body convulsed. It felt like the air had been knocked out of your lungs, fingers digging into his forearms, eyes rolling hard.  

Isack moved his thumb off your neck, letting the air rush back right into your flushed face as he pulled out of you for a brief second, turning you so your cheeks laid flat against the kitchen island. The curses tipped from his lips, one after another as he sunk back into you, filling you right to the hilt. "Putain," he swore, breaths uneven.  

Whether it was the sixth or the sixteenth time, every time he was in you it felt like the first. So warm and tight. Walls gripping him like there was no tomorrow. How were you so perfect for him? 

His thick hands fell to your waist, snug and fitting as his hips sped up once again, not giving you another chance to recuperate. He rutted against you, mouth falling to your clothed back, stifling every unstable moan with his kisses.  

It was unsanitary by all means. Having you like this. Against the counter where food was made and eaten. Skin partially stuck together, the squelch of your arousal combining; his balls slapping against you as he pressed deeper into you.  

But Isack loved it.  

He loved how gone you looked already. How every part of your body demanded more despite being so sensitive, pulling him further into you.  

Your knees almost faltered when you felt his hand inch towards your clit, rubbing in circles. It was only his arm, shifting around your waist to keep you up. "Yes, Isack," you mewled, eyes shut tight, bitten lips swollen. "F-Faster—ngh! Faster." 

His eyes rolled at your satisfied moans. Because there it was. The true marking of who you were. No coy mask to cover up the slut inside. 

You could feel it coming already, body still reeling from the previous orgasm. Your fingers curled tightly around the counter's edge, moans becoming louder and louder till your mouth fell open and you turned completely silent. 

Isack's grunts became rougher with every passing second, unable to control himself with the sheer tightness of you around him as your body locked up. His hips faltered and stuttered against you, ropes of his cum spilling into you, hot and fast.  

For a brief moment, you thought that was it. Your heavy pants filling the air.  

But Isack hadn't quite fulfilled his promise yet.  

You whimpered at the sudden loss of him inside you, fumbling as he turned you back around, thick, veined hands spreading your legs apart. The groan from his lips was guttural, dark eyes falling to the spill of white mess slowing pouring out of you. 

He didn't say a word. Attaching his mouth to your puffy folds without a second thought, tongue lapping up the taste of your slick and his combined.  

Your head fell back, mouth open, eyes wide. Your thighs tensed around his head, so sensitive and yet you couldn't help but want more. Your hand flew to his hair, pushing yourself deeper as his big nose slid up exactly where you wanted. "Oh fuck," you moaned.  

Isack grunted against you, sound reverberating through your core, tongue prodding your hole with a filthy amount of invasion before moving to your clit.  

Your heart almost sank at the press of his fingers into your cunt, perfectly thick and curled to press right against the spongy part of you. You squirmed against him, heat unfurling with singes of pain. The insistent suckling of his lips over your clit was unlike anything you could describe. Heaven and hell. Evil and good.  

"Again. Come on, chérie. I know you want to. A whore like you always wants to. I can feel it," he moaned, voice muffled.  

Your body burned at his words, fingers speeding up inside you. Your breath shook in disbelief, hips rising up at the narrowing pleasure building and building. "I-Isack. I... oh my God," you sobbed, core tightening when he pushed deeper.  

And it happened. The release crackling over you like lightning. As if a dam had been broken, warm gushes of liquid spurting out of you uncontrollably. It was obscene. On your thighs. On the island. On your stool. And most importantly, on Isack.  

The sound Isack made was nothing short of animalistic, mouth wide and tongue lapping every single drop he could get as his fingers coaxed it all. This was what he had wanted. You shaking hard against him. Unable to think. So lust-ridden you were unable to breathe. 

You shuddered with the last few swipes of his tongue, thin sheets of sweat covering your body as you looked down at Isack. You swallowed at the sight of his smirk, watching him lean back up with a satisfied sigh.   

"Probably should go for my actual shower now, hmm?" Isack teased, fingers still on your thighs. “Care to join?" 

Kimi was only passing by your room on pure accident. He could've sworn it. It wasn't his fault that he was intrigued by your endless number of bikinis and swimsuits. Or the fact you were trying them on. But if he had known it'd lead to this, he would’ve entered a lot sooner. 

Your hand tightened around the mop of brown curls, stark naked on your bed as Kimi's mouth sucked and tugged every soft tissue of your breast he could find. One hand groped the other, while the other hand roamed your bare thigh, hips rutting against you like a maniac.  

"I missed these so much," Kimi gasped, his saliva shining all over your tits, bite marks indented in the most mischievous of corners. "How could you have asked to keep these away from me?" 

You only moaned in response, cunt clenching down hard around his cock. God, he felt so good. Every glide in you with a perfectly crafted pace exclusive to him.  

"Don't you think you should apologise?" Kimi grunted, lifting his head up, brown eyes falling to you. His fingers reached for your nipple, pinching ever so tightly. "Do you see what wrong you've done, belle?" 

You whimpered at the small strike of pain, eyes flitting to his. "I... I..." You could barely form a coherent sentence, too fixated on how flushed Kimi was to you, pubic bone grinding against the hood of your clit with every push.  

A grin formed onto his face. "What was that? I don't speak teasing slut," he spat, twisting your nipple as he pushed deeper into you, bed creaking underneath you.  

Your back arched at the action, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Your stomach churned at the pleasure shooting through your body, free hand reaching out to grab the pillow nearby, knuckles white. "I... I'm sor—oh fuck," you moaned at the impossible pain surging through your chest, leaving you writhing. 

"'I... I..' What?" Kimi mocked, fingers releasing your nipple only to come swatting down on your tits. He chuckled at the sorry noise falling from your lips. Even worse was the louder squelch of your cunt. God, you were so simple. So easy. So perfect. "Look at you. How pathetic do you get? Even wetter from being slapped silly." 

"I'm sorry," you finally croaked, humiliation burning your skin like wildfire.  

"Yeah?" He heaved; cockiness ever present as he groped your reddened tit harshly. "You're sorry? Do you understand what you did? You think you even deserve to cum after that?" 

Your brows mended almost instantly at the thought of being denied any sort of pleasure. “Kimi, no. Please. Please don't do that," you stuttered, eyes rolling at the slower, deeper thrusts he gave you, cock nudging every inch of your walls.  

"You should've thought about it, belle. Every race, every practice... you walked into the paddock. Tight shirt, tight pants. Do you have any idea how many times I came those days? All to keep a low profile and now you pull shit like this," he huffed, placing his lips onto your neck, sloppy kisses trailing down.  

Your hips jerked at his words. "Kimi... I can't," you breathed shakily, cunt clamping down around him, leaving him hissing.  

The string of Italian curse words were audible as his body hovered over yours, teeth biting down onto your bare shoulder. Jesus Christ, you were like a siren. And not the good kind people talked about. The ones in the myths. Dangerous. A guide to his demise.  

Because he knew... he knew he shouldn't have gave in. But the pleasure was clouding Kimi's mind. His cock throbbing with need. Lower stomach tingling. The feel of your tits and nipples against his body driving him crazy.  

So he let you.  

"Oh fuck!" You cried out, vision searing white as you came hard around Kim's cock. Your chest heaved, lungs burning with the need for air.  

And for a split second, Kimi almost came undone too.  

But he grasped his composure. Pulling out of you, albeit begrudgingly. He flitted his eyes to your faded gaze, flushed skin, and glossed eyes. Oh how pretty you looked. 

"On your knees," Kimi barked out with a heavy swallow, cock standing tall and hard against his stomach. He watched you scramble quickly, mattress dipping at your haste. He heaved, nodding with content.  

It was stupid for him to even try standing on your bed. But he was so desperate. Hand firmly attached to the head of your bed, his cock, shining with your slick, sliding down your jaw before slotting itself between your reddened tits. His knees almost faltered at the sight alone.  

He spoke, voice tight and strained, "Make me cum."  

You swallowed tightly at the lewd pulse in your cunt. There was nothing to blame but yourself this time. No aphrodisiac chocolates. No nothing. The humiliation was so clear. But so was your nature.  

Kimi's fingers tightened almost instantly as your hands fell around your tits, pressing them close to his aching cock. "Oh fuck," he cursed with disbelief, watching the ample tissue coat his shaft. Up and down. So controlled. So perfect it made his hips jerk.  

And there was only one thing that could make it any better.  

You whimpered at the strings of saliva spreading across your chest, following them back up to Kimi's mouth. Your legs pressed together instantly. For fuck's sake... how horny were you? 

Kimi's lips quirked at the sight. Shiny tits now rubbing against his cock. Oh how he had dreamed about this. Time and time again. In his driver's room, one hand down his pants. But this was so much better. He could see your clouded eyes and blown pupils. Raw, bitten lips.  

"Oh my God," he whimpered, voice breaking with disbelief, hips beginning to move on their own in a perfectly aligned rhythm with you. His cheeks burned with desperation and embarrassment from how bad he needed to cum. The pleasure, all coiled in his stomach, now threatening to unravel. 

Kimi thought he could last at least seven minutes more. But it was like he was watching you in slow motion. Pretty lips part, warm tongue darting out towards his tip, playing with his slit while your eyes focused on him.  

Holy fuck.  

How were you real? 

"N-No," he shook his head rapidly, voice choked. "I can't," he panted, hand shooting out to his shaft, fisting himself urgently.  

He couldn't get the image out of his head nor the sounds. Your small smile. Tongue teasing. Your eager pose, sitting and waiting for him to finish. The goading giggle... 

"Oh, oh fuck!"  

You had broken him entirely. Body stuttering with sharp waves of pleasure in every atom of his body, eyes clenched so tightly while his lips parted around a series of stressed grunts. His cum splattered over your tits, an abstract form of art, hot and warm.  

Kimi's fingers uncurled from the head of your bed, knees falling to the mattress as his tongue laid flat against your tits, cleaning every bit up like it was his duty to do so. Moans slipping with every swipe till he was left breathing hard against your chest.  

He lifted his hooded eyes to you, head shaking lightly despite the small smile on his face. "You're awful." 

A late-night shower was what you had needed after a day of frolicking. Especially when everyone had settled for a barbeque for dinner. You hadn’t really thought about the smell of charcoal being embedded into your clothes.  

Initially, you were far too tired to even try. But an hour into your sleep, you were wide awake, too paranoid about the smell. You could've sworn the charcoal had seeped into your goddamn skin. So you peeled out of bed and headed towards the bathroom.  

You sat on the counter of the sink, sounds of water trickling in the background as you scrolled through your phone and waited for it to warm up a little. Even in the heat, you found it difficult to shower with ice cold water.  

"Can't sleep?" 

You blinked, hand flying to your chest as your heart pounded. You flitted your eyes to Gabi who rested upon the door frame, arms folded, boyish grin wide. "Jesus, Gabi. Are you trying to kill me?" You muttered, giving him a glare as you placed your phone down. "But yes. I can't sleep because of this goddamn charcoal. It is everywhere, I swear." 

A chuckle fell from Gabi's lips as he pushed himself off the door. He inched closer towards you, each arm of his landing on either side of you, caging you in. He watched your throat bob a little, making him grin wider. He looked back up at you. "Can I join?" 

You raised a brow, tilting your head while you narrowed your eyes. "I don't know what you're thinking but I'm showering," you muttered. 

You knew these boys like the back of your hand. When they meant one thing, they always meant another.  

He shrugged almost innocently. "So am I," he simply said, one arm moving to remove his shirt with one fell swoop.  

You poked the inside of your cheek with your tongue, watching his hands creep towards your waist, hooking themselves to the hem of your shirt, pulling up as slowly as the sparking mischief in his eyes. You sighed, raising your arms defeatedly, hearing your shirt drop to the floor.  

He heaved at the sight of your bare chest. Of course. You couldn't keep those pretty things cooped up all night, could you? 

Gabi sunk to his knees, lips quietly attaching themselves to the side of your knee as he began to pull down your shorts, a new pair after what Isack had done to your previous ones.  

Your breath shook silently, eyes following the graze of his fingers, finding your shorts joining the new pile of clothing building up. You smiled to yourself at the warm gaze watching you, lips softly working their way up to the inside of your thigh.  

Rolling your eyes, you pushed him away with the press of your foot against his chest. "Everyone's asleep, Gabi," you reminded, hopping off the counter before taking off your underwear, grinning at the audible hitch in his breath.  

Gabi followed your footsteps towards the shower. "I can be quiet, linda," he murmured, hand reaching out to trail over your bare waist, entranced at the trail of goosebumps appearing.  

You turned, giving him a pointed look as you stepped into the shower backwards. "You're never quiet," you whispered teasingly, feeling the warm droplets of water begin to hit your skin.  

He swallowed tightly, torn between which droplet to even follow. The one over your tits? Or the one hanging from your lips? Perhaps in between your legs? 

He sucked in a sharp breath, grin faint on his face. "Let's test that theory, shall we?" 

Your squeal was imminent as Gabi peeled off his boxers, inevitably drawing your eyes to the long length calling your name. Your steps were hesitant, making room for him while he came into the shower, crowding the small space with his body.  

You shivered as his cold hands fell to your waist, rubbing over your ribcage and hips with refined restraint. His lips dipped down to your ear, voice thick over the sounds of water pelting. "Would I be wrong to think that the wetness I'll find between your legs right now isn't the water?" 

Your lips parted, some lame refusal on the tip of your tongue but all in vain when you felt his slender fingers find your folds. The grin on his face told you what you needed to know, head falling to his chest at the smear of thick slick over your bundle of nerves. 

Gabi chuckled softly at your whimper. "Once a slut..." He sighed, shaking his head with amusement. "... always a slut. Don't know why you even bother denying it, linda."  

Your jaw hung open as his two fingers pushed into your cunt, rubbing your inner walls as he began setting his pace. "F-Fuck," you stuttered, toes curling against the shower floor, hand reaching out to steady yourself with his forearm.  

He hushed you, so obviously enjoying your reactions already. "Shh. Gotta be quiet if you wanna cum, baby. Yeah? You gonna follow the rules?" 

You nodded against his chest, walls clamping down around his fingers. They were so long. Reaching every crevice so easily, filling you up without even needing to push deeper. But he did. God, he did, curling smoothly, testing the gentle rub of the perfect area in your cunt. 

Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip hard, trying to suppress any sound from escaping your throat.  

Gabi chuckled against your ear. "That feel good? I bet it does. Probably what you wanted after making so much noise passing my room, huh?" He teased, brown eyes carefully watching every movement on your face.  

Your nails dug into his forearm, hips grinding against his hand helplessly. The forbidden sounds all hidden away seemed to make your chest tight as his fingers speed up. It was making you delirious, soft mewls teeming from your sealed lips. 

Your head snapped up at the sudden removal of Gabi's fingers, chest heaving while you almost frowned in disappointment. The sound of water filled your ears, in sync with the thudding heartbeat in your ears.  

"I said not a sound, linda," Gabi tsked, shaking his head despite the amusement on his face. God, you looked so desperate it made his cock twitch. His free hand wrapped around your jaw, grip firm. His lowered his voice. "Now I'm going to be generous and give you another chance, okay? Would you like that?" 

You nodded quickly but his grip tightened. "Use your words, baby." 

"Yes," you rasped, walls clenching around nothing as the steam of the shower seemed to build around you. How embarrassing. "I would like another chance, please." 

He smiled, dropping his hand from your jaw. He hummed, patting your cheek. "A slut with manners... aren't you such a good girl?" He cooed, slick covered fingers trailing down your wet stomach, slipping between your legs easily. 

Your lips parted as his fingers returned to your cunt, pushing in and out slowly, walls tighter than before, desperate to not let go of this feeling. You bit down on your lip yet again, feeling his mouth press against your shoulder as he pressed deeper. Oh God... 

"That's it. Doesn't it feel so much better when you follow the rules? It'd be better if you weren't so stupid," Gabi sighed, curling his fingers intentionally, watching you squirm as the shame seeped far hotter than the water hitting your skin. "Always pretending like you don't want it. Like you're better than us. But like this, here! You’re nothing. Just a good toy who follows my rules, yeah?" 

Your eyes rolled, blinking rapidly with the falling drops of water. Your body cowered against him, pleasure unfurling quickly. It was ridiculous. His words should've horrified you. Made you want to push him away. But it only made your skin burn and ache with the need for more.  

And nothing was more humiliating than the grotesque squelch of your cunt against his fingers. Louder than the water pelting past you, shower far too quiet cover it. You were sure if anyone had woken up and walked by, they would know what was going on.  

Your nails dug deeper into his skin once again, silent breath shaking as your eyes flitted up to him as if it was a warning.  

Gabi chuckled faintly. "Oh I know. I can feel it," he murmured, referring to the vice-like grip you had on his fingers.  

He could see it too. You were so close, skin flushed with the burden of silence. The sight made him coax it even further, pads of his two fingers rubbing that good spot, instantly having you keeling. 

Your eyes rolled hard to the back of your skull, teeth threatening to tear into the soft skin of your lip as you came all over his fingers. Your body shook violently against him—the only form of voice you had in that very moment.  

Gabi's jaw clenched tightly, refraining himself from groaning at the sight. He pulled his fingers out, licking them clean with a shudder as you stepped back, letting the water fall over you. Taking a moment to come down. But only a moment. His chest heaved harshly, cock heavy with need when he watched you sink to your knees without him even asking to. Oh Jesus... 

His hand flew to his mouth in an instant as he watched your lips parted around the aching tip of his cock, already struggling to keep his promise. Your fingers sank into his thighs, head moving up and down, coating him in the warmth of your mouth.  

He could only swear in his head, over and over again. Every time, without fail, your mouth seemed to work a magic unlike anything he had ever experienced. Perhaps you had memorised what he liked by now. The flick of your tongue under his veined shaft. The small suckling of his tip. The graze of your teeth.  

Fuck. You knew it all like the good slut you were.  

Gabi wasn't sure when his other hand had found your wet hair, wrapping it around in circles till he had a tight grip. His hips began moving desperately, so invasive against your throat as your gags reverberated through him.  

It was heavenly how your throat closed around him, tight and warm like you knew every ridge of him in your memory. Sucking him in even further, letting him bruise you like you knew who owned that hole. You choked as he brought your head closer, pushing your nose right against his lower pelvis, flushed with his pubic hair. 

He couldn't help but drift his eyes down to you. Something about the look of you on your knees, eyes teary, in front of the fogged glass with water trickling down your glowing skin... it was unreal.  

His hips moved deliriously, strides fast and short as the desperation began to hit him. His breaths heavy as he lost control, voicing every grunt and moan he had kept shoved down in his chest. They became shorter than the one before, mixing with the sound of your gags.  

"Oh shit... shit, shit, shit!"  

The pleasure bubbled tightly before his hips came to a rapid halt against your face, ropes of his hot cum spilling down your throat as his fingers dug into your scalp.  

Gabi sucked in a sharp breath, trying not to swear at the bob of your throat as you swallowed every drop of him he gave you. 

You wiped your lips with a small smile, slowly standing back up on your feet. You casually grabbed the shower gel nearby, amused glint in your eyes obvious.  

"I told you you couldn't keep quiet." 

Ollie had had enough of it. And by 'it,' he meant you.  

He had been watching you lounge by the beach as the others swam, ice cream in hand as you read your book with not a care in the world. Not for the drops of sugar pooling around your lips. Nor for the white drops trailing down your chest from the sheer heat of the sun. He couldn’t tell whether it was on purpose. And he didn't care whether it was. 

It was driving him crazy. As though he was a dog with his panting tongue out, hungry for a taste. 

Ollie barely had enough patience for you to stand up to wash your hands in the changing rooms nearby. His steps swift and smooth on your trail and he could tell you knew, traces of your faint smile as you entered the large room.  

The sound of the tap flowing rebounded off the barren walls. You reached out for some soap, eyes flickering to the strained expression in the reflection of the mirror. "This is the girls' changing room, Ollie," you murmured, lips quirking regardless.  

Ollie's fingers twisted the lock behind him, small click so loud. He quietly watched you dry your hands with the tissue paper provided, brown eyes falling to the sticky spots shining on your chest. "You left some," he said, ignoring your previous statement as he took a few steps closer.  

You blinked with feigned innocence, looking down at your chest. "Whoops," you hummed, lips jutting out as you tilted your head back up, finding Ollie mere centimetres away. The heat seemed to radiate so clearly from his naked chest. You breathed in his breath, whisper barely audible. "Can you help clean it up?" 

The question broke his thinning patience. His hands moved fast, hooking you up against the counter, warm tongue leaving wet trails across your chest as the sweet taste of sugar lingered. His fingers roughly pulled down your bikini top, thumbs moving to feel your nipples, moans muffled against your ample flesh.  

Your head carelessly fell back against the mirror, feeling the pressure of his lips tighten with intention, purple embellishments left with every move. Your hand reached for those brown locks, trailing down towards his jaw as he looked up at you, eyes glazed with a honey-dripping warmth.  

"On purpose," Ollie breathed, feeling your thumb graze over his bottom lip. "You did that on purpose." 

You simply smiled, shoulders shrugging. "I missed you." 

Time seemed to slow for a moment. Ollie swallowed the electric shock coursing through his body. A soft chuckle fell from his mouth before he leaned up, pressing his lips to yours in an instant. It was deep and all consuming, tongues sharing the sweetness of the ice cream you had just finished, moans and grunts mixed with your heavy breaths.  

"Why don't you just ask, sweetheart?" He gasped against your lips, teeth harshly pulling at them as he grinned. "Or is it too much of your nature to act like my whore?" 

You whimpered at his words, thighs pressing against the arousal pooling with every passing second. "Ollie, please. I wanna feel you," you breathed shakily, message slurred with every push of his lips against yours.  

Ollie hummed, one hand moving down your exposed thigh, creeping closer and closer towards the radiating heat in between your legs. "Really? It doesn't sound like you really want it," he mumbled, pushing his fingers against the damp fabric of your bikini bottoms. And it makes him chuckle. "But I guess your body's saying something else. Are you really sure you want it?" 

"Please," you said against his lips, voice strained at the slow rub of his fingers against your clothed cunt. "I want it. I want it bad." 

He grinned further, skimming over your clit, grit of the fabric making you whine. "And what does my baby want? Hmm? My fingers? No?" He queried, lips pouting mockingly at the glaring heat in your eyes.  

"I want your cock, Ollie. Please," you whispered, eyes stinging with humiliation. 

Ollie watched you, beyond amused. Euphoric at every plea tipping from your lips. As if he an unearthed a resting pride in the bottom of his chest. How easily he could bring you to cry. To beg. It was heavenly. 

He chuckled, almost in disbelief as he watched you perk at the sight of him bringing out his cock from his swim shorts. His desperate slut. His arm shifted you against the counter, tilting you closer towards him. He sucked in a sharp breath, tucking himself under the tightness of your bottoms, damp fabric stuck to him as he rubbed against you.  

Your lips parted at the spread of your folds around his long shaft, slick covering him in an instant. Breath hitching at the nudge of his tip against your clit, you looked over at him with a resigned look. "Ollie..." 

"What? Is that not what you wanted?" He queried, overly fake innocence seeping through his voice as the heat grew in your skin and cunt. "You have my cock. Is that not enough for a slut like you?" 

Your fingers shook, reaching for his forearm. Your skin prickled with shame, your dignity becoming lost with every passing second. How much more were you going to have to beg? How much more were you going to wait?  

The grind of his hips against yours. The teasing prod of his leaking tip near your hole. There but not where you wanted. Not how you wanted.  

Ollie's lips neared your ear, grin audible, shaped with the feel of his mouth tugging. "You think this is torture? And you having that ice cream, letting it drip all over you, wasn't? Don't think I forgot about the gym either." 

You snapped your eyes to his. Right. You had done that. Spent your early hours in the paddock within the Haas gym, at the same time Ollie had his own training to focus on. Dressed in what could only be described as sinful activewear. 

"It doesn't feel good, does it?" He chuckled, breath heavy as the wetness seemed to increase, echoing off the empty walls of the changing room.  

"Ollie, please," you exasperated, frustration now forming with the thin sheets of tears in your eyes. It was mortifying how your cunt clenched around nothing, so desperate to be full. To be used. "I realise my mistake." 

"Yeah? You won't do it again, will you?" Ollie murmured, testing different speeds as his hips rutted against your folds.  

You shuddered, teeth biting down on your lip tightly as you shook your head. "No. I promise," you almost sobbed, voice shaking.  

"You'll tell me the next time you wanna be fucked stupid, right?"  

You sucked in a sharp breath at the brief push of his tip into your hole, momentary pleasure striking your body. "Yes! I will. I'll ask. I promise, Ollie." 

Ollie groaned at the tear drop falling from your eye as he finally pushed in fully, feeling your walls immediately clamp down on him. "Oh shit," he grunted, hand reached out to collect the salty liquid with the pad of his thumb.  

Your brows mended with disbelief, cunt pulsing as he brought your tear to his tongue. Your whimper came from deep down, skin burning impossibly while he held your gaze, cock pounding into you at a heightened pace from the get-go.  

It was that moment that told you that you weren’t going to last nearly as long as you thought. It had some stupid hold over you, leaving you bringing your mouth to his, tasting yourself on his tongue while your moans were muffled.  

His fingers sunk into your hips, echoes of your skin slapping against one another rebounding off the walls. The smell of sex surrounded you like a thick fog, nails digging into his forearms, scratching the epidermis, red crescents engraved into his skin.  

"So pretty like this, baby," Ollie grunted against your lips, eyes rolling at the tight warmth of your walls clenching around him. Like you had perfectly accommodated every ridge of his. "All teary-eyed and desperate. You love being my cockslut, don't you?" 

You nodded, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. God, yes. You loved it. No matter how much your skin burned with embarrassment. It never felt better than this.  

"Oh my God, Ollie—ngh!" You mewled, feeling your core tighten.  

His own skin flushed at your sweet sounds, hips beginning to speed up, pushing deeper and deeper. "You close, hmm?" He panted, thumb moving to open your mouth. "Open up for me." 

No shame truly poured over you as Ollie spat in your mouth. Instinctual as you swallowed it without a thought, making him groan and his cock throb in your cunt. Seriously... how were you real? What were the odds you and him existed in the same timeline? On the same plane as the others? 

He could only thank the stars that whatever life choices you had made had brought you here. With him. With them. 

"O-Ollie," you stuttered, body beginning to lock up as the sliver of sharp pleasure built.  

"That's it, fuckkk. Cum for me. You've been such a good girl for me," Ollie rasped, brown eagle eyes taking in every morphed movement of your face as the pleasure came shattering down on you. 

It was surreal how his pace never quite slowed down, fucking you through each ebbing wave of pleasure, each one bigger than the other. You could barely see through your hazed vision. Stars. Lightning. White. Like some sort of heavenly light at the end of the tunnel. It left you clamping down on him hard.  

His fingers wrapped around your hips tighter than before, bruising as Ollie's jaw hung open. “Oh my... Oh my God," he breathed harshly, coil in his lower pelvis unravelling faster than he could speak.  

With his hips stilling against yours, he painted your walls and crevices white and warm, groans muffled in your ears as his lips pressed against yours, rushed and deep. All of it was sloppy. The lewd squelch. The husky smell. The sweat on your skin.  

And yet, you wouldn't have changed a thing. 

You eyed the five small empty vials in front you, tilting your head as you looked around the living room, carefully examining the four expressions. "You know we don't need aphrodisiacs to have fun, right?" You asked.  

None of you had really questioned where on earth Gabi had gotten those teeny tiny bottles from. Aphrodisiac liqueur except without the alcohol. All 'natural' as it claimed on the packaging. They were strong doses. Ten millilitres in each one. Enough to make you last hours.  

You had been sitting here for forty minutes now, ticking down the time till they eventually kicked in. Or till one of you folded. Whichever came first.  

Gabi nodded slowly. "I know," he simply said. "Thought it'd be fun to have a little throwback," he grinned.  

Isack blew some air into his face, leaning up from the couch. "I think this one is a bust, mate." 

"Yeah, it should've started working ten minutes ago," Ollie agreed despite running a hand through his hair like he had been sweating.  

You raised a brow; smile etched onto your face. "I wouldn't be so sure. Kimi's been awfully quiet," you mumbled, drifting your attention to the Italian cooped up in the corner of the couch, skin lightly flushed, mouth pressed tightly.  

Kimi swallowed, sucking in a sharp breath, arms moving over his lap hastily. "Me?" He pointed at himself. "I'm fine. Pfft... I don't even feel anything. At all. Whatsoever." 

You hummed to yourself, amused. "If you say so," you sung quietly, moving your hair to the side, throwing one leg over the other, arms perfectly nested underneath your chest.  

"Oh come on... don't do that," Kimi grumbled, shaking his head at your actions, unable to peel his eyes away from your cleavage. “That’s… not fair. She does this during every interview," he complained, looking over at his friends for support.  

"Do what? I'm not doing anything," you retorted, feigning a small yawn as you stretched your arms.  

Ollie pursed his lips, throat bobbing at the rise of your shirt. "Kimi, don't egg her—" 

"This is totally unfair. I thought we were waiting it out," Kimi sighed, shifting uncomfortably against the couch, shorts beginning to tent. 

You smiled, bringing your arms back down. There was something about playing with fire that got you so excited. Because right now, you were smiling. The next... you'd hope you'd be crying.  

"You think that's unfair? That's not even close," you murmured, feeling the heat of the drink beginning to climb in your body.  

"Oh Jesus," Gabi shook his head as you opened your legs, skirt parting to reveal your bare cunt. "There nothing there," he groaned, eyes closing as he shoved his face into a nearby pillow. 

Isack bit his lip, fingers tightening around the edge of couch. He could see it as much as the next person. The glistening of the slick around every fold of yours. So perfect, waiting to be touched. To be ruined.  

God, you were just awful. 

He looked over to Ollie, waiting for something. Anything. Because the unsaid rule still applied. It was Ollie who made the first move. Not him. Not anyone else. Ollie.  

It wasn't exactly territorial, per se. It was just the order of things. You were his press correspondent first. The fact Ollie had even gone as far as letting all three of them continue with whatever this was... it was beyond them but hell, they weren’t complaining.  

You watched with bated breath as Ollie tilted his head at you, wetness increasing by the second. What would he say? What would he do? Your head explored all the possibilities. You blinked as his lips parted.  

"I think you should apologise to Kimi," Ollie stated, legs crossed, arms stretched oh so casually when his eyes said anything but.  

You pursed your lips, smile small and coy. "You're right. That was mean of me," you agreed, shifting your head towards Kimi as you stood up from the couch. You watched his chest heave with anticipation, brown eyes following when you sank to your knees and your hands skimmed over his clothed thighs. "I hope you can forgive me," you breathed.  

Kimi's lips quirked, aphrodisiacs making him sit straight before leaning forward, scooting closer. He pulled down the waistband of his shorts, letting his hardened length fly out, patting your cheek with a humiliating spring. He whispered, “Try and find out." 

Gabi's teeth dug into the pillow nearby as he watched your lips spread around Kimi's cock, tongue lapping the pre-cum oozing out of his tip. Kimi's head fell back onto the couch, eyes fluttering instantly. "Oh fuck." 

It was a sinful endeavour as it usually was. The way your throat took him, so warm and so tight. The press of your hands against his balls. The graze of your nails against his shaft. The hums of your throat vibrating through him. Like you knew all the right buttons to press. 

Kimi's brows furrowed, breath shaky when you nuzzled all the way down, nose pressed right up against him lower pelvis, gags reverberating. It made his hips jerk uncontrollably. "What is in those drinks? Seriously?" He gasped, hand shooting out to your hair.  

You only moaned in response, body tingling when you felt a hand creep up the back of your thigh and over your ass, teasing and only momentarily soft. You knew these those slender fingers from anywhere.  

You choked around Kimi's cock as Gabi's hand came slamming down onto the ample flesh, red handprint almost immediate. The pain made you jolt, leaving Kimi's tip nudging your throat, bruising in all the ways that mattered. Your scalp burned, muffled whimpers rising when the next when inched close towards the heat between your legs.  

"Our cumslut's looking a little empty, isn't she?” Gabi breathed out, smirk stretched onto his face as he admired his artwork. "Should we fill her up?" 

Isack grunted, fisting himself on the couch, pre-cum slathered all over his shaft. "Please. Holy God." 

Kimi practically scrambled out of your mouth the moment Gabi, already now bare, pressed his long cock into your rim. "No, no, no. Up here, belle," he swallowed, hoisting you up, not giving you any time to adjust as he sunk you down onto his cock. 

You winced at the burning stretches, hands flying out to fist Kimi's shirt, bracing yourself. Though you had a little practice, having two holes full never got any easier. But fuck, it felt so good.  

Ollie watched silently, ears full of the sickening, wet squelches of your skin slapping against one and another. He didn't reach out to touch himself. Not yet. Though the large bulge in his pants begged him to. There was something just so enchanting about having you half-clothed, skirt up and riding Kimi while Gabin pounded you from behind. It clouded his brain with only the worst of thoughts. 

"Take it off," Kimi almost growled, hand harshly pulling at your shirt, friction burning into your skin. He needed to see those tits. So big and soft. He could already see the peaks of your nipples through the fabric as well.  

Gabi's arms moved off your hips, thick fingers moving to tear the thin fabric with ease, letting a swarm of cold air whip past your chest. Your body clenched around their cocks, face scarlet with shame.

You felt like a doll. Controlled and manoeuvred the way they wanted. Hair pulled. Clothes torn. Used in every aspect that mattered.  

"Oh yes," Kimi moaned, hands reaching to grope each tit, cock twitching at how they spilled past the confines of his fingers. "Look at these bounce," he grunted, hips fucking into you deeper. Fuck, you felt so good around him. 

Your eyes rolled hard at the two paths of pleasure, feeling Gabi drive harder into you, pelvis pressed right against your ass. Your cunt was only getting wetter, slick spreading everywhere while your stomach churned. Your breath shook as Gabi’s hand came around your throat, thumb lifting your jaw to look at him, palm slightly pushing down on your airway.  

"This is your worth, linda," Gabi spat, cursing at how tight your hole felt around him. "Nothing. This is what happens when you're worth nothing," he chuckled.  

Kimi's gasp came out choked, half-lodged in his throat. "Shit, shit, shit," he swore, brown eyes wide, lips parted as the pleasure took a hold of him. His hips stilled, cock pumping out ropes and ropes of his cum into you, filling you up just like Gabi had intended.  

Your hands darted to the sudden press of Kimi's against your clit. Mouth wide open, your body convulsed at the forced pleasure rising out of you, moans mixed with Gabi's grunts as he sped up, only making you see white harder.  

"Fuck, Kimi!" Gabi barked, almost chiding as his eyes rolled, hips stuttering while his skin burned with every sense heightened from the aphrodisiacs. 

You were heaving, half slumped against Gabi’s chest, body still shaking as you mustered what was the poorest glare at Kimi through your hooded eyes. None of which meant anything with the smug smirk on his face.  

"I forgive," Kimi chuckled proudly, watching you shudder as Gabi pulled out of you, his hands flying to keep you up against him.  

You swallowed at the tilt of your chin to the other direction, finding the blown pupils belonging to Isack staring right back at you. Your heart sank with nothing more than excitement. "Hope you're not too tired, chérie. We're only just getting started." 

Kimi inhaled sharply at the pulse of your cunt around him. He grinned at Isack, pulling you off of him swiftly, leaving you back-facing on the couch. "Trust me. She's not." 

Isack leered, squatting down as his eyes raked over your body. His tongue clicked, cock in his shorts twitching at the juices spilling out of you from both holes. "What a mess you've made," he sighed, fingers trailing down your stomach and over your puffy folds, leaving you jolting. He smiled broadly at the sight. His lips dipped to your ears. "But I know you can make more." 

"Oh fuck," you whimpered as Isack's thick fingers pushed into your cunt, not even giving you a chance to warm up. Your walls throbbed at the sizzling slivers of pain, clamping around him in a way that asked for me.  

You blinked, stomach churning with a thrilling fear when you spotted Ollie's face above you. He was watching. Staring. And yet... he said nothing.  

"Eyes on me, chérie," Isack reminded, keeping your jaw firmly tilted towards him.  

Your eyes prickled with embarrassment. Why wasn't he saying anything? Doing anything? Your cunt clenched at the frustration, sunken whimpers in your throat making small networks of veins appear when Isack's fingers curled.  

"Oh... is our baby sad? You want Ollie to touch you?" Isack cooed, rubbing that smooth spot perfectly, leaving your hips jerking impossibly. He grinned at the tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. "Well that's tough. Seems like you did something to upset him," he chuckled, thumb expertly gliding to your clit.  

"Fucking hell," you moaned, head digging into you the couch as your eyes rolled.  

Your cunt swirled at the tense pleasure hurtling through you, hand reaching out to grab Ollie's forearm near you, knuckles white while your hips ground against Isack's hand. Your jaw fell slack as his two digits rubbed your inner walls, teeth tearing into your lip. The reminiscent memories of the first time flashed in your head as his hand came striking down on your cunt.  

Your nails dug into Ollie's as your body tightened. Isack's grin only spread like wildfire, hearing the squelches of your cunt get wetter. "That's it, chérie. Already coming close like the perfect slut you are. Come on," he urged, pushing in another finger, cupping the inside of your walls with supernatural speed.  

"Holy shit... is that... is she..." Gabi's lips parted with disbelief.  

Kimi blinked. "I think so..."  

Ollie's eyes widened, your cries in the air as the barriers came down. Thighs clenching around Isack's hard, legs trembling while your vision burned completely white. The orgasm hit you, sweet sounds from your mouth turning silent as the head flooded from your insides. Hot liquid gushing out of your cunt in pulses, soaking everything within your vicinity.  

His forearm. Isack's hand. The couch. Dark splotches like artwork across the fabric.  

Ollie's heart paced ferally in his chest. His movements almost invisible, pushing Isack's hand away as his mouth attached to your cunt, lapping up every last drop he could take. His arms tightly locked around your thighs while you wildly spasmed against his tongue.  

The pain was surreal, stupidly mixed with the resting excitement after Ollie had finally touched you. The tears from your eyes were incessant, leaving you a blubbering mess in front of him. "F-Fu... O-Oll—ngh!" You sobbed out, eyes shut firmly.  

Isack could only chuckle, barely even offended as he grabbed his cock out, propping your face on the arm of the couch. "Look at her," he grunted with disbelief. "Can't even tell him to stop she's fucked so stupid." 

Gabi and Kimi shook their heads, unable to stop themselves from shoving their hands onto their shafts, surrounding you with pure need and desire.  

Your skin burned at Isack's words, cunt pulsing around the animalistic groan of Ollie's against your cunt. Your head peeked down, finding those dark brown eyes staring right back at you. "Oh fuck," you moaned, falling back into the couch, feeling his lips wrap around your clit.  

"It's okay, baby. I won't leave you empty," Isack hissed, pressing the tip of his cock into your mouth, warmness coating him almost instantly as he silenced your cries. "Oh shit. Just like that," he rasped.  

Gabi could only swear under his breath, cock so hard yet again from all the mess you had created. Not even once could he imagine this would’ve happened. At least not like this. And truth be told, he hardly thought it was the aphrodisiacs that were making all of you crazy.  

Your eyes rolled hard, throat almost lax around Isack's cock as the pleasure came crashing down from Ollie's mouth, sweat-covered hips bucking with pain and euphoric slivers, fingers shaking from how hard they dug into the couch.  

"Jesus Christ," Kimi cussed, lower pelvis beginning to keel over. 

Whatever frustration of Ollie's Isack had named earlier on seemed to still be present, lips moving from your cunt only to replace the momentary loss with his aching cock.  

The first sound from Ollie's mouth was guttural. He was as dazed as you were without having done anywhere near as much. His snaps against your hips were rough and deep, making choke around Isack's cock. "You promised. What did you promise, huh?" He grunted yet again, fingers practically injuring your waist from how tight they pressed.  

Your gags filled his ears as his cock weighed heavy in your walls. "You said you'd tell. You'd ask to be fucked stupid. But no... you wanted to play games at the start, hmm?" Ollie chuckled, sound dark and reverent.  

Isack bit his lip, your attempt and talking shooting down his thick length, driving him even crazier.  

"Do you feel stupid now? Could've been fucked like this a long time ago, baby. But you were so desperate to get tease us. To be the slut you are," Ollie spat, flickers falling onto your skin, practically sizzling from the heat.  

All you could hear was everyone's heavy breaths and pants, Gabi and Kimi's hands gliding over their own cocks. Everyone desperately rushing to meet their end with you. And it only made you moan further, pleasure bubbling in your lower stomach.  

Your teary eyes widened at the press of Ollie's fingers against your clit, hand wrapping around his wrist at the sheer sensitivity pulsing through your cunt as he toyed with your balance of pain and pleasure.  

His laugh was instantaneous. "What? It hurts?" Ollie's mocked, fingers rubbing the bundle of nerves as he rutted into you. His grunts became heavy with the tightening of your cunt. Oh fuck... "I know you can handle it. What else are you good for?" 

He tore you.  

Ripped you apart, piece by piece as the orgasm hit you harder than lightning. Harder than any sort of tsunami or earthquake. It was like it was alive. It scolds you. Tames you with every ripple through your core. You think... you think it's the white light at the end of the tunnel. Some blurry line between heaven and hell.  

But you weren't alone.  

Isack, who had been using your mouth like a toy, had faltered, knees weak as he came down your throat, stuffing you with his seed. Kimi and Gabi had let out a string of curses, ropes of cum splattering across your body and the couch. And Ollie... oh Ollie.  

Frozen with this live electricity in his body, he was flushed against you, shaking in sync with you. Feeling your cunt pulse around him, milking every last drop of pleasure from him. Taking his breath away entirely.  

The room laid heavy for a minute or two before Isack quickly moved out of your mouth, hands rushing you tilt prop you back up. You shuddered as Ollie pulled out of you, body aching from the aftermath.  

"Fuck, are you okay?" Isack queried, nudging for Gabi to retrieve some water, concern evident as you coughed, throat aching, and dry tears stained on your cheeks. He grabbed the cup of water, pushing it towards your lips.  

You welcomed the cold fluid gladly, more thirsty than worried about your bruised oesophagus or the drops of water dripping down your chest. You sighed hoarsely as you finished the cup. "That was..." 

"Way too much?" Kimi queried anxiously, cautiously checking over your body as he winced at the sound of your voice.  

"Like you never want to do this again?" Gabi added, hand massaging your temple. 

You breathed heavily, sore eyes drifting towards Ollie who stared silently, kneeling between your legs. You could barely read his gaze. Regret mixed with a selfish amount of arrogance. A horrid combination that should've scared anyone.  

You smiled tiredly. "That was perfect."  

Ollie released the breath he had been unintentionally holding. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, brown eyes watching you carefully as he pulled away. His arms travelled to the sides of your body, scooping you up swiftly. "Come on then. Gabi, go turn on the shower." 

"Okay... from experience, it won't fit all five of us," Gabi began.  

Isack snapped his head to him, hand instantly darting out to whack the back of his head. "Can you shut up and go?" He sighed with annoyance, watching him began to move. "Seriously... the nerve he has," he muttered to Kimi. 

"I don't know where he gets it from," Kimi shook his head, jelly legs beginning to move as the Frenchman followed after him.  

"You promise that wasn't too much?" Ollie murmured, looking down at you as the boys rushed towards the bathroom. "I didn't mean to..." 

You pressed a small kiss to his forearm. "I promise." 

Your apartment pool could never.

Thankfully, Satoru was willing to lounge around on floaties with you, his presence comforting despite his tendency to be annoying about fifty percent of the time. The other fifty percent makes it worth it, and today, that fifty percent is in full effect.

The sun beams down towards you, warming your backside as you lie flat on the clear inflatable that Satoru insists is "the superior floatie" because it lets you see the water beneath you.

Not that there's much to see besides the occasional leaf or the faint shimmer of the pool's blue iridescent tiles, but he seems to take great pride in his floatie collection.

Occasionally, Satoru will push your floatie towards the waterfalls that cascade into the pool, claiming he's just "helping you cool off" before splashing your hair to get it wet.

He tricked you once, claiming he was improving the angle so you could tan better, his voice full of faux sincerity—which you naively believed— only for cold, hard water to be dumped on your face from the waterfall.

You should have seen it coming from a mile away. His laugh echoed across the pool, and you craved revenge, but the free pool was too good to give up, so you let it slide. For now.

Anything for the free pool.

You could hear the water splashing as Satoru swam, his movements creating gentle ripples that disturbed your peaceful float.

Your floatie shifted, your body being pulled away from your perfect tanning spot, catching the optimal amount of rays without frying you to a crisp.

"Satoru, swear to god, if I feel a single drop of water, you're dead," you warned, lifting your head and pulling the sunglasses over your eyes so you weren't blinded by the sun.

"You're so scary," he laughed, elbows resting on the edge of your inflatable, his chin propped up on his arms. "You want a bomb pop?" he asked lightly. His tongue was already dyed purple, a telltale sign he seemed to have indulged himself in one already while you were busy sunbathing.

You were craving something sweet, your mouth watering at the thought of that icy, sugary goodness, so this was perfect timing.

His hair was tousled and wet with water, the white strands darkened to a soft silver where they were soaked through, and his skin was even a little tanned from the sun, a rare sight that made him look like a surfer from California.

The contrast was pretty on his white hair and cerulean eyes. You hummed, nodding your head, "Pull me back."

Obliging, Satoru pulled you with him to the pool's edge, his hands gripping the sides of your floatie with surprising care. Your floatie had traveled quite the distance across his expansive pool, and as you moved, you took in the sheer scale of his pool deck.

His home was beautiful; your own family's wealth wasn't anything to laugh at, but Gojo's was on a different planet entirely. He even had his own golf course named after him back home, a fact he brought up too casually.

You would jokingly call his family the Crazy Rich Gojo's when you found out how wealthy he was.

Your pool at home was nice, sure, but Satoru's was pretty damn close—if not better. The carefully curated landscaping that surrounded it, the infinity edge that made it look like the water went on forever. It was picturesque, residing in someone's dream home pinterest board.

Rolling over, you let the coolness of the floaty cool the warm skin on your back, the plastic slightly sticky from the heat but still refreshing. It felt nice, relaxing you further onto the floatie as you surrendered to the heat.

You kept your hand pressed to the ledge so you wouldn't float away again, your fingers gripping the edge.

You watched as Satoru climbed out of the pool, his body dripping wet from the chlorinated water, droplets cascading down his back in rivulets that caught the light. Even though you were in the deeper end, he didn't need to take the ladder; the pros of being tall meant he could just hoist himself up like it was nothing, muscles flexing with the effort.

It took a minute for him to come back with your sweet relief, his footsteps padding against the stone tiles as he made his way to the outdoor fridge. He carefully unwrapped the red, white, and blue bomb pop, holding two others in his hand.

Crouching down in front of you, his strong calves bending towards you, he waved the cold treat over your lips, the cool air touching your lips ever so slightly. You reached out to snatch it away, your fingers grazing the white wrapper, but he happened to be faster, pulling it back with a grin.

Holding the popsicle in the air, his arms reached higher than where you could grab it comfortably, his height advantage making this game incredibly unfair. He waved it back and forth, and you felt that familiar irritation prickle at your skin once again.

"Satoru, stop," you groaned, sitting up from the floatie to take it out of his hand, the movement causing water to slosh around you. You were planning on playing nice with him today, being the bigger person and all that, but he always found a way to scratch your nerves, pulling them taut until you snapped. Nevertheless, you enjoyed his company.

Knowing Satoru since your freshman year, through friends of friends who had somehow dragged both of you to the same party, you happened to become friends with Satoru; it felt practically inevitable.

When you first met him, you thought he was an egotistical prick. But the more you got to know him, the more you realized he wasn't that bad. He was there for you during breakups, letting you cry on his shoulders while he fed you ice cream and told you that your ex was "a shit loser anyway."

He was there for rough hangovers, making you drink water and bone broth even when you insisted you would die if you moved. He was there for late-night drives, windows down, music blasting, the two of you screaming lyrics at the top of your lungs like you were the only people on the quiet streets. The plentiful noise complaints proved you definitely weren't.

And you were there for him, even when he drunkenly threw up on your vintage Kelly, a bag you had gotten for your sixteenth birthday—She will be missed. He ended up buying you two more as an apology, one in the original color and one in a shade that matched your eyes, but still, Satoru was a great friend.

Even if the lines are blurred in the friend portion.

"Satoru, stop!" he mocked in a high-pitched voice, his impression of you absolutely terrible. You definitely didn't sound like that, and you snatched the already melting popsicle from his hands before he could pull it away again.

Your tongue hurriedly reached out to lick the melted juices, the sweet flavor exploding on your taste buds as you started from the base to the top, not wanting to waste a single drop. The UV was making it melt faster, so you took a bite out of the tip, crunching through the icy layers. Might as well eat it before the sun does first, you thought, chewing happily.

You hadn't noticed Satoru's gaze as he watched, his eyes fixed on your mouth, wincing slightly as you bit the bomb pop with more force than necessary.

"Don't look at me like that, you're double-fisting bomb pops over there," you rolled your eyes, lifting your glasses to the top of your head to get a better look at his face. His face was crunched up with a look of amusement.

"You're the freaky one," he mused, licking both of the popsicles at the same time, his tongue darting out to catch the melting drips with practiced ease.

You were tempted to bring up the time you found him and Suguru passed out on his bed with two other girls, a scene that had been burned into your memory forever, but you decided to let it slide. But you're the freaky one, right..

"Whatever," you said instead of bringing up his freak escapades, taking another bite of your bomb pop. You wouldn't let Satoru live that one down, but you'll live past his greed, saving that ammunition for a later date when you really need to win an argument.

"I feel bad for any of your victims," he said, his eyebrows furrowed in mock sadness, kissing up to the sky like he was praying for the souls of your hypothetical head receivers.

He sat down on the ledge, his legs dangling into the water, the ripples spreading outward from his movements.

"Luckily, there are none," you said, the words coming out louder than you intended.

He paused dramatically, his entire body freezing as he stared at your face to see if you were serious. Realizing you weren't lying, a smirk twitched at his lips, one that usually preceded with more irritating and unnecessary comments.

Much to the dismay of your many hookups, you had never given head before. Too nervous to mess up and bite someone's appendage off, you never tried. It was a confession you rarely made, one that usually got you a mix of shock and pity, but with Satoru, it felt different.

"Not even-" he started until you shook your head firmly, cutting him off. He thought for a second, his expression contemplative, before asking, "You want to practice?"

It's not like you haven't tried to practice before, using fruit and various objects in an attempt to gain some semblance of skill, but a banana is much different than a real dick. The texture, the shape, the way it moves—or lack thereof. It's just not the same.

You stared at him momentarily, thinking about his offer, your brain running through all the possible outcomes. It's not like neither of you had crossed lines before; you're the one who taught him how to make out with someone after he claimed he didn't know how.

A claim you still weren't sure was true or just an elaborate excuse to get you to kiss him.

Once, led to twice, and whenever either of you was feeling lonely enough, your lips would find his. It was convenient, and a line you had long since stopped pretending existed.

This wasn't much different, right?

"You'd really show me?" you questioned hesitantly. If you wanted to practice on a real person, you might as well do it with Satoru. He nodded, leaning closer to the edge, looking down towards you. His gaze was almost eager, excited maybe.

"Of course, I mean, what are friends for, right?" he tilted his head slightly, the sun catching the water droplets in his hair. He looked pretty, glittery even. "The same way you were eating that, just less biting, more sucking, and inside action." You nodded, taking in what he said patiently.

Lifting from your floatie, you climbed onto the sun-warm pool deck. Swallowing the rest of the bomb pop, you sat next to Satoru, ready on the ledge, your eyes hinting at the lounge chairs. He stared at you for a moment. "Oh- I see, yeah, over there m-might be better," he stuttered, getting up to go to the chairs.

He sat down on the much cooler chairs, shaded by the umbrellas from the sun. "Do I sit here?" You knelt on the pool deck's smooth concrete, your body kneeling between his spread legs.

He looked down at you, confused and partially nervous. "Don't tell me you're getting nervous about me, Satoru," you teased, laying your head on his knee.

"N-nervous? No, I was just… surprised," he muttered, clearing his throat, "Didn't think you meant practice on me." he paused for a moment, his empty hand carding through his hair.

"Not that I am opposed, practice makes perfect, you know?" he smiled, licking the remainder of his bomb pop.

"You expected me to practice on a bomb pop?" you chuckled. "I need to practice on something real," you sighed. By the hardness growing in Satoru's swim shorts, he definitely didn't seem opposed.

"Why? Tried before?" he half-joked, but you only glared at him; he didn't need to hear how you embarrassingly choked on a banana after it broke in your throat. "Well, first, you need to set the tone; it's better if the little guy is awake first," he instructed, handing you a pillow.

"Doesn't seem like you need any help with that," you murmured, getting more comfortable on the pillow.

"What can I say, I'm a healthy guy," he commented nonchalantly, the pink tinging his ears telling a different story. "You want to take it out," you followed, your hands nervously pulling at his trunks.

His breath hitched the second your fingers brushed against the waistband of his swim trunks, the fabric damp from the pool water he'd been lounging in moments before.

The bomb pop had long since melted down his hand, sticky sweetness dripping onto his knuckles, but he made no move to clean it off. His focus was entirely on you.

"There you go," he murmured, voice dropping as he lifted his hips just enough for you to tug the trunks down his thighs. His cock sprang free, already half-hard and flushed pink at the tip, curving slightly to the left. A bead of pre-cum glistened at the slit, catching the sunlight like a tiny pearl.

"Very healthy guy," you joked, trying to distract yourself from being too nervous. You swallowed, staring at it with wide eyes. It was big. Thick and long, veined and heavy, resting against his lower stomach with an almost casual weight.

Not really what would be your first as a beginner. You wouldn't boost his ego any further, or he might explode.

Your hand hovered over it, fingers trembling slightly, and Satoru's lips curled into that familiar smirk. "Don't just admire it, babe," he teased, reaching down to wrap his sticky fingers around yours, guiding your palm to wrap around his shaft. The heat of him seared against your skin, velvety smooth over rigid hardness. "You gotta touch it. Get familiar with it. Not gonna bite."

"Says you," you mumbled, but your fingers tightened experimentally, and his breath caught in his throat, a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch that made your confidence bloom.

"Start slow," he instructed, his voice a little rougher now, the playful edge sharpening. "Just... wrap your hand around it. Feel the weight. Get it, wet, get a rhythm going. Don't just-" You nodded, spitting onto the tip. You stroked him, once, clumsily, your grip too tight and your angle wrong. He winced, but the sound that escaped him wasn't entirely pained.

"Okay, okay," he laughed breathlessly, his head falling back against the lounge chair. "That's-that's a start. But loosen up. It's not a weapon, alright? Gentle. Like you're holding a baby bird."

"I've held birds; this does not feel like a bird," you shot back, but you adjusted, lightening your grip, letting your fingers slide down to his base and then back up. His hips twitched involuntarily, and you grinned at the reaction.

"There you go," he breathed, his hand coming up to card through his wet white hair, pushing it back from his forehead, his gaze making you even hotter. "Now, use your mouth. Just the tip, first. Get used to it."

You leaned forward, pressing a tentative kiss to the head of his cock. He tasted salty, like chlorine and sweat, and you found yourself licking your lips before you even realized what you were doing.

"Don't overthink it," he murmured, his hand dropping to rest gently on the back of your head, not pushing, just there. "Just take it slow. Let it- ah-"

You parted your lips and took him in, just the head at first, your tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge. His hips buckled up involuntarily, and you gagged, pulling off with a wet pop.

"Sorry, sorry," he panted, his cheeks flushed a pretty pink beneath the shade. "Fuck, you just-your mouth is really cold, okay? Give a guy some warning."

"Maybe you should give me some warning," you snorted.

"Fair enough," he conceded, "How about this, you get back down there, and I'll return the favor. Make it fair."

"Fair?" you echoed, your hand still wrapped around him, feeling the steady pulse of his heartbeat through the velvety skin. "You think you can keep quiet while I'm down here?"

Satoru's laugh was low, almost a purr, as he settled back into the lounge chair. His white lashes fluttered half-closed, those piercing blue eyes watching you through the slits. "I've kept quiet through worse."

Your thumb traced the ridge of his tip, spreading the glistening bead of pre-cum across the sensitive skin. His stomach muscles flinched, and you felt a surge of power at the small reaction. "Yeah, sure."

"Attagirl," he breathed, one large hand coming to rest on the back of your head again. His fingers resting gently in your hair. "Now, take a breath. Relax your jaw. You're thinking too much."

"How do you-"

"You're clenching your teeth," he interrupted, "I can feel it." You exhaled slowly, forcing your shoulders to drop, and leaned forward again. This time, when you took him into your mouth, you focused on the weight of him on your tongue. Your lips stretched around the head, and you hollowed your cheeks experimentally.

"Fuck," Satoru hissed, his fingers tightening in your hair. "Yeah, that's-that's good. Just like that. Don't try to take it all at once. Work your tongue."

You obeyed, swirling your tongue around the sensitive underside of his tip, tracing the little vein that ran along his shaft. His hips twitched again, but he held himself still, letting you explore at your own pace. His hand stayed heavy on your head, occasionally stroking your hair in a way that felt almost encouraging.

"Breathe through your nose," he instructed, his voice growing rougher. "And, mmngh- use your hand on what you can't fit in your mouth. Make it part of the same rhythm."

You pulled off with a wet sound, a string of saliva connecting your bottom lip to his flushed tip. "You're a lot better than a tiktok video."

Satoru's laugh was breathless, his chest heaving. "What am I not good at? Now get back down here before I get lonely." You rolled your eyes but complied, taking him back into your mouth with renewed determination. You wrapped your hand around the base and pumped in time with your bobbing head.

The angle was awkward, your neck starting to ache, but the way Satoru's breath hitched every time you took him deeper made it worth it.

"Sloppy," he murmured, his thumb stroking the shell of your ear. "Get sloppy. Use more spit. You're not trying to make it pretty, you're trying to make me come." You pulled off just long enough to gather a generous amount of saliva in your mouth, letting it drool down your chin and onto his shaft. The sight of it, the way his cock glistened in the dappled sunlight, made something hot curl in your belly.

You licked a stripe up the underside, from base to tip, and Satoru groaned, deep and guttural. You were starting to understand when your friends would remark that their mouths were watering.

"Fuck, okay, okay," he panted, his composure finally cracking. "You're a fast learner. That's—yeah, right there-"

You took him back into your mouth, deeper this time, pushing past the resistance in your throat. Your eyes watered, but you forced yourself to relax, just like he'd said. You focused on the sounds he was making: the broken moans, the way his breath stuttered, and the feedback loop of pleasure and power it created.

"That's it, baby," he crooned, his voice dropping into something silkier. "That's my good girl. Taking me so well, you're a natural, shit-" His hips bucked upward, and you gagged, pulling off with a cough. Saliva dripped down your chin, and you wiped at it with the back of your hand, glaring at him through watery eyes.

"Warning?" you croaked.

"Sorry, sorry," he panted, but he wasn't sorry at all. The smug look on his face was a dead giveaway, even as his chest heaved and his flush spread down to his collarbones. "You just got me excited."

"Asshole," you muttered, but you were already leaning back in, licking a slow, teasing stripe across his tip.

Satoru's hand tightened in your hair. "Watch your mouth, princess. Or I'll make you." The challenge in his voice sent a shiver down your spine.

You took him back into your mouth, sinking farther than before, feeling him hit the back of your throat. You held there for a moment, breathing through your nose, before pulling back and repeating the motion.

"That's it," he groaned, and his control was sliding, melting away with each bob of your head. "Just like that. You're doing so good, so good for me-" His grip tightened, guiding your pace faster, and you let him. You wanted this, wanted to push him over the edge, wanted to taste the proof of your progress.

His cock twitched in your mouth, opening your throat to take him deeper. "Fuuck-" he moaned loudly. He motioned for you to pull off, but you kept your head still. His seed sputtered onto your tongue. You held there for a moment as he caught his breath above you.

His cum didn't taste horrible, just foreign, a bit salty. Nevertheless, you swallowed. Wiping the outside of your mouth of spit.

"Did I do well?" You asked slowly, pulling his cock from your mouth.

"You- yeah, you did great," he breathed. Tossing the melted popsicle into the trash, licking his hand clean of the popsicle. "Since you did so well, let's make it fair."

Before you could ask what he meant, he was shifting, grabbing you by the hips and manhandling you with surprising strength, flipping you around until you were positioned over him, your knees on either side of his head, your face hovering above his already hard cock.

"Pretty skilled here too," he announced cheerfully, his voice muffled by the fact that he was already pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh. "Best way to learn. You get to focus on your technique while I keep you...distracted."

"Distracted?" you squeaked, but the word dissolved into a moan as his tongue licked a broad stripe up your slit, through the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms. He hooked a finger under the material, pulling it aside, and the first real taste of you seemed to make him groan.

"Shit," he breathed against your cunt, his nose nudging your clit. "You taste better than those bomb pops."

"Focus, Satoru," you managed, your voice shaky as you lowered your head back down to his cock. "You're supposed to be teaching me."

"Right, right," he chuckled, the vibration of his laughter against your pussy making you jolt. "Then get to work, pretty girl. And remember-"He licked into you, slow and deliberate, "-tongue's your best friend. Use it."

You moaned, the sound vibrating around his shaft, and he groaned in response, his hips twitching up to meet your mouth.

You tried to remember his instructions: gentle, start slow, don't overthink it. It was hard when his tongue was doing that, curling inside you, tasting every inch of your slick heat.

"You're-" you gasped, pulling off his cock for a breath, "-you're not making this easy."

"Not supposed to be easy," he murmured against your folds, his lips brushing your clit with each word. "Supposed to be fun."

His thumb found your clit, rubbing lazy circles while his tongue dipped back inside you, and you cried out, your hips grinding down against his face without your permission.

He let out a pleased hum, his free hand coming up to grip your ass, squeezing the flesh hard enough to leave marks.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice a low rumble. "Use those pretty hips. Ride my face." You took him back into your mouth, deeper this time, your head bobbing in a clumsy rhythm.

Your teeth scraped against him, and he hissed sharply. "Teeth, angel," he reminded you, his voice strained. "No teeth. Just lips and tongue."

You sucked hard, and his hips bucked, pushing himself deeper into your throat. You gagged, tears pricking at your eyes, but you didn't pull off. You were determined. "Good," he praised, his voice dripping with approval. "That's my girl. Taking it like a pro."

His tongue speared into you, and you moaned around his cock, the vibration making him shudder beneath you. His grip on your ass tightened, his hips thrusting up into your mouth in shallow, desperate little movements.

"Just like that," he breathed, his words muffled by your pussy. "Fuck, you're so beautiful. Suck it- yeah, just like that." You were drooling, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his shaft, your jaw aching, but you didn't care.

He pulled his mouth away from you for just a moment, his breath hot against your slick folds. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. Gonna make me cum again if you keep that up-" You doubled your efforts, taking him deeper, your hand pumping what your mouth couldn't reach. His hips bucked erratically, his fingers digging into your ass, his whole body tensing beneath you. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"

He came with a choked cry, hot and thick down your throat, and you swallowed instinctively. He kept twitching in your mouth, his hips still jerking as you milked him through it, not pulling off until he went limp beneath you.

Although he had just come, he didn't let off. His moans vibrated against your cunt, pulling you closer and closer.

You barely had a moment to catch your breath before Satoru's tongue was back on you, lapping at your dripping folds like a man starved. His grip on your ass tightened, spreading you wider, and you felt the cool air against your slick skin before his mouth descended again.

"F-fuck, Satoru-" you gasped, your forehead dropping against his thigh. His cock was starting to grow half-hard beneath you, twitching against your cheek, and you could feel every pulse of his heartbeat through the velvet skin.

His tongue circled your clit, slow and deliberate, and your hips stuttered against his face. He laughed, the sound vibrating through you. "You're so responsive," he breathed, pulling back just enough to speak. "I can feel every little noise you make-" He licked a broad stripe up your slit. "-Don't think I can stop after this."

You cried out, your hips grinding down against his face without permission, and he groaned in approval. His hands gripped your ass harder, pulling you closer, and you could feel the wet sounds of his mouth against you; it was obscene. "'Toru-" you gasped, your hand tightening around his thighs.

His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles while his tongue plunged back inside you, and you shattered. Your orgasm hit you like a wave, your body convulsing above him, your mouth falling open in a silent scream.

You could feel him smiling against you, his tongue still working you through it, drawing out every last tremor.

"That's it," he cooed, his voice soft, almost tender. "That's my girl. Let go for me."

Your hips rocked against his face involuntarily, riding out the aftershocks, and he let you take what you needed. When you finally stilled, trembling and breathless, he pressed one last kiss to your clit before gently nudging you off him.

"Okay?" he asked, sitting up to wrap his arms around you. His voice was rough, but his eyes were soft as he looked at you, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"Yeah," you managed, your voice hoarse. Turning towards him, you positioned your body over his lap. Your hips were still trembling from the aftershocks as you settled over his lap, the wet heat of your cunt sliding along the thick length of him. Satoru's hands found your waist immediately, fingers digging into the soft flesh there like he was grounding himself. His chest was heaving beneath you, that stupidly pretty face.

His grip on your waist tightens the moment you settle over him, fingers pressing bruises into your skin before he's even inside you. "Fuck," he breathes, the word coming out almost reverent. "You're gonna kill me, you know that?"

You don't answer with words, just roll your hips forward, letting the slick heat of your cunt drag along the underside of his cock. The sensation makes him hiss through his teeth, his head falling back against the lounge chair.

"Look at you," he murmurs, one hand leaving your waist to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His thumb traces along your bottom lip, and you part your mouth instinctively, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. He groans.

"So fuckin' eager. That mouth of yours-" He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale as you sink down, just the tip, just enough to make him see stars. "Shit, baby. Don't tease."

"Thought you wanted me to take what I needed," you counter, voice breathy but carrying an edge of defiance. You lift your hips again, letting him slip out, watching the way his jaw tightens. "You said I could-"

"Sassy," he cuts you off, but there's a grin splitting his face, all teeth and mischief. His hands find your hips again, and this time he doesn't ask; he just guides you down, slow and steady, watching your face as he fills you inch by inch.

Your breath catches in your throat, fingers curling into his shoulders. The stretch is obscene, almost too much, but you take it, sinking down until you're flush against him, his cock buried to the hilt.

You moaned, feeling every ridge and vein of him inside you. Your hips start to move on their own, small, experimental circles that make him groan low in his chest.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment, and you take the opportunity to lean in, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. "Thank you," you murmur against his skin, and his eyes snap open. "Satoru-"

"Don't." His grip on your hips is almost bruising now. "Don't thank me, not when you're-" He bucks his hips up, just once, and the sudden jolt steals the breath from your lungs. "Not when you're doing this."

You laugh, breathless, and it dissolves into a moan as you start to move in earnest. Up and down, slow and deep, letting him watch the way your body takes him. His eyes are glued to where you're joined, watching the way your cunt glistens around his cock with every slide.

His thumbs trace patterns into your hips, not guiding, just feeling— like he can't get enough of the way your skin feels under his palms.

"Faster," he says after a moment. His voice is thick, almost strained, and there's a flush creeping up his neck. "Come on, pretty girl."

You raise an eyebrow, even as you pick up the pace. "What, you want me to-"

"I want you to ride me like you mean it." His hand comes down on your ass, sharp and sudden, and you jolt forward, a squeak escaping your throat. He grins, satisfied. "That's more like it. Now come on. Don't make me ask again."

You plant your hands on his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath your palms, and you move. Hips rolling, thighs burning, you find a rhythm that has both of you gasping.

His head falls back again, his hands gripping your waist as you might disappear, and you feel it, the way his breathing quickens, his hips start to meet your thrusts with increasing urgency.

"Yeah," he breathes, and his voice is ragged now, all pretense of control gone. "Just like that. Fuck, baby, you feel so good-"

You lean down, pressing your forehead to his, your breath mingling. The position changes the angle, and you feel him hit something deep inside you that makes your vision white out for a second. Your nails dig into his chest, and he groans, snapping his hips up harder.

"Right there," you gasp, and he grins, that infuriatingly beautiful grin, because he knows. He knows exactly where you need him, and he's gonna give it to you. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision, and you cry out, your rhythm faltering.

"Don't stop," he commands, and his voice is a low growl now. "Don't you fucking stop, baby. You're so close, I can feel it. Just let go."

You're shaking, trembling, every muscle in your body tense as he works you higher and higher. He's watching your face, eyes dark and hungry, like he's memorizing every expression you make." 'Toru," you gasp, "I can't-"

"Yes, you can." His fingers on your clit are relentless, his hips driving up into you with a pace that's almost punishing. "You're gonna cum for me, aren't you? Gonna soak my cock like the good girl you are."

The words break you. Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, your whole body seizing as you cry out his name. Your walls clenched around him, milking him, and he groaned, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge.

You feel the heat of him filling you, pulse after pulse, and the sensation sends another ripple of pleasure through your oversensitive body.

When you come back to yourself, you're collapsed against his chest, his arms wrapped around you like you're something precious. His heart is pounding against your ear, and you can feel his breath ruffling your hair.

"Fuck," he murmurs, and his voice is soft now, almost sleepy. "That was-"

"Stop talking," you mumble against his skin, but you're smiling. "You'll ruin the moment."

He laughs, and it's warm, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "I just saved some lucky guy from getting his dick cut off, thanks to me." Smugness filling his tone.

You smacked his chest, playfully, your palm connecting with his pectoral in a light thump. "I would not do that," you rolled your eyes, but your hand stayed resting on his chest, your fingers splayed across the firm muscle.

It was soft, the skin warm and slightly damp, and you didn't feel like moving it. He didn't mind either, his fingers finding the strings of your bikini top and toying with them absently, twisting and untwisting the fabric.

"Let me use your shower. I feel disgusting," you groaned, the words muffled against his skin.

The chlorine and sweat had dried on your body, leaving you sticky and uncomfortable, your skin tight and pulling with every movement. The heat didn't make it any better, the sun still bearing down even as the afternoon wore on.

He nodded, his chin brushing against the top of your head as he played with strands of your hair, twirling them around his finger.

You missed his shower; the water pressure was perfect, hitting your shoulders with just the right amount of force.

You'd even set up the same one in your own apartment after the first time you used it, but it never quite felt the same. You were staying the night here anyway, not like Satoru was going to say no. He never did.

"Sure, what are friends for, right?"

​

Your phone rings at 3 AM, which can only mean one thing. Lando Norris calling, which means this is going to be so much worse than any text could ever convey. You stare at the ceiling of your Monaco apartment, counting to ten in three different languages before you answer. It's a technique you've perfected over the past several years of working for Lando, which requires a special kind of patience-building exercise that keeps you from committing what would definitely be classified as justifiable homicide.

Not that you'd get away with it. You probably would, actually, but that's beside the point.

"Lando," you answer, voice flat as the fucking pavement. "Unless you're currently on fire or have been kidnapped, this can wait until morning."

"Wow, so you'd just let me burn?" His voice comes through warm and sleep-rough and far too chipper for 3 in the fucking morning. There's an echo to it, the telltale acoustics of an airport terminal, and you curse under your breath. He's supposed to be on a flight right now. He's supposed to be thirty thousand feet in the air, unconscious, not bothering you.

"That's cold," he adds, and you can hear the grin in his voice, "noted for future reference."

You close your eyes. "Where are you?"

"So , uhm, I'm in Bahrain—"

"You're supposed to be in Monaco."

"—yeah, about that," he continues as if you haven't spoken at all, and you can hear the grin in his voice. The bastard thinks this is funny. He thinks this is hilarious. "I might've gotten on the wrong plane."

You sit up. God, you hate your life. You hate your job. You hate that you're awake right now. Most of all, you hate that you aren't even surprised. "You might have what?"

"Okay, I definitely got on the wrong plane," he amends, and there's a rustling sound like he's shifting his phone to his other ear. "But in my defense, the vodka Red Bulls at the airport were really strong, and Oscar dared me to see if I could get through security in under thirty seconds, and then there was this really fit flight attendant who asked if I needed help finding my gate, so ya'know, being the gentleman I am—"

You cut him off before he can finish that sentence. "Lando."

"—and I said yes obviously, because I'm not rude, and she was smiling at me with that smile, you know the one the ladies use—"

"Lando."

"—where it's like, super flirty but also professional? And she had these eyes that were doing this thing—"

"Lando."

He stops. You can practically hear him smirking through the phone, can picture the exact expression on his face, the one that makes you want to strangle him with your bare hands. "Yes?" He says it so innocently, so fucking sweetly, like he hasn't just woken you up at 3 AM to tell you he's on the wrong continent. "That's my name, by the way. Love it when you say it like that. Especially when you're all angry and you do that thing where your voice gets all—"

"What," you interrupt, jaw clenched, "do you need."

"See? That. That right there." He's definitely smirking now. You want to throw your phone into the Mediterranean Sea. You want to throw him into the Mediterranean Sea. "Makes me feel things."

You don't dignify that with a response.

"Anyway," he continues, undeterred as always, "I need you to book me a flight back and maybe fix things with my sponsor who I was supposed to meet with—"

There's a pause. You hear him ask someone in the background, "Mate, what time is it? Cheers."

Then, back to you, far too casually, "Yeah, so about four hours ago."

"Stay where you are," you cut him off, already climbing out of bed. Your feet hit the cold floor, and you're already mentally running through which contacts you'll need to grovel to at this hour. "I'll handle it."

"Ooh, so commanding." His voice drops lower, teasing in that way that makes you want to reach through the phone and— "Do you talk to all your clients like this, or am I special?"

"You're something."

"I'll take it." You can hear the smile in his voice, warm and infuriating and so fucking pleased with himself. "Knew you loved me."

"That's not what I said."

"Didn't have to," he replies, like it's obvious, like you've just confirmed something he's always known. "I can read between the lines. It's one of my many talents, actually, along with being really good at driving and also being really good at—"

"I'm hanging up now."

"Wait wait wait," he says quickly, and there's something slightly different in his voice now, less performative. "Will you actually fix it? With the sponsor? I know I fucked up."

You pause at your bedroom door. This is the thing about Lando that makes it impossible to actually hate him, just when you think he's completely oblivious, completely wrapped up in his own chaos, he does this, acknowledges the mess, trusts you to fix it. Doesn't apologize—he never apologizes—but asks anyway.

"I'll handle it," you repeat, softer this time. You shouldn't be softer. "Just stay at the airport, Lando. And please, for the love of god, do not get on any more planes."

"Yes, ma'am." He's back to teasing, just like that, the moment already gone. "Love it when you boss me around, by the way. Should I call you boss? Or do you prefer something else? I'm pretty flexible."

"Goodbye, Lando."

"Wait," But you're already pulling the phone away from your ear when you hear him say, "You're incredible, you know that?"

You pause and your thumb hovers over the end call button.

"I'm serious," he adds, but his voice hasn't gone soft. He sounds exactly the same—amused, chaotic, like he's grinning on the other end. Like he's always grinning. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I'm including my first win in that statement. Don't let it go to your head, though."

You exhale through your nose.

"Without me, you'd probably still be in Bahrain," you say finally. "Go drink some water. I'll text you the flight details."

"Aw, you care about my hydration levels." He sounds delighted. "That's basically a love language, ya' know."

You hang up and your apartment is quiet except for the distant sound of waves and your own heartbeat, which is doing something annoying in your chest. You pad into your kitchen with its view of the Mediterranean that you never get to enjoy because you're always putting out fires that Lando starts.

Metaphorical fires, mostly. Though there was that one incident in Singapore that the team agreed to never speak of again. Your laptop boots up as you make coffee, strong, black. The blue light illuminates your face as you pull up his schedule, his flight options, draft what will be a very apologetic email to the sponsor he's just stood up.

You've written variations of this email so many times you could probably do it in your sleep. Maybe you are doing it in your sleep. Is this a nightmare? It would make sense if this was a nightmare.

This is your life now.  Has been your life for years, actually, and you still haven't figured out how you ended up here—awake at 3 AM, fixing problems for a man who gets on the wrong plane because a flight attendant smiled at him.

At least the pay is good.

Lando's apartment looks like someone gave a golden retriever a Black Amex and thirty minutes in an interior design showroom. You let yourself in with the key he gave you three months ago. The fifth time he'd locked himself out, he'd just shrugged and said "might as well" and handed you a spare.

The hallway opens into the main living space, there’s framed F1 car prints lining the walls in that papaya orange that's burned into your retinas at this point, there's a gym bag spilling protein powder across the hallway floor. His helmet collection sits in a backlit display case like he's running a museum dedicated just to himself. There's a DJ setup gathering dust by the windows, you've seen him use it exactly twice, both times drunk off his ass at 2 AM, and both times his neighbors complained.

"Lando?" You call out, toeing off your shoes by the door. "Meeting's in two hours. We need to go over your schedule."

There's a crash from deeper in the apartment, followed by a string of curses. "Fuck—shit—"

"Are you dying?"

"Kitchen! And don't come in, I'm basically naked!"

You head straight for the kitchen. When Lando Norris tells you not to do something, it's usually because he's already done that exact thing and it's gone horribly wrong.

The kitchen is all white cabinets and black marble countertops, which are pristine nine out of ten times because Lando doesn't cook. Can't cook, more accurately. He once tried to make toast and somehow set off the fire alarm. Yes, he texted you for help. No, you don't want to talk about it.

A single trainer sits in the sink for some reason, and you don't ask.

When you round the corner into the kitchen, you stop dead. He's at the island, fresh out of the shower. Water drips from his hair onto his bare shoulders, trailing down his chest, then his stomach, catching the morning light filtering through the windows. The towel around his hips is slung so low you can see the sharp V of his hipbones—that line of muscle that disappears beneath white cotton.

He's holding a yogurt container in one hand, spoon in the other, staring at both like he's forgotten how they work together.

"Ha! Told you not to come in," he says, grinning like he just won pole position, "but you did anyway, so this is on you."

You're staring. You know you're staring. His hair's dripping water onto the counter. There's a droplet sliding down his collarbone, another one trailing down his abs, and your brain has just completely fucking blue-screened.

"Put a shirt on."

"That's not an answer about the yogurt."

"Lando."

"What? I just got out of the shower, it's my apartment." He takes a step closer and you can smell his body wash. "You're the one who walked in on me. Why, is this distracting or something? Am I being unprofessional?"

Yes. Extremely fucking yes. Your brain has completely shorted out and you're having thoughts that would get you fired, probably sued, definitely escorted out of the building by security.

"The sponsor meeting is in two hours and we need to prep." You force yourself to look at his face. Just his face. Nowhere else. His face is safe, except his mouth is doing that thing where he bites his bottom lip and that's not safe at all.

"I'm listening. Go ahead, prep me." He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. His biceps flex and you watch the muscle move under his skin and forget how to breathe.

"Can you put on clothes first?"

"Can't, actually. All my clothes are in the bedroom, and if I walk away now you'll just follow me there, won't you? And then we'll really be in trouble." His grin widens and you can see the exact moment the idea takes root in his head. "Unless that's what you want? I'm not opposed to it, for the record. Bedroom's got a better view anyway."

Your face goes hot. The back of your neck prickles with heat and you know he can see it, the flush creeping up from your collar. He looks fucking delighted with himself. 

"You're doing this on purpose."

"Doing what, exactly? Standing in my own kitchen in my own apartment after taking a shower? I mean, that's not a crime last time I checked." He picks up the yogurt container, squinting at the label. "Pretty sure it's fine, honestly. Smell test?"

He holds it out. You don't move.

"I'm not smelling your expired yogurt, Lando."

"See, this is the problem with our working relationship, there’s no trust whatsoever." He digs the spoon in and takes a bite, keeping his eyes locked on yours the whole time. Then proceeds to maintain eye contact while he swallows. "Tastes fine to me. Bit tangy, yeah, but could be the expiration date, could be the flavor. Who's to say, really."

"You're going to give yourself food poisoning and then I'm going to have to explain to Zak why you can't make it to testing."

"Probably, but you'll take care of me though, won't you?" He sets the yogurt down and takes another step closer. Your feet stay planted to the floor. "I mean, that's literally your job, isn't it? Taking care of me."

"My job is managing your schedule, not nursing you through a bout of salmonella because you can't be bothered to check expiration dates."

"That's the same thing, basically." Another step and he's suddenly close enough now that you can feel the heat coming off his skin, see the little scar above his eyebrow from that karting crash when he was twelve that he always brings up. Smell that fucking body wash. "You're really good at taking care of me, you know that? Like, really fucking good."

"You've mentioned it before."

"Yeah, but I don't think you get it, like, properly understand what I mean." His voice drops lower and you watch his throat move when he swallows. "Like, really good. Better than anyone else I've ever worked with, honestly. Sometimes I do stupid shit just to see what you'll do, how you'll fix it. It's become kind of a thing for me."

"That's actually psychotic."

"Nah, that's half the fun of having you around." He tilts his head and his hair drips water onto your shoe. "You're blushing, by the way."

"I'm not blushing."

"You absolutely are, it's very cute actually. Goes all the way down your neck and," His eyes track down, following the flush of heat spreading across your skin, they linger at your collarbone and you feel on fire, everywhere. "Makes me wonder how far down it actually goes."

Jesus fucking christ. "Lando."

"That's my name, yeah. You know, you say it a lot when you're flustered, I've noticed. It's sort of hot, actually, the way your voice gets all tight and annoyed, like you're trying really hard not to tell me to fuck off."

"I am trying really hard not to tell you to fuck off."

"See? Exactly like that, perfect example." Water drips from his hair onto your shoulder. "Want to know a secret?"

"Not particularly, no."

"I think about you a lot." His voice shifts, goes softer. "Like, more than is probably normal for a boss-employee situation, if I'm being honest. Definitely more than my PR team would be comfortable with if they knew."

Your heart's slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. "You're jetlagged from the flight."

"I'm not jetlagged."

"You're delirious from expired yogurt, clearly."

"I'm completely lucid, I promise you." He reaches out and catches the hem of your shirt between his fingers. Doesn't pull you closer, just holds the fabric. His thumb brushes against your hip through the cotton. "You're avoiding the question."

"You didn't ask a question."

You've spent two years trying to resist this. This pull. This gravity. Lando Norris is a black hole and you've been orbiting him, getting closer and closer, knowing eventually you'll cross the event horizon and there will be no coming back.

"Do you think about me?" The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest ache. "When you're not working, when you're doing normal people shit, do you ever just think, 'Wonder what that dickhead Lando is doing right now?'"

"Jesus, Lando." You take a breath, trying to find some semblance of professionalism. "This is so unprofessional. You know that, right?"

"Maybe." He tips his head back slightly, looking up at you through his lashes, and there's something mischievous in his expression, a little pout, a lot of trouble. Like he knows exactly what he's doing and doesn't give a single shit about it. And, you hate to admit that you do think about him. Constantly. When you're at the grocery store and his favorite energy drink is on sale. When you're watching Netflix at 11 PM and some comedian makes a joke he'd absolutely lose his shit over. When you're lying in bed at 3 AM and your phone lights up and before you even look you know it's him.

But you're not giving him that, not a chance. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip, wetting it, and your eyes track the movement before you can stop yourself.

"See?" His grin turns absolutely wicked. "You can't even resist me right now."

"Oh my god." You roll your eyes so hard it hurts and step back, pulling your shirt free from his fingers. "Clean up your yogurt. I'm getting you a shirt."

"Wait, no—"

"Lando."

"But I like being shirtless around you," he whines, actually whines like a child. "You're so fun to tease when I'm shirtless."

"Shirt. Now. Where are they?"

He sighs dramatically, slumping against the counter. "Second drawer. The tall one. But for the record, this is cruel and unusual punishment and I'm going to file a complaint with HR."

"You don't have an HR department."

"Then I'll make one just to file a complaint." He's grinning again as you head toward his bedroom. "Make sure you grab the tight one! The black one! You know which one I mean!"

You absolutely know which one he means and you're absolutely not grabbing that one. His bedroom is somehow even more ridiculous than the rest of the apartment. The bed's massive, unmade, sheets tangled like he's been fighting them. There's a sim racing rig in the corner, and trophies line the floating shelves on the wall. A Quadrant hoodie draped over his gaming chair.

You find the dresser and pull open the second drawer. It's full of McLaren team shirts and regular t-shirts. You deliberately avoid the tight black one you know he's talking about and grab a loose grey one instead. When you walk back into the kitchen, he's still leaning against the counter, yogurt untouched, grinning at you.

"That's not the shirt I asked for."

"Clean. Up. Your. Yogurt."

"So bossy." But he's already moving, grabbing paper towels, wiping up the mess. You toss the shirt at his head and it hits him square in the face.

"Ow. Violent."

"Put it on."

"What if I don't want to?" He's holding the shirt but not putting it on, just watching you with that infuriating smirk.

"Then I'm leaving and you can explain to Zak why you missed another sponsor meeting."

"Fine, fine." He pulls the shirt on and yeah, even the loose one looks good on him. His hair's now sticking up from where the fabric messed it up. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic. Do you want coffee?"

"You're really gonna make me coffee after I've been such a terrible boss?" He's following you to the coffee maker like a puppy.

"I'm going to make myself coffee and you can have some if you shut up for five minutes."

"I don't think I can shut up for five minutes. That's asking a lot." He watches you work, and you can feel his eyes on you. "You know how I like it though, right?"

"Two sugars, oat milk, unfortunately yes, I've memorized your terrible taste in coffee."

"It's not terrible, it's refined."

"It' tastes like ass."

"But you make it anyway." His voice has gone softer and you don't look at him. "Because you're sooooo good at taking care of me."

"Because I'm paid to take care of you."

"Yeah, yeah, same thing."

You hand him his mug and make your own. He takes a sip and makes a satisfied sound that you absolutely do not think about.

"So." You pull out your tablet, pull up your notes, try to look professional despite the fact that ten minutes ago he was basically naked and asking if you thought about him. "The meeting, let's go through the main talking points."

"Are you still thinking about it?"

"About the meeting, yeah obviously—"

"About kissing me."

Your face goes hot again. "Lando, I swear to god—"

"You've got all three tells going right now." He's grinning at you over his mug. "It's actually impressive. Didn't know you could do all three at once."

"Can we please focus?"

"I am focused. Very focused. Laser focused, actually." He sets his mug down. "Okay, tell you what. Let's make a bet."

"Absolutely not."

"If I'm perfect at this meeting and I mean perfect, no jokes, just straight on full professional Lando mode, you'll have to answer one question for me, and honestly."

You narrow your eyes. "What question?"

"That's the fun part. I'm not telling you until I win."

"You won't win. You're actually incapable of being professional for more than ten minutes."

"Bet." He holds out his hand, eyes gleaming with challenge. "Come on, unless you're scared."

You take his hand. His palm's warm, rough with calluses from the steering wheel. He holds on just a second too long, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

"You're gonna regret this."

"Maybe." His grin is absolutely feral. "But that's half the fun, isn't it?"

The sponsor meeting is in a conference room at the McLaren Technology Centre, and you arrive fifteen minutes early because Lando's never early to anything, which means you need to be early enough for both of you. Except for the fact that when you walk through the door, he's already there.

Sitting at the table. In a button-down shirt. Looking through the presentation materials like he actually cares about the quarterly projections.

"You're early," you say, and trying your best to not sound surprised.

"Yeah, well." He glances up and grins, but it's not his usual grin. "Got a bet to win, don't I?"

The sponsors arrive, there's two executives from Monster, all business suits and firm handshakes. Lando stands, smiles, does the whole being offensively charming thing. But it's different, he's actually fucking trying. You can't believe your goddamn eyes.

You sit in the corner with your tablet, taking notes, watching him work and it's fucking unsettling. He answers their questions perfectly. He's articulate, focused on them, doesn't make a single inappropriate joke. Doesn't even bother to check his phone. You've genuinely never seen this version of him before. You've seen him hungover at sponsor brunches, making jokes about his own driving. You've seen him show up twenty minutes late with his shirt on backwards. You've seen him accidentally insult a CEO's tie and then somehow charm his way out of it.

But this? This is someone who actually gives a shit. Someone who's prepared. Someone who knows exactly what he's doing and how to do it. It's terrifying because if he can be this professional, this focused, this put-together, then every other time he's been a disaster, he's been choosing to be a disaster. Which means his chaos is intentional. Which means when he shows up at your apartment at midnight because he locked himself out, when he calls you at 3 AM from the wrong country, when he stands in his kitchen in a towel asking if you think about him.

Jesus, when did it get so hot in here? You take a deep breath, grabbing your notepad and begin to fan the paper in front of your face. It certainly does not help. When you come back to the conference room, Lando's leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the table, grinning at you. The real grin, the "I totally won this bet" grin, and you feel a sinking in the pit of your stomach.

"So," he says. "I win."

You take a deep breath, realizing you have to talk your way out of this. Lando Norris always wins, always gets what he wants, and you just handed him ammunition like the fucking idiot you are.

This is how it happens—not with you quitting, not with some dramatic resignation, but with you trapped in a conference room while he cashes in a bet you never should have made. You're going to lose your job. You're going to lose everything. You can already see it, the HR meeting, the severance package, the LinkedIn post about "pursuing new opportunities" that everyone will know means you fucked your boss and it ended badly.

"You didn't even last the full hour, there's still—"

"Nope. Meeting's over. come on, I mean I was perfect." He stands up, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rides up and you can see a strip of his stomach, the waistband of his boxers. "Which means you owe me an answer to one question. Honestly."

You open your mouth to protest, but he stops you. "Those were the terms." He's walking toward you now, and there's something predatory about it, like you're a corner he's about to take at full speed. "You shook on it."

"What's the question."

He stops right in front of you. Your throat tightens and you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, dark against the tan of his skin. His goatee is slightly uneven, like he trimmed it himself this morning without really looking.

Your heart stops. Restarts. Stops again. "No."

"Liar." He takes a step closer. The movement is slow, deliberate, and you can feel the heat coming off his body. Your back hits the glass wall and it's cold, so cold compared to the warmth radiating from him. "Try again."

"Lando—"

"You promised to answer honestly." Another step and he's close enough now that you can smell his cologne properly—cedar and bergamot, but underneath there's something else. Something warm and slightly spicy. Amber, maybe, nonetheless, it makes your head swim, your chest ache. Water? You need water, holy water. "That was the deal."

"The deal was one question."

"And you didn't answer it." His hand comes up, bracing against the glass next to your head. Not touching you, but close enough that you can see the calluses on his palm, the white lines of old scars across his knuckles. "Do you want to kiss me? Yes or no."

Your mouth is dry. There's something throbbing low in your stomach, a pulse that matches your heartbeat. "This is so unprofessional."

"Uh-uh, not the right answer." His other hand comes up, caging you in. You can see the flutter of his pulse in his throat, the way his chest rises and falls. He's breathing faster than normal. "Come on. You're always so honest with me. So direct, let's not start lying now."

"I'm not."

"You are." He leans in and his nose brushes against your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and mint-fresh. "You're thinking about it right now. I can tell."

You realize you've stopped breathing. You inhale sharply and it's a mistake because all you can smell is him, that cologne, his own scent, it's consuming. Your head swirls, and you feel like at any moment now you might pass out. Bastard, what a fucking little shit.

"Lando, we can't."

"Why not?" His voice is low, almost a whisper, and you feel it vibrate through your chest. "Give me one good reason."

"You're my boss."

"Terrible reason. Next."

"This is the MTC, anyone could see us."

"Door's closed. Glass is tinted from the outside." His lips brush against your temple and you can feel your knees go weak. "Next."

"I—" Your voice cracks. There's heat everywhere he's close to you, like standing too near a fire. Your skin feels too tight and there's something pulsing between your legs and you press your thighs together. "This is a bad idea, very, very, bad idea."

"Probably." His hand moves from the glass to your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. His skin is rough and warm and you can feel the drag of his calluses. "But you still haven't answered my question."

You can see the green in his eyes, flecks of blue catching the fluorescent light. His pupils are dilated, dark and wide. His lips are slightly parted and you can see the white of his teeth, the pink of his tongue when he wets his bottom lip.

"Yes." The word comes out broken, barely a whisper, and it feels like signing your own death warrant. You've just ended your career. You've just destroyed every carefully maintained professional boundary. You've just proven that you're exactly what people will call you when this inevitably falls apart—a personal assistant who couldn't keep her hands to herself, who thought she was special, who believed Lando Norris when he looked at her like she mattered.

"Yes what?" He's smiling now, that wicked grin that makes your stomach flip.

"Yes, I want to kiss you." Your hands are shaking. Everything is shaking. "Happy now?"

"Getting there." His thumb moves to your bottom lip, dragging across it slowly. You can feel every ridge of his fingerprint. "How long?"

"That wasn't the question."

A knock at the door shatters the moment like glass, and you both freeze. His thumb is still on your lip. His other hand is still pressed against the small of your back. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, your wrists, between your legs.

You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, your wrists, between your legs. Reality crashes back in like ice water. You're going to be sick. You're actually going to be sick.

"Lando?" It's Jon, his trainer. Another knock. "You in there? Got that debrief in five."

Lando closes his eyes and drops his forehead to yours. You feel him exhale, warm breath skating across your mouth.

"Yeah," he calls out, voice rough. "Be right there."

"Alright, mate. I'll head down, meet you there."

Footsteps retreat down the hallway and the silence that follows is deafening. Lando doesn't move. His thumb drags across your lip one more time, slower, and something low in your belly clenches so hard you have to bite back a sound. You're going to let him do this. You're going to let him ruin you in this conference room and you won't even fight it.

This is who you are now. This is what you've become. The personal assistant who spreads her legs when her boss decides he wants her. The woman who throws away everything she's worked for because Lando Norris smells good and knows exactly where to put his hands.

"We should," you start, but even you can hear how weak it sounds. How unconvincing.

"Yeah." But he still doesn't move. His eyes are so dark, pupils blown completely wide, and you can see yourself reflected in them, small and desperate and already lost. "We should."

Neither of you move. The moment stretches. You're waiting for him to step back, to release you, to let you salvage some microscopic shred of dignity. His gaze drops to your mouth and stays there. You watch his throat work when he swallows, the muscle in his jaw ticks. His fingers flex against your back, pressing in hard like he's restraining himself.

"Lando."

"I know." Finally, fucking finally, he steps back. Cold air rushes in where his body was and you almost whimper at the loss. "Debrief, yeah, it's fine, professional. We're professional." He runs a hand through his hair and it sticks up at odd angles. His shirt is wrinkled where your fists were twisted in the fabric. There's color high on his cheekbones, his neck.

You definitely look worse.

"You've got—" He reaches out and his thumb brushes your cheekbone. "Your makeup's smudged."

His touch is gentle but your skin feels like it's burning. You step sideways along the glass wall, putting distance between you, and your legs are shaking so badly you're amazed you're still standing.

"I'll fix it in the bathroom."`

"Yeah. Good. That's—yeah." He's staring at you like he's forgotten how to form sentences. "A good idea."

You smooth down your skirt with trembling hands. Your underwear is definitely ruined, you can feel how wet you are, slick and uncomfortable and god, you need to get out of this room before you do something stupid like beg him to finish what he started.

"I'll see you at the debrief," you manage.

"Yeah."

You make it to the door on shaking legs. Your hand is on the handle when he speaks again. "Hey."

You don't turn around. You can't turn around because if you look at him right now, you'll do something irreversible.

"This isn't over," he says quietly. "Just so you know."

Your fingers tighten on the door handle. "Lando."

"It's not." His voice is closer now. You feel him behind you, not touching but close enough that heat radiates between you. "I'm not going to push, but I'm not going to pretend that didn't just happen either."

You open the door and walk out without looking back, even though every nerve in your body is screaming at you to stay. The bathroom mirror shows exactly how fucked you are. Your makeup is smudged under one eye. Your lips are swollen like you've been biting them—you have been biting them. There are marks on your jaw, faint red patches where his stubble scraped against your skin. Your hair is messed up on one side. You look like you've been thoroughly compromised in a conference room.

You wet a paper towel and try to fix the damage, but your hands won't stop shaking. The cold water helps and you press wet palms to your cheeks, your neck, trying to calm the heat still racing through your body.

"Fuck," you whisper to no one.

Your reflection, however, doesn't provide any answers.

The debrief room is smaller than the conference room, it houses a table that seats maybe eight people, and when you walk in, Jon's already there, scrolling through his tablet. Zak's on a call in the corner. A few engineers you recognize but can't name, and Lando, sitting in the middle, looking completely normal, completely unphased.

He glances up when you enter and his face gives nothing away, like twenty minutes ago he didn't have you pinned against glass, asking you questions that made your brain melt.

"Hey," he says, easy and casual. "Saved you a seat." He taps the seat next to him and you want to barf. Instead, you sit your ass down and pull out your tablet. Your hands have stopped shaking. Your heartbeat has returned to normal. You've got this. You're totally, completely, fine.

Jon starts the debrief, pulling up performance data on the screen at the front of the room. Lando leans back in his chair, arms crossed, nodding along to whatever Jon's saying. He asks a question about the downforce. Proceeds to make a joke about Oscar's setup from the previous season and everyone laughs. He's completely normal, and a part of you is starting to think maybe you imagined the whole thing in the conference room when his hand lands on your thigh.

Not high up. Just above your knee, right over your skirt. Completely innocent if anyone looked. Except, his thumb has started moving in small circles. They're slow and deliberate, and the fabric of your skirt is thin enough that you can feel the heat of his palm, the exact pressure of each finger.

Your pen immediately stops moving, and while Jon is still talking, Lando continues to nod, asking more questions, all while his thumb keeps drawing circles.

Then his hand slides up, it's just an inch. Then another. Still over your skirt, still looks completely innocent, but it's higher now. Mid-thigh and the circles get wider, his thumb dragging across the fabric, and you can feel the heat spreading up through your body. You try to focus on Jon's words. Something about corner entry, but Lando's pinky finger stretches out, brushing against the inside of your thigh, and your breath stops completely.

His hand slides higher again and you reach down under the table and grab his wrist. Hard, and dig your nails into the flesh as a warning. He doesn't stop. Doesn't even look at you, just keeps nodding along to Jon's analysis, and his hand—his hand keeps fucking moving up, dragging yours with it now, until his fingers are high enough on your thigh that the edge of his pinky brushes against the hem of your skirt where it's ridden up.

"Thoughts on that setup change, Lando?" Jon asks.

"Yeah, makes sense. Should help with the understeer ." His voice is completely steady. His fingers flex against your thigh. "We can test it in the sim tomorrow, see how it feels." His thumb finds bare skin just above where your skirt has shifted, and the touch is like electricity straight up your spine.

You dig your nails harder into his wrist. He just turns his hand in your grip, twisting until his palm is up, and then his fingers thread through yours. Now you're holding hands on your thigh like this is something sweet, something innocent, except his thumb is stroking your bare skin in slow, deliberate circles and you know the fucker wants to go further.

Jon pulls up another slide. Lando shifts in his seat, angling toward you slightly like he's trying to see your tablet better. His knee presses against yours under the table. His fingers are on bare skin, halfway up your thigh, and if anyone looked under this table they'd see exactly what this is.

"What do you think about the tire strategy?" Zak's voice cuts through the haze in your brain.

You force yourself to look at your tablet. Force words to form. "The—uh—the medium-to-hard strategy should work for—"

Lando's thumb presses into the soft skin of your inner thigh and your voice cuts off.

"For the two-stop," you finish, and it comes out breathless.

Zak nods, and Jon begins talking about quali sims. Lando answers something about tire warm-up and his hand shifts higher, taking yours with it, and his pinky finger brushes against the edge of your panties. Your whole body goes rigid and as the fucker continues to talk, his pinky finger traces along the elastic edge of your panties. Then, just then, he hooks his finger under the elastic and pulls it aside.

Just barely. Just enough so that the cool air hits the wetness there, and oh god, you're so wet you can feel it, and his finger is right there, right at the edge, not touching where you need him but so fucking close. You're going to fucking kill him, actually kill him after this meeting.

"That sound good to you?" Jon's looking at you.

You have no fucking idea what he's asking about. "Yes. Sounds—sounds good."

Lando's finger slides through the wetness and you have to turn it into a cough, your hand flying to your mouth.

"You alright?" Zak asks.

"Fine. Sorry. Just," Lando's finger finds your clit and presses, and you actually make a sound, have to disguise it as clearing your throat. "Dry throat."

His finger starts moving in circles. "Someone get her some water," Zak says, and one of the engineers slides a bottle across the table.

You reach for it with your free hand, the one that's not trapped under the table tangled with Lando's while his other hand is between your legs. Your hand is shaking so badly water sloshes out when you try to drink. Lando's finger slides lower, dipping just barely inside you, and your thighs clench around his hand. He pulls back immediately and his thumb goes back to those slow circles on your inner thigh, over your underwear now, completely innocent again.

The message is crystal clear now: Stay still and behave, or I'll stop.

You force your legs to relax. Force yourself to breathe normally and his finger slides back, immediately pushing your underwear aside again, and this time when he touches your clit you manage to stay quiet, stay still, even though everything in your body is screaming.

Jon pulls up sector times. Lando adds commentary about his racing line through turn seven. His finger keeps moving in slow, devastating circles, and you're trying so hard to stay still, to stay quiet, but you're so wet you can hear it, and you're terrified everyone else can hear it too.

"I think we're good for now," Jon finally says. "Same time tomorrow for the sim session?"

"Sounds good." Lando's finger presses harder and you bite your lip so hard you taste blood. "Looking forward to it."

People start standing up, gathering their tablets and personal belongings. Lando's hand disappears from between your legs so fast you almost whimper at the loss, but he's already standing, stretching casually like nothing happened.

Like he didn't just have his fingers on you in a room full of people. Like you're not sitting there soaked and shaking and desperate.

"Right, I'm starving," he announces. "Gonna grab lunch. You coming?" He's looking at you, and his eyes are dark and amused and absolutely wicked. "You look like you could use a break."

You can't speak. Your voice is gone, dissolved somewhere between his finger on your clit and the desperate need still pulsing between your legs.

"I'll take that as a yes." He grabs his phone off the table, slides it into his pocket. "Come on then."

You stand on shaking legs. Your skirt is wrinkled, riding up higher than it should be. You smooth it down with trembling hands and pray no one notices. Jon claps Lando on the shoulder as you both head for the door. "Good session today. See you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yep, bright and early." Lando's voice is easy, normal. He holds the door open for you and you have to walk past him, close enough to smell his cologne again, and your head swirls.

The hallway is empty, when Lando begins to speak. "You're very quiet," he says, falling into step beside you.

"Still thinking about the meeting?" His voice drops lower. "Or thinking about something else?"

"Fuck you."

"That's more like it." He sounds delighted. "There she is."

You jab the elevator button harder than necessary. The doors slide open immediately and you step inside, pressing yourself against the far wall. He follows, hands in his pockets, looking completely at ease. The doors close. you're finally alone, and you almost expect him to move. To touch you, to try and finish what he started.

He doesn't, instead he just stands there, leaning against the opposite wall, watching you with that infuriating smirk.

"You know what I realized?" he says conversationally.

You don't answer, so he continues. "You never actually answered my question. From before." The elevator descends. "About how long you've wanted to kiss me."

"I'm not doing this right now."

"Not doing what? Having a conversation?" He tilts his head. "I'm just curious. Was it really Barcelona? Or was it before that?"

The elevator reaches the ground floor. The doors open onto the lobby and you practically run out, but he's right behind you, matching your pace easily.

"I'll give you a ride home," he says and it's not a question.

"I have my car."

"Your car's in the shop, remember? That's why you got a ride in with Sarah this morning." He's already walking toward the parking garage. "Come on."

Fuck. He's right. You completely forgot.

"I can get an Uber."

"Don't be ridiculous." He glances back over his shoulder. "Unless you're scared to be alone in a car with me?"

You're not scared, you're fucking terrified. But not for the reasons he's implying. So, you do the totally sane thing, and follow him into the parking garage. When you get to his Lamborghini Urus, he opens the passenger door for you and the leather seat is cold against the back of your thighs where your skirt has ridden up.

Where his hand was ten minutes ago. He slides into the driver's seat and the engine roars to life, all that power barely contained. The sound vibrates through your chest, through your bones.

"Seatbelt," he says, glancing over. You fumble with it while he pulls out of the parking garage and the silence is suffocating. You can hear every breath, every small shift of fabric. The gear shift is right there, his hand wrapped around it, and you're staring at his fingers, remembering exactly how they felt. He reaches forward and turns on the music. The volume is just loud enough that conversation would be difficult, and you're grateful for it because you have no idea what you'd even say.

His hand rests on the gear shift. So close to your thigh, yet, he doesn't budge. Doesn't make a single move to touch you.

The city passes by in a blur. Streetlights and pedestrians and other cars, but all you can focus on is him. The way his jaw clenches slightly when he shifts gears. The way his fingers drum against the leather. The way he's so completely calm while you're falling apart in the passenger seat. Your underwear is still wet. You can feel it every time you shift in your seat, a constant reminder of what he did to you, what he didn't finish.

He pulls up in front of your building and puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the engine. It idles, a low purr that you can feel everywhere. He turns the volume down slowly, and the silence that follows is deafening.

You reach for the door handle.

"Hey."

You stop, not looking at him.

"Look at me."

You do. You shouldn't, but you do. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something predatory in the way he's looking at you, like he's starving.

"You did really well in there," he says, voice low. "Staying quiet. Staying still." His tongue flicks across his bottom lip and your eyes track the movement. "It was very impressive."

Heat floods through you, pooling between your already-soaked thighs.

"Lando."

"When you get home," He leans slightly toward you. "When you're alone in your apartment, and you're thinking about what happened in that meeting."

"I won't."

"You will be." He's certain, so fucking sure of himself, it's insufferable. "And when you are, when you're touching yourself because you're so desperate you can't help it," His eyes drop to your thighs, then back to your face. "I want you to think about what would've happened if Jon hadn't knocked. If I'd had more time with you."

Your breath catches.

"Think about where my fingers would've gone. What I would've done to you in that conference room where anyone could've caught us." He reaches out and his thumb brushes across your bottom lip, the same way it did earlier, and your whole body responds. "Think about how quiet you would've had to stay while I made you come."

You're going to die. You're actually going to die right here in his passenger seat.

"Go inside," he says softly, pulling his hand back. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"You're—you can't just."

"Can't what?" That infuriating smirk is back. "Drive you home? I actually think I deserve a thank you."

You want to hit him. Want to kiss him. Want to pull him into your apartment and finish what he started. Instead, you get out of the car on shaking legs. He waits until you're at the door of your building before he drives off, engine growling as he disappears down the street.

You make it inside. Into the elevator. Into your apartment. You close the door and lean back against it, breathing hard. You head straight to your bedroom, already knowing exactly what you're about to do.

Hating that he knew it too, hating even more that he's right.

The rest of the week passes in agonizing normalcy. Lando shows up to the sim session on time, professional, focused. He discusses setup changes with the engineers like an actual adult. He doesn't call you at 3 AM. Doesn't text you anything inappropriate. Doesn't even look at you for longer than strictly necessary.

The night before you leave for Japan, you're in your apartment packing. Business casual for the events, comfortable clothes for the paddock, the McLaren team jacket that's mandatory for all personnel. You fold everything, checking items off your list.

Your phone sits on the bed, silent. Lando and Oscar are flying out on the McLaren private jet early tomorrow morning, 5 AM departure from Farnborough. You're on the commercial flight, business class, leaving three hours later from Heathrow. It's always been like this. The drivers get the PJ, the key personnel fly commercial but comfortable. You've made peace with it. It's not like you expected to be on the plane with them.

Except now you can't stop thinking about it. Lando in those grey joggers he always wears on flights. Lando stretched out across the leather seats, probably playing strip pocker with Oscar or watching old race footage. Lando twelve hours ahead of you, already in Tokyo while you're stuck in business class somewhere over Russia.

You zip your suitcase closed harder than necessary. This is stupid. You've done this a hundred times. Flown separately, met them at the hotel, had everything coordinated and ready by the time they arrived. It's your job. It's fine.

Heathrow at 8 AM is its own circle of hell. Security lines, overpriced coffee, flight delays announced in monotone over the intercom. You make it to your gate with twenty minutes to spare and find a seat near the window. Lando posted an Instagram story three hours ago, you saw it while brushing your teeth this morning, him and Oscar on the jet, Oscar sleeping with his mouth open. The caption said something about being ready for Japan.

You pull out your tablet and go through Lando's schedule one more time. Thursday: arrival, settle in, team dinner. Friday: media day, practice sessions, sponsor meet-and-greet. Saturday: quali, another sponsor event. Sunday: race.

You pull out your laptop. Open Lando's schedule again, stare at it without seeing it. Somewhere over the North Sea, you close the laptop. Somewhere over Poland, you lean your head against the window and watch clouds drift past.

This is unattainable. Whatever happened in that conference room, whatever almost happened before Jon knocked—it was a moment. A lapse in judgment. Lando Norris doesn't date his assistant. Doesn't have relationships with employees. He has models and influencers and people who exist in his world, not people who coordinate his calendar and fix his disasters.

Somewhere over Russia, you recline your seat and close your eyes. You don't think about Lando stretched out on the private jet. You don't think about his hand on your thigh in that meeting. You don't think about how his fingers felt or how his voice sounded when he told you to think about him. You don't think about any of it.

You're lying, but at least there's no one here to call you on it.

Japan is humid and overwhelming and beautiful. You arrive at the hotel Thursday afternoon, jet-lagged and exhausted. Lando and Oscar got in hours ago, you saw them in the lobby when you were checking in, surrounded by team personnel and looking refreshed in that way people who fly private always do.

The team dinner that night is at some expensive restaurant in Shibuya. You sit at the far end of the table, taking notes on your phone about schedule changes for tomorrow. Lando's four seats down, laughing at something Oscar said, drinking water because he's being responsible before a race weekend.

He doesn't look at you once, and when Friday rolls around, you're busy from 6 AM. Coordinating with the press officers, making sure Lando hits all his media obligations, adjusting timing when an interview runs long. You see him in passing and catch up to him.

"You've got Sky Sports in ten," you tell him between sessions.

"Yep, cheers." He doesn't break stride, already walking toward the media pen with his PR officer.

You stand there in the paddock, tablet in hand, and watch him go. This is your job. This is what you do during race weekends. You're not an engineer, not a trainer, not someone who's essential to the actual racing. You coordinate. You schedule. You make sure he's where he needs to be, when he needs to be there. The rest of the time, you're just there.

You're updating his schedule for next week. This is fine. This is normal. This is every race weekend. Except you keep catching yourself watching the timing screens. Watching his sector times. Watching the little dot that represents his car going round and round the circuit. FP1 goes smoothly. FP2 has a small lock-up in turn one but nothing serious. You see him briefly when he comes back to the garage, he's talking to his engineer, analyzing data, completely in the zone.

Friday night you have dinner alone in your hotel room. Room service, ESPN playing race coverage on the TV, your laptop open with his schedule for tomorrow. Saturday is qualifying and the energy in the paddock is different. Higher stakes with more tension. You do your job, make sure he's at the pre-quali briefing, coordinate with media for post-quali interviews, confirm timing for the sponsor appearance later.

You watch qualifying from the garage. He puts it P4. Good, but not great. He's frustrated when he comes back, you can see it in the set of his jaw, the way he pulls off his helmet.

"P4's solid," his engineer says.

"Should've been P2." Lando's already reviewing the data, pointing at the screen. "Lost time in sector two, if I'd just—"

On Sunday, the paddock is chaos, there's camera crews everywhere, fans pressed against the barriers, the energy electric and overwhelming. You've been awake since 5 AM coordinating last-minute changes, confirming grid walk timing, making sure everything runs smoothly. You see Lando in the garage during the pre-race prep. He's in his race suit, going through his routine with Jon. Stretching, visualization, the same ritual he does before every race.

The race starts and you watch from the garage, headset on so you can hear the team radio. Lando gets a good start, gains a position into turn one. P3.

"Good job, Lando, P3, keep it clean," his engineer says over the radio.

You watch the monitors. Watch his lap times. Watch the gap to the car ahead.

"DRS enabled," the engineer says. "Let's get him this lap."

You hold your breath. He's through turn one clean, right behind Leclerc. Turn two he's on the inside, they're side by side through the corner and then the radio crackles.

"Fuck—I'm okay, I'm okay—fuck—"

Your heart stops. The screen shows it in slow motion. Lando and Leclerc side by side, Lando on the inside, not enough space, the Ferrari comes across and Lando's got nowhere to go. He clips the Ferrari's rear tire and suddenly he's spinning, out of control, and then the sickening crunch of carbon fiber hitting the barrier. Hard.

The car bounces off the wall and slides back onto the track, rear end destroyed, front wing gone, debris everywhere. Red flag. The screen shows the wreckage and your stomach drops.

"Are you okay?" his engineer asks urgently. "Lando, are you okay?"

Static.

Then, "Yeah. Fuuuuuuck. Yeah, I'm fine. Car's fucked."

The relief hits you so hard your knees almost give out. He's fine. He's talking. He's fine. The medical car is already there. You watch on the monitor as Lando climbs out, waving to show he's okay. But the way he rips off his helmet, the way he stalks away from the car tells a different story.

"He's going to medical, can you ask if he still wants to do the interviews?" Zak calls out to you, and you nod. It's standard procedure for crashes that hard.

You're moving toward the medical center. The paddock is chaos, there's people rushing past, radios crackling, camera crews trying to get footage. You push through it all, heart still pounding, the image of that crash replaying in your head. The medical center is quiet compared to outside. Lando's sitting on an examination table, still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist. There's a medical officer checking his shoulder, asking him questions about pain levels and range of motion.

"I'm fine," Lando says, and his voice is sharp. "It's fine, I'm fine."

You hover in the doorway. His hair is a mess from the helmet, sweat-damp and sticking up. There's a red mark on his cheekbone from where the helmet pressed during impact.

"They want to know if you're up for interviews," you say, keeping your voice professional. Steady. "Zak is asking, and there's the post-race media obligation but I can push it if you need."

"If I need?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "If I need time because I just binned it into a wall?"

"That's not what I said."

"I'm fine. I'll do the fucking interviews." He shrugs off the medical officer's hand. "I'm cleared, yeah?"

"You should really—" the medical officer starts.

"I'm cleared." It's not a question.

The officer sighs. "You're cleared. But you need to take care of that shoulder."

Lando's already sliding off the table, pulling his race suit back up, zipping it roughly. His hands are shaking. You can see it even though he's trying to hide it.

"Lando."

"What?" He rounds on you and his eyes are too bright, too intense. He's angry. You freeze and the words die in your throat because you don't actually know what you were going to say. That you're worried? That he doesn't have to do this? That seeing him crash made your heart stop?

"Nothing, I just—"

"Good." He's already moving past you, yanking the door open. "Let's go." He storms out into the paddock and you're left standing there in the too-bright medical room, watching him disappear into the chaos. You follow at a distance. Watch him walk through the paddock with his shoulders tight, his jaw set. People try to stop him, but he keeps moving, heading straight for the media pen.

Sky Sports is first. You stand just out of frame, watching him put on the professional face. The interviewer asks the standard questions, what happened, are you okay, thoughts on the incident. "Yeah, just racing," Lando says, and his voice is perfectly controlled. Perfectly fine. "Leclerc and I both going for the position, unfortunately we came together. That's racing sometimes. Just gutted for the team, they've worked so hard and we've thrown away good points today."

He says all the right things. Smiles at the right moments. Thanks the team, thanks the fans, talks about bouncing back next week. When he finally finishes the last interview, he walks straight past you without a word. Doesn't even look at you, just heads toward the McLaren garage, and you know he's going to debrief with the engineers, review the data, analyze what went wrong.

You stand there in the media pen, holding your tablet, and realize that the distance he's been keeping all week—the politeness, the normalcy, the acting like nothing happened, wasn't him moving on.

It was him holding on by a thread and that thread just snapped.

You give him two hours. Two hours to debrief with the team, to shower, to decompress. Two hours before you show up at his hotel room with the schedule changes for next week that absolutely cannot wait until tomorrow because there are flights to coordinate and sponsor obligations to reschedule.

Upon entering the hotel, you head to the front desk.

"Good evening, I need access to Lando Norris's suite," you tell the receptionist. "I'm his assistant." She checks her computer, verifies your credentials in the system. As his PA, you're listed as authorized personnel, can access his room for deliveries, coordination, emergencies. It's standard practice and makes the logistics easier during race weekends.

She hands you a key card. "Fortieth floor. Suite 4012."

The elevator ride up feels endless. Your tablet is clutched against your chest, the schedule changes pulled up on the screen. This is fine. This is professional. You coordinate with him in hotel rooms all the time during race weekends, it's easier than trying to find quiet spaces in the paddock. The fortieth floor hallway is quiet, the plush carpet muffles your footsteps and you find Suite 4012 at the very end.

You knock, and no answer. So, you knock again, and again. "Lando? I need to go over the schedule changes."

Still nothing. Here goes nothing. You swipe the key card and the lock clicks open, you push the door open and step inside. The suite is massive, there's a living area with large windows that overlook Tokyo, a separate bedroom through an open doorway, a bathroom, and a McLaren team jacket thrown over the back of the couch, his shoes kicked off by the door.

"Lando?" you call out. "I texted you, I need to—"

That's when you hear the sound from the bedroom. Low and rough and—oh god. Your brain catches up to what you're hearing a second too late. The kind of breathing that's unmistakable. The kind of sound that makes heat flood through your entire body. He's jerking off, oh my fucking god.

Another sound, a groan, muffled like he's trying to stay quiet, and your mouth goes dry.

You should leave. You need to leave right now. "Fuck—" His voice carries through the open bedroom door, rough and desperate, and something low in your belly clenches so hard you have to grab the back of the couch.

Leave. Leave now. But you can hear him so clearly. Can hear the rhythm of his breathing, getting faster. Can hear the slick sound of his cock, and your feet are suddenly planted, unwilling to move.

Jesus Christ. Your face is on fire. Your whole body is on fire. You're frozen in his living room listening to your boss getting himself off and you need to leave, you need to fucking leave.

"Fuck," he groans again, and then your name. Your name, breathless and desperate on his tongue and so fucking clear there's no mistaking it. He's saying your name, repeating it like it's the only thing getting him through this. "Please," His voice breaks on the word. "Fuck, please."

You're going to die. You're going to die right here in his hotel suite listening to him fall apart while thinking about you. The sounds get more desperate. His breathing harsher, you can hear the rustle of sheets, the creak of the bed, and your imagination is filling in all the details, his hand wrapped around his cock, his head thrown back, his abs flexing with each movement.

"God—fuck—" Another groan, louder this time, and you realize he's close. God, he's about to fucking come and he's saying your name. You hear him gasp your name one more time, broken and raw, and then a string of curses as he comes.

The silence that follows is deafening. You stand there trying to steady yourself as your heart pounds so hard you can hear it in your ears. Your underwear is soaked, your whole body is shaking. You turn toward the door, moving too fast, and your hip catches the edge of the side table. The decorative vase on top wobbles, you reach for it but your hands are shaking too badly, and it tips over the edge. The crash is deafening in the quiet suite. Glass shattering against the floor, water spreading across the floor, flowers scattering everywhere.

"Fuck," you breathe.

Complete silence from the bedroom. Then—"Who's there?" Accompanied by footsteps, rapidly increasing. You freeze, staring at the broken vase, at the mess spreading across the floor. There's nowhere to go. The door is ten feet away but he's already on the way. Then, in a matter of seconds, Lando appears in the bedroom doorway. He's in grey joggers, no shirt, hair an absolute mess. His face is flushed, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. His eyes are wide, startled and then he sees you.

You watch the realization hit him. Watch his expression shift from confusion to shock to something that might be horror. "How long—" His voice is rough, wrecked. "How long have you been here?"

You can't speak. Can't move, you can only stand there surrounded by broken glass and spilled water while your face burns and your heart tries to break out of your chest. His eyes drop to the mess on the floor, then back to your face. You watch him put it together, the broken vase, your expression, the way you can't look at him. "Oh fuck." He runs both hands through his hair. "Fuck. You—how much did you hear?"

"I'm sorry." Your voice comes out strangled. "I knocked, you didn't answer, I needed to—the schedule changes, I just—I'm sorry, I'll go."

"Don't." He crosses the room in three strides, making sure to avoid the glass splattered across the floor. "Don't move, you'll, there's glass everywhere."

He's right in front of you now and you can smell him, sweat and something else, and you know what that something else is and you're going to die. "How much did you hear?" He asks again, and his voice is quiet now, serious.

"Nothing, it's fine, I just got here."

"Oh my god." He starts laughing and it's that Lando laugh, the one that makes his whole face light up even though this is absolutely not funny. "Oh my god, you totally heard it. Look at your face, you're so red right now."

"I'm not."

"You are, you're like, properly red. That's amazing." He's still laughing, running a hand through his hair. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me, by the way. Worse than the crash, significantly worse than the crash."

Despite everything, you feel a laugh bubble up in your chest. "It's fine, I'll just, I'll help you clean this up and we can forget it ever happened."

"Yeah?" He's grinning now, and there's something dangerous in it. Something that makes your stomach flip. "Just forget about it?"

"Completely."

"Right, because you're so good at forgetting things." He moves toward the bedroom to grab something to clean with. "Very convincing." You crouch down and start picking up the larger pieces of glass, trying to focus on anything other than what just happened. The flowers are scattered everywhere, water soaking into the expensive carpet.

He comes back with a towel and crouches down across from you. That's when you see the dark spot on the grey fabric of his joggers. A wet patch near the hem, and your brain immediately supplies exactly what that is, and heat floods through your entire body. He follows your gaze. Looks down. Looks back up at you with that fucking grin.

"See something interesting?"

Your face is on fire. "No."

"No?" He shifts slightly and the fabric pulls tighter. "You sure about that?"

"I'm just cleaning up the glass."

"While staring at my crotch, yeah, very subtle." He's laughing again as he picks up a piece of glass. "You're terrible at this."

"At cleaning?"

"At pretending." He wraps the glass in the towel. "At acting like you're not affected."

"I'm not affected."

"Yeah? Then why are you shaking?"

You look down. Your hands are trembling. "I'm not—"

"You are." He reaches across the mess and catches your wrist, stilling your hand. His fingers are warm and sure and you can feel your pulse hammering against his touch. "You're shaking. Your face is red, and you can't stop looking at me."

"That's not true."

"And you heard me say your name." His thumb presses against your pulse point. "Didn't you?"

The air feels too thick. Too hot, and suddenly you can't breathe properly. "Lando."

"Tell me you didn't hear that and I'll drop it right now." His eyes are locked on yours. "Tell me you don't know exactly what I was thinking about." You can't, can't lie, can't say it because you did hear it, and you do know, and your entire body is screaming at you to close the distance between you.

"That's what I thought." He lets go of your wrist and sits back on his heels. "So no, I don't think we're going to forget about this.

"We have to."

"Why?" He tilts his head, watching you. "Give me one good reason why we have to pretend this didn't happen."

"Because you're—" You stop yourself.

"I'm what? Your boss?" He laughs. "Yeah, we've established that's not stopping anything in the conference room. Try again."

You can't think of anything. Your brain has completely shut down, and he stands up, glass crunching under his trainers, and that's when you see it properly. The grey joggers are doing absolutely nothing to hide how hard he is. The outline is obscene, obvious, and he catches you looking.

"Yeah." His voice is rough. "That's what you do to me. That's what you've been doing to me for months."

"So here's what's going to happen." He takes a step toward you, and there's something predatory in the movement. "I'm going to be very clear with you because apparently subtle isn't working."

Another step and suddenly you're backed up against the wall. "I want to fuck you. Right now. Here." His eyes are locked on yours, dark and intense and completely serious. "Not date you, not take you to dinner, not have some long conversation about feelings and what this means."

He braces a hand against the wall next to your head. "I want you right fucking now. Tonight, and then we'll go back to normal tomorrow and pretend this never happened if that's what you want." His other hand comes up, fingers brushing against your jaw. "You can take it or leave it. But I need an answer right now because I'm losing my mind here."

Your heart is slamming against your ribs. Your whole body is screaming yes, take it, stop thinking.

"Lando."

"Yes or no." His thumb brushes across your bottom lip. "That's all I need. One word, just tell me one word."

"Yes."

The word barely leaves your mouth before he's on you. His lips crash against yours, hard and desperate, and there's absolutely nothing gentle about it. One hand tangles in your hair, the other grabs your hip and pulls you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is, pressed against your stomach, and the sound he makes when you gasp is absolutely obscene.

"Fuck—" He breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe. His mouth is back on yours, tongue sliding past your lips, and your hands find his bare shoulders, nails digging in. He tastes like mint and desperation and something that's just him, then, he presses you harder against the wall, his hips grinding into yours, and you can feel his cock through the thin fabric of his joggers. The heat of him, the hard length of his cock, and when he rolls his hips again you actually moan into his mouth.

"That's it," he breathes against your lips. "Wanna hear you."

His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, pushing your skirt up. His palm is rough and hot against your bare skin, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He hooks your leg over his hip and grinds against you properly now, right where you need him, and the friction is perfect and not nearly enough.

"You're so fucking—" He breaks off with a groan, burying his face in your neck. His teeth scrape against your pulse point and you arch into him. "So fucking perfect."

His hand slides higher, fingers brushing against the edge of your underwear, and you actually whimper.

"These need to come off," he mutters against your skin. "Everything needs to come off. Right fucking now." He pulls back just enough to look at you and his eyes are absolutely feral. His hair is a mess from your hands, his lips red and swollen, his chest heaving.

"Bedroom," he says. "Now. Unless you want me to fuck you against this wall where anyone could hear."

Your brain has completely short-circuited. You can only nod, and his grin is wicked. "Good." He grabs your hand and pulls you toward the bedroom. The bedroom is dark except for the city lights, Tokyo glitters forty floors below, completely oblivious. The bed is unmade, sheets tangled, and you can see exactly where he was lying when you walked in. He spins you around and his mouth is on yours again, walking you backwards toward the bed. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding up your ribs to cup your jaw. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, he pushes you down.

You land on the sheets and they smell like him, and your brain supplies the image of what he was doing here twenty minutes ago and heat floods through you. He's standing over you, chest heaving, and his eyes drag down your body slowly. Your skirt is rucked up around your thighs. Your shirt is wrinkled from his hands. You're a mess and he's looking at you like you're something he wants to destroy.

"Take off your shirt," he says. Your hands are shaking but you reach for the buttons. He watches every single one come undone, and when you shrug it off his jaw clenches. "Skirt too." You shimmy it down your hips and kick it off, and now you're in just your bra and underwear and his eyes are so dark they're almost black.

"Fuck." He runs a hand over his mouth. "You're so," he stops himself, shakes his head. "Lie back."

You do and the sheets are cool against your overheated skin. He hooks his fingers in his joggers and pulls them down, and oh god. He's not wearing anything underneath. His cock springs free, hard and flushed and already leaking, and you can't stop staring.

You let out a soft whimper, and Lando knows he’s gotten you right where he wants you. His cock aches, he’s so hard for you.

"See something you like?" There's that cocky grin, but his voice is strained. He climbs onto the bed, settles between your legs, and the weight of him is perfect. His hands bracket your head and he leans down, nose brushing against yours.

"Last chance," he murmurs. "Say no and we stop."

"Hell no." He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper. His hips roll against yours and you can feel him, hot and hard against your soaked underwear, the friction makes you gasp into his mouth. His hand slides down your side, over your ribs, your waist, your hip. His fingers hook in the elastic of your panties.

"These are ruined," he says against your mouth. "Absolutely soaked. Were you this wet when you were listening to me?" Your face burns but you can't deny it.

"Thought so." He drags your underwear down slowly, tossing them somewhere off the bed. His hand comes back up, palm sliding up the inside of your thigh, and when his fingers finally touch you, you both groan. "Fuck, you're so wet." He circles your clit once, twice, and your hips buck up. "This all for me?"

"Lando," you moan out.

"Answer the question." His fingers slide lower, teasing. "Is this from listening to me? Or from thinking about what I was saying?"

"Both," you gasp.

"Good answer." He pushes one finger inside you and your back arches off the bed. "So tight baby. Fuck, you're going to feel so good on my cock." He adds a second finger, curling them just right, and his thumb finds your clit. The combination makes you see stars.

"That's it," he breathes, watching your face. "Want to see you come before I fuck you. Want to watch you fall apart." His fingers move faster, harder, and you're already so worked up from earlier that you're embarrassingly close.

"Come on," he murmurs, leaning down to bite at your neck. "Let me hear you. No one's going to interrupt us this time." That does it and you come hard around his fingers, gasping his name, and he works you through it until you're shaking. You're seeing stars, and he continues to rub on your clit.

"Fuck, that was beautiful." He pulls his fingers out and you watch him bring them to his mouth, licking them clean. "Taste even better than I imagined." He reaches over to the nightstand, fumbling for a condom. His hands are shaking as he rolls it on.

"You ready?" His voice is rough, barely controlled.

You nod and he lines himself up and pushes in slowly, and the stretch is intense, perfect, everything. Your nails dig into his shoulders and he groans, dropping his forehead to yours. "Fuck—so tight," he's barely halfway in. "You okay?"

"Yes—don't stop, fuck, fuck," you moan. He pushes in further, inch by inch, until he's fully seated inside you. You both freeze, breathing hard.

"Need a second," he grits out. "Or this is going to be over waaay too fast." You can feel him shaking, the tension in every muscle as he holds himself still. You open your mouth to speak, but Lando stops you, "Give me a second—" He laughs, breathless. "This is embarrassing. I'm not usually, fuck, you just feel so good."

You roll your hips experimentally and he actually gasps. "Don't—if you do that I'm going to actualy cum."

You do it again, and he takes a deep breath before smiling. "Fuck it." He starts moving, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, and the pace is brutal and perfect and exactly what you need.

He drives into you harder and you actually cry out. "That's it. Want everyone in this hotel to hear you." His hand grabs your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can go deeper. "Want them to know exactly what I'm doing to you." Each thrust hits something inside you that makes your vision blur. Your nails drag down his back, definitely leaving marks, and he groans.

"Mark me up," he breathes against your neck. "Want to see it tomorrow. Want to remember this." His mouth finds yours again, messy and desperate. All teeth and tongue and gasping breaths between kisses. His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the dual sensation makes you clench around him.

"Oh fuck—" His rhythm stutters. "Do that again." You clench deliberately and he actually growls, hips snapping harder. "You're going to make me come if you keep doing that." His thumb circles your clit faster. "But you're coming first. Want to feel you come on my cock."

The praise combined with his fingers on your clit and the relentless pace of his hips pushes you right to the edge. "Come for me," he demands. "Want to feel it. Come on, baby."

You shatter, clenching around him so hard he chokes on a moan. Your whole body goes rigid, pleasure crashing through you in waves, and you can hear yourself crying out his name but you can't stop. "Fuck—fuck," He slams into you twice more, rhythm gone completely, and then he's coming too, face buried in your neck, saying your name over and over like a prayer.

He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slicked and shaking. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, matching your own racing pulse. After a moment he lifts his head, looking down at you. His hair is completely destroyed, his face flushed, lips swollen from kissing. He looks absolutely wrecked.

"That was—" He stops, laughs breathlessly. "Yeah. That was nuts."

"Yeah," you agree, because you can't form actual words yet.

He pulls out carefully and you both wince. He ties off the condom and tosses it, then collapses back onto the bed next to you, one arm thrown over his eyes. "Give me like, ten minutes," he says. "And then we're doing that again."

"Ten minutes?"

You laugh despite yourself, and he rolls toward you, hand finding your hip. "Stay," he says, and there's something vulnerable in it. "Tonight. Please, stay."

You should say no. Should get dressed, have that conversation about the schedule, go back to your own hotel room and pretend this was just a one-time thing. But his hand is warm on your hip and Tokyo is glittering outside the windows and you're not ready for this to be over yet.

The following morning, you wake up to sunlight streaming through windows and the immediate, horrifying realization that you're naked in Lando Norris's bed. Your body aches. That's the first thing you notice, a deep, satisfying soreness in your thighs, your hips, between your legs. The second thing you notice is the evidence scattered across your skin like a crime scene. Bruises on your hips, dark purple fingerprints that you can count. Marks on your thighs. Your neck.

There are scratches down your own arms from where you clawed at yourself, at him, at the sheets. You don't remember doing that but the evidence doesn't lie. The third thing you notice is Lando, still asleep beside you. Face-down in the pillow, one arm stretched across where you were lying moments ago. His back is a mess of red lines from your nails, and there's a bite mark on his shoulder that looks almost violent in the morning light.

7:43 AM

Shit. His flight to the next race is at noon. You have meetings scheduled, his entire day planned down to the minute. You slip out of bed as quietly as possible, gathering your clothes from where they're scattered across the floor. Your shirt is wrinkled beyond repair. Your underwear is, well it's somewhere. After looking for about three minutes, you find your skirt under the bed.

"Where are you going?"

His voice is rough with sleep, and it does something to you. Makes heat pool low in your belly even though you're sore, even though you should not be thinking about this right now. You turn and he's propped up on one elbow, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes. His hair is sticking up in every direction.

"I have to, Lando, we have an entire schedule to go over. Your flight's at noon."

"So we have time." He pats the bed next to him. "Come back."

"Lando."

"Five more minutes," he murmurs, and suddenly you're against him, his body solid and warm against your back. His arm drapes over your waist, hand splaying across your stomach possessively.

You know this is a bad idea, horrible, idea. But goddamn it, you just can't bring yourself to say no to him. So, you drop your clothes and climb back into bed. He immediately pulls you against him, warm and solid, and presses a kiss to your shoulder.

This feels different than last night. Last night was frantic, desperate, angry almost. This feels completely dangerous in a different way. "We can't," you begin.

"We already did," he points out, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Multiple times, if I remember correctly."

Your face burns. You do remember. You remember all of it, every touch, every word, every time he made you come until you couldn't think straight. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" His hand slides down, fingers tracing the marks he left on your hip. "Because it seems pretty clear what happened here."

You should move, you need to move, get dressed, re-establish the professional boundary that you obliterated last night. But his hand is moving lower, thumb brushing the crease where your thigh meets your hip, and your body is already responding. Traitor.

"We said one night," you manage, but your voice is weak.

"Did we?" His lips brush against your shoulder, exactly where he bit you last night. The mark is still there. "I don't remember saying that."

"You said," What did he say? You can't remember. Can't think when his hand is moving like that, when you can feel him hardening against your ass.

"I said a lot of things last night," he murmurs against your skin. "You want me to repeat them? Because I remember you really liked it when I said—"

"Don't," you interrupt, squeezing your eyes shut. You don't need him to repeat it. You remember. God, you remember the filthy things he said, the way his voice got rough and demanding. His hand slides between your thighs and you're already wet. Already ready for him even though you're sore, even though this is a terrible idea.

"You're thinking too much," he says, and there's that insufferable knowing tone. Like he can read your mind, like he knows exactly what you're spiraling about. Maybe he does. Maybe you're that obvious. His fingers find your clit and you gasp, hips jerking involuntarily. He makes a satisfied sound, like he's proven something.

"See? Your body knows what it wants even if your brain won't shut up about it." You want to argue but he's circling your clit now, slow and deliberate, and all the arguments die in your throat.

"We have—" you try, "—there's the schedule—"

"Tell me my schedule then," he says, and you can hear the challenge in it, the fuckning amusement. This is a game to him. This is always a game.

"Checkout is at eleven," His finger slides lower, teasing. "Car to the airport at eleven-thirty." He slides two fingers inside you and your words dissolve into a moan. You're so wet, so ready, and it should be embarrassing how easily your body opens for him.

"Keep going," he encourages, and his free hand comes up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. "What else?" You're not going to be able to do this. Can't focus when he's touching you like this, when pleasure is already building low in your belly.

"You have—fuck—you have a call with sponsors at two."

"Uh-huh." He curls his fingers and finds that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "What time are we landing?"

"I can't," you gasp, grinding back against his hand. You need more, need him to move faster, but he's taking his time. Torturing you.

"You can," he says firmly. "You're good at this, remember? You know my schedule better than I do." His fingers pump slowly, deliberately, never quite enough to get you there. His thumb finds your clit again, pressing in rhythm with his fingers, and you're going to die. You're going to die right here in his hotel bed because Lando Norris won't stop touching you.

"Media obligations, Thursday morning," you're grinding against his hand now, chasing the orgasm that's just out of reach. "Prep for, oh god, oh my fuuuucking god."

"Keep going," he murmurs against your neck. You can feel him smiling.

"Practice Friday, quali Saturday," Your voice is barely recognizable, high and desperate. "Lando."

"Good girl," he praises, and those two words combined with his fingers curling inside you push you right to the edge. "What else?" You can't think. Can't remember. Can't do anything but feel, his fingers inside you, his thumb on your clit, his body solid and hot behind you, his voice in your ear telling you how good you are, how well you take it.

Your phone buzzes again. Multiple times. Insistent and reality tries to crash back in but Lando doesn't stop, doesn't slow down.

"That's," you gasp, "that's probably Zak."

"Probably," he agrees, and his fingers move faster. "But you're not done yet."

"I need to, fuck, I need to answer."

"After," he says firmly, and adds a third finger. The stretch is perfect and terrible and you're so close, grinding back against his hand shamelessly now. You should be embarrassed by the wet sounds, by how desperate you are, but you can't bring yourself to care.

"Come for me," he says, voice dropping into that commanding tone that makes everything in you tighten. "Come on my fingers and then you can go be responsible." His thumb presses hard against your clit and that's it, you're coming, clenching around his fingers, gasping his name into the pillow while he works you through it. He doesn't stop until you're shaking, pushing his hand away because it's too much.

When you can breathe again, when your heart stops trying to break out of your chest, you become aware of several things at once: Your phone is still buzzing, Lando's still hard against your ass. You just let him finger you while quizzing you about his schedule. You are so unbearably fucked.

"Better?" he asks, and you can hear the smug satisfaction in his voice.

Your phone is still buzzing and you grab it with shaking hands. There's three texts from Zak. Two from the PR team. One from logistics asking about Lando's luggage. Fuck, fuck, you're going to get fucking fired.

"Shit. I need to—I have to go." You're scrambling for your clothes again.

"Hey." He's out of bed, standing in front of you completely naked and completely unselfconscious about it. About the scratches down his chest, the bite mark on his shoulder, the fact that he's still obviously hard. Before you can move, before you can think, his hand catches your wrist. "Look at me."

You do, even though you know you shouldn't. Even though looking at him makes everything more complicated. He's gorgeous, his hair is sticking up where you pulled it. There's a hickey on his collarbone that you definitely put there. And he's looking at you like you're the entire world. And for just a second—one brief, stupid second—you let yourself think that maybe this means something.

Then his expression shifts. "You're spiraling," he says, and the warmth from moments ago is gone.

"I'm not."

"You are." His hand tightens on your wrist. Not painful, but firm enough that you can't pull away even if you wanted to. "You're doing that thing where you overthink until you talk yourself out of what you actually want.

"You don't know what I want."

"Don't I?" He's smiling now, and it's not nice. "You want me to tell you this means something. You want me to make this easy for you so you don't have to feel guilty about fucking your boss." He leans closer, still holding your wrist. "But I'm not going to do that."

Your stomach drops. "Then what are we doing?"

"Having fun," he says easily, like it's obvious. Like you're stupid for asking. "Isn't that enough?" It should be. You should say yes, should take what he's offering and not ask for more. But something twists in your chest, sharp and ugly.

"Let go of me."

"No." His thumb finds your pulse point, presses in. "Not until you stop lying to yourself."

"I'm not."

"You are. You're already thinking about how this was a mistake, how you need to put distance between us, how you're going to be professional again starting now." His eyes are too knowing, too green, too blue. "But you won't. Because you're going to show up at my room tonight anyway."

"You're being an asshole, Norris."

"Yeah," he agrees, finally releasing your wrist. "But you knew that already." He steps back, runs a hand through his hair, and for a split second something flickers across his face, something that looks almost uncertain. But it's gone before you can identify it, replaced by that insufferable smirk.

"Go do your job," he says, already turning away. "I'll see you at eleven."

You're in the lobby at 10:58, tablet in hand, going over the Singapore schedule one more time even though you've already memorized it. The SUV is idling outside, a black Mercedes, luggage already loaded. Driver awaiting the cataclysmic clusterfuck he doesn't even know he's going to be a part of.

At 11:00 exactly, the elevator doors open and Lando steps out, sunglasses on even though it's overcast outside. There's headphones around his neck and when he sees you, he doesn't break stride, just continues to walk past you toward the exit.

"Morning," you say, falling into step beside him. "Car's out front. I confirmed with the airport that—"

"Yep."

That's it. Just "yep." He doesn't look at you. Doesn't slow down. His jaw is set in that particular way that means he's decided something, and you know from experience that whatever he's decided, it won't be good for you.

Outside, the humid Tokyo air hits you both. The driver opens the door and Lando slides into the back seat without a word, without a glance, and you stand there for half a second too long.

The driver looks at you expectantly and you get in the other side. The door closes. The driver pulls away from the hotel, and Tokyo streams past the windows—grey sky, crowded streets, people living their lives. Normal lives. Lives where their boss doesn't fuck them and then ice them out twelve hours later.

You open your tablet, the screen glowing blue in the dim interior of the car. "So, Singapore. You've got the sponsor appearance Thursday night, and I wanted to confirm timing because—"

"I read the email."

His voice is flat. Bored, almost. Like you're a telemarketer who's caught him at a bad time.

"Right," you say carefully, "but I wanted to go over the specifics in person because the venue changed last minute."

"It's fine." He's scrolling through his phone now. Instagram, from the looks of it. Double-tapping photos. Liking photos of women in bikinis almost to anger you more.

The silence in the car is deafening, with both of you just breathing wordlessly. The air between you doesn't simmer, it's gone cold, crystallized into something sharp.

"Lando," you try one more time.

"What." Still not looking up.

It's unfair that it always has to be you that reaches out first, but this isn't your first fight with him, and it surely won't be your last. You're stubborn, but he's worse than you are. He'll let it fester, let you both suffer, until you break and try to fix it. Always you, never him.

Which is why, after two years, you're still at a stalemate about Barcelona. About the first time he'd looked at you like you were something other than staff. It's the one argument you've never conceded on, and you never will. Remembering that day does something to your chest that you were desperately trying to avoid, but that's an issue for another time.

It's the reason he pestered you about how long you wanted to kiss him. It's the reason you refused to give him the proper answer.

"Can you at least look at me while I'm talking to you?" You ask, and you hate how small your voice sounds.

He does look at you then. Finally. Turns his head, lowers his sunglasses just enough that you can see his eyes over the rim.

They're empty.

"I'm looking," he says. "What do you need?"

What do you need. Like you're a stranger asking for directions.

"I need to go over your schedule," you manage.

"So go over it."

"The Thursday appearance, do you want to do the full hour or should I tell them forty-five minutes?"

"Whatever you think is best." He pushes his sunglasses back up. Returns to his phone. "That's literally your job, isn't it? Deciding things for me."

The words land like a slap and you close your tablet. Turn to look out the window instead. Watch Tokyo blur into highway, highway blur into airport approach, and try very hard not to think about how his hands felt on you last night, how he'd looked at you this morning like you were the only person in the world.

That was twelve hours ago, this is now. Lando puts his headphones on and the rest of the ride is silent.

At the airport, he's out of the car before it fully stops. Long legs carrying him toward the private terminal like he's got somewhere important to be, someone important to see.

Not you, clearly.

You handle check-in with the McLaren rep, confirm the luggage, go through the motions of your job. By the time you make it through security, Lando's already in the lounge. He's in the far corner with his laptop open. Oscar's there too, and they're talking about something that doesn't involve you. Lando's gesturing with his hands the way he does when he's explaining a corner, and Oscar's nodding, engaged.

You approach slowly and when Oscar sees you first, he brightens. "Hey! Ready for Singapore?"

Lando doesn't look up from his screen.

"Lando," Oscar says, glancing between you both with growing confusion, "she's here."

"I can see that," Lando replies, still typing.

The air shifts. Oscar's smile falters, and he suddenly looks very interested in his phone. You stand there for a beat. Two. Waiting for, what? Acknowledgment? An apology? Some sign that the man who had you pinned against his bed yesterday still exists somewhere under this cold, indifferent exterior?

"Can you grab me a coffee?" Lando asks his laptop screen. "Black with two sugars."

The request hits you wrong. He's never asked you to get him coffee. Not once in all of the years you worked for him. He always gets his own, or he offers to get you one, or you go together while discussing the schedule.

Oscar's looking at you now with something that might be pity, and that somehow makes it worse.

"Sure," you say.

You walk to the coffee station on legs that feel disconnected from your body. Make his coffee exactly how he actually likes it, two sugars, oat milk, not black like he just said because he's testing whether you'll follow orders or whether you still think you know him.

You bring it back. Set it on the table beside his laptop, careful not to let your hand shake.

He glances at it. Then at you. Then back to it. "I said black."

"You always take oat milk," you reply quietly.

"Not today." He pushes the cup away, just slightly. Just enough to infuriate you. "But thanks anyway."

Oscar has fully retreated into his phone now, shoulders hunched like he wishes he could disappear. You stand there for one more second. Feeling battered and overwhelmed. You feel your throat close, and you swallow the ache away. Your eyes blur momentarily, and it feels unacceptable.

So you pick up the coffee. Walk back to the station. Pour it out, watching the pale liquid swirl down the drain. Make a new one. Black. Two sugars like he said, like he's never drunk it in his life.

When you bring it back, Lando takes it without looking at you.

"Thanks," he says to his screen.

You walk away. Find a seat on the other side of the lounge, as far from him as the space allows. Pull out your tablet and stare at the Singapore schedule until the words stop meaning anything at all.

You're in Singapore at 9 PM, sitting alone at a hawker center that's too loud and too bright and exactly what you need right now. It's the kind of place Lando would never come to. There's no reservations, no private rooms, just plastic stools and flickering fluorescent lights and the smell of chili crab and char kway teow thick in the humid air. You're surrounded by families and tourists and locals who don't know who Lando Norris is and wouldn't care if they did.

It's perfect. You order satay from a stall run by an elderly woman who doesn't speak English, pointing at the menu until she nods and shuffles away. Your phone sits face-down on the table.

It's perfect.

You order satay from a stall run by an elderly woman who doesn't speak English, pointing at the menu until she nods and shuffles away. Your phone sits face-down on the table. You've turned off notifications. For the next hour, Lando Norris can handle his own life.

The satay arrives, chicken and beef skewers with peanut sauce and cucumber. You eat slowly, deliberately, tasting things for the first time in what feels like days. The sauce is sweet and spicy. The meat is charred just right. It's good. Simple and good. You can't remember the last time you ate something without checking your phone, without one eye on the schedule, without being ready to jump up if Lando needed something.

A family sits down at the table next to you, parents, two kids, a grandmother. They're arguing about something in Mandarin, laughing, the kind of easiness that comes from people who know each other completely. The father reaches over and steals food from his wife's plate. She swats his hand and their kids giggle.

You look away and your phone starts ringing. The sound cuts through the noise of the hawker center, his ringtone, the one you set specifically for him so you'd always know when it was him calling. Some obnoxious song he'd picked out himself, thought it was hilarious.

You let it ring. Watch the screen light up with his name, his contact photo, him on the podium in Austria last year, champagne bottle raised, that stupid beautiful grin on his face. Figure it out yourself, asshole.

It rings out. Goes to voicemail. Ten seconds later, it starts again.

You decline the call. Take another bite of satay, even though you can't taste it anymore. Immediately, it starts ringing again.

Fourth call. You decline it. Fifth call. Sixth. Seventh, until the tenth call. Your jaw is clenched so tight it hurts. Your hand is wrapped around your beer glass hard enough that your knuckles are white. He's not going to stop.

You know him well enough to know that. Lando Norris doesn't take no for an answer, doesn't accept being ignored. He'll call a hundred times if he has to. He'll call until your phone dies or you answer, whichever comes first.

You snatch the phone off the table and answer it.

"What." Your voice comes out sharp, venomous.

"Oh, so you are alive," Lando says, and he sounds almost cheerful. "Been trying to reach you."

"I know. I can see my phone."

"Then why didn't you answer?"

You close your eyes. Take a breath that does nothing to calm you down. "What do you need, Lando."

"Where are you?"

"Out."

"Yeah, I got that part. Out where?"

"Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't," he says easily, and you can hear him moving around, the sound of a hotel room, a door closing. "Just curious. You're usually answering by now."

"Maybe I'm busy."

"Doing what?"

Your grip tightens on the phone. "Is there a reason you called me ten times?"

"Ten? Was it ten?" He sounds amused. Like this is funny. Like your phone vibrating itself off a table in the middle of a restaurant is entertainment. "Didn't count."

"Lando."

"I was just thinking," he interrupts, and his voice shifts into something casual, conversational, like you're just some friends catching up. "You know that thing tomorrow morning? What time was that again?"

Your whole body goes rigid. "Are you serious right now."

"What? I'm asking about my schedule."

"The sponsor breakfast that's been on your calendar for two weeks?" Your voice is rising. The family next to you has stopped eating. "That thing?"

"See, you do know what I'm talking about." You can hear the smile in his voice. "So what's the problem?"

"The problem is you're calling me ten times to ask me something you already know."

"I wanted to hear you say it." He says it so casually, so matter-of-fact. "Wanted to see if you'd answer."

"And what was the name of that guy again? The one from Tag Heuer?"

"Lando."

"Starts with an M, right? Michael? Martin?"

"It's Marcus and you know it's Marcus."

"Right, Marcus. See? This is helpful. You're so good at this." His voice drops lower, intimate. "Always know exactly what I need."

"Stop."

"What's he there to talk about again? Contract renewal?"

"Read. The. Fucking. Briefing." You're gripping the phone so hard your hand is shaking.

"But you're already on the phone," he says reasonably, like he's being perfectly logical. "Might as well just tell me. That's what you do, right? Tell me things. Keep me organized. Make sure I don't fuck up."

"I'm hanging up now."

"No, you're not." And he sounds so certain, so fucking sure of himself. "You're going to tell me about Marcus and the breakfast and whatever else I need to know, because that's your job. Because that's what you do. Because—"

"Because what?" You cut him off, your voice shaking now with rage. "Because you fucked me? Because you think that means you own me?"

Silence.

Then, "I never said that."

"You didn't have to." Your voice cracks. "You ignored me all day. All fucking day, Lando. Didn't speak to me in the car, didn't look at me at the airport, made me get you coffee like I'm—like I'm nothing."

"You're not nothing." His voice has changed now, gone sharp and defensive. "Don't put words in my mouth."

"And now you're calling me ten times because what? You want to make sure I'm still here? Make sure I still answer when you call?"

"I called because you weren't answering," he says, and there's an edge to it now. "Because you always answer. Because that's what we, because that's how this works."

"How what works? Me being available 24/7? Me dropping everything when you need something?"

"That's literally your job."

"Fuck my job! And fuck you for calling me ten times to ask me shit you already know just to prove that you still can!"

"Are you done?" he asks finally, and his voice is cold now.

"Is there anything else you actually need?" You ask. "Anything work-related?"

"No."

"Then yes. I'm done."

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow at seven-thirty."

He hangs up first and you resist the urge to light your phone on fire.

You wake up at 5:47 AM to your alarm, which means you got maybe four hours of sleep, maybe less if you count the hour you spent staring at the ceiling thinking about how Lando hung up on you, or wait—you hung up on him, didn't you? You did. You definitely did (you didn't). And then you ordered another beer and sat there until the hawker center started closing down around you, and the grandmother from the table next to you had given you this look that said oh, honey in a language you don't speak but somehow understood perfectly.

You shower. The water pressure in Singapore hotels is always too strong or too weak, never just right, and this one is too strong, pelting against your skin. You stand there longer than you should, letting it run cold, because you read somewhere once that cold showers are good for anxiety or depression or something, though you can't remember which and you're not sure it matters because you're pretty sure you have both at this point.

Your suitcase is still mostly packed because you've been doing this for years and you've gotten very efficient at living out of luggage. Black pants—the ones that don't wrinkle, because you learned that lesson the hard way in Bahrain when you showed up to a meeting looking like you'd slept in your clothes, which you had. White blouse—the silk one, not the cotton one, because the sponsors notice these things even if Lando doesn't. Blazer. The McLaren team jacket is folded on the chair, and you stare at it for a long moment before deciding you don't want to wear it today, don't want the papaya orange plastered across your back like a brand.

You're his assistant, not his property.

Except you let him fuck you in a hotel room in Japan, so maybe the line there is blurrier than you'd like to admit, but that's an issue for another time. For a time when you haven't slept and your hands aren't shaking while you try to apply mascara in a bathroom mirror that's slightly too high for you to see properly without standing on your toes.

It's 6:58 AM when you leave your room.

The elevator ride down feels longer than it should, and you're alone in it, watching the numbers descend—12, 11, 10—and thinking about how you used to feel nervous before seeing Lando but in a good way, in an excited way, like maybe today would be the day he'd look at you like you were something other than his assistant. And then he did look at you like that, in a conference room with glass walls where anyone could see, and then in a hotel room in Japan, and now you're back to being nervous but in a bad way, in a what the fuck happens now way.

Your car is already outside. Different driver than yesterday, thankfully, because you're not sure you could handle the same driver who witnessed yesterday's silent treatment. This one is older, and he smiles at you when you get in and asks if you'd like the air conditioning higher or lower, and you say lower even though you're not actually sure what temperature you want, you just know you need to say something.

You check your phone. 7:11 AM. Lando is meeting you at 7:30, which means you're going to be early, which means you're going to be sitting in the restaurant waiting for him like some kind of desperate whore.

Your phone buzzes with three texts from Lando, telling you he's running a bit late. Lando Norris is never on time to anything that isn't racing, and you're the one who's always early, always prepared, always waiting.

The restaurant is in a hotel different from yours, the Fullerton, which is the kind of place that has doormen in white gloves and floors that echo when you walk across them. The breakfast is in a private room on the second floor, and you're the first one there, which you knew you would be, standing in a room that's set for twenty people with tables arranged in a U-shape and place cards that you helped coordinate two weeks ago.

Your card is at the corner. Lando's is at the head of the table, obviously, because he's Lando Norris and he's always at the head of the table.

You sit down. Pull out your tablet. The briefing document is already open, you've read it four times but you read it again anyway because you need something to do with your hands, something to look at that isn't the door, that isn't waiting for him to walk through it.

7:38 AM. The sponsors start arriving. Marcus from Tag Heuer, who you've met three times before and who always shakes your hand too firmly like he's trying to prove something. Two executives from Singapore Airlines whose names you know but always mix up, one is David and one is Daniel, and you make a mental note for the fourteenth time to come up with a mnemonic device for them. A woman from DBS Bank who you've never met but who looks exactly like every other corporate executive you've ever met, black suit, pearl earrings, the kind of smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

They're all making small talk, getting coffee from the station at the back, and you're nodding and smiling and saying yes, Lando will be here shortly, yes, very excited for the weekend, yes, the car is looking strong this year.

Fifteen minutes later, Lando walks in, and the first thing you notice is that he looks tired. Not tired in the way that normal people look tired, Lando Norris doesn't get dark circles under his eyes or pillow creases on his face. But there's something in the set of his shoulders, the way he's moving just slightly slower than usual, that tells you he didn't sleep well either.

Good. You hope he didn't sleep at all.

He's wearing the papaya team polo, the one that makes his eyes look impossibly green, and his hair is styled in that way that's supposed to look effortless but you know takes him at least fifteen minutes. He sees you immediately and for a fraction of a second, something crosses his face.

Then it's gone, and he's smiling, and he's Lando Norris again, and he's shaking hands with Marcus and making some joke that you can't hear from where you're sitting but that makes everyone laugh.

The breakfast starts, and you're taking notes on your tablet even though you don't really need to, even though you've done this exact breakfast seventeen times in different cities with different sponsors who all ask the same questions. How's the car feeling? What are your goals for the season? Can you tell us about your preparation routine?

You write down notes that you'll never read again.

Lando is in the middle of a story about Oscar, something about a prank involving someone's helmet, and everyone is laughing, and you can see the exact moment when his eyes start to drift toward you and then catch himself and look away.

It happens three more times during breakfast. Him starting to look at you, stopping himself, redirecting his attention to whoever's speaking or to his plate or to literally anywhere else.

The breakfast ends at 9:15 AM. People start standing, exchanging business cards, making promises to follow up. Lando is still shaking hands, still smiling, and you start gathering your things because that's what you do, you gather your things and you follow him to the next thing and the next thing and the next thing after that.

You're almost to the door when you hear him say your name. You turn and he's standing by his chair, hands in his pockets, and everyone else has filtered out into the hallway. It's just the two of you in this room with its white tablecloths and half-eaten fruit plates and the ghost of conversations that don't matter.

"Can we talk?" he asks.

And you have a choice. You could say yes. You could stay. You could let him explain or apologize or do whatever it is he's planning to do. Or, you could simply leave.

"I have to coordinate your transport to the track," you say. "You have media at eleven."

"I know what I have." His voice is quiet. "I'm asking if we can talk."

"About what?"

"About—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, messing up the styling he definitely spent fifteen minutes on. "About last night. About everything. I don't know, fuck—just talk."

This is the part where you're supposed to be the bigger person, supposed to hear him out, supposed to help him process his feelings or whatever it is that assistants-turned-something-else are supposed to do. But, you're tired, and quite frankly, irrigated with his phone call from last night, the past week.

And the only thing running through your head is that Lando Norris can go fuck himself.

"You've got thirty minutes before our car leaves," you say. "Don't be late."

You walk out before he can respond. In the hallway, your hands are shaking because no one tells Lando Norris no.

But you just did and somehow you make it to the elevator, make it down to the lobby, make it into the car that's waiting to take you both to the track—except Lando takes a different car, which the logistics coordinator apologizes for, says there was a mix-up with timing, and you know there wasn't a mix-up at all.

Lando Norris doesn't want to be in a car with you. Fine, so fucking be it.

The thing about working with Lando after Singapore is that it's exactly what you said you wanted. It's professional. There are boundaries now that are so clearly defined you could draw them on a map and submit them to the fucking FIA for track limits.

He starts to shows up on time, early, even, which is so unlike him that the first time it happens in Azerbaijan you actually check your watch twice to make sure you haven't gotten the schedule wrong. He reads every briefing you send him, responds to emails within ten minutes with perfect punctuation and "Thanks, appreciate it" sign-offs that make you want to throw your phone into the Caspian Sea. He says please and thank you to your face, confirms schedules without complaint, attends every meeting and every appearance and every obligation without a single emergency phone call at 3 AM or text thread about how he's lost his passport again.

It's perfect and it's absolutely killing you.

Because Lando Norris being professional and competent and respectful is somehow infinitely worse than Lando Norris being a disaster. At least when he was a disaster, he needed you. At least when he called you from the wrong country, when he missed flights, when he showed up to sponsor meetings with his shirt on backwards and that stupid grin that said I know I fucked up and you'll fix it anyway—at least then you mattered to him.

At least then you were something other than the person who books his hotels and coordinates his calendar and exists nowhere in his mind.

Now you're just another one of the staff. Azerbaijan comes and goes. He qualifies P3, finishes P4, solid points for the team. Does every single media obligation without you having to remind him once. Thanks the sponsors in his post-race interview, remembers all their names, makes that self-deprecating joke about the Safety Car that has everyone laughing. The Instagram content team gets usable footage of him and Oscar doing some challenge in the garage. He's perfect. Everyone loves Lando Norris.

You stand there with your tablet and watch him be perfect and your chest feels like someone's hollowed it out with a spoon.

Austin is somehow worse. Not because anything happens, that's the problem. Nothing fucking happens. Lando qualifies P2, finishes P3 after a brilliant drive where he overtakes Russel on the outside of Turn 1 and the entire garage loses their minds. You're standing there watching the screens, watching him celebrate, watching him spray champagne on the podium with that massive grin, and Jon claps you on the shoulder and says "Great weekend, yeah?" and you say "Yeah, great" even though you feel nothing at all.

Lando does his media rounds. You coordinate them all flawlessly because that's what you do, that's what you've always done. He thanks you once, in passing, on his way out of the paddock. Says "Cheers for everything today" like you're a volunteer marshal, like you're someone he's being polite to because that's what good people do.

That night you sit in your hotel room and eat room service that tastes like shit and watch some Netflix show you've already forgotten by the time you turn it off. Your phone sits next to you on the bed, silent. The episode ends. Another one starts. Your phone stays silent, and when you close your eyes, you dream of nothing at all.

Mexico. Brazil. Monaco.

The races blur together like watercolors left out in rain. Lando is perfect at all of them. Perfect driver, perfect ambassador, perfect professional who waves at fans and signs autographs and does Instagram stories with Oscar where they're both laughing and being the perfect team. He never once acts like anything is wrong, because maybe nothing is wrong. Maybe you were just a blip, a moment of extremely poor judgment that he's moved past completely.

Maybe fucking his assistant was something he did and forgot about, the same way he tried going vegan for a week last year or got really into padel tennis for three months. Just another phase. Just another thing Lando Norris tried and decided wasn't worth continuing.

In Brazil you have to ride in the same car to the track because logistics fucked up, only one car available, driver shortage, something about the local contractor. The coordinator apologizes profusely. You say it's fine. Lando says nothing at all.

So you sit in the back seat together in silence. He's on his phone, scrolling through something with his thumb, and you're on your tablet pretending to review the media schedule. The driver tries to make conversation about the weather, about the race, about literally anything, and gives up after both of you give one-word answers that kill the attempt dead.

Lando's knee is eleven centimeters from yours. You measured with your eyes, which is insane, which means you're absolutely fucking losing your mind. You can smell his cologne—the same one as always, the one that was on your skin for three days after Tokyo, the one you can still smell sometimes when you're falling asleep even though that's impossible.

He doesn't look at you once during the entire twenty-three-minute drive. You count that too. The minutes. Because apparently you're a person who counts things now, who measures distances and time and all the space between you and Lando Norris that keeps expanding like the universe, infinite and cold and just all to fucking far away.

Las Vegas is when you realize you can't do this anymore.

Not the job—you can do the job. You've been doing the job perfectly for years, and you could probably do it for two more, or ten more, or however long it takes for Lando Norris to retire or get bored of racing or spontaneously combust from holding in whatever it is he's holding in.

But you can't do this. This thing where you exist in the same space and pretend you don't. This thing where he's polite and professional and you're polite and professional and underneath it all you're both screaming. At least you are. You're not sure about him anymore.

You're not sure he thinks about Tokyo at all. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe it really was just that easy for him to flip the switch, to go from having his hand over your mouth while he fucked you to saying "Thanks, appreciate it" in response to your calendar updates.

Maybe you're the only one who's drowning here.

The race is at night, which makes everything feel more surreal, more like you're living in some alternate dimension where Las Vegas has an actual Formula 1 circuit running through it. Lando qualifies P1, races well, finishes first after a late-race battle with Piastri that has everyone on the edge of their seats.

You watch from the garage. Feel nothing. He does his interviews, thanks the team, heads back to the motorhome to debrief. You coordinate his transport back to the hotel, confirm his Monday morning flight, send him the updated schedule for Qatar.

He responds: Got it, thanks.

That's it. Two words and a punctuation mark. You stare at the message for five full minutes, and that's when you decide, Qatar. You're going to make something happen in Qatar, because if you have to spend one more race weekend in this professional purgatory, you're going to lose your fucking mind.

It's been thirty-seven days since Singapore.

Thirty-seven days since he asked if you could talk and you walked away from him. Thirty-seven days of Lando Norris being exactly what you told him to be, professional, respectful, boundaried. Never calls after hours. Never texts about anything that isn't work. Treats you like a colleague, like staff, like someone whose opinion matters only in the context of his schedule and his obligations and nothing else.

You should be happy. You won. You set the pace, you told him no, you hung up on him, you walked out of that breakfast, and he listened. He learned. He gave you exactly what you asked for.

So why does it feel like you're suffocating?

Why do you lie awake at night in hotel rooms that all look identical and think about the way he looked at you in Tokyo? Why do you check your phone forty times a day even though you know he won't call? Why did you save that Appreciate it text like some kind of pathetic digital shrine to whatever this was?

Qatar arrives and you're done with this. Done with him, done with yourself, done with the performance you're both putting on. Done with being professional. Done with boundaries. Done with doing the right thing when the right thing feels like dying slowly.

You book your hotel room on the same floor as Lando's.

It costs an extra €900 that you pay out of pocket, which is insane because you're supposed to be saving money, supposed to be preparing for whatever comes after you finally submit that resignation letter you've rewritten forty-seven times. But you pay it anyway. Request room 4007 specifically because you know—you've always known, you coordinate his bookings—that Lando is in 4012.

Five doors down. Close enough.

The hotel bar on Thursday night is full of people from the paddock. You can spot them easily, their team polos, the branded jackets, the mechanics and engineers clustering in corners talking about setup changes and when their next vacation is. It's the kind of place Formula 1 always stays, all identical rooms and bars that serve €35 cocktails to people on expense accounts.

You order a gin and tonic you don't want and sit at the bar, scanning the room for something. A distraction. A catalyst. A way to make something happen because you can't stand another day of nothing.

That's when you see him.

He's tall with dark hair that's slightly too long. Wearing a Racing Bulls polo, so he's an engineer, probably, or data analyst, someone who works in the circus but isn't the show. Late twenties. Attractive in a conventional way that Lando isn't, none of the madness, none of the sharp edges, none of that gravitational pull that makes Lando the center of every room.

He's perfect, and he catches you looking. Smiles and you smile back. His name is James. Works in aerodynamics for Racing Bulls. British but lives in Milan now. In Qatar for the weekend. Thinks this bar is overpriced but at least the drinks are strong.

You laugh at his jokes even when they're not funny. Let him buy you a second drink. A third. Touch his arm when he makes some comment about your hair. You're performing—you know you're performing. The years with Lando Norris have made you exceptional at performing, at being charming, at making people feel like they matter.

"Want to get out of here?" James asks around 11 PM, hand on your lower back.

"Yeah," you say. "Let's go."

James walks you to the elevator. You press 4. His hand stays on your lower back, warm through your shirt, and it should feel good but it just feels wrong, like a placeholder for someone else's touch.

The elevator rises. 1, 2, 3, 4.

The doors open and there's Lando fucking Norris standing right in the hallway.

Grey joggers. Black t-shirt. Hair a mess like he's been pulling at it. He has a phone in one hand. He looks up when the doors open.

Sees you. Then sees James. Sees James's hand on your back.

His face does something complicated and then something much darker. His jaw clenches. His eyes, which haven't really looked at you in thirty-seven days, are suddenly locked on yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"Oh," you say, voice deliberately light. "Hey, Lando."

"Hey," he says.

James on the other hand, doesn't care. "Which room?" he asks, breath warm against your ear.

"4007," you say.

Still looking at Lando. Still watching him. Watching his hands curl into fists at his sides. Watching his knuckles go white. Watching thirty-seven days of professional boundaries suddenly evaporate.

That's right, Norris. Two can play at this game.

"Have a good night," you say.

You walk past him. Feel his eyes on you like a physical weight. Feel him watching as you pull out your room key, as James says something you don't hear, as you laugh even though nothing's funny.

You open the door to 4007. James follows you inside, and the lights of Doha filter through the window, and James is already close behind you, hands finding your waist.

"Nice room," he says, which is a lie because it's aggressively mediocre, but you don't call him on it.

"Yeah," you say. He kisses you and it's fine. His mouth tastes like beer and spearmint gum, and his hands are moving up your sides, and you kiss him back because that's what you came here to do, isn't it? That's the whole point of this. You let him walk you backwards toward the bed, let him pull your shirt up slightly, let his hands find skin.

Your brain is somewhere else entirely. Counting seconds. Waiting for this to be over. You hope Lando is physically ill, you hope he's thinking about you getting fucked by another man as he's only a few doors down.

James is saying something against your neck—something about how he's wanted to talk to you all night, how he noticed you at the bar immediately—and you make a noise that sounds like agreement. His hand finds the button of your jeans.

That's when the banging starts. Not knocking.

Banging.

Fist against door, hard enough that it echoes through the room, hard enough that James jerks back and says "What the fuck?" Three hits. Four. Five. The sound is aggressive, violent almost, and your heart is suddenly racing for reasons that have nothing to do with James.

"Ignore it," James says, leaning back in, but the banging continues.

Six. Seven. Eight.

"Jesus Christ," James mutters, pulling away completely now. "Should you—"

"Yeah," you say, already moving toward the door, and your hands are shaking when you reach for the handle.

You know who it is. Of course you know who it is.

You open the door. Lando is standing there, and he looks—fuck, he looks fucking furious. His chest is heaving and his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping, and his eyes are wild. Darker than you've ever seen them. There's nothing professional about him right now, nothing controlled. He looks like he's about to either punch something or break something, and you're not sure which.

"Get out," he says, but he's not looking at you. He's looking past you at James, who's appeared behind you, confused and irritated.

"Excuse me?" James says.

"Get. Your shit. And get the fuck out." Lando's voice is low, dangerous, each word clipped and precise. "Now."

"Who the fuck do you think—" James starts, but Lando takes a step forward into the doorway, and there's something about the way he moves, the energy coming off him, that makes James stop talking.

"I'm not asking again," Lando says.

James looks at you, clearly expecting you to say something, to tell this psycho to leave, but you don't. You just stand there between them, heart pounding, because this is what you wanted, isn't it? This is exactly what you wanted.

"This is insane," James mutters, but he's already moving, grabbing his phone from where he set it on the desk. "Fucking McLaren people are all crazy."

He pushes past both of you into the hallway, and Lando doesn't move, doesn't step aside, makes James squeeze past him. The second James is gone, Lando steps inside your room and slams the door shut behind him.

The sound echoes. And suddenly you're both just standing there, staring at each other, and the air in the room feels electric, dangerous, like something's about to combust.

"What the fuck was that?" you say, finding your voice.

"What the fuck was that?" Lando repeats, his voice rising. "Are you serious right now? You bring some random fucking guy to your room."

"So what if I did?" You step closer to him, anger flooding through you. "What the fuck do you care? You've ignored me for over a month!"

"Because you basically told me to fuck off!" His hands are in his hair, pulling at it. "You're the one that walked away, you made it very fucking clear you wanted nothing to do with me, like you—" He stops himself, chest heaving.

"Like you didn't what?"

"Like you didn't fucking need me, okay?" The words explode out of him. "Then I have to act like I don't think about it every single day, like I don't want to," He stops again, jaw clenching. "And then I see you with him, with his hands on you."

"You don't get to be jealous," you say, but your voice is shaking now. "You don't get to ice me out for thirty-seven days and then show up here acting like—"

"Thirty-seven?" He laughs, bitter and sharp. "You've been counting?"

"Fuck you."

And in the midst of it all, you kiss him. Or he kisses you. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly his mouth is on yours and his hands are in your hair and you're grabbing his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to feel something other than the past thirty-seven days of nothing. It's not gentle. It's desperate and angry and messy, all teeth and tongue, his hands rough as they yank at your clothes.

He walks you backwards until your legs hit the bed and you fall onto it, and he's on top of you immediately, pressing you down into the mattress with his full weight. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, or maybe that's your heart, or maybe it's both of you about to explode from the pressure of everything you haven't said.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, and his hands are shaking as they pull at your jeans. "Fuck, I've been going insane."

"Shut up," you gasp, yanking his shirt over his head, needing to touch him, needing to confirm he's real and here and not the ghost you've been living with for over a month. "Just shut the fuck up."

Your jeans are stuck on one ankle and he doesn't bother getting them all the way off, just pulls them down far enough and hooks your leg over his hip. His joggers are shoved down hastily, and then he's against you, hard and desperate, and you're so wet it's embarrassing but you don't care.

"Tell me you thought about me," he demands, one hand fisting in your hair, the other between your legs. "Tell me I wasn't the only one losing my fucking mind."

"Every day," you choke out as his fingers push inside you roughly, no patience, no buildup. "Every single day, Lando, I couldn't."

"Good." He sounds wrecked, fingers working you open, hooking into your cunt until you're squirming under him. "Good, because I haven't been able to think about anything else, haven't been able to focus, couldn't even look at you without wanting to fuck you."

His thumb finds your clit and the combination makes you gasp, hips bucking up into his hand. You're already so wet, so ready, and he knows it. Can feel it.

He lines his cock against your entrance and pushes inside you in one hard thrust that makes you both gasp. There's no finesse to it, no technique. Just need. Just two people who've been starving finally getting fed.

God, he's so fucking big. You've been thinking about his cock fucking you since Tokyo.

"Fuck," he chokes out, forehead pressed to yours, and he's not moving yet, just breathing hard, like he needs a second to process that this is real. "Fuck, you feel so good."

"Move," you demand, nails digging into his shoulders. "Lando, fucking move."

He does. Hard and fast and completely graceless, hips snapping against yours with a desperation that borders on violent. This isn't romantic. This isn't making love. This is two people destroying each other because it's the only way they know how to communicate anymore.

"I couldn't do it," he gasps against your throat, and his rhythm is erratic, uncontrolled. "Couldn't keep pretending you didn't exist, couldn't watch you with someone else, couldn't fucking breathe without you."

"I know," you sob, because you do know, you've been drowning in the same thing. "I know, I know."

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with his thumb, and the combination of him inside you and his fingers on you makes your back arch off the bed. You're close already, wound too tight from thirty-seven days of nothing, and he can feel it.

"That's it," he breathes, and there's something broken in his voice. "Come on, let me feel it it baby."

"Lando—" Your voice cracks on his name.

“I fucking love you,” he hisses against the side of your throat, thrusting into you with reckless abandon.

Your heart stops.

"Don't," you gasp, but you don't know if you're telling him not to say it or not to stop saying it.

"I do." He's fucking into you harder now, faster, like he can make you believe him through sheer force. "I love you and I hate that I do, hate that you have this much power over me, I fucking hate it."

"I love you too," the words tear out of you, and you didn't mean to say them, weren't planning to, but they're true and you can't hold them back anymore. "God, Lando, I love you."

He makes a sound that's half groan, half something else, something that might be relief or might be agony. His thumb presses harder against your clit and you shatter, clenching around him as you come, gasping his name into his mouth as he kisses you through it.

"Fuck, yes," he growls against your lips. "Love feeling you come on my cock, love you, fuck."

His rhythm stutters, hips jerking erratically, and then he's coming too, spilling inside you with your name on his lips and his hand in your hair and his weight pressing you into the mattress like he's trying to merge your bodies into one.

For a few seconds, neither of you move. Just lie there tangled together, breathing hard, hearts racing against each other. His face is buried in your neck and you can feel his breath hot against your skin, can feel the flutter of his eyelashes when he blinks.

This is honest. This is the most honest either of you has been in thirty-seven days, maybe longer. No performance, no professionalism, just truth wrapped in sweat and desperation and words you can't take back.

He lifts his head slowly, and when he looks at you his eyes are soft, vulnerable, like he's just handed you something fragile and he's waiting to see if you'll crush it.

Your chest aches. Your whole body aches. You reach up and touch his face, and he leans into it, and for one perfect moment you think maybe this is it, maybe this is where everything gets fixed.

Then his expression changes and the moment shutters closed like a door slamming, and he's pulling away before you can stop him. He gets up from the bed, shoving his clothes on with jerky, agitated movements.

He takes another look at you—really looks at you this time—like he's reasserting to himself that you're fine. That you're alive, that you're breathing, that you're real. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a step forward.

"You're fired," he says.