pixiedust

TW!: SMUT

First half of this part is here.

I hope you guys like it so far!!! Skip to the 4th dash line for smut

-

The quiet, dimly lit carpeted hallway was dead silent except for the muffled sound of your heels sinking into the floor. You stopped right outside his room, swaying slightly as a fresh wave of heat rolled over your skin.

Instead of turning the handle this time, your foggy mind made you reach up. You raised your hand and knocked. Three deliberate, rhythmic taps against the dark wood.

Inside, Islams heart plummeted into his stomach. He’d been pacing his room in his sweatpants and a thin t-shirt for the last hour, tortured by his own thoughts and waiting on edge for Chanco and Amru to arrive for their late night gaming setup. Hearing the knock, he assumed his teammates had finally snuck away from their coach.

He took a sharp breath, composed his rigid face, and swung the door open.

The words died in his throat.

It wasn't his friends. It was you.

Islam froze completely, his hand locking onto the edge of the door as his breath caught in his chest. You were standing under the dim hotel lighting in that backless satin dress, your posture loose and swaying, both hand loosely clutching the strap of your purse while. But what made his chest tighten in absolute shock was your face.

Your eyes were glassy, slightly unfocused, and bloodshot red. As a fighter whose entire life was built on strict athletic discipline and anti-doping awareness, he instantly recognized the physical signs. He knew the bodily indicators of drugs, how they altered a person's dilated pupils, their stance, their heavy breathing. You weren't just drunk. You were heavily, visibly high.

Before a single word could slip past your lips, a sudden noise echoed from down the hall.

Islams head snapped violently to the left. Poking his head out into the corridor, his heart practically stopped: Chanco and Amru were walking out of the elevator towards his room at the far end of the hallway. Thankfully, they were deep in conversation, laughing quietly and looking at a phone between them, completely oblivious to what was happening further down the floor.

Panic, pure and primal, surged through his veins.

Without thinking, his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. He violently yanked you straight into his room, pulling you past the threshold before slamming the wooden door shut, locking it with a sharp, frantic click.

The second the lock clicked shut, you didn't hesitate.

Your purse slipped from your fingers, hitting the carpeted floor with a soft thud. Operating on pure instinct, you stepped straight into Islams personal space, reaching up to cup his face and pull his mouth down to yours.

His reaction was instantaneous. His large, heavy hands shot out, wrapping tightly around your wrists and yanking your hands down to your sides.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, his voice a frantic, desperate whisper. He backed you up a step, his dark eyes wide with panic as he stared down at your glassy, bloodshot eyes. "You’re out of your mind. You're- what did you take? You can barely stand up"

"Shh," you slurred softly, a dizzy smirk pulling at your lips as you tried to twist your hands out of his grip. Your skin was burning, and the heat radiating off his chest was driving you crazy. "You missed me. I know you did."

"Stop it. Look at me, stop," he growled under his breath, Islams jaw clenching so tight the muscle twitched. He was fighting to keep his voice down, his knuckles white as he held your arms pinned. "You need to go back to your room right now. If anyone sees you in here-"

Knock. Knock. Knock.

-

The sudden sound of knuckles against the wooden door sounded like a bomb in the quit room.

His whole body locked up, his breath seizing in his throat.

"Yo, bro! Open up, it's us," Chanco’s muffled voice called out from the hallway.

Panic seized Islam. He looked at you, then at the door, his heart hammering against his ribs. Before you could say another word, he shoved you backward trying to get you as far away from the door as possible, silently pleading with his eyes for you to stay still.

He took a steadying breath, composed his face, and unlocked the door, pulling it open just enough so only his head and broad shoulders where visible to his friends.

"Yo, what took so long?" Amru asked, holding a plastic bag with snacks while Chanco leaned against the doorframe, trying to peer past him.

"I was... in the bathroom," Islam lied smoothly, keeping his voice as flat and calm as possible, though his pulse was roaring in his ears.

Meanwhile, behind the door, the drug running through your system stripped away any sense of logic. You stepped right back up to him from behind. However, you made sure that his friends didn't catch a glimpse of you because you has another motive in mind.

Islams eyes nearly went wide in terror as he felt your soft, warm hands slip under the back of his thin cotton t-shirt. Your nails lightly scraped up the warm muscle of his lower back, heading straight for his waistline.

A sharp, microscopic tremor ran through his shoulders. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from letting out a audible gasp right in front of his boys.

"Listen, guys," Islam choked out, his voice a fraction higher than usual before he quickly forced it down. He reached one arm behind his back, frantically trying to catch your hands and push them away from his sweatpants, but you were persistent, sliding your hands around to his ribs. "I don't think tonight's good for the PlayStation."

Chanco frowned. "Wait, why? You said it was fine."

"I... I pulled a muscle during training," Islam gritted out through his teeth, his hand behind his back finally catching your wrist and gripping it tight, trying to hold you off while you leaned your forehead right against his spine, your hot breath soaking through his shirt. "My hips are totally shot. Coach came by earlier and told me I need to ice it and get sleep. We gotta play tomorrow."

Amru looked at Chanco, then back at him, raising an eyebrow at how tense he looked standing in the doorway. "Bro, you good did something happen?"

"I'm fine. Just need to sleep," he said quickly, Islams arm behind him straining as he physically held you back from sliding your hand down the front of his pants. Sweat was literally starting to bead at his hairline from the sheer stress of maintaining a calm face while wrestling you in complete silence behind his back. "Seriously. Take the console to your room. We’ll run it tomorrow after practice"

Chanco sighed, handing over a bag of chips. "Alright, fine, man. Get some rest. Don't let Coach catch you slacking."

"Yeah. Goodnight, brothers," Islam muttered.

The second they turned their backs and stepped away down the hall, he pulled his head back inside, slammed the door shut, and turned the deadbolt with a sharp clack.

-

Islam leaned his back against the door, letting out a long, ragged exhale, only to look down and see you looking up at him with that same sleepy, dizzy, smile, your hand already reaching straight back for his waistband.

He immediately reached out, grabbing both of your wrists to pin them between your bodies. He was heaving, cold sweat slicking his forehead, his eyes wide with sheer disbelief as he stared down at you.

"Are you insane?" he whispered, his voice a harsh, desperate rasp. "They were right there. You almost destroyed everything-"

"You talk too much," you slurred softly, tilting your head back. You didn't care about his friends, his coach, or his career. Your blood was burning, your body feeling like liquid heat under the dark satin dress. You twisted your wrists out of his grip, taking a step closer until your chest pressed right against his.

Your hands slid straight down to the waistband of his sweatpants, your fingers hooking into the gray fabric, tugging it downward.

"Stop, hey, look at me, stop," Islam gritted through his teeth, grabbing your wrists again, but you were persistent, sliding your hands around his hips. "I can't do this tonight. I literally can't."

"Why?" you murmured, a dizzy smirk pulling at your lips as you leaned into his space, your mouth brushing the warm skin of his neck. "You wanted me all day. I saw how you looked at me in the elevator."

"It’s not that, fuck," he groaned, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek. He tried to pull back, but you were standing so close he had nowhere to go. "My body is completely wrecked. I'm on a heavy camp supplement stack, I'm dehydrated, it literally stings to move, okay?"

You didn't listen. In your foggy, high state, you thought he was just trying to play the disciplined holy man again, making up excuses to keep his pristine reputation.

Reaching down, your fingers wrapped directly around the front of his sweatpants, squeezing his cock firmly through the cotton.

A sharp, violent jolt went through his entire frame.

His eyes flew wide, his back slamming hard against the wooden door as a sharp gasp broke from Islams throat. The sudden, blunt pressure against his raw, over sensitized skin, combined with the friction burns on his hips, sent an agonizing, electric shockwave straight up into his lower abdomen. It was pure, stinging pain mixed with the sudden, terrible heat of his body betraying him all over again.

"stop!" he choked out, his voice cracking slightly from the sheer, overwhelming sting of it.

That was Islams absolute breaking point. The stress, the terror of his friends catching him, and the unbearable pain all over his body completely shattered whatever control he had left.

Before you could grip him again, his large hands clamped around your waist. He didn't just push you back, Islam physically hauled you backwards down the short entryway, guiding your swaying body straight into the hotel bathroom.

He shoved the bathroom door shut behind you both and threw the lock into place with a heavy, final click.

The quiet, tiled room sealed you both in, completely isolating you from the outside world. He backed up against the marble vanity, running both hands over his face, his chest heaving as he stared at you in the dim light, trapped in the tight space with a girl who was single handedly tearing his entire life apart.

He reached out, his massive hands catching you under the thighs to lift your swaying body, setting you right onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom vanity. His hand hit the light switch, and the harsh, bright overhead vanity lights flooded the room, cutting through the dimness and exposing every detail.

Islam stepped between your knees, resting his palm flat against the small of your back to keep you steady. But looking down at your high, heavy lidded expression, your lips flushed and your dark winged liner slightly smudged, his self control snapped. Before he could stop himself, he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a deep, desperate kiss.

You let out a soft, breathless sound against his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as the sweet, intoxicating heat between you spiked all over again. He kissed you with a hungry, rough intensity, tasting the faint sweetness of the club drinks on your tongue, his hand sliding up your thigh to gather the soft satin of your dress.

Then, reality slammed back into him.

With a sharp, ragged exhale, Islam broke the kiss, taking a step back while his breath hitched.

"No," he said under his breath, his voice thick and strained as his large hands caught your wrists, gently but firmly prying your arms off his neck. "I can't do this. Not like this."

You let out a soft, needy whine, your head tilting back against the mirror, completely pliant and heavy limbed. "Stop being so mean..."

He didn't answer. Islam turned away, his heart hammering in his ribs as he turned on the brass faucet. He grabbed a clean white hotel washcloth, soaking it under the steaming water and wringing it out until it was soft and warm.

He stepped right back between your legs. Holding your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, he began meticulously, slowly wiping away the heavy party makeup from your skin. He started with your forehead, smoothing the warm cloth over your temples, then carefully dabbing away the dark winged eyeliner, wiping off the glossy lipstick, and cleansing your cheeks until your bare, natural skin showed through.

You were totally compliant, your eyes half lidded, leaning your face straight into the warm towel and the steady, heavy palm resting against your jaw. He handled you like something fragile, something sacred that had been tainted by the outside world and needed to be brought back to purity.

He moved the cloth down to your throat, carefully wiping away the heavy scent of sweet club perfume and sweat from your skin.

That was when the bright vanity lights caught your chest and shoulders clearly.

His hand froze.

Scattered across your collarbone and tracing up the side of your neck were the dark, violet bruises from last night, the clear, undeniable imprint of his fingers wrapped around your throat, and the deep hickeys he’d aggressively left on your skin.

A wave of crushing shame slammed into his chest, instantly making it hard for him to breathe.

He stared at the dark marks painted on your soft skin under the fluorescent lights. He was a man who spent his mornings in prayer, a man who swore to protect and respect, and here was the physical proof that he had acted like a ruthless, unhinged animal, completely surrendering to his darkest urges.

His jaw trembled slightly. He pressed the warm, damp cloth gently right over the darkest bruise on your neck, his thumb carefully smoothing over the edge of the mark.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking, thick with genuine remorse as he stared down at the marks he’d made. "I'm so sorry... I shouldn't have done this to you. Look what I did to you."

You just blinked up at him through your foggy, warm high, totally unbothered, while Islam stood trapped in the quiet bathroom, gently cleaning your skin with trembling hands, overwhelmed by the quiet guilt of loving you too roughly.

-

Islam threw the ruined washcloth into the sink and leaned his hands against the edge of the marble counter, taking a slow, heavy breath. The overhead lighting reflected off his face, his jaw tight as he looked at you sitting on the vanity.

You were sitting there with bare, clean skin, your head resting back against the mirror, heavy lidded and completely unbothered by the chaos you’d just caused.

"You're taking a shower," Islam blurted, his voice low, and firm. "You smell like the club, you're out of your mind, and the warm water is going to sober you up before I figure out how to get you back to your room."

He reached down, grabbing you under the arms to lift you off the counter. Your feet hit the floor, but your knees immediately buckled. You swayed straight into his chest, your hands grabbing onto his shoulders to keep from sliding down.

"I can't..." you slurred softly against the bare skin of his throat, your body feeling like heavy, warm lead.

Islam let out a sharp, frustrated breath, steadying you with a broad palm against your back. He walked you over to the glass stall, reaching in to turn the brass handles until hot steam began filling the small room.

"Yes, you can. Step in," he commanded, trying to guide you through the door.

Instead of stepping in, you clung to his t-shirt, your fingers twisting into the cotton. You couldn't even keep your eyes fully open, your head rolling back as you whined softly, completely unable to coordinate your legs. You reached behind your back, uselessly fumbling with the delicate zipper of your backless satin dress, completely unable to get it off.

Islam stood there staring at you, a heavy, exhausted sigh breaking from his chest.

He realized in that exact moment that you were way too far gone to do this yourself. You were going to slip on the wet tile, burn yourself on the water, or pass out cold in the stall.

"Shit," he grunted under his breath, running a hand down his face.

"Come in with me," you murmured, your voice a needy, breathless whisper as you rested your forehead right over his heart. You tugged at his shirt, "Please... I can't do it. Take a shower with me."

His whole body went rigid. Every single alarm bell in his head was screaming at him to step back, to put a towel around you, to stay on the dry side of the glass. But looking down at how helpless, warm, and completely soft you were in his arms, his iron discipline gave out.

Without saying a word, he reached around to your back. His large, calloused fingers caught the zipper of your dress, slowly pulling it down with a soft zip. He peeled the dark satin down your shoulders, letting the heavy fabric pool uselessly around your ankles on the bathmat.

He stepped out of his slippers and pulled his t-shirt over his head, tossing it into the corner. His hands moved to the waistband of his sweatpants, stripping them off along with his boxer briefs, leaving him standing there completely bare in the dim, steamy room.

Islam picked you up around the thighs, stepping straight over the threshold into the pounding, hot spray.

The moment the steaming water hit both of your bare skin, you let out a soft, shivered gasp, instantly pressing your wet, naked front flat against his chest. He backed you up against the tile, his large, heavy hands wrapping around your waist to hold you steady under the stream, completely naked, completely isolated, and completely trapped in the heat together.

The pounding hot water streamed down his back as he kept one broad palm pressed against your waist to hold you steady under the spray.

With his free hand, he tilted your chin up, bringing your head directly under the warm stream. He worked his fingers through your hair, soaking it down to the scalp, trying everything in his power to shock your system and bring you back to your senses.

"Wake up," he muttered, his voice rough over the roar of the shower. "Look at me. Stay awake."

Instead of focusing on the water, your foggy, unhinged mind locked right back onto him. Slipping your hands down his wet chest, your fingers reached straight between your bodies, your wet palm wrapping firmly around his cock.

A sharp, violent gasp broke from his throat. He instantly reached down, his large fingers clamping hard around your wrists to pry your hands away.

"I said stop," he gritted through his teeth, holding your wrists pinned against his chest, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He was breathing heavily, his eyes wide with sheer physical strain. "Listen to me-I physically cannot do this tonight. Every time you touch me like that, it stings like fire. You're driving me crazy, just stop."

You didn't listen to his warnings. The heat running through your veins made you ruthless.

Instead of pulling away, you turned around in his hold, pressing the back of your wet, naked body straight against his chest. The contrast of your soft skin against his hard, broad frame sent a shiver through you.

Reaching back, you grabbed his heavy, calloused wrists. Before Islam could pull away, you dragged his left hand up, pressing his broad palm firmly over your bare breast.

Then, you grabbed his right hand. You guided his heavy wrist straight down between your legs, pressing his fingers directly against your wet, aching pussy.

"Wait, no, don't-" he choked out, his breath hitching as he tried to pull his right hand back.

"Please..." you slurred softly, tilting your head back until it rested against his shoulder, letting out a breathy, needy moan that echoed over the pounding water. "Just... please."

Keeping your hand locked over his, you physically pushed his broad palm against your body, guiding his fingers to rub slow, agonizing circles over your wet, aching pussy.

The moment the friction hit, a loud, helpless moan broke from your lips, echoing off the wet tiles as your knees buckled softly into his frame.

Hearing that soft, desperate sound break from you, feeling your body tremble right against his knuckles, completely destroyed whatever was left of his resolve. For one final, agonizing second, his entire frame locked up, his jaw clenching so tight a muscle twitched in his cheek as he fought the sheer temptation of it.

Then, his hesitation completely melted into something raw and possessive.

His left hand tightened over your breast, his fingers molding to your shape, while his right hand, no longer needing your guidance, took over completely.

Islam let out a low groan against the side of your neck. His fingers parted you, his thumb finding your clit and pressing into a steady, agonizingly slow rhythm that made your knees buckle right against him. He held your hips firmly with his left arm, anchoring you while his right hand worked you with precise, maddening pressure.

"I hate what you do to me," he rasped into your ear, his hot breath soaking into your wet skin as his fingers slid deeper, slipping two long, thick fingers straight inside you.

The feeling was suffocating. You let out a sharp, breathless cry, your hips rolling helplessly against his hand as the heat coiled tight in your stomach. Just as your breath hitched and you arching back for release, he abruptly slowed his fingers, sliding them almost all the way out before sinking them deep inside you again with a slow, heavy press. his fingers worked deeper, crooking upward inside you while his palm pressed heavily against your center. He stroked you in deep, rhythmic hitches, feeling the frantic, tight clenching of your walls wrapping around his fingers as you hovered right on the sharp edge of falling apart.

With a final, desperate stroke of his thumb, your body completely shattered. You let out a loud, shuddering moan, your back arching into his chest as your climax hit you in intense, crashing waves, spilling cum all over his fingers under the pounding spray.

He held you tightly through the entire shaking release, his jaw set, breathing heavily into your wet hair as he felt you tremble against him, completely helpless under his touch.

-

You reached down, gently taking that very hand and turning around to face him under the pounding spray. Standing chest to chest, the hot water washed over both of your shoulders as you looked down at his right hand. Coating his long, calloused fingers was the slick, white cum.

Slowly, you brought your eyes back up to meet his. Islams gaze was intense, heavy lidded, and completely blown out with desire, his chest heaving as he tried to regain his breath.

Without breaking eye contact, you raised his hand to your mouth. You took his two fingers straight past your lips, slowly sucking them clean and swallowing your own cum right in front of him.

A sharp, violent intake of breath rattled through his chest. A shuddering groan rumbled deep in his throat as he watched you, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.

Your eyes drifted down to his cock. Despite the severe sensitivity and the camp supplements, he was completely, agonizingly hard, thick and heavy, straining straight up toward his stomach under the steam.

You reached your wet hand out, heading straight for him again.

The moment his hand twitched to catch your wrist and stop you, you cut him off. You gently caught his broad palm, looking straight up into his eyes with a heavy lidded, dizzy warmth.

"I'll be gentle," you murmured softly, your voice a breathless, syrupy whisper over the roar of the water. "I promise."

Already completely turned on, his mind thoroughly corrupted by the sight of you sucking his fingers, he didn't fight it. He let out a low, defeated exhale, his back pressing back against the wet tile as he let his arms drop, giving you full permission.

Keeping your gaze locked firmly onto his, you slid your wet, warm palm around his cock.

You were agonizingly soft and careful. Using the running shower water to eliminate any painful friction, your hand moved over his sensitive skin in a slow, feather light stroke, guiding your hand up and down his cock with absolute, tender control.

A loud, ragged gasp broke from his lips. His head snapped back against the tile for a split second before he forced his eyes open, locking straight back onto yours.

The intensity was suffocating. Neither of you looked away. He stood there towering over you, his broad shoulders slick with water, his knuckles white where his hands rested against the shower wall, completely trapped in your eyes as you stroked him.

"Fuck..." Islam rasped out, his voice completely wrecked. A low, continuous groan vibrated through his chest every time your soft palm reached the tip of his cock.

Because of his extreme hypersensitivity, the slow, gentle rhythm was absolute torture, an excruciatingly intense wave of pleasure that bypassed his pain entirely. He could feel every micro movement of your skin against his, the heat of your body standing so close, and the dark intent in your glassy eyes.

"You're killing me..." he choked out, his breath coming in short, harsh ragged gasps.

You didn't speed up. You kept the pace agonizingly slow, your eyes never leaving his face as you watched his iron discipline completely melt away. You saw the exact moment he reached his limit, his dilated pupils widening, his breath catching sharply in his throat, and his jaw setting in pure, helpless surrender.

"Look at me," you whispered.

His grip on the tile tightened so hard his forearm muscles shuddered. With a deep, gut wrenching groan that echoed through the small bathroom, he shattered. Islams whole frame went rigid, his hips thrusting helplessly forward into your soft grip as he released, spilling cum all over your hand under the pounding water, his intense gaze breaking away from yours as he leaned his head back in pleasure.

When he looked back down at you, you raised your hand to your mouth. You took your fingers straight past your lips, once again slowly sucking them clean and swallowing his cum right in front of him. Not satisfied, you attempted to kiss him again, reaching up to grab his neck, your lips already parted, hungry for more.

But before you could pull him down, his broad hand caught you firmly by the forearms.

He held you at a slight distance, his chest still heaving, his breathing heavy and erratic under the stream. Looking down at your flushed skin, your glassy, heavy lidded eyes, and the sheer exhaustion weighing your body down, he let out a long, shuddering exhale. He could feel you swaying softly in his grip, running on pure, faded adrenaline.

"Enough," he rasped softly, his voice thick and wrecked.

You whined softly, trying to lean back into his space, but he held his ground, gently steering your shoulders back toward the shower door. The dark, intoxicating haze in the stall was giving way to cold reality, and he knew if he didn't put a hard stop to it right now, neither of you would survive the night.

Leaving one hand anchored on your waist to keep you steady, he reached up with his other arm.

Stepping out first, he grabbed two fresh hotel towels. He wrapped one tightly around his waist and took the other, stepping straight over to you. He wrapped the plush towel completely around your wet, shivering frame, tucking the top tightly over your chest like a cozy cocoon.

He pulled his fresh grey sweatpants and a heavy cotton t-shirt out of his gym bag. As he threw his clothes on, his mind was spinning in total disbelief.

Usually, after completely ruining him and breaking his control, you’d slip away. But this time, you were still here. Standing in the center of the bathroom, wrapped in a white towel, swaying softly with your wet hair clinging to your shoulders, completely at his mercy.

He wanted nothing more than to safely get you back to your own room, away from his space, away from his team, away from the temptation. But looking at you right now, barely able to keep your heavy eyelids open, he knew the truth: there was zero chance you could walk down that long hallway on your own without collapsing or getting caught. And there was no way in hell he was going to risk walking you out there himself.

Islam let out a long, heavy exhale, running a hand over his face.

"Come here," he muttered softly.

He unwrapped the towel and helped you slide into his massive, oversized t-shirt, which drowned your entire body and fell past your thighs. He guided your legs into a pair of his drawstring shorts, pulling the waistband tight so they wouldn't slide off. You were completely compliant, leaning your heavy head right against his chest as he dressed you.

Taking you gently by the waist, he led you out of the bathroom and into the quiet, dim bedroom. Islam walked you straight over to his bed, lifting the heavy white duvet.

You crawled in without a second thought, sinking into the plush pillows. Your eyes fluttered shut the second your head hit the mattress, your body finally completely giving in to the exhaustion and the high. He pulled the comforter all the way up over your shoulders, tucking you in tight on the right side of his bed.

He stood over you for a second, watching your chest rise and fall in a slow, steady rhythm. You were already completely passed out, snoring softly into his pillow.

Moving silently on his bare feet, he walked back to the entryway, checking the heavy deadbolt on the front door to make sure it was fully locked. He lingered there for a moment, listening to the absolute silence of the hallway outside.

Satisfied, he walked back over to the bed. He sat down heavily on the left edge, his broad shoulders hunched over.

TW!: SMUT LIKE ALWAYS ✊

First part here

Second part here

Chanco and Amru make an appearance, and as much as I know NONE of them know English that well, let’s just pretend they do for the sake of this fic 😀 love each one of y'all so freaking much. Also, I split this part into two halves because it's really long; I put the link to the other half at the bottom. The smut is in the second half, so if you're here for that, you can read the second half by going to that link at the very bottom or just go to my blog, it'll be posted!

-

You stepped out into the quiet hotel hallway, the cold AC hitting your bare skin like a splash of freezing water after the insane heat of his room. The door clicked shut behind you with a soft snap, leaving him trapped in his own dark thoughts.

You dangled your heels from two fingers, your bare feet sinking into the carpet as you started the slow walk back to your room. Every single step made your thighs ache and your hips sparked a sharp reminder of how hard he’d actually fucked you. He’d completely lost his mind, and your body was paying for every second of his desperate, rough grip.

A slight buzz was still floating through your head, but you weren't anywhere near blacked out from the alcohol. You’d been around enough parties and drank enough over the years to build up an annoying high tolerance. You were fully, painfully aware of everything that had just gone down. You remembered the exact pressure of his fingers, the way he kept grunting against your neck, and every soft, desperate little kiss planted against your skin like he was trying to pray for forgiveness in the middle of ruining himself. You felt every single one.

A slow smirk pulled at your lips as you reached your door, sliding the keycard in until the light flashed green.

Stepping into your room, you tossed your heels somewhere into the corner and basically face planted onto the mattress. You dragged the heavy duvet over your shoulders, closing your eyes with the most satisfied feeling settling in your chest.

Islam was back in his room right now, sweating and losing his absolute mind in the dark because he broke every single rule for you, and you just casually walked away.

You had completely wrecked him. And you slept like a baby.

-

Islam barely slept thirty minutes. When his alarm went off at 4:30 AM, his brain was too foggy, his body operating on pure muscle memory, to process the absolute chaos of the night before. His coach was already blowing up his phone for early morning sparring, and he had dragged himself out of bed like a ghost.

For two straight hours in the hotel gym, he worked himself to absolute exhaustion, punching, grappling, running drills, his mind completely locked into survival mode just to make it through the session.

It wasn't until he finally stumbled back into his quiet, dark hotel room at 7:00 AM, stripped off his drenched fight shorts, and stepped under the burning water of the shower that reality slammed into him like a train.

The second the steaming water hit his bare skin, he let out a harsh, sharp hiss through his teeth, his grip instinctively tightening on the tile wall.

His entire body was throbbing with an intense, agonizing ache. Being in the middle of a brutal fight camp, stacked on heavy weight cut supplements, hormone regulators, and strict water pills meant his skin was already depleted, bone dry, and hyper sensitive. Holding back all night, fighting his own urges, and then completely losing control and going all out on you had taken a serious physical toll.

His hip bones and knees were scraped raw and aching, the combination of last night's intensity on the hotel mattress and two straight hours of heavy grappling drills in the gym. Every time the hot shower spray hit his cock, it sent an electric, stinging warmth straight up his spine. With his body already pushed to the absolute edge from his fight camp supplements and severe dehydration, even the softest touch on his cock felt agonizingly hyper sensitive.

He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cold porcelain tiles, trying to just focus on the water washing away his sweat. But the moment he closed his eyes, the memories flooded his brain.

Islam remembered the feeling of your nails digging into his shoulders, the way you moaned, the sight of his massive hands around your throat while he drove into you until you both shattered.

The image hit him like a punch to the gut, and his body betrayed him instantly.

Despite the deep, bruised soreness and the heavy toll of his camp supplements, his blood rushed straight down. He felt cock thickening, swelling up all over again, except this time, there was no pleasure in it. The sudden, forced erection pulled at his raw, and sensitive skin, shooting a sharp, sickening ache right up into his lower abdomen. It was pure agony. His body was physically exhausted, bruised, and over stimulated, but his mind was so corrupted, so hopelessly addicted to the thought of you, that he was getting hard straight through the pain.

A quiet, desperate groan escaped his throat. He looked down at himself in absolute disgust and horror.

He was supposed to be a man of God, a disciplined athlete, a devout fighter who kept his soul and body pristine. And here he was, bent over in a hotel shower, trembling, swollen, and aching, his body completely ruined, malfunctioning, and burning from his supplements, all because he couldn't keep his hands off you. He reached down with a shaking, wet hand, trying to cool himself off, but the lightest touch made his breath hitch from the sheer, painful sensitivity.

He was trapped in a living hell. You were back in your room, completely fine, while he was left with a body that was physically broken, throbbing in pain, and still desperately craving the very sin that destroyed him.

-

The morning sun filtered through the hotel curtains, dragging you awake. The second you tried to stretch, a deep ache radiated through your lower back and inner thighs, making you wince. Your body felt completely wrecked.

Checking your phone, you saw it was barely 8:00 AM. Across the room, your friends were still dead to the world in the other bed, tangled up in the sheets and sleeping off last night’s alcohol. Trying not to make a sound, you slipped out from under your duvet, grabbed your toiletry bag, and tiptoed into the bathroom, closing the door until it clicked shut as quietly as possible.

You flipped on the bright vanity lights, wincing slightly at the harsh glare as the morning blurriness slowly faded from your eyes. Stripping off your shirt, you tossed it onto the counter and turned toward the mirror.

Leaning over the marble, your breath hitched, not in shock, but in pure amusement.

You raised a hand, your fingers gently tracing the delicate skin of your neck. There was a faint, distinct shadow mapped out across your throat, the exact imprint of his massive, calloused hand where he’d choked you down against the sheets. Moving your hair out of the way, you looked down at your chest. Dark, purple-red hickeys were scattered across your collarbone and the soft curve of your breasts, lingering like permanent marks of his absolute failure to resist you.

A quiet laugh escaped your lips, muffled behind your hand so you wouldn't wake up the girls in the room.

It was almost surreal. The guy who spent half his life on a prayer mat, holding himself to some impossible, holy standard, had done this. He’d marked you up, completely forgetting his god, his rules, and his precious discipline the second he was inside you. But then again, you had to remind yourself, underneath all that quiet restraint, he was still a fighter. Driven by pure, aggressive instinct when pushed far enough.

Shaking your head with a smirk, you turned on the shower, keeping the pressure low before stepping under the steaming hot water to wash the night off your skin.

-

It was around 5:30 PM, and your hotel room was absolute chaos.

Curling irons were heating up, music was blaring from a speaker, and empty tequila bottles were sitting on the counter. You and the girls were pre-gaming heavily, taking shots, laughing, and getting hyped for the night out. It was your friend’s birthday, and the plan was to go out and completely lose your minds.

You looked insane. You were wearing a backless black satin mini dress that fit like a second skin, showing off your back and legs. The cowl neckline rested soft over your chest, barely hiding the marks from last night unless you moved the wrong way. You had your hair slicked back, dark winged liner, glass-skin highlight.

By 6:00 PM, you were all buzzed, loud, and ready. You grabbed your purses and headed down the carpeted hallway to catch the Uber waiting downstairs.

Your friend pressed the down button, and a few seconds later, the elevator doors chimed and slid open.

Standing inside were three guys in matching team tracksuits, Islam and two of his teammates.

The second the doors opened and his friends saw a group of girls waiting to get in, they instinctively backed up into the far corner out of respect, clearing room for you all. But because his friends moved first, Islam got shoved right into the middle of the back wall.

Your friends, totally oblivious, piled onto the left side of the elevator, laughing and crowding around the mirror to check their makeup. You stepped in last, ending up directly in front of him.

The elevator doors slid shut, sealing all of you inside.

There was zero room to move. His two friends immediately turned toward each other, quietly cracking jokes and scrolling on a phone, completely absorbed in their own world. But because of the tight space, you were standing right in front of him, so close that your back was practically resting against his chest, the soft satin of your dress barely a hair away from his tracksuit jacket.

The heavy, sweet scent of your perfume and the sharp sting of tequila instantly filled the tiny space, completely suffocating his senses. Islam didn't look down, his strict rules wouldn't let him, but his entire body went stone still. You could literally feel the heat radiating off him right against your spine.

As the elevator started dropping, your friends were making jokes on the other side. You threw your head back, laughing softly along with them. It was just a natural movement, but it tilted your chin up right under the harsh, bright LED ceiling lights.

His eyes broke. He couldn't stop himself. His gaze flicked down.

Inches away from his face, the lighting lit up your neck. Right where your dress dipped, he saw it clearly: the light violet shadow where his massive hand had choked you down against the sheets, and the dark hickeys scattered across your collarbone.

Islams breath hitched, a quiet intake of air that only you were close enough to feel against the back of your shoulder. His knuckles turned white where he was gripping his water bottle. His teammates were literally standing right beside him, completely clueless, while he was forced to stare at the physical proof of his absolute corruption painted all over your skin.

You felt him freeze up. You didn't hide it. Instead, you slowly raised your hand, casually brushing a strand of hair behind your ear to give him an even clearer view of your throat.

In the reflection of the elevator doors, you caught his dark, tortured eyes.

Ding.

The doors slid open to the busy lobby.

"Uber's here, let's go!" your friend chirped, grabbing your arm.

You stepped out into the cool lobby air without looking back, leaving him trapped in the back of the elevator, heart hammering out of his chest, completely undone while his friends kept casually laughing right next to him.

-

The elevator doors clicked shut, trapping the three of them back in the quiet, metallic box as it continued its drop down to the basement level toward the hotel gym and pool.

The second you stepped out into the lobby, the suffocating wave of your sweet perfume had left the air, but the mental damage was already done.

Islam leaned his head back against the cold steel wall of the elevator, his chest heaving as he stared up at the ceiling lights. His heart was hammering against his ribs like he’d just finished five rounds in the octagon. All he could see behind his eyelids was the violet mark on your throat. His hand print. His hickeys on your chest.

A sickening wave of guilt slammed into him. He was a man who spent his mornings in prayer, a fighter who built his whole identity on discipline, restraint, and purity. Yet, he had brutally marked an unmarried woman like an animal, completely surrendering to his darkest instincts and you were out there strutting into the night, displaying his sin for the whole world to see. Islam felt disgusted with himself.

And then, his traitorous body made it a thousand times worse.

Standing that close to you, feeling the back of your satin dress brushing against his chest, hearing you laugh, smelling your skin had instantly triggered his nervous system. Despite the agonizing, swollen soreness down there from earlier, his blood rushed straight down once again causing an erection.

Islams eyes widened in sheer panic as he felt himself thickening, swelling up right inside his sweatpants.

"Bro, it's hot as hell in here," Chanco muttered, wiping his forehead as he leaned against the handrail.

Before either of his boys could glance over and catch the sudden, massive bulge ruining his life, he frantically unzipped his team hoodie, ripping it off with awkward, forced speed. He folded the heavy fleece double, holding it low over his waist while casually resting his large plastic water bottle right on top of it to lock the disguise in place.

Ding.

The doors slid open to the quiet pool and spa level.

"Finally," Amru grunted, stepping out first. "Let's hit a quick lap before coach starts hunting us down for the evening."

He tried to step out behind them, but a sharp, ache shot right through his groin. Walking with a full, rock hard erection while his skin was already sensitive from last night was absolute torture. Every single step made his sweatpants rub against his swollen tip, sending agonizing shocks up his lower abdomen. He was walking stiffly, taking ridiculously slow, awkward strides.

"Yo, why you walking like you got a leg injury?" Chanco asked, turning around with a chuckle, eyeing his weird, stiff gait. "Did you pull something during mitt work this morning?"

"I'm fine," Islam choked out, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, holding the folded hoodie rigidly in front of his groin like a shield. "Just... tight hips. Heavy leg day."

"Right," Amru snorted, rolling his eyes as they walked down the quiet hallway toward the pool. "Anyway, film study with Coach is gonna be dead tonight. He said he’s crashing early at like 9:30 PM because of the early flight tomorrow."

Chanco’s face lit up. "Wait, actually? Say swear. Bro, if Coach is asleep by ten, we need to setup the PlayStation."

"In whose room though?" Amru asked, looking back and forth. "My room's a mess, and Chanco shares with his corner man."

"We go to his room," Chanco said instantly, tossing an arm over Islams shoulder, making him flinch as the sudden shift pulled at his waistline. "He’s got the big suite, the quiet corner, and he never stays up late anyway. We slip in around late at night, play three rounds of FIFA, eat room service, and slide back to our rooms before morning prayer. Coach won't ever know."

He swallowed hard, his throat completely dry, holding his hoodie tighter against his lap.

Islam wanted to say no. His room was a crime scene of his own guilt; your perfume was probably still trapped in his sheets. But refusing them would raise questions. A devout, disciplined brother didn't hide things from his team.

"Yeah," he managed to say, his voice strained and low as he gritted his teeth through another wave of throbbing pain. "Fine. My room. Just... come late."

"Say less," Chanco grinned, slapping Islams back. "It's a plan."

He just stared ahead, his heart sinking into his stomach. They were planning to crash his room late tonight, completely oblivious to the fact that his mind, his body, and his entire life were hanging by a thread, waiting for you to come back and ruin him all over again.

-

By 1:00 AM, the club was suffocatingly hot, the bass thumping straight through the soles of your heels. But you were genuinely annoyed. Thanks to your stupidly high tolerance, while your friends were already slurring their words and clinging to each other, you were barely holding onto a weak, disappointing buzz. You weren't even close to where you wanted to be.

Determined to actually feel something, you walked up to the packed bar yourself. You caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a heavy, combination, telling him not to bother diluting it with extra ice.

While you were waiting, a well dressed guy at the end of the counter, someone who had been watching you dance all night, casually signaled the bartender and paid for your drink, sliding a dark, double shot cocktail over to you with a nod.

You weren't stupid, but you were impatient, buzzed enough to drop your guard, and sick of waiting. You grabbed the glass, threw your head back, and downed the sweet, burning liquid in three long gulps before turning on your heel and walking right back to the dance floor.

You had no idea he had slipped a high potency, liquid aphrodisiac based party chemical straight into the glass before handing it over.

It didn't take long. Within twenty minutes, while your group was finally stumbling out into the cool air to catch an Uber back to the hotel, the substance completely hijacked your system.

It wasn't a sloppy, dizzy blackout. It was an intense, feverish rush. Your skin felt electric, burning from the inside out. Every single time the cool night air brushed your shoulders, or the backless satin of your dress skidded over your hips, a sharp, shiver shot straight down your spine. Your heart was racing, your mind floating in this heavy, syrupy heat that completely wiped out your inhibitions. You were fully aware, but still unhinged.

By the time you staggered out of the elevator onto your hotel floor at 1:00 AM, your friends were groaning, tearing off their heels, and blindly dragging themselves into your shared room to crash.

You stopped dead in the middle of the quiet, carpeted hallway.

Leaning your shoulder against the wall, you let out a slow exhale. The quiet of the corridor was deafening compared to the roaring heat in your blood. You looked at the door to your room, then turned your head, staring down the long, dimly lit hallway.

You had zero intention of going inside to sleep on a cramped double bed next to three passed out girls.

Your foggy brain instantly locked onto a single target: Islam.

You remembered the exact weight of his hands around your throat. You remembered the suffocating heat of his chest pressed against your back in the elevator, and the terrified panic in his eyes when he caught sight of his own marks painted across your skin. You knew, with absolute certainty, that he was sitting in his dark room just a few doors down, wide awake, agonizing over his own guilt, trying desperately to pray away the memory of what he’d done to you.

A slow wicked smile pulled at your lips.

You were far too high, far too warm, and far too ruthless to care about the rules. You wanted to see his face when he opened that door. You wanted to walk into his quiet darkness, pull him off his high horse, and force him to wreck himself for you all over again.

Without saying a single word to your friends, you turned on your heels and started walking down the quiet hallway, straight toward his room.

-

TW!: MORE SMUT LMAO

First part here

This part’s a bit long but it’s worth it at the end I promise, I love ya'll sm. However, if you wanna skip to the smut you guys can start reading from the 6th dash line!!

-

The click of the door sounded like a gunshot in the silent room.

Islam couldn’t even move. He just sat frozen on the edge of the bed, his hands still pressed flat against the sheets, his fingers gripping the fabric tight. His chest was heaving, his breathing totally ragged. The room was so quiet now, making the memory of your little soft noises feel even louder.

He was in complete shock.

Slowly, he looked down at his lap. The front of his boxers was soaked through, the damp stain sticking to his skin. It was proof of exactly what he'd just let happen. Islam hadn't even touched you, but his whole body was shaking, totally wrecked and completely unspent. The strict discipline he spent years building up was completely gone, ruined in five minutes by a girl he didn't even know.

A massive wave of guilt hit him so hard he felt sick enough to throw up.

He forced his legs to move and stumbled into the bathroom. He ripped off his ruined boxers and stepped into the shower, turning the water up until it was burning hot.

He grabbed the bar of soap and started scrubbing his thighs, his stomach, his chest, every single spot you had just touched. He scrubbed violently, his hands gripping the soap so hard it hurt. He rubbed his skin until it was raw, angry, and bright red under the hot water, trying to literally wash the feeling of you off his body.

He turned the water off, barely even drying himself before he pulled on a clean pair of sweatpants.

He dropped to his knees right there on the cold floor, burying his face in his hands. He pressed his knuckles against his forehead and tried to pray. He closed his eyes, desperately trying to remember his usual prayers, begging for forgiveness and wanting his mind to just go blank.

But the words wouldn't come. The only thing stuck in his head was the sound of your voice whispering in the dark. Every time he closed his eyes, he didn't see his faith, he just saw your bare legs in the dim light.

Totally defeated, he crawled back into the empty bed. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He stared blankly at the ceiling, his body still hot and completely restless, knowing he was totally ruined.

-

When he woke up the next morning, the first thing he felt was a heavy, confusing fog in his brain.

Islam lay completely still under the sheets, staring at the ceiling as the morning sun cut through the blinds. For a few seconds, he actually convinced himself it was all just a bad dream. A crazy, vivid nightmare brought on by the stress of the fight and the brutal weight cut. There was no way that had actually happened.

But then he rolled over and looked toward the bathroom and saw the damp, crumpled boxers sitting in the corner of the floor.

It was real. His stomach dropped, that sick wave of guilt rushing right back to his chest.

The rest of the day was absolute torture for him. During the final morning weigh-ins and the team meetings, his coach kept yelling at him to focus, asking him where his head was at. Islam kept nodding and pretending to listen, but his eyes were constantly scanning the hotel. Every time he walked through the lobby, stood near the elevators, or passed the vending machines, his eyes would subconsciously dart around the corners. He was lowkey looking for you everywhere, desperately trying to see if you even existed or if he was completely losing his mind.

You, on the other hand, made sure he didn't see a single trace of you.

You stayed entirely out of sight, hanging out in your room or leaving the hotel early with your friends. You weren't hiding out of fear or embarrassment, you were just incredibly satisfied. You knew exactly what you had done to him. The thought of him losing his mind, his perfect holy boy discipline completely wrecked by you without you even having to take off your shirt, made a smug, wicked smile spread across your face all day.

You knew you were living rent free in his head, and the fact that he was desperately looking for you made the victory taste so much sweeter. You had completely ruined him.

-

That night, while he was getting ready for bed, he walked over to the door to lock it for the night. His hand hovered right over the metal lock, but he completely froze.

A massive, disgusting wave of hesitation hit him. Deep down, in a part of his mind he absolutely hated himself for, he wanted you to come back. He kept thinking about the way you looked standing between his knees, and a dark, desperate part of him wanted it to happen all over again. Shaking, he slowly pulled his hand away. He left the door unlocked, just a tiny bit open, and walked into the bathroom to take his shower, his ears hoping for the sound of the click.

But you never appeared.

The next day was the exact same torture. He still hadn't lost hope, his eyes constantly scanning the hotel hallways and the lobby, but you were like a ghost. That night, his skin burning with a mix of shame and anticipation, he did the exact same thing, he left the door unlocked, stepping into the shower and waiting.

And still, you didn't show up.

By this point, he was completely losing his mind. It had been two full nights since you were in his room, but you had fucked up his brain so badly he couldn't function. He had prayed a million times, begging God to clear his head, but his knees were raw from the floor and the prayers felt empty. He had never, ever done anything like this in his entire life. He was a good boy, a disciplined fighter, someone who never broke.

Now, Islam was leaving his door open like an invitation for a girl he couldn't even find. Since he couldn't spot you anywhere in the hotel, a terrifying thought started to creep into his mind.

Was it all a hallucination? Were you even real?

-

By the next afternoon, the silence in his room was driving him crazy. He hadn't slept, his mind kept looping back to you, and he desperately needed to get out of his own head.

He decided to walk down to the same vending machines to grab a drink. As he approached the machine, his chest tightened, the memory of seeing you there in the dark hit him. He reached into his pocket for change, but as he looked down at the floor near the ice dispenser, his eyes caught a tiny flash of pink.

He bent down, his fingers brushing against the cold tile. It was a lip gloss. A cheap, fruity smelling tube that must have fell out of your pocket when you where there that night. He picked it up, rolling the small plastic tube between his palms. The scent hit him immediately, the exact same sweet, dizzying smell that had been all over his skin.

He stood there in the middle of the public hallway, staring at it like a crazy person. You were real. He wasn't hallucinating.

Desperate for a distraction, he shoved the gloss deep into his pocket and headed down to the lobby to meet his team. They were sitting on the lounge couches, reviewing some tape on a tablet, but he couldn't focus on a single word his coach was saying. His eyes were glued to the massive glass entrance of the hotel.

And then, he saw you.

You were walking back in from the outside pool with your friends, your skin sun kissed and your hair damp. You were wearing a loose sundress, laughing carelessly as one of your friends recounted a joke. He entirely froze, his breath hitching in his throat. He expected you to scan the lobby, to look for him, to acknowledge the massive, sinful secret burning between you. But you didn't even glance his way. You looked so completely unbothered, so entirely satisfied with yourself, while he was sitting there with his chest aching, practically suffocating in front of his friends.

Before he could even process the ache of being ignored, his coach tapped his shoulder. "Come Islam, let's head up to the rooms and rest before dinner."

He swallowed hard, nodding numbly as he followed his coach and teammate toward the elevators. The doors slid open, and they stepped into the cramped metal box. He leaned his back against the wall, staring blankly at the floor as the elevator started to rise.

Ding.

The elevator stopped on your floor. The doors slid open, and his heart violently slammed against his ribs.

There you were. You were standing right in front of the doors, still giggling with your friends. When the doors fully opened, your eyes instantly collided with his dark, desperate stare. For one terrifying second, the world completely stopped. Islam could feel the heat radiating off you. He thought his coach would hear his heart hammering. He braced himself for you to step inside, to be trapped in this tiny space with him.

But you just looked right through him. Your eyes dropped to his chest, a slow, incredibly smug smirk pulling at the corner of your lips. You knew exactly what you were doing to him.

"We'll catch the next one, guys," you said to your friends, your voice smooth and completely casual. "This one's a little too full."

The doors slid shut, cutting off his view of your face.

The elevator kept moving up, but he just stood there, his hand in his pocket tightly gripping your lip gloss. He was completely trapped in the silence of the elevator, his pulse racing, realizing that you had total control over him, and you hadn't even said a word to him.

-

That same night the alcohol was buzzing hot through your veins, making your mind beautifully reckless. You had spent the whole evening drinking with your friends, but no matter how loud the music got or how much you laughed, your thoughts kept drifting back to him. Back to the way Islam had choked on his breath in the elevator, and the way his dark eyes had practically begged you for mercy in the lobby.

Standing in front of the mirror before slipping out, you looked at yourself. You were wearing a tiny, super short black slip dress, the kind with thin spaghetti straps that left your shoulders completely bare and a hemline that hit dangerously high on your thighs. You had promised yourself that ruining him once was enough. You had told yourself that breaking his untouchable, holy boy persona a single time was a perfect victory and you should just leave it at that.

But as the clock ticked sharp to 2:00 AM, the craving to see him break again became a physical ache. You wanted to see that look in his eyes when he realized he was powerless against you.

You slipped out of your room, closing the door silently behind you. The hallway was dead quiet, the heavy carpet cool beneath your feet as you walked down the dim hallway. Your head spun a little from the drinks, your heart hammering a frantic, loud rhythm against your ribs with every step you took toward his room. You had no plan. You didn't know how this was going to go, or if he’d finally snapped and found his restraint again.

When you reached his door, you hesitated for a second, staring at his room number. You reached out, your hand trembling slightly from a mix of anticipation and the alcohol, and wrapped your fingers around the cold metal handle.

You pushed down.

The door wasn't locked.

A slow smile spread across your face in the dim light of the corridor. Islam didn't lock it. He had left it open, waiting for you, praying for you to step through. In that exact second, as you pushed the door open into the pitch black quiet of his room, you knew you had him completely trapped and it was going to be so damn good.

-

Click.

The door swung open, and the heavy scent of sweet perfume and alcohol instantly flooded the room.

Islam froze, his heart stopping mid beat. Still on his knees on his mat, he slowly turned his head.

He had just come back from a brutal practice and hadn’t even bothered to change out of his gear or unwrap his hands. Instead, he had gone straight to the mat the second he walked through the door, desperately seeking comfort, hoping that throwing himself into prayer once again would finally quiet his mind and help him sleep better tonight.

You were leaning against the doorframe, completely drunk. Your eyes glassy but locked right onto him with that same intense focus. You were swaying slightly, a slow smirk playing on your lips as you watched him on his knees.

The contrast was insane. He was in the middle of trying to save his soul, and you had just stumbled in from a wild night out.

"Still being a good boy?" you murmured, your voice thick and a little slurred, dripping with a mockery that went straight to his blood.

He stood up slowly, his limbs shaking. Every single prayer he had just whispered completely evaporated. The sight of you drunk, exposed, and entirely unbothered by his space, destroyed whatever defenses he had left.

"You're drunk," he whispered, his voice thick with a mix of anger, frustration, and a terrifying amount of relief that you finally came. "You need to go back to your room. I am... I was praying."

You didn't care. You kicked your heels off, letting them thud loudly against the carpet, and stumbled forward. You didn't even let him finish his sentence. You walked straight in front of him, completely ruining his plans for tonight.

You reached out, your hands sliding right under his grey t-shirt, your fingers digging into his bare waist to steady yourself. Your body pressed right into his, warm and heavy. "I don't care," you breathed against his chest, looking up at him through heavy lids. "I wanted you tonight."

Islam let out a ragged, broken gasp as you dropped to your knees right there in front of him.

The vulnerability was absolute. He stood frozen, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, trembling, completely paralyzed by the sheer audacity of what you were doing. When your hands slid down his sweatpants, pulling them low on his hips, his head fell back, his jaw clenching so tight it throbbed.

He was totally exposed, trapped between a desperate need for control and the overwhelming rush of your touch. You paused for a second, looking up one last time to see if he would finally snap and stop you, but he didn't. Instead, he stared straight down into your eyes, his dark eyes completely naked, exposing just how defenseless and undone he felt beneath you.

Looking down at his cock, you took in the view. He was built heavy and large, who knew such a holy, disciplined man was hiding this under his sweatpants?

Instead of going straight in, you wanted to tease Islam first. You wanted to make him beg for it; you wanted to force his hands onto you. You started slowly, pressing a soft, deliberate kiss to the tip, while your fingers wrapped around the rest of his cock, rubbing him with the lightest, most agonizingly slow strokes possible. The very second your skin made contact, broken whimper escaped his throat. He looked down at you, his mind going completely insane, wanting nothing more than for you to finally take it all.

You kept your eyes locked on his, watching his control completely disintegrate. You flicked your tongue against the sensitive tip, swirling it slowly before sliding your mouth down just an inch, testing his limits.

A ragged gasp tore out of him. His hands, still wrapped in that white training tape, twitched violently at his sides. He was fighting every single instinct that told him to grab your hair and pull you closer, forcing himself to just stand there and take the torture.

"Please," he choked out, Islam let out a raw, desperate whisper that barely made it into the quiet room. It was the first time he had ever broken his silence like this, his pride completely discarded. "Please, just..."

You ignored his plea, pulling back just enough to leave him cold, your thumb slowly wiping away the moisture at the tip. He let out a low, pathetic whine, his hips involuntarily twitching forward, chasing the heat of your mouth. The sheer desperation in his eyes was intoxicating; the untouchable fighter was completely at your mercy, his knees trembling in his own room.

Unable to take the distance anymore, his discipline snapped entirely. His wrapped hands came down, not to push you away, but to bury his fingers firmly into your hair, his grip tight but careful as he guided you back down. He looked down at you through heavy, dark eyes, completely surrendered to the sin, a heavy groan rattling in his chest as you finally took his cock all the way in.

His wrapped fingers tightened in your hair, his knuckles pressing against your scalp as he guided your rhythm, his movements losing all of their usual calculated control. He was completely running on pure, desperate instinct now. His head fell back, his throat exposed in the dim light as a deep, heavy groan tore out of him with every single stroke.

The room was completely quiet except for the heavy, desperate sound of his breathing and the wet friction of your mouth. Islam was moving his hips into you now, unable to keep himself still, completely chasing the blinding heat you were giving him. All the discipline he prided himself on was entirely gone, replaced by a raw, frantic need to break.

"God," he choked out, his voice cracking, a mix of a prayer and a sin as his grip in your hair tightened just a tiny bit more.

He was reaching his limit, his muscles locking up and his chest heaving under his tshirt. He didn't look down at you anymore, he couldn't. His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth clicked together as a sudden, sharp shudder ran through his entire body. With one last, deep, trembling thrust, Islam completely unraveled, letting out a broken, breathless sound as he released his cum in your mouth.

He stayed frozen like that for several long seconds, his breath rattling in his chest, his hands slowly loosening in your hair until they were just resting heavily against your head, completely ruined on the floor.

The room plunged back into a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the loud, ragged sound of his breathing.

Slowly, Islams wrapped fingers slid out of your hair. He stayed standing, but his head dropped backward as he buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook as he tried to catch his breath, his chest heaving under his tshirt as the reality of what just happened crashed down on him.

You, on the other hand, stayed completely calm. Sitting on the floor right in front of him, you casually reached up and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. You adjusted the thin spaghetti strap of your black dress that had slipped down your shoulder, and ran your fingers through your messy hair to fix it.

Satisfied, you stood up. You turned around, completely ready to disappear into the hallway and leave him wrecked just like you did the first night. It was the perfect exit.

But as you took your first step away, you felt a firm, trembling grip wrap around your wrist from behind.

You stopped, looking over your shoulder.

It was him. He was still standing right there, towering over you. Islams wrapped hand was holding onto your wrist tight enough to keep you there, but gentle enough that it didn't hurt. His eyes were wide, completely dark, and swimming with a mix of defeat and desperation. He couldn't just let you walk out this time. He couldn't handle being left alone in the dark with his thoughts again.

"Don't," he whispered, his voice incredibly cracked and raw, his throat moving as he swallowed hard. He looked down at you, completely stripped of all his pride, his grip tightening just a fraction on your wrist. "Don't just leave me like this again. Please."

You turned your body around slowly, not pulling away from his grip. Instead, you stepped right back into his space, your bare feet inches from his. You looked down at his wrapped hand holding your wrist, and then up at his tortured face. The alcohol was still buzzing hot in your head, making you feel entirely fearless, entirely in control.

Slowly, deliberately, you lifted your free hand and touched the edge of the white training tape around his knuckles. You found the loose end, the piece frayed from his long hours at the gym and how hard he’d been gripping and began to unpeel it.

The sound of the tape slowly unraveling was loud in the quiet room.

"I thought you were praying," you murmured, your voice low, heavy with alcohol and a teasing, wicked mockery. You unrolled another layer, letting the white fabric flutter down to the floor. "I thought you were a good boy."

He let out a sharp, ragged breath, his chest heaving as he watched your fingers dismantle the last piece of the disciplined fighter he had left. He looked like he was physically in pain, his jaw clenching so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.

You pulled off the last loop of tape from his hand, leaving his bare palm exposed. You brushed your thumb over the rough, hard calluses of his knuckles, looking up into his dark, wide eyes.

"I tried," he choked out, his voice a deep, broken growl that vibrated against your chest. He looked down at you, completely defeated, all of his holy boy restraint dissolving right into the air. "I tried. I can't."

The second the words left his mouth, his bare hands came up and instantly cupped your face. His grip was firm, his rough palms hot against your cheeks as he tilted your head up. He leaned down and slammed his mouth onto yours, kissing you like a drowning man who had finally found air.

It wasn't gentle. It was starving, frantic, and filled with days of pent up desperation. He groaned into your mouth, his tongue instantly tangling with yours as his hands slid down your neck, over your bare shoulders, and tightly gripped your waist. He pulled you so flush against him that the thin fabric of your short black dress felt like nothing at all.

Without breaking the kiss, his hands slid lower, hooking right under your thighs. He lifted you effortlessly off your feet. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your hands burying into his hair as he carried you backward across the room, his heavy steps fast until your back hit the mattress.

Islam broke the kiss for just a split second, chest heaving, as you reached down and hooked your fingers under the hem of his grey tshirt. He lifted his arms immediately, letting you pull it up and toss it blindly onto the floor, exposing his heavy, muscled chest. Without a word, he reached down and shoved his sweatpants off, kicking them away until he was left in just his boxers.

He didn’t waste another heartbeat. He came right back down over you on the mattress, his heavy frame pinning you into the sheets.

His bare hands found the thin spaghetti straps of your black slip dress. Slowly, his dark eyes locked onto yours, he slid them down your shoulders, baring your chest to the cool air of the room. He leaned down, his mouth pressing hot, heavy kisses along your collarbone and up the side of your neck, making a quiet gasp hitch in your throat.

He groaned against your skin, his hands moving down to the top of your dress, ready to pull the fabric down completely so he could press his lips to your breasts. He was moving fast now, completely consumed by the rush of finally having you under him.

But right before he could pull the fabric down, you brought your hands up and firmly pressed your palms against his bare chest, stopping him right in his tracks.

He froze, his breath hitching. He lifted his head, looking down at you through heavy, hooded eyes that were filled with confusion and raw need.

You just looked up at him, a slow, incredibly smug smirk pulling at your lips. The alcohol made you feel completely untouchable. You didn't pull the dress down for him, and you didn't let him do it either. Instead, you kept your hands flat against his chest, holding him back just enough to torture him.

"Not so fast," you whispered, your voice thick and dripping with control. "You don't just get to take whatever you want."

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as his jaw clenched. He looked like he was about to lose his mind, his broad shoulders trembling slightly from the effort of holding himself up.

"Please," he rasped out, his voice a deep, pathetic crack. The disciplined, holy boy was completely gone; he was entirely at your mercy now. He leaned down just a bit, his forehead almost touching yours as he practically begged. "Please... just let me. Tell me what you want me to say."

You held his gaze, enjoying the sight of him trembling above you, completely stripped of his discipline. You let your fingers trail slowly up his chest, stopping right at his collarbone, keeping that agonizing bit of distance between you.

"Tell me who owns you tonight," you whispered, your voice a dark, teasing purr.

He let out a ragged, desperate sound, his eyes closing as he fought the sheer weight of the humiliation. But he was too far gone. The scent of your perfume, the heat of your skin, and the alcohol clouding his own judgment had completely destroyed his pride.

"You do," he choked out, his voice thick and strained as he forced the words past his lips. He opened his eyes, looking down at you with total, unfiltered vulnerability. "You do. Please."

Satisfied with his surrender, you slowly slid your hands away from his chest, letting them drop to the mattress.

That was all the permission he needed. His restraint snapped completely. He hooked his fingers into the top of your black dress and pulled it down, exposing your breasts to the dim light of the room. He buried his face in your skin with a heavy, shuddering groan, his mouth finding your breasts. He sucked the nipples into his mouth, his tongue swirling over it hard and desperate, making a sharp, loud gasp rip from your throat.

You arched your back off the bed, your fingers immediately flying up to tangle into his short hair, anchoring him against you. He didn't tease you anymore; he was completely gone. His hand slid down your thigh, gathering up the rest of the short dress until it was bunched around your waist, his large, rough palm sliding up your bare inner thigh with a possessive, heavy pressure.

He used his knees to nudge your legs wider apart, settling his heavy frame directly between your thighs. He broke away from your chest, his face flushed and his breathing completely chaotic as he looked down at you. His hand reached down, hooking into the waistband of his boxers and shoving them down his legs until he was completely bare against you.

The hot, heavy length of him pressed right against your center, sending a violent jolt of heat straight through you.

"Look at me," Islam rasped, his voice a commanding, dark growl as his hands came up to grip your wrists, pinning them to the mattress beside your head. He locked his dark, desperate eyes onto yours, refusing to let you look away. "Look at what you did to me."

And with one deep, heavy plunge, he drove himself all the way inside you.

A loud, broken cry caught in your throat as your eyes widened, your hips tilting up involuntarily to take the sudden, overwhelming fullness of him. He clenched his jaw so hard the muscles in his face went completely rigid, a low, guttural groan rattling deep in his chest as he buried himself to the hilt. He stayed perfectly still for one agonizing second, stretching you open, his chest heaving against yours as he took in the sheer, blinding tight heat of you.

Then, he began to move.

He was moving with a heavy, desperate rhythm, his broad shoulders slick with sweat as he buried himself inside you over and over again. The alcohol was buzzing loud in your ears, making every sensation completely heightened, and you wanted to feel the full, unrestrained weight of the beast he had been trying so hard to lock away.

You arched your back against the mattress, your fingers digging hard into his muscular shoulders. "Harder," you choked out, your voice slurred and breathless. "Harder. Put your hand on my neck. Choke me."

He froze instantly, his entire body going rigid above you. He stopped mid-stroke, his chest heaving violently as he stared down at you through dark, hooded eyes. He hesitated. He knew exactly how strong he was, his training making him acutely aware of his own power, and the last remnants of his protective instincts screamed at him to pull back.

"No," he rasped, his voice a deep, strained growl as he shook his head, his knuckles turning white where he gripped the sheets. "I can't. I'll hurt you. You're drunk."

"Please," you begged, your voice a desperate, needy whimper as you tilted your hips up, chasing his heat and refusing to let him back away. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper into you. "I want it. Please, just do it."

Hearing you beg for it completely shattered the last of his restraint. A dark, predatory look took over his eyes, and all the pent up frustration and aggression from the last three days exploded.

He didn't hesitate anymore. His large, rough palm came up and wrapped firmly around the front of your throat. He didn't squeeze enough to completely cut off your air, but the heavy, dominant pressure of his hand pinned your head back into the pillow, trapping a sharp gasp in your lungs. At the same time, his other hand gripped your hip with bruising force, pinning you flat against the bed.

He pulled back all the way and drove into you with a sudden, violent force that made your eyes widen. He set a brutal, punishing pace, his heavy frame slamming against yours with a relentless, overwhelming power. Every single stroke was deep, heavy, and raw, making the headboard thud violently against the wall.

With his hand heavy on your neck and his body driving into yours, the pleasure became entirely too much to handle. Your mind went completely blank, your fingers clawing at his wrists as you drowned in the sensation. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, letting out guttural, unhinged groans against your skin as he completely took control.

He was reaching his absolute limit, his muscles locking up, his grip on your throat tightening just a fraction as a sudden, sharp shudder ran through his entire frame. With a few last, deep, trembling thrusts, he completely unraveled, letting out a broken, breathless sound as he came inside you.

Islam collapsed forward, his heavy chest heaving against yours as his hand slowly slid off your neck, leaving you both completely breathless, tangled in the sheets of his pristine room.

He didn’t move for a long time, his heavy body pinning you into the mattress, his face still buried in the crook of your neck as his breathing gradually slowed from frantic gasps to deep, exhausted thuds.

The second his weight shifted and he rolled off you to lie flat on his back, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, you moved. The haze of the alcohol was still humming in your veins, but it gave you a cold, detached sort of energy.

You didn't linger. You didn't lie down beside him, and you didn't offer him any comfort.

Sitting up, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed. You pulled the top of your black slip dress back up, sliding the thin straps over your shoulders. You ran a hand through your messy hair to shake it out, then stood up, your bare feet stepping onto the carpet.

He didn't move to stop you this time. He just watched you through dark, hooded eyes, his chest still heaving slightly as he took in the sight of you completely unbothered, erasing every trace of the chaos you had just caused.

You walked over to the middle of the room, casually picking up your black heels from the floor.

You looked back at the bed. He was looking right at you, completely stripped of his pride, looking so intensely vulnerable it was almost brutal. He looked like a man who had just realized he sacrificed everything and still ended up with nothing.

You gave him one last, slow, incredibly smug smirk.

"Goodnight, good boy," you murmured, your slurred voice dripping with that same effortless mockery.

You turned around and walked out, the bedroom door clicking shut softly behind you.

The room plunged back into a suffocating, freezing silence. He stayed frozen on the bed, staring at the closed door, the heavy scent of your sweet perfume and expensive alcohol still suffocating his bedroom. He was left entirely alone in the dark with his thoughts, completely ruined, knowing he had broken every single one of his rules and you still left him anyway.

TW!: SMUT

My fic is HEAVILY inspired by this scenario:

The idea was way to good for me to not expand on it and give it more context 🫶 except I switched Khabib for Islam✌️Second part coming soon because I have this whole story in my head!!

Summary:

You came on vacation with your friends with one goal, to have a wild week. It was all about drinking until you couldn’t anymore, staying out until 4:00 AM, and partying every night. Your hotel room was a mess of clothes, music, and spilled drinks. You couldn’t care less about rules or consequences.

But then, he caught your eye.

You saw him downstairs in the hotel gym. He was an MMA fighter, Islam Makhachev. He was staying there with his team for a big upcoming fight. Someone who was deeply religious, super disciplined, and completely untouchable. While everyone else was messing around, he was locked in a private studio, dripping sweat and training like his life depended on it. He didn't look at anyone. Women weren’t even a thought in his mind.

The fact that he was so completely unavailable didn't give you a cute little crush, instead it made you completely obsessed. It was pure, instant lust. You looked at his perfect body and his untouchable persona and you just had one thought in your mind I need him.

You wanted to break his discipline. You wanted to be the one to make an immovable man completely lose his mind. So, you started watching his routine, waiting for the moment to ruin him.

-

The hotel suite was suffocating. Your friends had invited half the club back to the room, the bass was vibrating through the floorboards, and the air was thick with the smell of alcohol and smoke. You were wearing a ridiculously short, tight black dress that hugged every curve, paired with strappy heels that you were already dying to take off. You could feel the walls closing in, the heat of the crowded room making the fabric of your dress feel like it was trying to choke you. It was that familiar, tight knot forming in the center of your chest. You needed to breathe.

You slipped past the crowd, your heels clicking softly against the floor as you pushed through the heavy metal door leading to the outdoor fire escape at the back of the hotel. The cool night air hit your bare shoulders and legs. You leaned against the metal railing, pulling at the hem of your short dress as you closed your eyes, trying to force a deep breath into your lungs.

"Hey. You left the party early."

You snapped your eyes open. It was one of the guys from the suite, someone you’d brushed off at the bar earlier. He was holding a plastic cup, his eyes bloodshot, and he was already stepping too close, blocking your path back to the door.

"I just needed some air," you said, your voice barely making a sound. You tried to step around him, but he shifted his weight, trapping you against the metal railing.

"Come on, don't be like that," he slurred, dropping his cup as he reached out, his hand wrapping tightly around your wrist. He leaned in, his breath smelling heavily of alcohol as he tried to force his mouth toward yours. "Just one kiss."

"Let go of me," you panicked, pulling back hard, but his grip only tightened, shoving you backward against the cold metal bar.

"Hey."

The voice didn't come from the party. It came from the bottom of the fire escape stairs. It was a low, quiet voice, but it carried a terrifying amount of weight.

Both of you snapped your heads toward the sound. Walking up the metal steps was him, Islam. He was wearing a black training hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, a gym bag slung over one shoulder, returning from a late night tape study session with his coach. He didn't look angry, instead his face represented a scary amount of calmness.

The guy holding your wrist blinked, trying to act tough. "Mind your business, man. We're fine."

He didn't argue. He didn't yell. He just closed the distance in three silent, predatory steps. Before the guy could even react, his large, taped hand wrapped around the guy's forearm, squeezing a nerve with a grip like a hydraulic vice.

"She said let go," he said, his voice dropping lower.

The guy let out a sharp gasp of pain, his fingers instantly releasing your wrist. He looked into Islams eyes, the cold, unblinking stare of a trained killer and any alcohol fueled confidence he had completely evaporated.

"Yeah. Whatever. Real hero," the guy muttered, stumbling backward toward the door and slipping back into the loud party, leaving the fire escape dead silent.

The adrenaline that had kept you standing suddenly vanished, and the panic attack that had been simmering all night hit you all at once. Your lungs completely locked up. You let out a ragged, hyperventilating gasp, your knees giving up beneath you as you slid straight down the metal wall of the fire escape, your hands clawing at your throat.

He didn't walk away.

Seeing you slide to the floor in genuine distress completely shattered his cold mask. His bag thudded to the ground as he dropped to his knees right in front of you. For the first time in three days, he didn't look away from you. His dark eyes locked directly onto your face.

"Hey. Look at me," he commanded, his voice incredibly steady and grounding.

You couldn't answer. You were trembling violently, tears blurring your vision as you gasped for air that wouldn't come.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his religious boundaries screaming at him, before his caretaking instinct won. He reached out and took your small, shaking hands in his large, bruised ones. He didn't hold them romantically, he guided them forward, flattening your palms directly against his broad, solid chest, right over his heart.

"Match my breathing," he whispered, his chest rising and falling in a slow, deep, exaggerated rhythm beneath your hands. "In... and out. Don't look at the door. Look at me. Breathe."

Your palms were pressed right against the heavy, warm beat of his heart. The contrast of his solid, immovable warmth against your chaotic shaking started to help you. You stared into his dark eyes, watching the absolute focus in his gaze as he held you there in the humid night air.

Slowly, your lungs loosened. Your breathing started to match his.

But as the panic receded, the air between you two completely shifted. The professional, emergency boundary vanished. He was still holding your hands against his chest, his face inches from yours. He looked down at your lips, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, suddenly realizing the intense, suffocating intimacy of the position he had put himself in. He was looking at a woman, really looking for the first time in years.

He abruptly let go of your hands, clearing his throat as he stood up, his face instantly hardening back into his disciplined mask.

"Get some water," he said, his voice rough and slightly strained. He picked up his gym bag without another word, pushed the door open, and walked into the hotel, leaving you shivering on the floor.

But the damage was done. Your hands could still feel the heat of his chest, and his mind was completely ruined for the rest of the night.

-

The tension from the night before followed you both into the next day like an unspoken fever. You couldn’t stop thinking about the heavy, grounding beat of his heart under your palms. He, on the other hand, spent the entire day completely avoiding your gaze, his jaw clenched tighter than usual during his training sessions, trying to pray away the sudden, uninvited memory of your face.

By the time 3:00 AM rolled around, the tension finally snapped.

You left your friends sleeping back in the room and wandered down the quiet, dimly lit hallway under the pretense of getting a bottle of water. You tried to convince yourself the late night walk would help you fall asleep, but you knew the truth, you were hunting for him. The hotel was dead silent, the carpet muffling your footsteps as you approached the vending machine. You pressed the button, the sudden, loud hum of the machine breaking the silence as your bottle dropped into the slot.

When you turned around, your heart stopped.

He was standing right there, wearing a grey shirt, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and his knuckles were freshly wrapped in white tape. He had an empty ice bucket in one hand, clearly out to get ice for the team's late night weight cut. When he saw you standing by the machine, his entire body locked up.

The silence between the both of you in that narrow hallway was absolutely suffocating. Neither of you said a word. He didn't even fill his bucket; the second his dark eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, his entire composure completely shattered. He abruptly dropped the plastic bucket right there onto the metal tray of the ice machine with a loud clatter, turned on his heel, and walked back down the hall toward his room.

Fueled by a sudden, intense burst of courage and the raw obsession that had been building since the fire escape, you didn't even think. You just followed him.

You walked like a shadow behind him. He reached his room, unlocked the door, and stepped inside, but in his hurry to get away from the temptation of you, he didn't pull the door all the way shut. It hovered open just an inch and without a second thought you made your way in.

The door clicked shut behind you, trapping the two of you into the pitch black quiet of his room. The only light came from the open bathroom door, casting a long, amber glow across the carpet.

He was right in the middle of stripping out of his heavy gear, one leg already stepped out of his black sweatpants as he tried to forget about what happened in hallway. He spun around instantly at the sound of the click, his fighter reflexes alert as he stumbled slightly, pulling the sweats the rest of the way off and leaving him standing in just his grey t-shirt and low-slung blue boxers.

When he straightened up and saw you standing there, the same girl from the fire escape, now standing in his bedroom, his heart pounded under his skin. He stood frozen for a second.

Islam backed up a step until the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, and he sat down heavily. He looked up at you, his jaw locked tight, trying to build a wall of words to protect himself.

"You shouldn't be in here," he muttered, his voice raw and raspy in the quiet room. "Go back to your room. This isn't right. You need to leave."

But he wasn't yelling. He wasn't calling security. His eyes were glued to your lips, and you could see the subtle tremble in his wrapped hands. He was terrified of how much he wanted you.

Instead of turning around, you took three slow, deliberate steps forward, the hem of your t-shirt brushing softly against your bare thighs until you were standing right between his knees. He looked up at you from the edge of the bed, entirely vulnerable, his eyes tracking the bare skin of your legs in the dim amber light.

You reached down, your fingers hovering just above his jawline, not quite touching his skin. "Do you really want me to go?" you whispered, your voice a soft, teasing challenge in the dark. "Tell me to leave right now, and I’ll walk out that door."

He stared up at you, his breath hitching. A massive war was raging behind his eyes. His discipline, his religion, his entire life rules were screaming at him to push you away. But the memory of your hands on his chest from the night before was burning through his veins. Deep down, he knew he was already defeated.

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as his gaze dropped to your exposed collarbones, then back to your eyes.

"No," he whispered, the word slipping out before his brain could stop it. It was raw, breathless, and completely ruined. "Don't leave."

The confession hung in the air, thick and heavy. You didn't give him a chance to regret it.

You straddled his lap, dropping your full weight directly onto his thighs. His hands immediately flew behind him, pressing flat against the mattress, refusing to hold you as his body completely paralyzed itself under your touch.

Beneath the thin fabric of his blue boxers, his cock was already thick and straining, a hard, heavy length pressed flush against your bare skin. He was leaking, the sticky heat of precum creating a dark, spreading stain right at the front of his boxers. Every time his pulse spiked, he throbbed violently against you, the damp cotton turning translucent.

You were so incredibly wet, smearing all over his thighs as you began to rock forward and back, desperately trying to find a friction that would never be enough through the clothes.

He punished himself in the middle of the sin. He kept his palms flat on the bed, his eyes glued to the ceiling, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw ached. He was letting you completely ruin him, convincing himself he was still "good" just because his hands weren't moving.

You leaned in close, your breathing coming in small, broken whines that you tried to smother against his shoulder so no one next door would hear.

"Look at me," you whimpered, grinding down hard against him.

His eyes snapped down from the ceiling, colliding with yours in the dark. The last of his armor completely shattered. He let out a low, guttural groan, his hips instinctively bucking upward against you just once, desperate for the friction as you came right on top of his cock, soaking his boxers completely.

And then, just like that, you pulled away. You fixed your shirt, opened the door, and slipped back out into the hallway without another word, leaving him shivering, completely wrecked and unspent on the edge of the bed.

-