pairing: mafia boss!san x showgirl!fem!reader
synopsis: In the glittering, seductive world of the Moulin Rouge-inspired cabaret, a powerful mafia boss becomes captivated by the star showgirl — a fierce, alluring performer, who commands the stage with her beauty and charisma. Amid the lavish lights, velvet curtains, and pulsing energy of the nightclub, their chance encounter sparks an intense, forbidden attraction. What begins as teasing flirtation and charged glances quickly escalates into a passionate affair filled with desire, possession, and raw intimacy as the boss claims her in the shadows of the opulent backstage world.
warning(s): rough sex, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, size kink, choking, multiple orgasms, nipple play, creampie, fingering, missionary, teasing, marking, making out, etc.
Song: Lady Marmalade by Christina Aguilera
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The air inside Moulin Rouge—not the historic one in Paris, but this glittering, modern reimagining tucked into the underbelly of a sprawling city—thrummed like a living heartbeat. Crimson velvet curtains cascaded from the high ceiling in heavy, luxurious folds, catching the glow of a thousand crystal chandeliers that dripped light like molten gold. Massive heart-shaped cutouts framed the stage, pulsing with deep scarlet and electric pink neon that synced to the bassline currently rattling through the floor. Feathers, sequins, and silk shimmered everywhere; the scent of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and aged whiskey hung thick in the atmosphere.
Every table was occupied by the city’s elite and its shadows: suited men with diamond cufflinks and guarded eyes, women in barely-there gowns dripping with jewels, low-level players hoping to catch a glimpse of power. And at the very center of it all, the stage commanded absolute worship.
You stepped into the spotlight like you owned it—because tonight, you did.
The opening chords of a sultry, slowed-down rendition of Lady Marmalade slithered through the speakers. The beat was deliberate, teasing, each kick drum landing like a fingertip dragged down bare skin. Your costume was a masterpiece of temptation: black lace corset cinched impossibly tight, pushing your breasts high; garters clipped to sheer thigh-high stockings that caught the light with every slow, rolling step; a short, ruffled skirt that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs, flaring dramatically when you moved. Crimson lips, smoky eyes, hair pinned up with a few deliberate tendrils escaping to frame your face. You were fire wrapped in silk.
The crowd hushed as you began.
He met Marmalade down in old Moulin Rouge…
Your voice—low, husky, dripping honey and sin—wrapped around the lyrics like smoke. You didn’t just sing; you seduced the entire room. Hips swaying in slow, hypnotic circles, one gloved hand trailing down your side, the other reaching toward the audience as though inviting someone specific to come claim what was being offered.
And someone was watching.
Choi San sat in the shadowed VIP booth overlooking the stage, one ankle crossed over his knee, a glass of aged bourbon untouched in his hand. To the untrained eye, he looked like any other wealthy patron: tailored black suit hugging broad shoulders, crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a glimpse of inked skin at his collarbone, dark hair swept back, expression cool and unreadable. But the men around him sat a little straighter, spoke a little quieter. Power radiated from him in waves—quiet, controlled, lethal.
He hadn’t come for the show. Business had brought him here: a discreet meeting with a supplier who thought he could shortchange the Choi family. The man was already sweating through his shirt two booths over. But the second you stepped onstage, San’s attention had snapped to you like a magnet.
You spun slowly, back arching, letting the lights catch the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine. When you faced the audience again, your gaze swept the room—and landed on him.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just the two of you.
Your lips curved into the smallest, most dangerous smile. You held his stare as you sang the next line, voice dropping even lower:
Struttin’ her stuff on the street…
San’s jaw tightened. He felt it—the pull, electric and immediate. You weren’t performing for the crowd anymore. This was a challenge. A dare. And San never backed down from a dare.
You finished the verse with a slow, deliberate drop to your knees at the edge of the stage, thighs parting just enough to make every man in the front row forget how to breathe. One hand slid up your own thigh, teasing the garter strap, while your eyes never left his. Then you rose again, fluid and predatory, turning so your back was to him as you rolled your hips to the chorus.
Gitchie gitchie ya ya da da…
The room erupted in applause and whistles as you struck your final pose—head thrown back, chest heaving, one hand tangled in your hair, the other extended toward the shadows where he sat.
San set his glass down with deliberate calm.
The supplier tried to speak—something about shipment delays—but San silenced him with a single raised finger. Without a word, he moved toward the side exit that led backstage, the crowd parting instinctively. His men fell into step behind him, silent shadows.
You slipped offstage amid roaring cheers, heart hammering not from the performance, but from the weight of that stare still burning into your skin. Backstage was controlled chaos: dancers rushing to change, makeup artists darting between mirrors, stagehands hauling props. You headed for your dressing room, heels clicking on the polished floor, already reaching to unhook the corset hooks for a moment of relief.
A large hand caught your wrist before you reached the door.
You didn’t startle. You turned slowly, already knowing who it would be.
San stood too close—close enough that you could smell the faint spice of his cologne mixed with bourbon and danger. His grip was firm, not bruising, but unyielding. Dark eyes raked over you, taking in every inch of sweat-glistened skin, the flush on your cheeks, the way your chest rose and fell.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. “But dangerous.”
You tilted your head, letting a slow smile spread across your lips. “You haven’t seen dangerous yet, Mr. Choi.”
His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, right over your racing pulse. “I think I just did.”
The hallway lights dimmed as another act started onstage, muffling the music to a distant throb. No one else was near. Just you, him, and the electric tension crackling between you.
He stepped closer, backing you gently but inexorably against the wall. His free hand came up to trace the line of your jaw, slow, deliberate. “Tell me,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper that sent heat pooling low in your belly, “do you always look at men like you want to ruin them?”
“Only the ones worth ruining.”
San’s eyes darkened. His fingers slid into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back. Your breath hitched.
“Then consider me warned,” he said.
And then he leaned in—slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.
The first brush of his lips against yours was teasing, almost polite. A question.
You answered by parting your lips, inviting him deeper.
The kiss turned hungry in an instant. Rough. Possessive. His body pressed you harder against the wall, one thigh sliding between yours, hands roaming—down your sides, gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him so you could feel exactly how much that performance had affected him.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard.
“Not here,” he growled against your mouth. “Not like this.”
You laughed softly, breathless. “Scared someone will see the big bad mafia boss losing control?”
His grip tightened. “I’m not losing control. Yet.” He brushed his thumb over your swollen bottom lip. “But when I take you apart, it’s going to be somewhere no one can interrupt. Somewhere I can hear every sound you make.”
Your core clenched at the promise.
He stepped back just enough to let you breathe, but kept one hand on your waist, possessive.
“After your set,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “My car will be waiting at the private exit. Black. No plates.”
You arched a brow, still catching your breath. “And if I say no?”
San’s smile was slow, predatory, and utterly devastating.
“Then I’ll just have to come back tomorrow night. And the night after. Until you say yes.”
He released you then, stepping back fully, straightening his suit jacket like nothing had happened. But his eyes—dark, burning—promised everything.
“Enjoy the rest of your show, showgirl.”
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving you pressed against the wall, pulse thundering, skin tingling, already aching for what came next.
The night was only just beginning.
The rest of your set passed in a haze of adrenaline and anticipation.
Every spin, every slow grind against the polished brass pole, every time you dropped low and let your head fall back—your body moved on autopilot, but your mind was locked on the memory of his mouth. The rough edge of his voice. The way his fingers had flexed against your hip like he was already imagining bruising you in the best ways.
The crowd roared when you finished, throwing roses and bills that scattered like confetti across the stage. You gave them one last teasing wink, blew a crimson-lipstick kiss toward the VIP section where he’d been sitting (empty now), and disappeared behind the curtain.
Backstage felt smaller than usual. Hotter. The chatter of the other girls, the clatter of heels, the hiss of hairspray—it all sounded distant, muffled, like you were underwater. You pushed into your dressing room, kicked the door shut behind you, and finally let out the breath you’d been holding since he walked away.
Mirror. Lights. Sweat-slick skin. You looked wrecked already—and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.
You peeled off the corset with shaking fingers, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hit your bare breasts and you hissed softly. Your nipples were already tight, aching. Traitorous body. You stepped out of the skirt, the garters, left the stockings on because—fuck—you knew exactly what kind of man Choi San was. He’d want something to tear later.
Your pulse jumped into your throat.
“It’s me,” came a low voice from the other side. Not San. One of the stage managers. “Car’s waiting. Black Maybach. No plates. Driver says… ‘whenever you’re ready.’”
You stared at your reflection. Lips still swollen from that too-brief kiss. Cheeks flushed. Eyes glassy with want.
You could say no. Could send a message through the manager that you weren’t interested. Could go home, take a cold shower, and pretend the most dangerous man in the city hadn’t just promised to ruin you in the most delicious ways.
You laughed quietly at your own reflection.
You slipped into a simple black silk slip dress—short, barely-there, no bra, thin straps that would look obscene under stage lights but felt like sin against your skin right now. Stilettos. A touch of fresh lipstick. You left your hair down, wild and tousled from the performance.
One last look in the mirror.
Then you opened the door.
The hallway was empty except for one of San’s men—tall, broad, silent—waiting at the end near the private exit. He gave you a short nod and fell into step behind you without a word.
Outside, the night air was cooler, scented with rain that hadn’t quite arrived yet. The Maybach waited under a single sodium streetlamp, black paint gleaming like oil. Tinted windows. Engine purring so low you felt it in your bones.
The driver—a different man, older, expressionless—opened the rear door without looking at you.
Leather. Heat. The faint scent of San’s cologne already saturating the space.
Reclined in the far corner, one arm draped along the back of the seat, legs spread in that careless way powerful men have when they know no one will tell them to sit properly. His suit jacket was gone. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. Forearms corded, tattoos disappearing beneath dark fabric. The first few buttons of his shirt were undone now, exposing more ink crawling up his chest.
He didn’t speak at first.
The door closed with a soft, final click.
The partition was already up. Privacy glass. No one could see in. No one could hear.
The car began to move—smooth, silent—sliding into the city night.
San tilted his head, studying you like you were something precious and breakable he intended to take apart anyway.
“You came,” he said finally. Voice rougher than before. Hungrier.
You crossed your legs slowly, letting the silk ride up just enough to show the lace tops of your stockings.
“Was there ever any doubt?”
A low chuckle rolled out of him. “No. Not after the way you looked at me on that stage.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, closing some of the distance between you. Not touching. Not yet.
“Tell me something,” he murmured. “When you were singing—when you dropped to your knees and spread those pretty thighs for the whole room—were you thinking about me?”
You held his gaze. Let the silence stretch just long enough to make him lean in another inch.
“Yes,” you answered softly. “Every time I rolled my hips. Every time I dragged my hands down my body. I was imagining your hands instead.”
He reached out—slow—traced one fingertip along the strap of your slip, following it down to where it barely covered the curve of your breast.
“Then let’s not waste any more time pretending we’re civilized.”
Before you could answer, he hooked that finger under the strap and yanked.
The silk tore with a soft, obscene sound.
You gasped—half surprise, half need—as cool air hit your bare skin. Your breasts spilled free, nipples already beaded and begging.
San made a low, appreciative sound in the back of his throat.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you.”
He didn’t rush. Didn’t lunge. Just leaned in and took one nipple into his mouth—hot, wet, deliberate—sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the leather.
Your hands flew to his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands, tugging. He growled against your skin in approval.
The car kept moving. City lights streaked past the tinted windows in smears of red and gold. You didn’t care where you were going. Didn’t care who might know.
All that mattered was the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the way his big hand palmed your other breast, thumb circling the neglected nipple until you were whimpering.
He switched sides, giving the other the same ruthless attention, while his free hand slid up your thigh—under the hem of what was left of the slip—fingers brushing the damp lace between your legs.
He lifted his head just enough to speak against your skin.
“Already soaked through your panties, baby.”
You tried to scoff, but it came out shaky. “Your fault.”
He pressed two fingers against your clit through the lace—firm, slow circles—and your hips bucked before you could stop them.
San laughed softly, darkly.
“Sensitive little thing.” He hooked the lace aside, baring you completely, and dragged one thick finger through your folds. “And so fucking wet for a man you just met.”
You moaned when he circled your entrance—teasing, never pushing in.
“Say it again,” he ordered, voice gone to gravel. “My name. Like that.”
“San,” you gasped, hips chasing his hand. “Please—”
He pushed one finger inside you—slow, deep, curling—and your head fell back against the seat.
“Good girl,” he murmured, watching your face like he was memorizing every twitch, every flutter of your lashes. “Look how tight you are. Gonna feel so fucking perfect wrapped around my cock.”
He added a second finger. Stretched you. Pumped slowly. Thumb finding your clit again in relentless little circles.
Your thighs trembled. Breath coming in short, desperate pants.
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“When we get where we’re going,” he whispered, “I’m going to fuck you on every surface I can bend you over. Going to mark you so deep no one else will dare touch what’s mine. And you’re going to scream my name until your voice gives out.”
You clenched around his fingers at the promise.
He felt it. Grinned against your throat.
“But first—” He crooked his fingers, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. “—you’re going to come for me right here. Right now. All over my hand. While the whole city drives by outside and has no idea what I’m doing to their pretty little showgirl.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders.
“Come,” he growled, thumb pressing harder on your clit, fingers driving deeper. “Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart for me.”
Back arching, thighs clamping around his wrist, a broken cry ripping from your throat as you pulsed around his fingers—wave after wave of white-hot pleasure crashing through you.
He worked you through it, slow and steady, murmuring filthy praise against your neck the whole time.
“That’s it… good girl… so fucking beautiful when you come…”
When the aftershocks finally eased, he withdrew his fingers slowly—glistening—brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean while holding your dazed gaze.
Then he leaned in and kissed you.
Deep. Lazy. Tasting yourself on his tongue.
When he pulled back, his voice was soft, almost tender.
“We’re not done,” he promised. “Not even close.”
The car slowed. Turned into an underground garage.
He helped you out—gentlemanly, except for the way his hand stayed possessive on the small of your back, guiding you toward the private elevator.
He pressed you against the mirrored wall.
“Look at yourself,” he murmured, turning you so you could see your reflection—flushed, lips swollen, dress torn, eyes glassy with want.
He stood behind you, hands sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples.
“See how pretty you look when you’re mine?”
You met his eyes in the mirror.
The elevator began to rise.
And San smiled—slow, predatory, victorious.
“Because tonight, baby… I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a penthouse that screamed controlled opulence.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering sprawl of the city—rivers of light cutting through the dark, the distant pulse of traffic like a heartbeat thirty stories below. Black marble floors reflected the low amber glow of recessed lighting. A massive sectional in deep charcoal leather dominated the living area. A bar of smoked glass and brushed steel stood against one wall, bottles catching the light like jewels. And everywhere—subtle, deliberate—the scent of cedar, leather, and San himself.
He didn’t give you time to take it all in.
The second the doors closed behind you, his hands were on your hips, spinning you until your back hit the cool glass wall. The city lights painted stripes of color across your bare skin where the torn slip still clung uselessly to your shoulders.
San’s mouth crashed back onto yours—hungrier than in the car, less patient. Teeth grazed your bottom lip, tongue sweeping in like he was claiming territory. You kissed him back just as hard, fingers working the remaining buttons of his shirt open, nails raking lightly down the hard planes of his chest, tracing the sharp lines of ink that curled over his pecs and disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers.
He groaned into your mouth when your palm flattened over the thick outline straining against his zipper.
“Careful,” he rasped, catching your wrist and pinning it above your head with one hand. “You keep touching me like that and this ends fast.”
You smiled against his lips, slow and wicked. “Maybe I want to see how fast you can lose control, boss.”
His eyes flashed—dark amusement, darker promise.
He released your wrist only to spin you again, pressing your front to the glass. Your breasts flattened against the chilled surface, nipples tightening instantly. The city sprawled beneath you—untouchable, unaware—while San kicked your feet apart with his polished shoe.
“Hands on the glass,” he ordered, voice low and rough. “Don’t move them.”
You obeyed, palms flat, fingers splayed.
He stepped back—just far enough to look.
You could feel his gaze dragging over you: the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the way the torn silk framed your ass, the black lace of your thong barely covering anything anymore. You heard the soft clink of his belt buckle coming undone, the slow drag of leather sliding free.
Anticipation made your thighs tremble.
The first touch was his palm—warm, calloused—sliding up the back of your thigh, under the ruined dress, cupping your ass possessively. He squeezed, hard enough to leave the faint outline of his fingers.
“You have no idea how many times I pictured this,” he murmured, leaning in until his chest pressed to your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Watching you on that stage, knowing exactly how I’d bend you over the second I got you alone.”
His free hand slid around to your front, fingers finding your clit again—still swollen and sensitive from the car. He circled slowly, teasing, while his other hand worked his trousers open.
You felt him—hot, thick, heavy—sliding between your thighs, not entering yet, just gliding along your soaked folds, coating himself in you.
“San…” Your voice cracked on his name.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, teeth grazing the side of your neck. “Use your words, baby.”
You pushed back against him, trying to take more. “I want you inside me. Now. Hard.”
He made a pleased sound—low, animal.
He lined himself up, the blunt head nudging your entrance, then pushed in with one long, relentless thrust.
Your breath punched out of you.
He was thick—stretching you open inch by slow inch until your palms slipped on the glass and you had to brace harder. When he bottomed out, hips flush to your ass, he stilled for a heartbeat—letting you feel every pulsing inch buried deep.
Then he pulled back almost all the way… and slammed back in.
You cried out—sharp, needy.
He didn’t give you time to adjust. The pace was brutal from the first stroke—deep, punishing, each thrust rocking you forward until your breasts dragged against the glass with every movement. His hand stayed between your legs, fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit in time with his hips.
“Look at the city,” he growled against your ear. “All those people down there… none of them know I’ve got their star showgirl pinned against my window, taking my cock like she was made for it.”
The words hit like a spark to dry tinder.
You clenched around him hard.
He groaned, pace faltering for a second before he drove even deeper.
You did—deliberately this time—squeezing tight on every withdrawal.
San’s control visibly frayed. His grip on your hip turned bruising, the other hand sliding up to wrap loosely around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, possessive. His thumb brushed the frantic beat of your pulse.
“Gonna mark you here,” he promised, voice wrecked. “Gonna leave my teeth on your neck so tomorrow, when you go back to that stage, everyone will know exactly who you belong to.”
The threat—half growled, half plea—sent you spiraling.
“Come on my cock,” he ordered, hips snapping harder. “Let me feel it. Milk me dry, baby.”
You shattered again—harder this time—walls fluttering and clamping down around him, vision whiting out as pleasure ripped through you in violent waves. Your knees buckled; he caught you, arm banding around your waist, holding you upright while he fucked you through it.
When your cries turned soft and broken, he finally let himself go.
A few more punishing thrusts—deep, erratic—then he buried himself to the hilt and came with a guttural groan, spilling hot and thick inside you. You felt every pulse, every twitch, the warmth spreading deep.
For long seconds neither of you moved—just panting, pressed together, his forehead resting between your shoulder blades, your hands still braced on the glass.
When he finally softened enough to slip free, you both hissed at the loss.
San turned you gently this time, cupping your face, kissing you slow and deep—nothing like the frantic claiming from before. Softer. Almost reverent.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“You’re staying,” he said. Not a question.
You smiled—lazy, sated, still trembling. “Was that ever in doubt?”
He huffed a quiet laugh, then scooped you up—effortless, like you weighed nothing—carrying you toward the hallway that presumably led to his bedroom.
“Not tonight,” he murmured against your temple. “Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever.”
You looped your arms around his neck, nuzzling into the warm skin of his throat.
“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not done ruining you either.”
He kicked open a door—dark bedroom, city lights filtering through half-closed blinds—and laid you down on silk sheets that still smelled faintly of him.
Then he crawled over you, already hard again, eyes glittering with fresh hunger.
“Round two,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “And this time… I’m taking my time.”
You arched up into him, already aching for more.
He smiled—slow, predatory, utterly devastating.
And the night stretched on—velvet curtains, pulsing music long forgotten, only the two of you and the city lights as witnesses.
The bedroom was a study in contrasts: sleek black furniture, crisp white sheets already rumpled from earlier impatience, and city lights bleeding through sheer charcoal curtains in slow, restless pulses. San laid you down like something fragile he still intended to break—just not all at once.
He didn’t rush this time.
He stood at the edge of the mattress for a long moment, simply looking. Shirt hanging open, trousers still undone but low on his narrow hips, hair mussed from your fingers, chest rising and falling with deliberate control. The tattoos on his torso seemed to shift with every breath—dragons and sharp geometric lines curling over muscle like living shadows.
You propped yourself on your elbows, silk slip long gone, stockings the only thing still clinging to your thighs. The air felt cool against the damp skin between your legs where he’d already spilled inside you once. You could feel it—warm, sticky, trickling slowly—and the thought made your core clench again.
His lips curved, slow and knowing.
“Still dripping with me,” he murmured, voice so low it vibrated through the dark. “And you’re already greedy for more.”
He crawled onto the bed—predatory, unhurried—knees bracketing your calves, hands planting on either side of your hips. He didn’t kiss you yet. Instead he lowered his head and dragged his tongue in one long, deliberate stripe up the center of your stomach, tasting salt and sweat and the faint metallic edge of your earlier perfume.
He kept going—open-mouthed kisses along your ribs, teeth grazing the underside of one breast, then closing around the nipple with lazy suction. Not hard this time. Soft. Teasing. Drawing it out until your back arched and a quiet whine slipped past your lips.
“Patience,” he whispered against your skin. “I told you—I’m taking my time.”
Kisses along the curve of your waist. Tongue dipping into your navel. Hands sliding under your thighs, lifting them, spreading you open until you were completely bared to him again. The city lights caught the slickness still coating your folds, his earlier release mixed with your own arousal.
San groaned at the sight—low, reverent.
“Look at this mess I made,” he said, almost to himself. One thumb traced the outer edge of your swollen lips, spreading you wider. “Gonna clean you up first… then fill you again. Deeper this time.”
Before you could answer, his mouth was on you.
He didn’t dive in like he was starving. He savored. Flat tongue lapping broad stripes from your entrance to your clit, collecting every drop of the two of you together. When he reached your clit he circled it with the tip of his tongue—lazy, feather-light—then sucked gently, letting the pressure build and fade, build and fade, until your hips were rolling helplessly against his face.
Your hands flew to his hair.
He caught your wrists without lifting his head, pinning them to the mattress beside your hips. A clear message: stay still and take it.
But when he pushed his tongue inside you—deep, curling, fucking you with it while his nose nudged your clit—you broke. A choked moan tore out of you; your thighs shook around his ears.
San hummed in approval, the vibration ripping another sound from your throat.
He pulled back just enough to speak—lips glistening, chin wet.
“You taste like us,” he rasped. “Sweet. Dirty. Mine.”
Then he dove back in—more focused now. Two fingers sliding inside you alongside his tongue, curling against that spot that made your vision blur. He sucked your clit harder, tongue flicking in merciless little taps, fingers pumping in a slow, relentless rhythm that matched the distant bass still thumping somewhere far below in the city.
You were climbing fast—too fast.
Instead he hooked his fingers harder, pressed his tongue flat and firm against your clit, and growled, “Give it to me. Right now.”
You came undone with a silent scream—back bowing off the bed, thighs clamping around his head, pulsing so hard you felt it in your fingertips. Wave after wave crashed through you while he worked you through it, licking slower, softer, until you were trembling and oversensitive and trying to push his head away with shaking hands.
He relented—finally—kissing the inside of each thigh, then crawling back up your body. His cock—hard again, flushed dark and leaking—dragged along your stomach as he settled between your legs.
He kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself (and him) on his tongue.
When he pulled back, his voice was wrecked.
You obeyed on unsteady limbs, rolling onto your stomach, then lifting your hips when he nudged them higher. Ass up, chest pressed to the sheets, cheek turned toward the window so you could still see the city glittering like it was celebrating whatever depravity was about to happen.
San settled behind you—knees spreading your thighs wider. One hand smoothed up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades to keep your chest down. The other guided himself to your entrance.
He didn’t thrust in right away.
He teased—rubbing the head through your folds, coating himself again, nudging your oversensitive clit until you whimpered and pushed back.
Your pride flared for half a second—then dissolved under the ache between your legs.
“Please,” you breathed. “San—please fuck me. Need you so deep I can’t think.”
A satisfied sound rumbled in his chest.
Then he sank in—slow this time. Inch by torturous inch. Letting you feel every ridge, every vein, until his hips met your ass and he was buried so deep you swore you could feel him in your throat.
He stilled there—fully seated—hips flush, breathing hard.
“You feel that?” he murmured, rolling forward just enough to grind against that spot inside you. “That’s me claiming every fucking part of you.”
You could only moan—wordless, desperate.
Long, deep strokes—pulling almost all the way out, then sliding back in until there was no space left between you. Each thrust deliberate, controlled, dragging against every nerve ending still raw from before.
His hand slid around to your throat again—gentle pressure this time, just enough to feel your pulse racing under his palm.
“Say it,” he growled against your ear. “Who do you belong to?”
“You,” you gasped. “Only you—San—fuck—”
He rewarded you with a harder thrust—sharp enough to make the headboard tap the wall.
He sped up—still deep, still controlled, but the rhythm turned punishing. Skin slapping skin. Wet sounds filling the room. His free hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
You felt it building again—different this time. Deeper. Sharper. Like something about to shatter irreparably.
“Gonna come inside you again,” he warned, voice fraying. “Gonna fill you so full it leaks out for days. So every time you move on that stage tomorrow, you’ll feel me.”
The words snapped something inside you.
You came hard—clenching around him so tight he cursed under his breath. Your vision tunneled; pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You sobbed his name into the sheets.
San followed seconds later—hips stuttering, burying himself as deep as humanly possible as he spilled again. Hot pulses that seemed endless, each one dragging another tremor through your body.
He collapsed over you—careful not to crush you—forehead pressed to the back of your neck, both of you slick with sweat.
For long minutes there was only ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city.
Then he kissed the nape of your neck—soft.
“Stay,” he said again. Quieter this time. Almost vulnerable.
You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes in the dim light.
“Wasn’t planning on leaving.”
He smiled—small, real, unguarded for the first time all night.
Then he rolled to the side, pulling you with him until you were tucked against his chest, legs tangled, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
The city kept glittering outside.
But in here—for once—everything felt still.
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