kryz ⭐️

"Heavy ass belt," you mutter, glancing down at it splayed across the hardwood. Then back up at him, at the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. "Makes sense. Heavy belt for a man with such a heavy cock."

His breath hitched, and you watched the flush crawl from his neck up toward his jaw as you reached for the waistband of his jeans and tugged. He helped, shaky-handed, shoving them down his thighs, and you had to pause for a second because the visual in front of you was genuinely unfair. That V-cut trailing down into his boxers like it was pointing the way on purpose. The gym had done crazy things to this man's body and he had the nerve to stand here acting shy about it.

You pressed your palm flat against his stomach, just to feel the muscle tense under your touch, and he sucked in hard through his teeth. "God, Hoon," you said, dragging your hand down slowly, following that line. "You walk around looking like this? All day? And you expect people to act normal?"

"I don't—" he started, voice already rougher than it was ten seconds ago.

"Shh." You hooked your fingers into his boxers and pulled them down, and his cock sprang free, thick and heavy against his stomach. You made a sound — appreciative, almost a laugh — because you'd been thinking about this all day and the reality was better than the mental image. He was big enough that wrapping your hand around him didn't fully close your grip, and when you gave him one slow stroke he let out a noise that went straight between your own legs.

"Look at me," you said, because his eyes had drifted shut. They opened, dark and half-lidded, pinned to your face. "There you go. Keep them on me. You can record it if you want—I know you want to."

A shaky exhale. He fumbled for his phone on the dresser behind him, nearly knocking over a water bottle. He unlocked it and opened the camera with a thumb that was visibly trembling. He held it angled down at you, and you smiled directly into the lens, slow and shameless, then ran your tongue flat up the underside of his cock from base to tip without breaking eye contact with the camera.

The phone jerked in his grip. A broken groan punched out of his chest.

"Keep it steady, baby," you murmured against him, lips brushing the head, and then you took him into your mouth.

The first pull was slow, taking him in inch by inch and letting him feel every single one. He was thick enough that your jaw ached a little on the way down and you loved it, loved the way your lips had to stretch around him, loved the weight of him on your tongue. You pulled back, swirled your tongue around the tip, tasted salt, then sank back down further than before and felt him hit the back of your throat.

"Oh fuck—" His free hand came down to your jaw, fingers cradling your face. The contrast, the filth of what you were doing and the tenderness of his grip, made you moan around him, and the vibration made his hips stutter forward on instinct before he caught himself. "Sorry—I’m sorry, I—"

"Don't apologize," you pulled off just long enough to say, a string of spit connecting your mouth to his cock, indecently caught on the phone camera. "Fuck my mouth if you want to. I can take it. That's what it's for right now."

A sound came out of him that wasn't quite a word. Then his hand slid from your jaw into your hair, gathered it back out of your face, and he thrust into your mouth, shallow at first, testing, then deeper when you hummed your approval and dug your nails into his thighs. His quads were solid under your grip, tensed and trembling, and you dragged your nails down just enough to leave faint pink lines and he whimpered. The hell? This big, built, gym-sculpted man standing above you whimpering because of your mouth.

You pulled off, gasping, drool on your chin, and looked up at him with the most wrecked, adoring expression you could manage. "You sound so pretty, Hoon. You know that? Hottest fucking sounds I've ever heard."

His chest was heaving. The phone was barely angled right anymore, his arm was shaking too hard. You reached up, took it gently from his hand, set it on the dresser propped against a book so the camera still caught you both, and wrapped your hand around his cock again, stroking slow.

"Come here," he said, voice wrecked. Before you could even respond he was bending down, hooking his arms under yours, and lifting you off the floor like you weighed nothing. It’s as if all those back days and leg days had been building toward this exact moment. You wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct and his hands gripped your thighs.

He carried you three steps to the couch and dropped onto it with you straddling him, and the impact shoved you forward so your core ground against his cock and you both hissed at the same time.

"Mommy—" he breathed against your neck, the word stumbling out like it had been sitting on his tongue all night waiting for permission, and you felt a full-body shiver run through him beneath you.

You pulled back to look at him. Cupped his face with both hands. His eyes were glassy, lips bitten red, hair already messy from where he'd been running his own hand through it. How gorgeous. Absolutely wrecked and absolutely gorgeous.

"Say that again," you told him, thumbs tracing his cheekbones.

"Mommy," he whispered, leaning into your touch, eyes fluttering. "Please—I need—I need and want you so fucking much."

"I know you do, baby. I've got you." You reached between your bodies, lined him up, and sank down onto him in one long, slow roll of your hips.

The stretch punched the air out of both of you. You stilled, full of him, feeling your body clench and adjust, and he dropped his head forward against your chest with a strangled groan, hands fisting the fabric of your top before tugging it up and off so he could press his mouth to your skin instead. He kissed the curve of your breast, the valley between, dragged his lips down the swell of your breasts and back up, like he was mapping every inch he could reach with his mouth.

"You feel so good inside me," you breathed, rolling your hips experimentally — slow, grinding, taking your time. "So big, baby. Fill me up so well. You were made for this."

He moaned against your skin, open-mouthed and sloppy. His hands slid to your waist, guiding your rhythm without taking control, letting you set the pace while he just held on. You started to move, lifting and dropping, finding the angle that made your vision blur, and each time you came down his hips rolled up to meet you and the sound of it, wet and heavy, filled the room.

"Mommy—harder, please—"

You braced your hands on his shoulders and gave him harder. Faster. The couch creaked. His abs flexed under you every time you ground down and you could feel every ridge of them against your clit, the friction building something white-hot in your stomach. His mouth found your nipple and sucked, and you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair and pulling, and he groaned around you like the pull was a gift.

"Good boy," you said, breathless. "Taking it so well. Look at you—look at this body, Hoon, all this muscle and you're shaking underneath me. All that work at the gym just to fall apart in my pussy."

A broken, pitchy moan. His hips snapped up harder, losing the rhythm, chasing it.

"I'm—close, I'm close, please, can I—"

"Inside," you commanded, grinding down in a tight circle that made his whole body bow off the couch. "Come inside me. Fuck, give me everything. You've earned it, baby, you've been so good."

Three more uneven thrusts and he came with a sound that cracked open in his chest, your name tangled up with "mommy" and something wordless. You felt him spill inside you, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as his whole body locked and shuddered. You rode him through it, slower now, milking every last pulse out of him while he whined from oversensitivity, until he finally went limp against the couch back, chest heaving, eyes unfocused, pretty and ruined underneath you.

You lifted off him slowly, wincing at the loss, and felt him slip out of you followed by the warm trickle of his cum dripping onto his stomach. He twitched at the sensation, too spent to do anything but watch you through heavy lids.

You reached down, swiped two fingers through the mess on his abdomen, his and yours mixed together, and brought them to his mouth.

"Open," you said softly.

He did, without hesitation, lips parting so you could press your fingers past them and onto his tongue. He closed his mouth around them and sucked, cleaning them thoroughly, eyes on yours the whole time, and when you pulled your hand back a thin string of saliva and cum connected your fingers to his lip before it broke.

You laughed. Light, breathless, genuinely delighted.

"What a dirty boy."

He let out a hazy, fucked-out laugh of his own, still trying to catch his breath, and you leaned down and kissed him, slow and sweet, he reached up to cradle the back of your head with a hand that was finally steady again, holding you there like he'd happily stay under you forever.

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🎹 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ഒ or nah (remix) by ty dolla $ign (ft. the weeknd, wiz khalifa, and mustard)

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“god, you’re stunning tonight,” he whispers in your ear during a quiet moment, his hand resting possessively on your lower back. “i can’t stop staring at my wife.”

you blush, gently nudging him. “stop, we’re in public.”

“i don’t care,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “let them stare. you’re the most beautiful woman here.”

the party goes on, but the tension between you two only grows. every time jay looks at you, his gaze lingers on the way the dress clung to your body, how your breasts presses against the neckline, how your hips sway when you walk. by the time the event ends, the air between you feels electric.

instead of heading straight to the car, jay takes your hand and leads you outside into the quiet gardens behind the venue.

“it’s peaceful out here,” he says softly, pulling you close as you walk along the moonlit path. “we barely get moments like this since our little one was born. i missed this… just us.”

you lean into him, smiling. “me too. i love being a mom, but i miss slow nights with you.”

the garden is empty and quiet. jay spots a flowering tree nearby and, with a mischievous grin, reaches up and plucks a couple of delicate white flowers.

“jay! you can’t just—”

“shh, no one’s looking,” he chuckles, tucking one gently behind your ear. he steps back to admire you, eyes soft with adoration. “there. my beautiful wife with flowers in her hair. you look like a dream.”

your heart flutters. he leans in and kisses you slowly under the moonlight, hands cupping your face like you are precious.

because, at least to him, you truly are.

your feet start aching after a while in your heels. without a word, jay scoops you up bridal-style, carrying you effortlessly towards the parking lot.

“jay, put me down! i’m too heavy—” you protests, cheeks burning.

“you’re perfect,” he says firmly, kissing your forehead. “and i love carrying my wife. let me take care of you.”

he carries you all the way to the car, only setting you down once you reach it. instead of taking the usual route home, jay chooses the longer scenic road, one hand resting on your thigh the entire drive, fingers occasionally tracing soft circles on your skin. the quiet music and city lights passing by make everything feel intimate.

when you finally arrive home, the house is silent — your toddler is staying with jay’s parents for the night. you head straight to the bedroom and sit at your vanity table, beginning to remove your jewelry.

“jay?” you call softly. “can you help me unzip my dress, baby? i can’t reach it.”

he appears behind you in the mirror, eyes dark as he slowly drags the zipper down your back. the emerald fabric parts, revealing your smooth skin. the dress pools at your waist, leaving you in just your strapless bra and panties.

jay’s hands linger on your shoulders. “you look incredible in this dress… but you look even better out of it.”

he leans down and kisses the side of your neck, then your shoulder. you tilt your head, giving him more access. the kiss deepens quickly. jay turns your chair around and pulls you up into a heated kiss, tongues sliding together as he backs you against the vanity table.

your hands fumble with his shirt buttons while he lifts you onto the table, stepping between your legs. makeup brushes and jewelry scattered as he kisses you desperately, hands roaming over your body.

“been wanting you all night,” he growls against your lips. “you have no idea what this gown did to me. the way it hugged your beautiful belly… your thighs… your breasts… i'm obsessed, baby.”

he kisses down your neck to your chest, pulling your bra down so your full breasts spill out. jay groans at the sight, cupping them with both hands.

“fuck, i love these,” he whispers, voice thick with lust. he leans in and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently while his thumb circles the other. you moan, back arching as he worships your breasts with lips, tongue, and soft praises.

“so perfect… so soft… all mine.”

he helps you off the vanity and guides you to the bed, laying you down gently. jay removes the rest of his clothes and your dress completely, then settles between your thighs.

he kisses every inch of you — starting with your wrists, pressing soft open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin there, then moving down to your navel. he spends extra time there, licking and kissing the soft curve of your belly with so much love it almost makes your chest ache.

“i love this belly,” he murmurs, nipping gently. “love how it feels under my hands. love that it carried our son. it's so fucking beautiful.”

he moves lower, spreading your thighs wide and kissing the plush flesh there. “these thighs drive me crazy. so thick and soft… i could bury my face in them forever.”

finally, he reaches your core. jay looks up at you with dark, hungry eyes before diving in. his tongue licks a slow, broad stripe up your pussy, then focuses on your clit, sucking gently while two fingers push inside you.

you cry out, fingers threading through his hair as he eats you out with devotion. he moanes against you, the vibrations sending sparks through your body.

“you taste so good, baby. so wet for me already.”

he adds a third finger, curling them perfectly while his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. your thighs tremble around his head as you come hard, moaning his name loudly.

jay doesn't stop. he keeps licking you through the aftershocks, gentling his touches until you are whimpering.

he finally crawls up your body, kissing your belly, your breasts, your neck, and finally your lips as he positions himself between your legs.

“i need you,” he whispers, rubbing his cock against your soaked folds. “want to feel you around me.”

you nod eagerly. jay pushes in slowly, savoring every inch until he's buried deep inside you. both of you moan at the feeling.

“fuck… you're so tight and warm,” he groans. he starts moving in deep, steady thrusts, missionary so he can look into your eyes and kiss you constantly.

jay worships you the entire time — hands kneading your breasts, lips sucking on your nipples, fingers occasionally rubbing your clit. he kisses your wrists again, then your belly, all while thrusting deeply.

“you’re so beautiful,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours. “every part of you. your soft belly, your thick thighs squeezing me, your perfect tits bouncing every time i fuck you… i’m so in love with you.”

his pace quickens, hips snapping harder as pleasure builds again. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

“jay— i’m close again—”

“cum for me, baby. let me feel you.”

you shatter around him, clenching tightly. jay follows right after, burying himself deep with a broken moan as he fills you with warm spurts of cum. he keeps thrusting slowly, pushing his release deeper while kissing you through both your highs.

afterwards, jay collapses beside you and immediately pulls you into his arms, holding you close. he strokes your hair, kisses your forehead, and whispers sweet praises.

“you were perfect tonight,” he murmurs, hand gently rubbing your belly. “my gorgeous wife. i love every single part of you.”

you smile sleepily, cuddling into his chest. “i love you too. thank you for tonight… for carrying me, for the flower, for everything.”

jay chuckles softly and kisses the top of your head. “anything for you. always.”

he gets up briefly to bring a warm towel, cleaning you gently before pulling the covers over both of you. you fall asleep wrapped in each other’s arms, the memory of the gown, the moonlight, and the flowers lingering sweetly between you.

© jongst4r, 2026

You have been waiting for this moment for months, even years. You are finally moving out. It is because of college, but still, it is a new beginning far from home — a brand-new chapter in your own space. A mix of excitement and nervousness settles in your chest, because living alone requires a lot of responsibility, and you are not sure if you are ready to handle it all.

For the past five minutes, you have been staring at the mountain of boxes crammed into the trunk and backseat of your car like a game of Tetris. You are wondering how you are going to carry so many boxes up to the third floor where your apartment is. With a deep breath, you finally grab one of the boxes, and immediately stagger under its weight.

"Maintenance. Sorry for the inconvenience" reads the sign taped to the elevator doors.

Drops of sweat form on your temples, down the back of your neck, and pool on your spine, making your shirt stick to your skin. Of course it would be hot as hell on the day of your move, and of course the elevator wouldn't be working — talk about lucky.

You take another deep breath, hug the box against your chest, and begin climbing the stairs slowly, careful not to lose your balance.

Your arms are trembling and your breathing is almost as heavy as the box by the time you finally reach the first floor, forcing you to set it down for a moment to rest. But just as you pick it up again, mentally preparing for the next flight of stairs, the sound of footsteps coming down from above catches you off guard.

A man is coming down the stairs. He’s tall, wearing a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the prominent veins on his forearms. His jaw is sharp — probably sharper than any knife you’ve ever seen. He looks so put-together that you suddenly feel embarrassed by your sweaty face and disheveled state.

Seeing you, he stops immediately, his eyebrows furrowing with mild concern. "Whoa. Let me help you with that." His voice is low and smooth, the kind of voice that sends a shiver down your spine before you can stop it.

You blush, heat rising from your neck to your cheeks. "Oh, you don’t have to. I can manage—"

"I insist," he replies gently, waiting with his hands hovering, giving you the choice. You let him take the box, and the relief is immediate — your arms practically sing in gratitude. He lifts it as if it weighs nothing, cradling it against his chest with just one arm — the same box you were struggling to carry with both. "I’m Jay, by the way."

You quickly wipe the sweat from your forehead and try to fix your hair because you want to look at least a little presentable for the incredibly good-looking man helping you. "Thank you so much. I’m y/n. I’m moving in today, to apartment 3B."

Jay’s expression softens, and a warm smile spreads across his face. "3B? That’s interesting. I live right next door, in 3A." He nods toward the stairs. "Looks like we’re neighbors." He gestures ahead. "After you."

You both climb the remaining stairs together and your heart still pounding. You can’t tell if it’s from the physical effort earlier or from his company. Because of the nerves, the words start tumbling out before you can stop them.

"I’m starting college this week. I got accepted and everything, and I was so excited when I found this apartment. It’s the first time I’ve ever lived away from home, so I’m really thrilled… but also kind of terrified? Like, what if I get lost on campus? What if my classes are way harder than I expected? I brought way too much stuff, I’m kind of attached to my things, you know?" You let out a breathless laugh. "Sorry, I’m probably talking too much. I get really chatty when I’m nervous."

Jay glances at you as you walk, the box still balanced effortlessly in his arms. He doesn’t look annoyed — in fact, he seems amused, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You’re not talking too much. It’s a big change, but you’re doing great."

You bite your lower lip, watching him as you climb. There is something intriguing about him that sparks your curiosity. "And you? Are you a student too, or…?"

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. "No, I’ve already graduated. I work at a company downtown." He says it casually, offering no further details — which only makes you even more curious.

You reach the landing of the second floor and have to stop to catch your breath, while Jay doesn’t even seem slightly winded — it’s honestly impressive. "My parents helped me pack my bags, but they’re hours away now. It’s exciting, though. New city, new people. I just hope I don’t ruin everything."

"You won’t," Jay says gently. "Everyone feels like that at the beginning. The nervousness is normal. Besides, you seem like you have a good head on your shoulders. You’ll find your rhythm." He sets the box down carefully in front of your door. "Ready for another round?"

The words hit you like a spark. "Ready for another round." And before you can help it, your mind immediately drifts, imagining Jay on top of you, his strong body pressing you into the mattress, that same low voice murmuring the question against your neck while his hands pinned your wrists above your head. Heat flooded your face and settled lower in your belly.

You quickly shake your head, trying to push the thought away, desperately hoping your blush isn't too obvious. "Yes, let's do it."

He carries the rest of the boxes for you, going up and down the stairs multiple times. Meanwhile, you keep rambling nonstop about what you are studying, where you are from, and how you are feeling about this new phase of your life. He listens as if he genuinely cares, and even though you can’t quite place the age difference between you two, you feel surprisingly comfortable with him.

When the last box finally makes it through the door, you stand in the hallway with a grateful smile. "Thank you so much, Jay. Honestly. I don’t know what I would have done without you."

"Glad I could help. Moving is a big step. If you need anything else, I’m right next door." With that, he returns to his own apartment, leaving you surrounded by a sea of boxes that will clearly take hours to unpack.

A few days pass. You unpack — not everything, just the most important things. Your first classes are overwhelming. You get lost twice, accidentally walk into the wrong lecture hall, and sit through an entire lecture on quantum physics before realizing your mistake. But as embarrassing as it was, that mistake ended up leading you to a guy named Jake, who turned out to be incredibly nice and cute.

Now you are standing outside Jay’s door with a plate of cupcakes in your hands, ready to properly thank him for helping you with the move. The thing is, you can’t really bake; you tried making the cupcakes yourself but ended up burning the batch, so you had to go to the bakery on the corner to buy a box of them instead. They look a bit too professional, but since he doesn't know about your complete lack of kitchen skills, you're confident he won't suspect a thing — especially since you took them out of the box and arranged them nicely on a plate just to be extra safe.

You knock on his door, your heart pounding hard in your chest. He opens it a moment later, and his face lights up when he sees you. "Hey, neighbor," he says, leaning against the doorframe. "How are classes going?"

"Good," you reply, pushing the plate forward with a little too much force. "Great, actually. I only got lost twice today, which is an improvement." Your smile widens. "I brought these for you. For helping me with the move. I made them myself."

He looks at the cupcakes, then back at you, this time raising an eyebrow. "You made these?"

"Yes," you say, nodding firmly with your chin held high, trying to look confident. "From scratch. All by myself. I’m pretty good at baking."

He picks up one of the cupcakes and examines it, narrowing his eyes as he brings it closer to his face. You feel your determination starting to crumble.

"Really?" he asks with a smile, clearly testing how long you will keep up the lie. "From scratch?"

You hold his gaze for three whole seconds before you look away in embarrassment. Your shoulders drop and your face turns as red as a tomato. "Okay, fine. I bought them at the bakery on the corner. I took them out of the box so you would think I’m a functional adult who knows how to bake." You laugh at yourself. "I tried making them the other day, Jay. I set off the smoke alarm. I’m a danger to this entire building."

He throws his head back and laughs — not mocking you, but with a genuine, warm laugh that makes you feel less embarrassed about pretending you had baked the cupcakes. "Oh my God, you actually burned them?"

"I once burned noodles. I’m a total disaster in the kitchen."

He steps aside, still smiling, and gestures for you to come in. "Alright, come in. I’ll split one of these ‘homemade’ cupcakes with you. It’s the least I can do for someone who put so much effort into the task."

Your mom’s voice whispers in the back of your mind: "Don’t talk to strangers and definitely don’t go into their apartments, sweetheart." But is he really a stranger? He is your neighbor who carried all your boxes without complaining, and the way he stands there holding the plate of cupcakes with that smile makes you not hesitate at all.

You follow him inside. He leads you to the kitchen, grabs two small plates, and carefully unwraps a vanilla cupcake, splitting it in half before sliding one piece toward you.

"Have a seat," he says, pointing to the stool by the kitchen island.

"So, you mentioned you work downtown? What exactly do you do?" you ask as you sit down.

"I’m a lawyer," he replies, taking a bite of his half and nodding in approval. "Good choice of bakery, by the way."

You laugh, biting into yours. "A lawyer. That makes a lot of sense. You have this… I don’t know how to say it without sounding weird, but you have this organized vibe. Like you’re really good at arguing without even raising your voice."

His smile widens. "People have definitely told me that before that I have a ‘courtroom voice.’ It’s just my normal voice, only lower and slower. People tend to listen when you don’t yell."

"You’ll have to show me someday. If I ever get in legal trouble, I’ll know exactly who to call."

"Please don’t get in legal trouble. But if you do, I’m your guy."

The conversation flows just as easily as it did on moving day, and before you know it, you’re venting about your annoying professor, how massive the campus is, and all the times you’ve already managed to get lost. Between all the talking, the cupcakes completely disappear, leaving the coffee he made to sit cold and barely touched in your mug. There’s just something about him that instantly puts you at ease.

Despite the age gap, he never talks down to you or makes you feel small, which makes talking to him completely effortless. It’s just so comforting to have someone around who listens to you with that much care and attention — especially when he happens to be incredibly good-looking, leaving you totally hooked since the very first day.

As he walks you to the door when you finally get up to leave, he snatches a pen and a post-it note to scribble something down. Before you know it, he’s pressing the paper into your palm, his fingers brushing lightly against yours and sending a sudden warmth to your cheeks as he says, "Here’s my number, in case you ever need anything."

"Thank you," you say, smiling a little too wide.

He nods. "Anytime. Seriously. Don’t be a stranger."

────────

The grocery bags dig painfully into your fingers as you stand in the lobby, staring at the elevator doors that are still under maintenance. You look at them as if a miracle might happen — maybe if you stare for one more second, God will take pity and finally fix it. Nothing happens, of course, which makes you let out a long sigh of frustration. It has been days since you moved in and the elevator is still not working.

Your arms already hurt from carrying way too many bags. You definitely should have made two trips, but stubbornness won.

Reaching the second floor is pure torture; your arms are burning, those plastic handles are digging right into your palms, and the bags keep swinging awkwardly against your legs. Trying to stop and adjust your grip only makes things worse, to the point where you're seriously considering just sitting right there on the stairs and crying.

You finally collapse against the wall at the third-floor landing, letting the bags slide to the floor just to catch your breath. Right then, the door to 3A clicks open and Jay steps out — perfectly dressed for work with that annoyingly handsome lawyer look that instantly makes your stomach do a little flip.

He sees you immediately. For a second, his eyes take in the whole scene — your flushed face, the many overloaded bags, and the way you are leaning against the wall breathing heavily. A light, amused laugh escapes him. It is not mocking, just genuinely entertained, as if he expected nothing less from you.

"Carrying heavy stuff again?" he asks, walking toward you. "You really don’t learn, do you?"

Before you can even open your mouth to protest, he is already reaching for the bags, picking them all up at once as if they weigh absolutely nothing. His strong arms support the weight so effortlessly that his biceps press against the fabric of his dress shirt, making it completely impossible for you not to stare.

He turns and walks toward your door, carrying everything like it is nothing.

At your doorstep, Jay sets all the bags down carefully against the wall and turns to face you. His expression is calm, almost unreadable, but there is something more in it. You understand it the moment he starts speaking in a gently scolding tone. "You really shouldn’t carry so much at once," he says, crossing his arms. "It’s not safe and it’s clearly too heavy for you. Make two or three trips next time. Look at your hands, they’re all red. You were hurting yourself. Why? Because you’re way too stubborn, huh?"

You glance down at your palms, and they are red where the plastic handles dug in. "I was fine," you say, though even you do not believe it. "I almost made it."

"Don’t be stubborn."

"You sound exactly like my dad," you reply, crossing your arms to mimic him. "He’s always telling me I’m too stubborn for my own good."

Jay’s lips curve into a small smile. "Because you really are," he says with so much certainty that you cannot even argue back. "I’m serious. Next time, make multiple trips or just text me. I’d rather help than watch you struggle like that."

There is a protective tone in his voice that makes your cheeks warm with a mix of embarrassment and something else stirring low in your stomach. He is lecturing you like a child, but somehow it sounds kind of hot coming from him.

Then he glances at the grocery bags again. Now that the scolding is over, he seems to actually pay attention to what is inside them. He picks one up and looks inside — it is full of frozen meals, instant noodles, ultra-processed food, and canned goods. "Look, I know you’re in college now, but that doesn’t mean you have to live on processed food. It’s quick, sure, but you need real fresh stuff, not just things that come out of a can. Eating like this long-term isn’t good for you. You could get sick."

You blink, caught off guard by the extra lecture. He is fully in dad-mode now, and there is something strangely attractive about how seriously he takes it, like he is genuinely worried about you. "Okay, okay. I get it… I already told you I’m a disaster in the kitchen, so I just grabbed whatever is easiest so I don’t starve."

Jay’s expression softens a little. "I’m not trying to scold you. I just know how easy it is to fall into bad habits when you’re living on your own for the first time." He pauses and adds in a gentler voice, "If you ever need help in the kitchen, you know where to find me. I’m not exactly a chef, but I know how to make real meals."

Your mind wanders again because you can’t help it — you picture him in your kitchen, standing right behind you while teaching you how to cook, his hands guiding yours, the warmth of his body against your back…

"I’ll try to do better, I swear. Thanks for helping again. I think I owe you something now. How about brownies as a thank you this time?"

Jay shakes his head, chuckling softly. "You don’t owe me anything. Just be more careful next time." He glances at the heavy bags one more time. "Need help carrying these inside?"

You shake your head quickly. "I can handle it from here. I bet you’re busy, you look like you’re heading to work."

He checks the watch on his wrist. "Yeah, I have a meeting soon, but the offer stands anytime." Before turning to leave, he gives you one last firm look. "Take care of yourself."

After he leaves, you drag the bags inside, one half first and then the other, just like Jay suggested.

That night, you are sprawled on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when you open your contacts. You saved Jay’s number, of course, but you have been telling yourself you don’t need to text him. It is an emergency-only number, but then you think about him carrying your groceries, the effortless way he took them from you, and the gentle scolding in his voice. Before you can overthink it, you are already typing a message to him.

────────

It is already past midnight and you have been staring at the same page of your textbook long enough for your vision to blur. Your brain has officially given up — it is impossible to absorb a single word more after hours of studying.

You are about to slam the book shut to take out your stress on it and drag yourself to bed when a soft knock sounds at the door. Your heart jumps slightly because you were not expecting anyone, especially not at this hour.

Another knock.

You get up slowly, stretching your sore muscles, and walk to the door. When you open it, Jay is standing there, looking different tonight without his formal work clothes and lawyer posture. He is wearing a simple white t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and is barefoot. He looks relaxed, holding a bottle of red wine — as if he made the sudden decision to knock on your door and came straight over without even putting shoes on.

"Hey," he says, his low voice making your stomach flip. His eyes scan over you, taking in your tired face, messy hair, and pajamas. Something in his expression softens.

"Hey," you reply softly, matching his tone.

"Hey," he repeats, then laughs when he realizes what he just did.

"Hey," you answer again, this time with a small smile. "You already said that."

"I know." He laughs again, shaking his head. "I just… it’s late."

"Very late."

"I know." He lifts the bottle slightly. "I bought this earlier today but… it’s no fun drinking alone."

You look at the wine, then back at him. The way he is standing there — messy hair, ridiculously handsome, and a little too soft — makes going back to bed suddenly seem like a very stupid choice. "Are you inviting me to drink with you?"

"I’m asking if you want to take a break. From everything."

The way he looks at you with those inviting eyes makes the decision easy, but you decide to tease him first. "I don’t usually drink with strangers."

"We’re not strangers," he says, his voice soft. Your teasing does not seem to faze him.

"We’re not exactly friends either," you reply, tilting your head and studying his reaction.

The corner of his mouth lifts into a small, almost lazy smile. "Then let’s change that."

You pretend to consider it for a moment, even though you were already fully committed the second you saw him at your door. "Mmm, okay. But let’s do it at your apartment. Mine is a mess."

His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Alright, whatever you want."

You grab your keys and follow him, also barefoot, to the door next to yours. His apartment is clean and organized as always, which makes the space feel strangely comforting. In the kitchen, he pours two glasses of wine and hands you one, his fingers brushing against yours for half a second and sending a spark through your body.

"Cheers," he says, raising his glass.

"Cheers," you repeat, gently clinking your glass against his.

You take a sip and let out a small, involuntary hum of appreciation — it is much better than you expected, probably the most expensive wine you have ever tasted. He gestures toward the living room. "Come on, let’s sit," he says, leading the way to the couch. You follow and settle onto his couch, trying to look more relaxed than you actually feel.

"This is nice," you say, taking another sip.

He sits on the other end of the couch — close enough to talk comfortably, but far enough to be polite. "It’s just wine." He takes a sip, watching you over the rim of his glass.

"I mean relaxing… not thinking about classes for the first time."

He nods, understanding. "You think about classes a lot."

"It’s pretty much my entire life right now," you admit with an awkward little laugh, taking another sip.

"I remember going through that too. Everything revolving around exams, assignments, and exhausting responsibilities."

You tilt your head, studying him. "You make it sound like ancient history."

"Sometimes it feels like it." He takes a sip, not breaking eye contact. "I still remember when I was in college. I used to think a bad grade would ruin everything." A dry laugh escapes him as he shakes his head. "There’s so much pressure."

Suddenly you find yourself wanting to know more about him, drawn by the experienced tone in his voice and posture. The wine is already loosening your tongue, so you ask. "How old are you, anyway?"

A small, playful smile appears on his lips. "I’m old enough."

You narrow your eyes, trying to hold back a smile. "That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one you’re getting." He takes another sip.

"That’s annoying," you say, leaning forward slightly and resting your elbows on your knees.

"Maybe I am annoying." He shrugs, but there is a sparkle in his eyes that tells you he is enjoying this.

"You’re avoiding the question," you accuse, pointing a finger at him.

"I’m protecting my privacy."

"From what? Your neighbor?" You laugh, raising an eyebrow.

"Especially from my neighbor."

You pout, pretending to be hurt. "Fine. Keep your secrets."

"Everyone has secrets," he says, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate tone.

"I don’t." You are not even sure why you say it. Maybe it is the wine, or the way he is looking at you right now.

"Everyone does." He holds his ground. "You have secrets too."

Your pulse quickens. "I don’t."

"Yes, you do."

You swallow hard. The air between you feels thicker now, charged with something you can’t quite name. You shift slightly on the sofa and notice how easy it would be to reach out and touch him. "So you have a lot of secrets, huh?" you ask, curious.

"Yes. Quite a few."

"Like what?" you press, wanting to see what he will give you.

"If I told you, they wouldn’t be secrets anymore." His lips curve into a slow, almost predatory smile.

"Touché." You raise your glass in an ironic toast, making him laugh.

A comfortable but heavy silence settles between you for a moment, thick with tension as you exchange glances and take slow sips. The wine is definitely doing its job — making your words come out slower, your laughter easier, and your body warmer.

"How old are you?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You blink, caught off guard. "Me?"

"Yes, you." He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "You asked me, so I’m asking you back."

You smile, deciding to play his game. "I’m old enough."

A low, surprised laugh escapes him — rich and genuine. "That’s my line."

"I know." You take another sip to hide your smile.

"You stole my line."

You just shrug. "I borrowed it."

"That’s not how borrowing works."

"Yes, it is."

He laughs again. "You’re impossible."

"Am I? What else?" You raise an eyebrow, challenging him.

"You’re something," he says, his voice dropping again.

"What?" You are not sure what he means by that.

"I don’t know yet." He keeps his eyes fixed on you. "But I’m figuring it out."

You feel your cheeks heat up and take another sip of wine to try to hide your reaction. Jay, however, keeps watching you, and you can tell he noticed.

"You know what I’ve noticed?" By now your voice is a little slurred, so you have to be careful with the words that come out of your mouth.

"What?" His wine glass is almost empty. He sets it on the coffee table and turns all of his attention to you.

You lean back on the couch, turning to face him more directly. Your knee brushes against his thigh, but neither of you pulls away. "You don’t talk much about yourself."

He tilts his head, frowning slightly. "Don’t I?"

"No. You listen, but you don’t share. Like, you’re dodging right now. You give answers, but you don’t really answer."

"Well, I’m trying to protect myself," he says simply.

"Protect yourself from what?" You lean forward, genuinely curious now.

"From getting too attached." The words are honest, and you definitely were not expecting them.

You stare at him, your hand frozen halfway to taking another sip. "From what?"

"To you." His voice is almost a whisper, making your pulse race and your skin flush.

"Why would you get too attached to me?"

He stays silent for a moment, his eyes tracing over you as if he wants to memorize every detail. "Because it’s easy to get attached to you."

"No, it's not," you say, shaking your head as a small, incredulous laugh escapes you.

"It is." His voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. "You just don’t see it."

You look away, feeling your entire body grow warmer. "You’re dodging again."

"I’m being honest." He leans forward slightly, and you can smell him now — a masculine scent mixed with the light sweetness of the wine.

You set your glass on the coffee table and turn to face him completely, the wine making you bolder. "You’re giving me half-answers. You’re telling me just enough to make me curious, but not enough."

He stays quiet for a moment, thinking. "What do you want to know?"

You hold his gaze. "Something real. Truly honest."

Silence stretches between you, thick with something heavy and suffocating that you can't quite name. Then he whispers, "I think you’re beautiful."

Your breath catches, and for a second you are not sure you heard him correctly. "That’s not—" you begin, but he interrupts you.

"It’s honest."

"You can’t just say that," your voice barely comes out as a whisper.

"I just did." His gaze doesn’t leave yours for even half a second.

"It’s too… direct."

"You asked for it." He says it simply, like it is the most natural thing in the world.

"You’re a tease," you say, not sure if you are complaining or not.

"Wait until you find out what else I am. You want to know me? Then make sure you’re ready."

You do not know what to say or what to do, so you look away, your face burning.

When he finally walks you to your door, you are a little unsteady on your feet. He steadies you with a gentle hand on your waist, and the touch is enough to send shivers through your body. "I’m fine," you murmur, even though you are swaying slightly.

"You’re drunk," he says, smiling at your messy state.

"I’m a little tipsy," you reply, giving him a blurry-eyed look.

"You’re drunk."

"It’s the same thing," you mutter dismissively.

"No, it’s not." He is looking at you with that warm, steady gaze that makes your knees feel weak.

You smile, light and tipsy. "Yes, it is."

At your door, you miss the lock twice. He laughs softly before helping you. "Thank you," you whisper. "For this, for the wine, the company, and everything."

His lips curve into a small, warm smile. "Good night, old enough.:

You smile again — you seem to always be smiling when he is around. "Good night, old man."

You step inside, close the door, and lean against it with your heart racing and your whole body warm from the wine and his words — still smiling like an idiot.

A few minutes later, you are curled up in bed when your phone buzz on the nightstand.

────────

You have been tossing and turning on the mattress for what feels like hours — shifting positions, turning to the other side, but nothing helps. You can’t fall asleep — you mind refuses to stop, racing with thoughts about exams, deadlines, and the weight of all your responsibilities pressing down on your shoulders. You need air, you need to feel like you are not suffocating in that apartment, surrounded by boxes you haven't even had the time to unpack yet. There are several unfinished notes on your desk that constantly remind you that you are not doing enough, no matter how hard you try.

So you go up to the rooftop. The cool night air hits your face and lets you breathe again.

The city is an endless sea of lights — countless tiny glowing points in the darkness that remind you how small you really are. You sit on the old bench near the edge of the roof, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them like a shield.

Your thoughts slowly begin to calm as the minutes pass, and the knot in your chest loosens just a little.

Then the door creaks open behind you.

You turn quickly, your body instantly on alert and your heart racing. And there he is — Jay. He is wearing sweatpants and a black shirt, something about this casual, almost domestic look makes your heart skip a beat. He sees you immediately and stops. Surprise flashes across his face for a second before it turns into that familiar half-smile.

"Can’t sleep either?" His voice is low, almost intimate in a way that makes you shiver.

You shake your head. "I have too much on my mind right now…"

He nods as if he completely understands — and he really does. Walking toward you, he stops at a respectful distance before sitting on the bench beside you — close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body, but not so close that he invades your personal space. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all." You shift over a little even though there is already enough space.

He leans back, looking up at the sky, which is beautiful tonight with a full moon and stars shining brightly. The silence stretches between you. He doesn’t force conversation; he simply sits there observing the sky and the city with you. The silence is not awkward — it is actually comforting, especially when you are with him.

"I can’t sleep," you admit, breaking the silence with words that slip out before you can stop them. "I try, but my brain just won’t stop. Every time I close my eyes, I start thinking about all the things I have to do, all the things I haven’t done, and all the ways I’m probably going to mess everything up."

"What’s on your mind?" His voice is gentle and patient as always, showing that he is ready to listen.

"Everything." You let out a shaky sigh. "College, exams, being away from my family for the first time… It’s a lot. I thought I was ready, that I could handle it. But sometimes it feels like I’m drowning and I don’t know how to swim. Literally."

"I know how that feels," he says after a long moment of silence. His eyes stay fixed on yours, and there is something raw in them — something honest. "I remember feeling exactly like that. Like everything was too much and I was too small to handle it."

"You’re talking about yourself. That’s new," you say softly. "You always ask about me, but you never—"

"You already have enough on your plate," he cuts in gently.

You blink, caught off guard. "What?"

"You’re stressed about college, adjusting to a new city, and far from your family," he keeps his gaze steady on you, his expression sincere. "You don’t need to hear about my problems too."

"That’s not how it works." You shake your head as something warm and confusing blooms in your chest. "We’re supposed to share things. That’s what—" You pause, searching for the right word. "That’s what friends do."

"I don’t want to burden you when you’re already dealing with so much, and I certainly don’t want to make it worse."

You stay quiet for a moment, his words stirring something you cannot quite name — but it feels good. "That’s really… kind," you finally say.

"I try." He shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips.

The silence settles again, and you sit together quietly for a while longer. Then, out of nowhere, he tilts his head and asks, "How’s your succulent doing?"

You laugh at the unexpected question. "You’re asking about my plant?"

"I remember you mentioned it." He turns toward you — fully turning his body — with a small playful smile on his lips. "I bet you gave it a name."

You shake your head, still smiling. "I haven’t named it yet… but it’s still alive, which is honestly impressive."

"You’re supposed to water it," he says in a gently scolding tone.

"I know." You look away, feeling a little guilty about slowly killing a plant.

"But you forget." There is no judgment in his voice, only warm amusement.

"I forget." You laugh — something you always do when you are with him. "I have a lot on my mind, okay?"

"You’re a plant killer." He smiles, making you grin even wider.

"I’m not a plant killer! I’m just… forgetful. It is surviving, which is more than I can say about myself sometimes."

Something in your words changes his expression. It is still gentle, but now there is a hint of concern. "You’re doing better than you think."

You don’t know what to say, so you just look at him, with the words stuck in your throat.

"Does the succulent at least have company?" he asks after a moment, his voice light as always.

You blink, confused by the sudden question. "What?"

"Other plants, maybe some flowers, something to keep it company. Plants get lonely too."

You laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t think it gets lonely. It’s just a plant, after all."

"All living things have feelings. It definitely feels lonely," he says with so much conviction that you almost believe him.

"That’s not scientifically accurate," you reply, not entirely sure if what you are saying is accurate either.

"I never said it was." He shrugs. "I’m a lawyer. I deal with arguments, not facts."

"They’re the same thing."

"Not at all." He shifts closer to you on the bench, making sure you are listening. "Facts are objective. Arguments are subjective. I make a living turning subjective arguments into something that sounds like objective facts."

"That’s… something. And you’re so weird."

"I’m just concerned about your plant’s loneliness." His voice is incredibly serious, showing that he is taking this very seriously.

"You’re worried about my plant," you say, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, just like I worry about you."

You don’t know what to say again — Jay has a way of leaving you speechless. Your cheeks flush and you look away. "I’ve never received flowers before, anyway…" you say softly, the secret slipping from your lips.

Jay is not sure he heard you correctly. "What did you say?"

Even though you hesitate, you repeat it, louder this time. "I’ve never received flowers." You look down at your hands, fidgeting with your fingers. "I had a boyfriend before, but he was an idiot. He never did anything romantic like giving me flowers or taking me for dates."

He stays silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on you while your heart pounds loudly in your ears. He is thinking about something — you can tell by the way his jaw tightens. "Would you want to go on one? With me."

You stop breathing the moment you hear his words and everything around you seems to freeze. "What?"

"A date. A real date where I pick you up, open doors for you, and take you somewhere nice. It doesn’t have to be romantic if you don’t want it to be. It can just be two people spending time together. Whatever makes you feel comfortable."

Your heart is beating so hard you are sure he can hear it, your mouth is dry, your palms are sweaty, and the words feel stuck in your throat again. Jay is asking you out on a date — a real date. The age gap has been on your mind since the day you met — he is a lawyer and you are still trying to figure out how to live on your own, but every interaction with him feels safe, like he truly sees you.

"Jay, I—" You stop, taking a shaky breath.

"You don’t have to answer right now," he says gently, giving you time to think.

"No, I—" You take another deep breath, and this time the words come out steady. "Yes. Yes, I want that."

His face transforms — a slow, warm smile spreads across his lips and reaches his eyes, making your stomach flip and your heart race just like always.

"Great," he says softly. "I’ll plan something."

A shy laugh escapes you as the reality of it sinks in. "What do you like to do on dates? I’m sure you’ve been on plenty."

He leans forward a little, resting his elbow on his knee. "I want to know what you like. That’s what matters right now, tell me your preferences so I can plan something good for you."

As you think for a moment, you suddenly feel embarrassed by how limited your preferences are. "I’m kind of picky, honestly. I like pasta, I hate anything too spicy, and I don’t like overly sweet desserts. Oh, and I’m not a big fan of seafood unless it’s fried. Is that too much?"

Jay listens attentively, nodding as if he is absorbing every detail. "Not at all. Being picky isn’t a problem, it actually makes it easier to get it right." He pauses, a playful glint appearing in his eyes. "You know, for someone who’s a disaster in the kitchen, you have very specific opinions, princess."

The nickname lands softly between you — affectionate and teasing, with a hint of warmth. Your breath catches, your face flushes instantly, and you lower your head to hide the redness in your cheeks and the smile forming on your lips.

"I… You can’t just say that," you murmur, looking at him through your lashes.

"Why not?" He is smiling even more now, clearly enjoying your reaction. "It suits you. You have high standards and you know exactly what you want, even if you pretend you don’t."

You cover your face with both hands for a second, peeking through your fingers. "You’re going to make me regret saying yes."

"Too late," he murmurs, his voice low and affectionate. "You already said yes."

You lower your hands and meet his gaze, your heart racing in the best possible way. Jay stands up suddenly and offers you his hand. "Come on, it’s getting late and you have class tomorrow. Let’s get you back inside before you freeze."

You take his hand — which is so much bigger than yours — and let him help you up. He doesn’t let go afterward, his fingers stay intertwined with yours as you walk together toward your floor. The elevator is no longer broken, but you both take the stairs anyway, wanting to prolong the moment a little longer.

Stopping at your door, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with his free hand. “I'll text you about the date,” he says softly. "We’ll pick a night that works."

You nod, still feeling a little shy about everything. "Okay… Good night, Jay."

"Good night, princess."

────────

The next day, you are more nervous than you have ever been. Every notification on your phone makes your heart skip a beat, terrified that it is Jay confirming the date. Your stomach is in knots with a mix of panic and hope, even though you want to go on this date, you are still incredibly nervous about it.

Your phone buzzes while you are in the library trying to study. "Friday at seven? I’ll take care of everything. Just be ready for a proper night out."

The words "proper night out" send a shiver through you. He is taking this seriously, treating it as something special, even though he said it didn’t have to be romantic. Still, it means something. Smiling so wide that your cheeks hurt, you text back agreeing.

When Friday finally arrives, the butterflies in your stomach refuse to calm down. In fact, they become even more restless as the time of the date gets closer. Hours before, you start getting ready — taking your time as you choose an outfit that makes you feel confident and beautiful. You spend extra time on your makeup, keeping it natural but enhancing your eyes and lips, making sure everything is perfect.

Exactly at seven, you take the elevator down. Jay had insisted on waiting outside the building instead of knocking on your door. "I want you to have the full experience," he had texted earlier, and the gesture made you smile despite your nerves. The moment you step out onto the sidewalk, you see him leaning against his sleek black car parked at the curb. He looks unfairly handsome in a tailored dark shirt and pants.

For a moment, he simply looks at you — slowly scanning from your face to your dress and back up again as his smile widens. "You look beautiful," he says, taking a step closer. "Really, truly beautiful."

Your cheeks flush quickly and a smile forms on your lips. "Thank you. You look really handsome too."

Before you can say anything else, he reaches inside the car and pulls out a beautiful bouquet of flowers. "I remembered what you said on the rooftop…"

The bouquet is perfect, wrapped so beautifully that it makes your chest tighten. "Jay…" you whisper as you reach out to take the flowers. "They’re beautiful. I don’t even know what to say."

Without thinking, you give him a grateful hug. His arms wrap around you immediately, one hand resting on your lower back while the other gently caresses the nape of your neck. "You don’t have to say anything. Just enjoy tonight. That’s all I want."

When you pull away, still smiling widely, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear and asks, "Ready to go, princess?"

You nod, holding the flowers like a lifeline. He opens the car door for you, waiting until you are settled before closing it gently. When he slides into the driver’s seat, he looks at you with a playful smile. "Seatbelt, please. Safety first."

You laugh and buckle up. "Such a gentleman."

"Only for you."

The drive starts peacefully, soft music playing in the background as you talk. He asks about your day and teases you lightly when you admit that you spent half of your class daydreaming about tonight and that it took you forever to choose what to wear.

You can’t stop stealing glances at him — the way his hands rest easily on the steering wheel, those large hands with long fingers, and the way he looks at you at red lights as if making sure you are still real.

After a few minutes, you notice the city lights fading and buildings giving way to trees. "Where are we going?" you ask curiously, realizing he has been driving for a while — much farther than you expected. "This is pretty far from our building. Are you taking me somewhere to kill me?"

Jay laughs, keeping his eyes on the road. "I’m not going to kill you. I’m just taking you to a place I love, and I think you’ll love it too."

The drive takes about thirty minutes, but when you finally arrive, the restaurant leaves you breathless. You immediately understand why he chose it — it is cozy and elegant, with a stunning view of the city. He reserved a intimate corner table with the perfect view.

He pulls out the chair for you, and as soon as you sit down, he leans in slightly to whisper in your ear, "Relax, okay?"

The dinner unfolds perfectly. You order pasta — creamy, exactly the way you like it — and he chooses a steak dish, offering you a bite from his fork with a raised eyebrow that feels far more intimate than it should. You talk a lot, and he listens as always, head tilted and eyes focused only on you.

You tell him about the friendships you are making in college, about the strange noise your AC is making, and absentmindedly mention the doorman. "He’s nice, I think… but sometimes he looks at me like he knows something I don’t."

Jay’s expression shifts with something unreadable for half a second, but he quickly covers it with a soft chuckle. "He’s probably just in a bad mood. Or maybe he sees how much you’re distracting your poor neighbor."

You laugh. "Poor neighbor? You seem to be handling it pretty well."

His foot brushes against yours under the table. "Barely."

In the middle of the conversation, Jay’s phone buzzes on the table. He glances at it, frowns, and silences it, slipping it into his pocket.

But a few minutes later, it buzzed again. Jay sighs. "I need to take this. It’s probably an emergency with a client. I won’t be long. I’m really sorry."

"Go ahead. I’ll be here judging the dessert menu."

He leans in and gives you a quick kiss on your temple before standing up. "I’ll be right back, princess."

The casual display of affection makes your heart race as you watch him walk away. While he is gone, you take a sip of your wine, observe the people around you, and study the dessert menu.

He returns after about five minutes, sliding back into his seat with an apologetic smile. "All sorted. Where were we?"

When the check arrives, Jay pays without hesitation, even though you offered to split it. Outside, the night air is cold, so he drapes his jacket over your shoulders when he notices you shivering. Then he pulls you closer for a moment, wrapping his arms around you. "Thank you for saying yes," he murmurs against your hair.

You look up at him, smiling. "That was the best decision I’ve made in a long time."

The drive back feels shorter than the trip there, unfortunately — you wish this moment could last forever. Jay keeps one hand on the wheel and the other holding yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles that send shivers down your spine. You arrive at the building sooner than you would like, but instead of stopping at the curb, Jay drives into the underground garage.

You unbuckle your seatbelt. "Thank you, Jay. For everything, the flowers, the dinner, the evening… I had a really great time."

He turns to you, that slow smile playing on his lips. "I’m glad, princess."

You reach for the door handle, but his hand moves quickly, wrapping around your wrist and stopping you. Your breath catches at the unexpected contact. "Wait, aren’t you going to thank me properly?"

You blink, confused. "I just did? The hug outside the restaurant and just now."

Jay chuckles, and his gaze shifts into something hungrier. "That was sweet, but I was thinking of something a little more fitting for the end of a perfect night."

Without overthinking it, you lean across the console and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," you whisper again, pulling back to see his reaction.

His smile widens. "Still not enough, princess. Come here."

He cups the back of your neck and pulls you closer. The kiss starts soft, his lips meeting yours hesitantly, and you quickly melt into it, which makes him deepen the kiss while still keeping a slow, deliberate pace. His tongue traces your lower lip, and you part for him with a small sigh.

What begins as one kiss turns into many, you lose count as they grow more intense, hungry, and urgent.

Somehow, you end up climbing over the console. His hands guide your hips until you are straddling his lap in the driver’s seat. The space is tight and the steering wheel presses against your back, but you couldn't care less right now. His hands roam along your sides, sliding up your dress until they rest on your thighs, his thumbs drawing circles that make you whimper against his mouth.

You kiss him again and again, tangling your fingers in his hair and tugging gently, which draws a low groan from him. That only encourages you — hips start moving on their own, pressing against the growing hardness beneath you. The friction makes you gasp, and Jay clearly loves the sight — he squeezes your thighs, encouraging your movements.

"God, you’re incredible," he whispers against your mouth between kisses. "So responsive… so perfect."

Jay pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, breathing hard. "You deserve better than this, princess. Our first time shouldn’t be in a car like a couple of impatient teenagers."

You kiss him again, more intensely, nipping at his lower lip. "I don’t care, I want you right here."

He groans, sliding his hand into your hair to pull you into another hungry kiss. "You’re so eager, princess… and so perfect grinding against me like this."

His mouth moves down to your neck, sucking lightly and drawing more whimpers from you. Your movements become restless, rubbing harder, chasing friction. "Jay…" you whisper between kisses. "I need you, please."

His hands find the hem of your dress, slowly pulling it up inch by inch with clear appreciation until he discards it onto the passenger seat. "Beautiful," he murmurs reverently as he stares at your tits. "So beautiful." He leans down, pressing hot, wet kisses along the soft skin, then his tongue circles one nipple before sucking it deeply into his mouth.

You arch your back, a moan escaping your lips. He gives the same attention to the other tit, licking, sucking, and grazing the sensitive skin with his teeth while his hand massages and caresses the first. “You taste so good,” he praises, his voice muffled. "These perfect tits in my mouth… you’re already trembling. So sensitive for me."

He kisses lower, along your sternum and ribs, then back up — worshipping every inch of you while you keep grinding against him. Your panties are soaked, and the friction against his hardness only turns you on more.

He waits until you’re trembling in his lap before he finally moves. Reaching between you, he lowers his pants and boxers just enough to free himself, and when he does, your eyes widen. He is big — thick and hard. The sight makes your mouth water and heat pool low in your belly.

Jay reaches into the glove compartment, fumbling for a condom. He tears it open and rolls it down his length with surprising skill while you watch, hypnotized and a little intimidated by his size and thickness. "You’re… really big," you say softly.

Jay notices your nervousness and caresses your cheek, trying to soothe you. "We’ll go slow, princess. I’ve got you. My good girl can take it."

He helps you shift your panties to the side, guiding you as you sink down onto him. The stretch is intense but delicious — you take him inch by inch, breathing deeply as he fills you completely, murmuring praises nonstop. "That’s it, princess… so tight, so good for me… so fucking perfect around me."

You bury your face in his neck as you sink all the way down, taking him completely until your ass is pressed firmly against his lap. "Oh God… you’re so, so big," you moan, still adjusting to the intense stretch.

The age difference flashes through your mind — he is older, more experienced, probably used to women who knew exactly what they were doing. You want to be good for him, so once you feel ready, you start moving — bouncing with almost frantic energy, desperate to please him. Your hips move and grind fast, determined.

"Easy, princess," Jay groans, gripping your hips to slow you down. "Slow… just like that. You feel incredible, but there’s no rush. I’m not going anywhere."

You moan, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. "I just… you’ve probably been with so many others who were better at this. I want to make it good for you. I want to be the best—"

He cuts you off with a deep kiss, then pulls back to look into your eyes while still guiding your movements into a slower, deeper rhythm. "Hey, none of that. It’s just you right now, and you’re already the best, baby. Look at how perfectly you take me." He thrusts up gently to emphasize his words, drawing a moan from you. "You’re my princess."

You relax into his words and the rhythm he sets, moving your hips in deep, grinding motions instead of frantic bouncing. It feels even better this way — his thickness brushing against every sensitive spot inside you. "Like this?" you ask breathlessly, your voice shy but needy.

"Just like that," he praises, his voice rough. "So good for me. So wet… so tight. You’re perfect, listen to those pretty sounds you make."

You keep whispering to him the whole time — shy confessions and soft, breathless questions. "You feel so good, Jay… I feel so full. Does it feel good for you? Tell me if you’re enjoying it."

He groans, his hands roaming over your back, squeezing your ass, then returning to your tits so he can lick and suck them while you ride him. "I love it. I love everything you do. The way you squeeze me… the way you say my name. You’re ruining me, princess."

The pleasure builds uncontrollably, intense and overwhelming, leaving both of you sweaty and breathless. He slides a hand between you to your clit, circling it with his thumb in time with your movements. You tremble hard, moaning and gasping, telling him how close you are, how good he feels, and how much you have wanted this since the day you moved in.

When you come, your walls pulse tightly around his thickness and your body shakes as you cry out his name. Jay follows right after, holding you firmly against him as he finishes into the condom with a deep groan, murmuring endless praises. "That’s it, come for me… so beautiful giving yourself to me completely… my perfect girl."

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard. He wraps his arms around you tightly, kissing your temple while his hands gently caress your back. "You okay?" he whispers after a while. "Was it too much?"

"It was perfect," you murmur, nuzzling into his neck. "Better than I imagined. Thank you for slowing me down when I got too excited. I probably embarrassed myself, right?"

He shakes his head lightly and laughs, then he gives you one last kiss on your temple and helps you climb back into the passenger seat, watching as you slip your dress back on. "Don’t forget these," he says, reaching for the bouquet.

You take it with a happy smile. "I wouldn’t dare."

He walks around the car to open your door and intertwines his fingers with yours as you walk toward the elevator. Once inside, he pulls you close and kisses you the entire way up to your floor.

"Your place tonight?" you ask against his lips.

Jay’s hand slides to your lower back, pulling you even closer. "Yes, because I’m not done with you yet. I need you in my bed. The thought of you in my sheets, smelling like me when you wake up… it drives me crazy."

The elevator doors open and he pulls you down the hallway toward his door, unlocking it effortlessly. The moment you are both inside, he takes the flowers from your hand, sets them on the counter, and turns to you with hungry eyes. "Come here," he growls, pulling you into a deep, desperate kiss. His hands cup your face first, then slide down your body. "Let me take care of you properly this time."

He leads you to the bedroom and there, he undresses you slowly, admiring and kissing every inch of exposed skin. When you are completely naked, he steps back and looks at you with pure admiration and desire. "Fuck, look at you… so perfect. Every curve, every inch… all mine tonight."

He removes his own clothes and guides you onto the bed, settling between your spread thighs. His warm palms caress them, spreading you open even more. His mouth is on you immediately, licking a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit before circling the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue, savoring you. "Mmm, already so wet," the vibration of his voice makes you gasp. "You taste so sweet, princess. Like you were made for my mouth."

You let out a shaky moan, your fingers tangling in his hair and pulling him closer. "Jay… that feels incredible. Oh God—"

He slides a finger inside you, curling it against that sweet spot while his mouth continues sucking and licking. The suction around your clit, the rhythm of his finger stroking that perfect spot deep inside — it all turns the pleasure into something deliciously overwhelming. He adds a second finger, then a third, carefully stretching you as he pumps them in and out.

Your hips move against his face as the pleasure intensifies. "Don’t stop… please, Jay, just like that," you moan, your voice breathless and desperate. He eats you out like a starving man — licking, sucking, and thrusting his fingers into you until your thighs shake around his head and you fall apart with a long, loud cry. You clench and pulse around his fingers as the orgasm crashes through you.

Jay doesn’t stop right away, he keeps licking and fingering you through it, prolonging every sensation until you are limp and panting. Only then he drags his mouth up your body, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, between your breasts, and up your neck. "You taste like heaven," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "I could do this all night, make you come on my tongue until you go stupid."

He grabs a condom from the nightstand and rolls it on quickly over his hard, leaking cock. You reach down, wrapping your hand around his thick, hard length — stroking him slowly, feeling the weight, the pulsing heat, tracing the veins with curiosity. "I want it raw, Jay… I need to feel you, please."

He groans deeply, his hips pushing forward into your fist. "Baby… protection first, remember? I’ll still make you feel good even with the latex between us, I promise." After kissing your forehead, he positions himself at your entrance and pushes in inch by inch, his eyes locked on yours the entire time. You feel a burning stretch as your walls slowly give way to him, every thick pulsing vein dragging against your sensitive insides. When he’s halfway in, you look down between your bodies and see the clear bulge pressing out against your lower belly.

He notices it right after and quickly slides a hand down to press against the bulge, feeling it move under his palm as he sinks deeper. "Fuck, look at that. You see how deep I am? My cock is rearranging your insides, princess. Stretching this tight pussy so you can see it from the outside."

Your hand joins his, pressing against the visible outline, feeling him move inside you from both the inside and the outside. He teases you mercilessly, thrusting slow and deep so the bulge shifts under your combined touch. "You’re taking me so well, like this pussy was made for my cock. So greedy, swallowing every inch."

He sinks the rest of the way in with a guttural groan, bottoming out completely. "Shit… so tight, so hot. You’re already milking me."

His thick cock fills you so completely that every movement presses against sensitive spots that steal the breath from your lungs. His thrusts start controlled and incredibly gentle instead of brutal force. One hand stays intertwined with yours above your head, while the other caresses your cheek, squeezes your breast, and lightly pinches your nipple before soothing it with his thumb. "You look like pure sin wrapped around me… My beautiful princess, creaming all over my cock, taking every inch like a good girl. I’m going to ruin you for anyone else."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Jay… it feels so good. You’re so deep, I can feel you everywhere." He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy kiss as his hips move faster in a devastating rhythm that pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

You come hard around him, your walls fluttering and clenching tightly as you cry out. He does not stop, thrusting deep and steady, prolonging your orgasm until you are shaking. "Fuck, that’s it, come on my cock, baby."

Jay follows right after, burying himself as deep as possible with a long, broken groan of your name as he cums, pulsing inside you. He stays buried deep for long moments afterwards, holding you close and covering your face, neck, and shoulders with soft kisses until both of your breathing steadies.

Eventually, he pulls out carefully, discards the condom, and returns from the bathroom with a warm, damp cloth. He cleans you both gently, murmuring more praises the entire time. "You were perfect, princess. So responsive, so beautiful when you come for me." He pulls the sheets over both of you and wraps you in his arms.

Your head rests on Jay’s chest while his fingers trace a lazy path along your spine, down to the curve of your waist. Without a word, you shift, turning onto your side. Jay follows naturally, molding his body against yours from behind in a perfect spoon. His chest presses against your back as he slides an arm around your waist, pulling you even closer. You can already feel him half-hard again against the curve of your ass, sending a fresh wave of heat through your body.

He nuzzles into the back of your neck, placing soft kisses there. "You okay?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough in the quiet room.

"More than okay," you whisper back, pressing lightly against him. "I like feeling you close like this."

Jay reaches for another condom from the nightstand. You hear the faint rustle as he puts it on, then his hand returns to your body, tenderly caressing your side and hip. He lifts your top leg slightly, hooking it over his, opening you up for him. The thick head of his cock brushes against your entrance before he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until he is buried completely inside you.

"So good," he whispers against your neck, sliding a hand up to caress your breast. His fingers massage gently, his thumb circling your nipple until it hardens under his touch.

He starts moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips, thrusting unhurriedly so you can feel every inch of his thick cock dragging against your walls. While he fucks you, his hand on your breast never stops worshipping it — squeezing, rolling your nipple between his fingers, occasionally pinching lightly before soothing it with gentle caresses. And his mouth keeps placing open-mouthed kisses along the back of your neck, back, and shoulder.

You reach behind you, running your fingers through his hair as you move with him. "Jay… deeper like that feels so good."

His thrusts become a little deeper, but still controlled. "You take me so well every single time. Look at how perfectly you fit around me. I could stay inside you forever." His mouth finds the sensitive spot on your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark while he continues playing with your breasts — pinching, rolling, and caressing until your nipples are deliciously sore. Only then he slid his hand down to your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. The combination of sensations is overwhelming and pushes you closer and closer to the edge. "You’re so close… I can feel you squeezing me. Come for me again, princess."

And you do. Your walls contract rhythmically around his thickness as you moan his name, your body trembling in his arms. Jay follows right after you, burying his face in your neck with a deep groan as he comes, filling the condom.

You turn your head slightly to capture his lips in a lazy kiss. "I feel so safe with you," you whisper. "And so wanted."

He stays inside you until the aftershocks fade, then carefully pulls out, discards the condom, and cleans you both once again with gentle care. He pulls the sheets up around you both and draws you back into his arms, spooning you again.

Jay’s hand rests tenderly on your stomach, tracing small circles there. You feel deeply in love and completely at peace as you start to drift off to sleep, safe in his arms.

Sunlight is already filtering through the curtains by the time you slowly wake up the next morning —.only to realize the space beside you is empty, even though the warmth of Jay’s body and the faint scent of his cologne still linger around. You stretch and sit up to look around the room, noticing one of his shirts draped over the back of a chair. Slipping it on, you pad barefoot out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, drawn by the rich aroma of coffee and food already filling the air.

Jay is at the stove, flipping eggs while a plate of toast and cut fruit waits for you on the counter. You walk up to him and wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. "Good morning."

He turns off the stove and turns around, settling his hands on your hips. His gaze softens instantly when he sees you wearing his shirt. "Good morning, princess. You look way too good in my clothes."

You laugh softly and tilt your face up, expecting a kiss. He leans in but pauses with a playful look. "Ah, but you haven’t brushed your teeth yet. No good-morning kisses until after breakfast."

You pout and dramatically pull away. "Not even a kiss on the cheek? You’re so cruel."

With a sigh, he gives in — pressing a long kiss to your cheek, then another to your forehead. Before you can say anything, he effortlessly lifts you and sits you on the edge of the kitchen counter, standing between your knees. "There. Now I can look at you properly while I finish this."

As he moves around the kitchen, your eyes wander until they stop on the refrigerator. Something catches your attention — photos are held up by magnets, but one in particular stands out: a Polaroid of Jay smiling with his arm around a woman’s shoulders. You hadn't noticed it on your previous visits to the kitchen — you had been too focused on him. "Who is that?" you ask curiously, nodding toward the fridge. "The woman in the photo with you?"

Jay glances over while sliding a plate toward you. "That’s my sister. We don’t look much alike, I know. We’re actually half-siblings."

You tilt your head, studying the photo for another second. They really do not look very similar, but that is not unusual for half-siblings. "She looks nice," you say lightly, accepting the plate he offers. "Breakfast looks delicious, by the way. You really didn’t have to."

"I wanted to," he replies, stepping between your knees and stealing a quick peck. "After last night, it feels right to take care of you this morning… and maybe every other morning too."

You smile shyly. "Speaking of last night… it was incredible. You made everything feel so good, so right. I keep replaying every part of it in my head."

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. "You were perfect, baby. I loved every second of it." He leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth. "You’re so beautiful when you let go for me."

"You’re going to make it really hard for me to focus in class today." You take a bite of the toast, savoring it. "Oh, by the way, I’m going out with some new friends from college tonight. They invited me to a party, it’s a chance to get to know each other better outside of class."

Jay nods, resting a hand on your thigh and stroking it lightly. "Sounds fun. Just be careful, okay? Text me when you get there and when you’re heading back."

"I will," you say, stealing another quick kiss from him. "I won’t stay out too late anyway. I have an early class tomorrow."

He picks up a piece of fruit from the plate and brings it to your mouth, brushing his fingers teasingly against your lips. "You deserve to have fun… I’ll be here if you need anything when you get back."

You stumble out of your friend’s car a little after 1 a.m., waving goodbye as you sway on your feet. You make your way toward the building entrance and suddenly remember that you promised to text Jay — which you didn’t. So you call him to let him know you arrived and are heading up. In response, he says he is waiting for you.

When you reach the third floor, Jay’s door is already open and he is waiting for you. "Heyyy," you say cheerfully, immediately wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face against his chest. "I’m back. Just like I promised."

Laughing Jay’s arms wrap around you automatically as he looks at you more closely. "You’re pretty drunk, princess. How was the party?"

"So much fun," you ramble, clinging to him tighter as he guides you inside and closes the door. "We danced, there was a shot game, and my new friends are so funny. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt." You tilt your head up, puckering your lips. "Kiss?"

Instead of a proper kiss, he gives you a quick one on your forehead. "You smell like a distillery and your shirt is soaked, what happened?"

You look down at the sticky stain on your shirt and pout. "Someone spilled on me. It’s gross. But I still want kisses, real kisses." You try to pull his face down, standing on your tiptoes. "I missed you all night. I kept thinking about you during the party… about how nice you were last night. We should do that again right now."

Jay gently holds your wrists to stop you. "Not tonight, princess. You’re drunk."

"But I want you," you beg, pressing closer, but he doesn’t give in at all. "You’re so hot, so gentle, and… big. Please?"

He shakes his head and guides you toward the bathroom. "No. Only when you’re sober and can remember everything clearly. Right now, I’m just taking care of you, okay?"

"Let’s get you cleaned up," he says gently once you reach the bathroom. Reaching for the hem of your wet shirt he carefully pulls it off, followed by the rest of your clothes.

"You’re always so gentle with me," you murmur, watching him adjust the shower temperature. "No one has ever been this gentle. I really, really like you, Jay."

He smiles softly and helps you into the shower, joining you still fully dressed so he can take care of you. Jay keeps one hand on your waist to steady you while the other runs soapy over your shoulders and arms.

The alcohol in your system makes your emotions spill out easily before you can stop them. "I think… I think I’m falling for you," you confess, your tongue loose, making your cheeks flush. "Is that crazy? It feels too fast. I know I’m younger and still figuring everything out, but being with you just feels right. You make me feel safe, wanted, and special."

Jay pauses for half a second, processing what he just heard, but then continues washing you carefully — lathering the floral-scented body wash over your skin. "This smells like… girl stuff," you say, a little curious. "Is it yours?"

He looks away for a moment before answering. "It’s my mom’s. She left some things here the last time she came to visit."

"Ah," You rest your forehead against his chest as the water runs over both of you. "I meant it, though. About falling for you. Even if it’s too soon… I can’t help it."

Jay wraps his arms fully around you under the spray of water, holding you close — voice is full of affection when he finally replies. "Hey… look at me, princess." He gently lifts your chin. "What you’re feeling… I feel it too." Softly, he kisses your forehead, then the tip of your nose. "We don’t need to rush or label anything right now. Just know that I’m here and I care about you a lot."

Even in your alcohol-fueled haze, his words calm the part of you that was worried you were moving too fast. "Really? You feel it too?"

"I do." He continues washing you carefully — your arms, your back, your sides — just taking care of you. "Being with you is easy. Natural. So let’s just enjoy it, okay? One day at a time."

Jay finishes rinsing you off and helps you out of the shower. Wrapping you in a towel he dries you gently before dressing you in one of his shirts. By the time he guides you to bed, you are already sleepy. He helps you lie down and you snuggle into the sheets, murmuring one last "I really like you" before falling asleep.

────────

The following days feel almost too good to be real.

You wake up in Jay’s bed, wrapped in his arms and wearing one of his shirts. He always wakes up before you to make breakfast and greet you with a good morning kiss and that smile that still makes your heart flutter. But on some mornings, you pull him back into bed to cuddle before classes and work, and without any argument, he makes time to make you feel loved.

When you get home from class, tired, Jay is already there to greet you cheerfully despite his own exhaustion. He texts you during the day, asking how your classes are going and reminding you to eat. When you are together, he pulls you in for slow, affectionate kisses — the kind that make your legs weak. Some nights you cook together as he tries to teach you how to make proper meals. Other nights he orders takeout and you eat on the couch while you tell him every detail of your day. He still doesn’t share much about himself, always dodging the subject, but you do not push — you don’t want to be invasive.

The sex is frequent — sometimes slow and worshipful, his mouth and hands adoring every inch of you until you are trembling and coming apart. Other times it is faster and more urgent — against the kitchen counter, in the shower, on the couch, in his home office. One night you try baking cookies together, ending up covered in flour and laughing as he kisses the mess off your cheek. Another night you start watching a movie cuddled together, but the movie is forgotten halfway through when clothes come off and he fucks you right there on the couch.

Suddenly everything feels so domestic — he now keeps an extra toothbrush for you, your notebooks are on his coffee table, and some of your clothes are scattered around his apartment. It is undeniable that you are falling deeper and deeper in love.

On a Sunday afternoon, you are studying on his couch while Jay is in his home office, working on a complicated case that demands his full attention. After hours buried in books and notes, concentrating is almost impossible. At this point, your mind keeps wandering to him without permission. When your brain finally gives up, you close the book with a dramatic sigh.

You walk down the hallway and peek into his office. Jay is sitting at his desk with his sleeves rolled up, looking unfairly attractive as he concentrates on reviewing some papers. "Jay?" you call, walking in without waiting for an answer.

He looks up, and the moment his eyes meet yours, the tension in his shoulders softens. "Hey, princess. How are the studies going?"

Boring." You take a few steps closer and don’t ask for permission — you simply climb into his lap, settling on his thighs and wrapping your arms around his neck. You leave a trail of kisses along his jaw, then his cheek and lips. "I missed you. Pay attention to me? Just for a little while?"

One of his hands rests on your waist while the other continues organizing the documents. "I’d love to, baby, but this case is a nightmare. There are documents everywhere. I’m going crazy with these."

You nuzzle into the curve of his neck and kiss him there. "You’ve been in here for hours… you deserve a break." Your hips move subtly against him, restless, the friction sending a spark through both of you. You feel him twitch beneath you, already starting to respond to your movements.

Jay’s grip on your waist tightens. "Princess…" There is a warning tone in his voice, bordering on frustration. But as you grind against him, you can feel him beginning to harden, and that gives you hope — you think he might give in.

"You’re really testing me today." He pulls you into a kiss, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck. When he pulls away, it is with a frustrated sigh.

"That's the point," you whisper, smiling proudly against his lips as you continue grinding, slower this time, feeling him get even harder.

Jay curses under his breath, gripping your hips more firmly. No matter how hard he tries to hold back, he can’t, the desire is uncontrollable. He reaches between you and unzips his pants. "Fine, but you’re going to behave." He frees his hard, throbbing cock and pulls your panties and shorts to the side. This time there is nothing between you — no latex barrier, just him.

You sink down onto him slowly, and the new sensation hits you immediately — it’s different, hotter, more intimate. Every ridge and vein is raw against your walls, the skin-to-skin contact sends a shiver through your entire body and makes you moan as you settle fully onto him. The stretch feels deeper and more overwhelming than ever.

For a moment, it feels perfect — connected, raw.

But then his hands close firmly on your hips, holding you completely still. "Don’t move," he commands, his voice noticeably deeper and rougher. "Stay just like this. No grinding, no whimpering. I’m serious."

His cock pulses hot and heavy inside you, and you can barely focus on what he said. "Jay… oh my God, you feel—"

"I said don’t move," he interrupts, repeating it more harshly this time. His free hand returns to the stack of papers while the other arm stays wrapped around your waist, keeping you in place.

At first, you try to obey — resting your head on his shoulder and breathing deeply every time his cock twitches inside you, but the longer you sit there, the harder it becomes. You let out a soft moan as your hips twitch involuntarily. "Jay… please, just let me move a little bit."

"I told you not to move. Jesus, you’re really pushing it today." The irritation is clear in every word now, and his grip on your waist tightens even more. "I have a deadline. I can’t afford to get distracted like this."

Again, you try to stay still — you really do, until frustrated tears prick at your eyes — but your body betrays you with small, involuntary movements of your hips. "I’m sorry… I can’t help it. This is driving me crazy. I need you to move, please."

Jay’s jaw is tense and his breathing comes in heavy bursts — clearly fighting the urge to thrust up into you. "You think I don’t want to? You’re so tight and wet around me right now, but I can’t. I have work to do and you’re not letting me focus." His tone grows even harsher. "Stop squirming. Be a good girl for me and just sit there.”

But you do not listen — you roll your hips again, letting out a moan as he rubs against that sensitive spot inside you. "Jesus Christ. I told you I have work and this is fucking important."

"But I missed you and this is torture. Please, please just fu-"

He cuts you off sharply. "You always miss me, always need something. Kisses, hugs, my cock, my fucking attention. You practically live here now, your things are all over my apartment, you sleep in my bed like it’s yours. Isn’t that enough attention? You know what? I need you to get off so I can actually finish this case."

The words hurt, making your chest tighten — tears of frustration turn into something heavier and spill down your cheeks. "I didn’t mean to be annoying… I just wanted to be close to you."

"Yeah, well, wanting to be close to me doesn’t magically make my deadline disappear. I’m already behind because of distractions like this." His hand on your hip tightens even more, holding you completely still, the pressure bordering on uncomfortable. "You have your own apartment right next door. Just give me a few hours alone, for once."

You stare at him in disbelief at what you just heard. Suddenly the intimate position feels humiliating — the way you are still stretched around him while he looks at you like you are nothing but am annoyance. "You want me to leave? Like this… right now"

"I’m telling you to give me some space." With no patience left, he lifts you off him, leaving you empty and trembling. "Go to your place, take a nap, study, whatever. Just let me work."

You stand there with shaky legs, wiping away your tears, feeling small, vulnerable, and unwanted. With a quiet, trembling breath, you whisper, "…Okay."

It's past 9 PM when Jay finally steps out of his office, having finished dealing with that pile of papers. The silence hangs heavy now, normally you would be humming, curled up on the couch waiting for him, or laughing at something silly on your phone. Without you, the space feels too empty. He had been rude — way too rude — and he sees that now. He owes you an apology, so he walks over to your door, but just as he is about to knock, he notices the door is not fully closed — it’s slightly ajar, allowing him to hear low murmurs of voices.

Frowning, he pushes the door open a little more and steps inside, finding a guy standing right at the entrance to your living room, putting on a jacket. The guy turns at the sound of the door, his expression quickly shifting to surprise. "Ah, hi. You must be Jay. She talks about you a lot."

He looks over the other guy’s shoulder toward the couch where you are sitting with your knees pulled up. The guy cleans his throat, sensing the tension between the two of you. "I was just leaving… It was really nice talking to you." He gives you a small wave. "Text me if you need anything else, okay?"

You smile and wave back. "Yeah. Thanks, Jake. Drive safe."

As Jake heads for the door, Jay blocks his path. "Wait. What exactly were you doing here?"

Jake blinks, surprised by the sudden question. "She seemed pretty down when we texted, so I decided to stop by and check if she was okay. Anyway, I’m heading out. Nice to meet you, man."

He steps aside, letting Jake pass. The door closes behind him, leaving just the two of you in the suddenly too-quiet apartment.

You stand up, hugging yourself. "Jay… what are you doing here?"

The regret he felt for being so harsh with you is quickly replaced by jealousy and irritation. "I came because my place was too quiet without you. I started thinking maybe I was too hard on you earlier, but clearly you didn’t waste any time finding company."

You frown, confused by what he means. "He’s just a friend. I told you about him before, we met during my first week on campus when I accidentally walked into the wrong lecture hall. I was upset after you basically kicked me out, so I texted him. We weren’t doing anything, just talking."

Jay lets out a short, bitter laugh and steps closer. "Talking late at night like it’s a casual visit. You mentioned him before, of course, but I didn’t know you two were close enough for house calls."

The hurt from earlier mixes with frustration now. "You were so rude, Jay. You made me feel like I was an annoying pest who can’t function without your attention. I understand you’re stressed with work, but you didn’t have to push me away and kick me out like that. I felt embarrassed."

He closes even more of the distance between you, standing close enough that you can feel the jealousy radiating off him. "You’re the one who can’t sit still for five minutes without demanding something, climbing into my lap while I’m trying to meet a deadline, whimpering and squirming like a spoiled brat because you ‘missed me’."

You take a step back, but the couch hits the back of your legs. "I just wanted to be close to you."

"But the world doesn’t revolve around your need for attention. I love having you around, but today? You made it impossible for me to concentrate, and the second I ask for a few hours to actually get things done, you run straight to this Jake guy?" Jay doesn’t care that nothing happened — the image of another guy in your space, late at night, while you were upset, makes his blood boil.

"I didn’t run to him! I was crying when he got here and he just listened. Unlike you, who basically told me to leave because I’m too much."

Jay’s laugh is harsh this time, completely humorless. "Too much. Yeah, that’s one way of saying you’re a spoiled brat who demands attention every second, and the moment things get difficult, you replace me with whoever is most convenient."

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. You look away, Jay’s jaw clenches, and soon his gaze drifts from your face to the way you are hugging yourself, then lower, lingering on your bare legs. The jealousy is still burning in his chest, mixed with the memory of you sitting on his cock earlier, demanding attention, all needy.

"Come here," he says, nodding toward the couch.

You hesitate, biting your lip, which makes Jay exhale sharply and close the distance. His hand wraps around your wrist, guiding you toward the couch. "We’re not done talking about this."

He sits on the couch and pulls you closer until you are lying across his lap, your stomach pressed against his thighs. Your shirt has ridden up naturally, but he is not satisfied. "This is in the way." His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and panties, pulling them down and tossing them aside — leaving your ass completely bare for him.

Jay’s palm rests on one of your cheeks, squeezing the flesh possessively. "You’ve been pushing all day… needing attention, teasing me, and then Jake shows up at your place, and I’m supposed to just swallow that?" His fingers dig harder into the flesh. "You’re mine, and it’s time you learn what happens when you piss me off this much."

His hand makes slow circles over your skin, almost soothing. "How many spanks do you think you deserve for acting like this?"

Your heart races as you try to process his words — head turning slightly to look at him. "What? Are you serious?"

He meets your eyes with a firm, dark expression — one you have never seen from him before. "Very serious. You’ve been spoiled all day, teasing me on purpose. So tell me, how many do you think you deserve?"

You swallow hard, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. "I don’t know… Five? Maybe?"

Jay lets out a mocking laugh. "Five? That’s way too low, baby. You’re going to take twenty, and you’re going to count each one out loud. If you lose count or mess up, we start over. Understood?"

You hesitate but eventually whisper, "Yes… okay."

"Good girl." His hand lifts and the first spank comes without warning — firm and sharp, the sound echoing through the silence. You jolt, a surprised moan escaping you — heat spreads instantly across your bare skin, the sting stronger than you expected.

"One," you gasp.

He immediately rubs the spot in slow, soothing circles, calming the hot skin where he struck.

"Two," you say after the next spank lands on the other cheek.

Jay keeps a steady rhythm — delivering hard spanks followed by almost tender caresses. Then his fingers slide lower, tracing your wet folds, spreading them teasingly, brushing against your entrance, lightly circling your clit before pulling away.

"What a spoiled little brat," he murmurs during one of the pauses, rubbing your reddened cheeks while two fingers tease your slit again. "You’re already getting so wet… You like this, don’t you?"

You moan instead of answering, which earns you another sharp spank. "Five."

He continues, the spanks leaving marks and building heat across your ass. Now his fingers are dip inside you, moving with slow, shallow thrusts, curling just enough to brush that sensitive spot and make you clench around him desperately. But he always pulls back before you can get close to the edge.

"Six… seven… ah!"

By ten, tears prick your eyes, your thighs trembling as the sting turns into a pulsing heat.

Jay pauses longer this time, massaging your sore ass and spreading your cheeks so he can tease your entrance again. "You’re mine. When you need attention that badly, you come to me, even if I’m stressed, even if I tell you to leave." A finger pushes deep inside you, staying there while his thumb brushes your clit.

You lose track amid the overwhelming sensations and he makes you start over, just as he warned. "Back to one." During the restart, two more fingers slide inside you, moving in a torturous rhythm. "You feel how wet you are? This is what happens when you forget who you belong to."

"You’re mine. Your time, your attention, this body. I don’t share it." Spank. Soothe. Tease. "Say it."

"I’m yours," you moan.

"Louder." Another spank.

"I’m yours, Jay!"

When he finally reaches twenty, you are a trembling mess with tears streaming down your face. Jay finally pulls you up and turns you so you are sitting in his lap. His hands stay on your ass, carefully massaging the sore flesh and you press yourself against the hard bulge in his pants, burying your face in his shoulder. "You did so well, my good girl."

Jay lifts your chin, meeting your eyes. For a moment, he just looks at you — really looks at you — taking in your flushed cheeks and tear-streaked face. Then he leans in and kisses you. One hand remains on your sore ass, squeezing gently, while the other slides into your hair. He kisses you like he needs to claim every part of you — hungry, insistent, his tongue tracing your lower lip before sliding inside. You melt into him, moaning against his mouth as you start slowly grinding your hips.

He pulls back just enough to trail his mouth along your jaw, nipping at the sensitive spot below your ear. "Still so needy… even after all that." Then he kisses you again, deeper and hungrier, tongues sliding together with fervor. The hand on your ass slips between your bodies to tease your wet folds with light circles and shallow dips — keeping you right on the edge.

When he pulls away, a thin string of saliva connects you for a second before breaking. "On your knees, princess."

Obediently, you slide off his lap and kneel between his spread thighs. Jay looks down at you, one hand lazily stroking your hair as he frees himself from his pants — his cock springs out, thick, heavy, and already leaking at the tip.

"Open. Tongue out," he says, tapping your lower lip with two fingers. You open your mouth and obediently stick your tongue out. He leans forward and spits directly into your mouth. The warm, viscous saliva lands on your tongue, degrading in a way that makes you shiver. "Swallow that first," he instructs. You swallow while keeping your eyes locked on his. He nods with a satisfied hum. "Now show me how sorry you are for pushing me today."

You start with kisses along his length before dragging your tongue from base to tip. Jay groans, his fingers tightening in your hair, but he doesn't force you — not yet. His thickness stretches your lips as you finally take him into your mouth. He is big enough that you can only take about half before he hits the back of your throat. Your hand wraps around the base, stroking what does not fit in a steady rhythm.

"Fuck… that’s it," he murmurs, tilting his head back for a moment before his gaze returns to you. He doesn't want to miss a single second of this. "Look at me while you suck it."

You do, looking up at him with teary eyes, and the sight makes his cock twitch in your mouth. When you pull back to catch your breath, he slaps his cock against your tongue a few times, leaving strings of saliva connecting you, before guiding you back down. "Yeah, just like that… good girl."

Between bobs, when you pull back to breathe, you say breathlessly, "I’m sorry for distracting you and for Jake being here." Then he guides you down again.

Jay’s hips start moving, pushing a little deeper and testing your limits. Tears continue to prick your eyes from the stretch, but you keep going, hollowing your cheeks and moaning around him.

When he finally gets close, Jay’s grip tightens, his thighs tense, and his breathing becomes ragged. "I’m going to come. Don’t waste it, swallow everything." You nod around him, doubling your efforts and with a deep groan, he comes down your throat — thick, hot pulses that you swallow eagerly, not letting a single drop escape.

He pulls out slowly, a string of saliva and cum connecting your lips to the tip before it breaks. "Open your mouth. Show me."

You open your mouth, sticking your tongue out to prove you swallowed everything. “That’s my good girl.”

He helps you up, pulls you back into his lap, and kisses you, tasting himself on your tongue. Your hips start moving on their own, pressing against the growing hardness beneath you that makes Jay groan into your mouth, one hand sliding down to grab your bare ass and guide your movements.

"Still not satisfied? Such a greedy little thing." Even though he just came, his cock is already stirring again, hardening beneath you as your wet pussy slides along his length.

You gasp against his mouth, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Jay… I need you so bad."

He answers by kissing you again, but soon pulls back to meet your eyes. "Then take what you want."

You don’t hesitate, not even for a second. Rising on shaky knees, you reach down and align the thick head of his cock against your entrance, and slowly you sink down, gasping at the stretch and every inch that fills you. The lack of a barrier makes him feel impossibly thicker than the last time in his office — hotter, more intimate. The spanked skin of your ass burns as you settle fully against his thighs.

"Fuck," Jay hisses, his head falling back against the couch for a moment as his hands grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises, holding you fully impaled on him. "So wet… so fucking tight like this."

You start moving, rolling your hips in a slow, deep rhythm, the angle letting you feel every ridge and vein raw inside you, pulling broken moans from your throat. One of his hands slips under your shirt to caress one tit while the other stays on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh in time with your movements. The mix of pleasure and stinging burn makes everything more intense.

"That’s right," he growls, thrusting up to meet you. "This is what you wanted all day, isn’t it? My attention. My cock." You lean forward, kissing him messily while you bounce, moving your hips faster.

With a low curse, he wraps his arms around you and suddenly flips you, laying you down on the couch cushions, driving him even deeper which pulls a sharp cry from you.

Now he is on top, pinning you beneath him — one of your legs hooked over his shoulder as he starts thrusting into you with deep, powerful strokes — hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt each time and the lack of a condom lets you feel every raw inch.

Clinging to his back, your nails dig in as the pleasure borders on overwhelming. Jay’s face hovers above yours, his hair damp with sweat falling into his eyes. Rhythm falters for a second as he looks at you, something darker flashing across his face, the jealousy from earlier — the image of Jake leaving your apartment — has not disappeared. "Are you on the pill?"

You shake your head, breathless, barely able to form words between moans. "No, I’m not."

He thrusts harder, hitting deep against your cervix as if to emphasize the point. "Good," he growls, eyes locked on yours. "Actually, fucking perfect. Maybe I’ll knock you up tonight, put a baby in you so you won’t even think about another guy like Jake. You’ll stay right here with me, we’ll have a beautiful family, me, you, and our kids. No more distractions."

The words should have shocked you, but in the heat of the moment — with him fucking you raw, his body claiming yours completely — they only send a fresh wave of arousal through you. Moaning loudly, your legs tightening around his waist. "Jay… fuck—"

He groans at your reaction, his hips moving harder. "You like that idea, don’t you? My cum deep inside you, getting you pregnant so everyone knows you’re claimed." One of his hands slides down to press lightly against your stomach, as if he can already imagine it.

The couch creaks beneath you both, the sound of skin slapping against skin and the wet noises of him fucking you filling the room. Jay’s earlier irritation fuels every deep thrust, but so does possessiveness — the need to claim you completely after the stressful day. He presses you deeper into the cushions, his hips moving in a way that grinds against your clit with every stroke.

When you finally come, it is intense — your walls contracting tightly around his cock as you scream his name. Jay follows right after, burying himself as deep as possible, and you feel the hot pulses of his cum filling you, thick and warm.

For long minutes, Jay simply holds you — kissing your neck, your jaw, your swollen lips — his cock softening slowly inside you, but as the minutes stretch on, you feel him coming back to life, pulsing against your sensitive walls. "Already?" There is a playful tone in your voice.

"I can’t help it." He moves, pressing one last kiss to your mouth before slowly pulling out. You moan at the loss, feeling his cum start to leak out of you, but his hand quickly reaches down to push it back inside you with two fingers. "Don’t waste it."

He leans back on the couch, stroking himself until he is fully hard again. "Turn around. Hands on the backrest."

You obey, your body trembling as you shift position, kneeling on the cushions, gripping the top of the backrest and arching your back slightly while Jay moves behind you, his gaze fixed on the evidence of the earlier spanking — your cheeks still red with visible handprints — as one of his palms smooths reverently over the heated skin before squeezing firmly.

"Fuck, look at this… Still so red from your lesson." His cock brushes against your entrance before he thrusts deep inside you in one powerful stroke, the new position letting him sink even deeper as the head of his cock presses against spots that make your toes curl drawing a loud moan from you while you grip the backrest tighter as he bottoms out.

Jay starts fucking you with firm, powerful thrusts — deep and deliberate, the couch creaking beneath you both — as every thrust makes your sore ass bounce and the red marks darken even more with the impact, his eyes unable to leave them while his thumbs press into the soft flesh, pulling you back onto his cock repeatedly.

"These marks… they look so good on you." Without warning, he lands a hard, stinging spank on your right cheek, the already sensitive skin making you cry out and clench hard around his cock as Jay groans at the sensation, his hips stuttering for a moment before he resumes his deep rhythm.

He gives your left cheek another spank, making you writhe and moan again as you push back against him desperately despite the burn — or maybe because of it — the mix of pain and pleasure making you even wetter, the previous creampie turning everything obscenely wet and messy.

"That’s it," he praises, smoothing his hands over the fresh marks he just added. "Squirm for me. I love how sensitive you are right here." He gives you one more spank, lighter this time but still enough to make you shudder, and immediately soothes the area with his hands, massaging the sore flesh while he continues thrusting deep and hard from behind.

Jay leans over you, bracing one hand on the back of the couch beside yours while the other reaches down to rub tight circles on your clit. His chest presses against your back, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks between thrusts. "You’re going to take every drop again, princess. I’m going to give you my babies, keep you so full you won’t even think about anyone else."

When you come again — hard, your vision blurring from the overwhelming sensations — Jay follows right behind, burying himself deep with a groan and flooding you with another load of hot cum. He stays inside you for a long time afterward, thrusting slowly through the aftershocks.

Finally, he pulls out carefully and pulls you into his arms, stroking your back in slow, gentle movements. "You’re a mess, princess. Come on, let me take care of you."

He stands up with you in his arms and carries you to the bathroom. Once inside, he turns on the shower, adjusts the temperature, and removes the rest of both your clothes before guiding you under the hot spray with him where the water cascades over you both. Jay takes his body wash, lathers it between his hands, and runs them over your skin — being extra careful around your sensitive ass, massaging the foam in light circles that ease some of the sting.

"Maybe I was a little too rough tonight," he says, his hands moving along your thighs, cleaning away the evidence of the many rounds. "Work stress got to me, and then seeing Jake… I took it out on you more than I should have. You handled it really well, but I’m sorry if it was too much."

You lean back against his chest, letting the water rinse off the soap as you tilt your head to look at him. "It hurt… but it also felt good. In a weird way. I just hated feeling like I was bothering you earlier. I didn’t want to annoy you while you were working. I just… missed you a lot."

After rinsing you, he turns off the shower, wraps you in a towel first, then himself and dries you carefully, paying extra attention to your ass and rubbing some soothing lotion he finds in the cabinet. "There. Better?"

"Much better," you admit, reaching up to touch his face. "Thank you for taking care of me like this."

He leans down and kisses your forehead. "You make it easy to want to take care of you." Pulling you closer, his voice shifting to something even calmer and more sincere. "I don’t know what I’d do without you around. I can’t imagine coming home and not having you here like this. You just… fit. Right here with me."

You hug him tightly, burying your face in his chest. "I feel the same. I always want to be close to you because you make everything feel better."

Smiling against your hair, Jay guides you to the bed and pulls the covers back, lying down beside you to pull you close against his chest. One arm wraps around you securely, his hand rests gently on your ass — not squeezing, just warm and protective over the sensitive skin.

You snuggle even closer, your leg draped over his as exhaustion finally takes over completely. "Stay the night?" you ask sleepily.

"Wouldn’t dream of leaving," His fingers trace lazy circles on your back until your breathing evens out and you fall asleep.

Next morning you stir slowly, feeling the pleasant ache in your muscles and Jay’s heavy arm draped over your waist, his body curled protectively against your back. He feels you waking up and trails lazy kisses along your shoulder before moving up the side of your neck. "Good morning, baby," he murmurs, his voice still rough with sleep as his hand slides to your stomach. "Sleep well?"

You turn in his arms, smiling despite the slight soreness when you move, and reach up to brush the messy hair from his forehead. "Yes… thanks to you."

He leans in and kisses you properly — slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that makes you melt. At this point, he couldn't care less that neither of you had brushed your teeth yet. "You were incredible last night. Let me make it up to you a little more with breakfast."

Jay borrows a pair of your sweatpants that look comically tight on his incredibly nice ass, making you laugh as he models them. In the kitchen, you work side by side like so many mornings before — he cracks eggs for scrambled eggs while you toast bread and slice fruit. Small touches are stolen throughout: a hand on your lower back as he reaches past you, a quick kiss on your temple when you hand him the salt shaker, a playful bump of his hip against yours.

"You’re in a good mood today," you tease, leaning against the counter while he plates the food.

"I can’t help it when I wake up next to you." He sets the plates on the table and pulls you in for another kiss before you both sit down.

After eating, you start getting ready for college and he for the office. Jay kisses you one more time before heading back to his apartment next door to get ready for work. You take a long shower and, once dressed in jeans and a comfortable blouse, you step out into the hallway at the same time he does, looking impeccable in his work clothes.

He quickly pulls you in for a proper goodbye, hands gently cradling your face as he kiss your forehead, lingering there for a long moment. "Have a good day at class. Text me when you’re done." With one last soft kiss on your lips, he pulls away with a smile. "See you later, princess."

College passes in a whirlwind of classes and notes, but your mind keeps drifting back to Jay — the way he holds you, the sweet words, the kisses. He has not sent many messages during the day, which is a little unusual, but you figure he must be busy at work.

When you finally get home in the early evening, you step into the elevator and press the button for the third floor. Just before the doors close, a woman you have never seen in the building before enters, but something about her face seems vaguely familiar.

The woman smiles politely as the elevator starts moving. Curiosity gets the better of you and before you can stop yourself, you ask, "Hi… do you live here? I’ve been in the building for about two months and I don’t think I’ve seen you around."

She nods, laughing lightly. "Yes, I do, but I’ve been away on a work trip. I’m a lawyer and a complicated case kept me out of town longer than expected. I actually got back this morning."

"Wow. That sounds intense… By the way, my name is y/n. Nice to meet you."

The woman’s smile widens. "Nice to meet you too. Jay has already told me about you. He’s mentioned his sweet neighbor a few times."

Your heart flutters with joy — Jay talked about you to the neighbors. It feels special, like proof that you are really becoming a bigger part of his life. "He did? That’s nice to hear."

The elevator dings on the third floor and you both step out together. A small flicker of confusion crosses your mind — she is going the same way — but you don’t think much of it. Maybe she lives farther down the hall.

Then you see Jay standing there and your face lights up immediately. He hadn't texted you all day, and seeing him now makes excitement bubble up inside you. You walk toward him with a radiant smile.

At the same moment, the woman also walks straight up to him. When she reaches him, she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him — a deep, familiar, affectionate kiss. Jay’s hands settle on her waist automatically as he eagerly kisses her back.

The world stops.

Your feet freeze mid-step and everything inside you turns cold and numb. It takes a moment for your brain to process what you are seeing, but then the pieces fall into place with painful clarity. That was Jay’s wife. The woman in the Polaroid photo he casually said was his "sister." The late-night calls he claimed were from the office. The feminine body wash he said belonged to his mom. The distant restaurant he took you to on your first date, probably so no one nearby would recognize him. The way the doorman sometimes looked at you with that judgmental expression, like he knew something — he did. All the small inconsistencies you had ignored because you were so blinded by how gentle and attentive he seemed.

Every sweet word, every touch, every promise of "you’re mine" had been built on lies. He was married. His heart already belonged to someone else, and you had been nothing but a convenient distraction from the apartment next door — blind, eager, and so in love with the version of him he showed you that you never saw the truth.

Jay’s eyes meet yours over his wife’s shoulder, and for a fraction of a second, something like panic or guilt flashes across his face. The shock turns into pure pain, making you practically run to your door as you fumble for your keys while hot tears blur your vision.

You lean against the door, sliding down to the floor as sobs begin to escape you. Your chest hurts as if someone had ripped a hole in it. All the cute moments — the kisses, the touches, the date, the bouquet — turn ugly and humiliating in your memory.

You cry hard, knees pulled up to your chest, as disappointment turns into shame for having fallen so completely for the man who made you feel special, desired, and loved… and it was all a lie.

The thin walls allow you to hear muffled voices — his wife asking about his day, the normalcy of their conversation only making everything worse. You press your hands over your ears, trying to block out the sound, but the damage is already done. Your heart is shattered.

The man you had grown so attached to — the one who held you so tenderly after sex, who made you breakfast and promised more comfortable days like that — was someone else’s husband, and you had been the other woman without even knowing it.

dad bod!seungcheol who just mere minutes later, is now a moaning mess as you suck him as if your life depends on it.

"fu-uck," he pants,  "slow down, babe." but the way he holds your head even tighter, says otherwise.

"can't!" you pant, taking him out of your mouth. "you get me all hot and bothered." he swears he could come right then and there and with that look in his eyes - he'd give you another child already.

"fuck me, baby." you moan, and he's trembling, barely holding onto the edge.

dad bod!seungcheol who grips your hips so hard, you're sure they're will be marks by the time you're done.

he wraps his arms around you, pushes you onto the wall and thrusts up into you - heavy balls smacking against your ass. the whines that comes out of your mouth is just pitiful.

he pinches your clit and your walls clench him tighter.

"fuck baby, you're so tight" he huffs. "you want to make me a dad again? huh?"

“cheol- slo- ugh. slow down” you pant as your legs shake every time his tip brushes your spot. the way his large, bulbous tip was brushing against your very inner walls had you dizzy. “-want more.”

"I'll give you exactly what you want, mama"

you moan so loud that the whole damn block might know exactly what he’s doing to you.

"not so loud, mama. baby'll wake up" seungcheol is grinning.

"mhmm, cheol." you breathe, gripping his biceps harder. "feels so good."

your fingers dig into his shoulders, velvet walls clenching around him as your body shook violently, thighs quaking as pleasure surged through your veins.

“fuck, cheol - ohh fuck ‘m gonna cum!” your legs feel like liquid - you are glad he's holding you - otherwise you'd be as good as putty.

“thaaat’s it, mama. come f’me.” he groaned, pushing in with a few more punishing thrusts before spilling inside your spasming cunt, thick, hot ropes of cum filling you to the brim.

he’s holding you flush against him, fingers pressing into your back, thumb tracing along your jaw. “god…you really are relentless,” he huffs, voice low, teasing but strained.

you grin, smirking up at him. “can you blame me?” his chest rises with a laugh. "hmm…nope,” he murmurs, lips grazing your temple. “not at all. and I think…I like it.” you trace over his shoulders, leaning closer, feeling the weight of him, the warmth, the lingering tension.

“good,” you whisper. “because I’m not stopping anytime soon.”

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Behind you both, through the car windows, the city lights smear into long, streaking lines of gold and white, and faint but unmistakable, the opening chords of Heaven by Bryan Adams are playing from the car's speakers, filling the vehicle with that impossibly earnest, soaring melody that Jake had quietly added to the playlist three weeks ago and pretended he didn't know how it got there.

On screen, you shake the camera a little, bouncing in the passenger seat. "Say hi to the camera, husband."

Husband. The word lands on the recording like a sparkler going off, bright and crackling and slightly unbelievable, and Jake leans into the frame and presses a kiss to your cheek so hard your whole body tilts, and you shriek with laughter, and the camera wobbles, and the moment is chaos and joy and so perfectly, messily alive that watching it now, hours later, sitting cross-legged on this hotel bed with your wedding dress finally off and your makeup finally washed away and your hair finally free of the forty-seven pins that had been holding it up since this morning, you feel your eyes well up all over again.

Goodness gracious.

You were married.

You were actually, legally, irreversibly married to the man on that screen, the one who was currently in the bathroom brushing his teeth with his shirt half-buttoned and his suit jacket abandoned on the back of a chair, the one who had slipped a ring on your finger not eight hours ago and meant every word he said while doing it, the one who had been yours for years and was now yours in a way that was different, deeper, more permanent, more terrifying and wonderful than anything you'd ever known.

You pause the video. The frame freezes on both of you mid-laugh, your head thrown back, his arm around your shoulders, the city lights frozen behind you like a constellation that existed just for this moment. You stare at it for a long time, at the curve of his smile and the crinkle at the corners of his eyes and the way your hand is resting on his chest like it's the most natural thing in the world, and something enormous and warm and almost unbearable swells in your chest until you have to press your palm flat against your sternum like you can hold it in.

The MacBook sits on the hotel desk, cables connecting it to the camera your father had given you just a month before the wedding. He'd handed it to you over dinner at your parents' house, a small, neat box wrapped in silver paper, and when you'd opened it and seen the camera inside, a beautiful, top-of-the-line digital camera with a lens that cost more than your first car, you'd looked at him with confusion, because you already had a camera, a perfectly good one that you'd been using for years, and he'd cleared his throat and said, "It's for your last month as my little girl. I want you to document everything."

And you'd called him dramatic, because you'd always be his little girl even when you were married, even when you were eighty years old and gray and using a walker, and he'd gotten that look on his face, the one that meant he was trying very hard not to cry, and he'd said, "I know. But it's different now. Let me have this."

So you'd documented everything. The final dress fitting, the bridesmaids scrambling to get ready, the rehearsal dinner where Jake's best man had given a speech so funny and so touching that there wasn't a dry eye in the room. The morning of the wedding, your mother helping you into your dress with hands that shook slightly, your father standing in the doorway watching with an expression you'd never forget. Every moment, captured, preserved, locked into a memory card so that you could revisit it whenever you wanted, so that the day would never fade or blur or lose its shape.

You click through the import progress bar. Eighty-three videos. Five hundred and twelve photos. Each one a fragment of the most important day of your life, stacked neatly in a folder on your desktop like evidence that any of this had actually happened.

You click on the next video.

This one is from earlier in the evening, still at the reception, and the camera is propped up somewhere, maybe on a table, capturing the room from a slight distance. The dance floor is full, the members of Jake's group are doing something elaborate and slightly ridiculous that involves a lot of spinning and one near-collision with the cake table, and in the foreground, you and Jake are sitting at your table with your chairs angled toward each other, his hand on your knee, your hand on top of his, and you're not even watching the dancing. You're watching each other. He's saying something, leaning close, his lips near your ear, and whatever he's saying makes you press your face into his shoulder and laugh, and then he kisses your temple and pulls you closer and you stay like that, tucked against each other, the noise and the music and the celebration swirling around you while you exist in your own small, private orbit.

You remember what he'd said. He'd leaned in and whispered, "I can't believe I get to keep you forever," and it had hit you so suddenly and so completely that you'd laughed, not because it was funny but because your body didn't know what else to do with that much happiness, and you'd buried your face in his shoulder and felt his chest shake with silent laughter too, and for a moment, just a moment, the entire world had shrunk down to the warmth of him and the steadiness of his heartbeat and the unbelievable, unshakeable certainty that this was exactly where you were supposed to be.

The next video. The drive.

This one you'd already glimpsed, the one that had played when you first opened the folder, but now you watch it properly, letting it unspool from the beginning. Jake had handed you the keys after the reception, a playful little gesture, and you'd looked at him like he was insane because you'd been wearing heels for six hours and could barely walk let alone drive, and he'd laughed and taken the keys back and guided you to the passenger side with a hand on the small of your back, opening the door for you like he'd been doing all night, like he'd been doing for years, like he'd presumably keep doing for the rest of your life because that was just who he was.

The camera had been sitting on the dashboard, propped against the windshield, capturing the two of you in profile as the city moved past outside. You'd pressed play on the playlist before you even pulled out of the venue parking lot, and the first song that came on was Heaven, because of course it was, because Jake had queued it there on purpose and then feigned ignorance, and you'd both burst out laughing at the sheer audacity of it, the cheese of it, the perfection of it.

"Guess who's Mr. and Mrs. now?!" you'd shouted at the camera, and Jake had whooped from the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel and the other reaching for yours, and the joy was so big and so loud and so present that it felt like it might burst out of the car and fill the entire street.

"We're married," Jake had said, and his voice was full of wonder, like he was saying it to convince himself, like the reality was still settling in and every repetition made it more real. "We're actually married. You're my wife."

"I'm your wife," you'd repeated, and the word was new and strange and thrilling in your mouth, a shape your tongue wasn't used to forming but wanted to say over and over. "You're my husband."

"Your husband," he'd said, and he'd lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, right above the wedding band that was cool and new and still slightly foreign on your finger, and the gesture was so tender, so Jake, that your eyes had burned and you'd had to look out the window for a second and blink rapidly at the passing streetlights because you were not going to cry on your wedding night, you'd already cried approximately four hundred times today and that was enough.

At a red light, he'd turned to you fully, and his eyes were so soft, so warm, so full of something that looked like disbelief and gratitude and love all tangled together, and he'd said, "Hi, Mrs. Sim," and you'd said, "Hi, Mr. Sim," and then you'd both cracked up because it sounded absurd and wonderful and like the name of a couple in a sitcom, and he'd cupped your face in both hands and kissed you, slow and deep and tasting like champagne and cake and forever, and the car behind you had honked because the light had turned green, and you'd broken apart laughing and he'd stepped on the gas and his hand had found your thigh and stayed there for the rest of the drive.

You pause the video again.

His hand on your thigh. That was a constant, a fixture, as reliable as gravity. Jake had this thing where he always needed to be touching you when you were next to him, not in a possessive way, not in a controlling way, but in a grounding way, like he needed the contact to remind himself you were real, like the warmth of your skin under his palm was proof that this, all of this, wasn't a dream he was about to wake up from. A hand on your thigh while driving. An arm around your waist while walking. Fingers interlaced with yours across the center console. A palm pressed flat against the small of your back in crowded rooms. Always touching. Always near. Always there.

And you loved it. God, you loved it so much it made your chest hurt sometimes, the way he reached for you without thinking, the way his body oriented toward yours like a compass finding north, the way he made you feel like you were the most solid, most real, most important thing in whatever room you were standing in.

You close the video folder for a moment and lean back against the headboard, pulling your knees up to your chest, and let yourself think about the day. The whole day, from beginning to end, every overwhelming, overstimulating, joy-saturated second of it.

The wedding had been held at a garden venue just outside the city, a place with old stone walls and climbing roses and a lawn that stretched down to the edge of a lake that caught the late afternoon light and turned it into something out of a painting. Your families were there, all of them, your parents and your siblings and your aunts and uncles and cousins and the family friends you'd known since childhood. Jake's family had flown in from Australia, his parents and his older brother, and the way his mother had hugged you when she arrived, tight and long and with tears already streaming down her face, had made you realize that you weren't just gaining a husband today, you were gaining an entire family, and the thought was so enormous and so overwhelming that you'd had to sit down for a moment and breathe.

The members were there too, all of them, dressed in matching suits that they'd picked out together and immediately started complaining about the moment they put them on. They'd been your friends for years now, long before you and Jake started dating, and they'd watched the two of you circle each other with a kind of fond exasperation that only people who loved you both could manage, and when you'd finally gotten together, they'd reacted with a mixture of relief and vindication that was almost insulting in its unanimity. "Finally," one of them had said, and the others had nodded so vigorously you'd thought their heads might fall off.

The ceremony itself was a blur of emotion and light. You'd walked down the aisle on your father's arm, and he'd been fighting tears the entire way, and when he'd placed your hand in Jake's and stepped back, he'd given Jake a look that was part warning and part blessing and entirely love, and Jake had nodded once, a small, serious, certain nod that said I understand and I will and I promise, and your father had stepped back and sat down and you'd watched him press his palm over his eyes and knew he was crying.

The vows were where you'd lost it completely. Jake had written his himself, because of course he had, because Jake did everything with his whole heart or not at all, and he'd stood there in his suit with his voice shaking and his eyes bright and told you that you were the bravest person he'd ever known, that loving you had taught him what it meant to be brave in return, that he would spend every day for the rest of his life trying to be the man you saw when you looked at him. And you'd stood there with tears streaming down your face and your carefully prepared vows completely abandoned in favor of just talking, just saying whatever came out, because the words you'd written didn't feel big enough anymore, nothing felt big enough to contain what you felt for this man, and you'd told him he was your home, that wherever he was was where you belonged, that you'd choose him in every lifetime if you got the chance.

And then the officiant had said it. The words you'd been waiting to hear since the moment you met him, since the first time he smiled at you across a crowded room and the entire world rearranged itself around the axis of his face.

"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Jake had pulled you in before the officiant had even finished the sentence, before the last syllable had fully left his mouth, and you'd both been laughing, laughing through tears, laughing through the kiss, laughing like the joy was too big to contain and had to come out somewhere, and the sound of everyone cheering and clapping and crying was washing over you in waves but all you could hear was his breath against your lips and his voice, rough and wet and incredulous, saying "we did it, we actually did it," against your mouth.

The reception was a fever dream of dancing and toasting and crying and laughing and cake and champagne and moments that you'd never remember clearly but would never forget the feeling of. Jake's best man speech. Your maid of honor's speech. The members performing a surprise song that they'd written for you both, a sweet, silly, earnest ballad that had the entire room in tears by the second verse. Your first dance, Jake's hand warm and steady on your lower back, your cheek pressed against his shoulder, the two of you swaying in the center of the floor while everyone watched and you didn't care because the only person who existed in that moment was him.

And now here you were. Married. Sitting in a hotel room at half past midnight, watching yourself live the best day of your life on a laptop screen, feeling like your heart might actually burst from the sheer, impossible weight of being this happy.

The bathroom door opens, and Jake emerges in a cloud of steam, his hair damp from where he'd splashed water on his face, his suit shirt now fully unbuttoned and hanging open, revealing the lean lines of his chest and the soft skin of his stomach. He looks tired, genuinely tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from being on your feet for twelve hours straight while experiencing the most emotionally intense day of your life, but underneath the tiredness there's something else, something warm, glowing, and constant, and when he sees you sitting on the bed with the laptop, his face softens into an expression so fond that it makes your throat tighten.

"Watching the videos already?" he asks, crossing the room to sit beside you on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight and he leans into you automatically, his shoulder pressing against yours, his hand finding the curve of your waist like it's magnetic.

"I couldn't not," you admit. "Look at us."

He looks at the screen, at the frozen frame of the two of you in the car, mid-laugh, and his smile is so immediate and so genuine that it takes your breath away. "God. We look so happy."

"We are so happy."

"We are," he agrees, and he turns his head and kisses your shoulder through the thin fabric of the robe you'd thrown on after taking off your dress. "We really, really are."

You lean into him, resting your head against his, and for a moment you both just sit there, watching the frozen frame, breathing each other in.

"Jake?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't believe we're married."

He laughs, soft and quiet, and his arm tightens around you. "I know. I keep looking at your hand and seeing the ring and being like, that's real. That actually happened."

"It happened."

"It happened." He lifts your left hand and presses a kiss to your wedding band, and the gesture is so tender, so unconscious, that your eyes burn for the hundredth time today. "My wife."

"My husband."

"Mmm." He nuzzles into your neck, pressing a soft, warm kiss just below your ear. "I like the sound of that."

"Which one? Husband or wife?"

"Both. Either. All of it. You being mine and me being yours and this being forever." His voice is muffled against your skin, drowsy and content and so completely open that it makes something crack in your chest. "I've wanted this for so long. I kept thinking, during the ceremony, I kept thinking about how long I've wanted this and how I'd almost convinced myself it might not happen and then there you were, walking down the aisle, and I couldn't breathe."

"Jake..."

"I'm serious. I saw you and my whole chest just... kind of stopped. Everything stopped. I was like, that's her. That's the person I'm going to spend my entire life with. And I started crying before I even had a chance to stop myself and then the guys were making fun of me after but I didn't even care because you were walking toward me and you were the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and I knew, I just knew, that I was the luckiest person alive."

You turn your face into his hair and breathe him in, and your eyes are definitely burning now, definitely wet, and you don't even try to stop the tears because it's your wedding night and you're allowed to cry as much as you want.

"Do you remember the proposal?" you ask, your voice thick.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's a knowing, slightly sheepish grin on his face. "The hiking one?"

"The hiking one."

"You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Jake, you brought me hiking to a really tall mountain peak. A beach proposal would've been fine. A nice restaurant would've been fine. My living room would've been fine. Instead I had to climb a mountain in sneakers."

"I had to bring you closer to heaven to ask," he says, and the line is so earnest, so completely sincere, so utterly Jake that you can't even be annoyed about the three days of sore calves that followed. He says it like it's the most obvious logic in the world, like of course he'd haul you up a mountain at dawn because where else would you ask someone to spend eternity with you but as close to the sky as you could physically get.

"Damn you," you say, and your voice cracks. "Damn you for still knowing how to make me feel like a dumb teenager in love."

He pulls you into a hug. A real one, full-bodied, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you against his chest, and you bury your face in the curve of his neck and let yourself be held. His hand cradles the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, and his chest is warm and solid and rising and falling with breaths that are slightly shakier than they were a moment ago, and you realize he's getting emotional too, that this is hitting him just as hard as it's hitting you, and the knowledge makes you hold on tighter.

"I love you," he says into your hair. "I love you so much. I'm going to love you for the rest of my life and that's still not enough time."

"It's enough," you whisper. "It's more than enough."

He pulls back and looks at you, and his eyes are red-rimmed and bright and so full of love that it's almost hard to look at directly, like staring at the sun, and he cups your face in his hands and wipes the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs, gentle, so gentle, like you're something precious and irreplaceable.

"Hey," he says softly.

"Hey."

"Let me help you get ready for bed, okay? You've been in this dress all day and your hair must be killing you."

It is. Your scalp is throbbing dully from the weight of the pins and the spray and the elaborate updo that had taken two hours to construct and had looked stunning but had felt like wearing a helmet made of bobby pins. Your dress is off, finally, you'd managed to wiggle out of it an hour ago with a lot of wriggling and a few choice words about the structural integrity of boning, but your hair is still up, still pinned, still holding on like it's afraid of what it might find when it comes down.

"Okay," you say.

He stands up and offers you his hand, and you take it, and he leads you to the vanity in the corner of the hotel room, settling you on the little stool and standing behind you. You watch him in the mirror as he starts to carefully, so carefully, remove the pins from your hair, one by one, setting each one on the counter with a soft little click. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and the tenderness of the image, your husband carefully undoing your hair on your wedding night, makes something in your chest swell until you feel like you might float.

"You're so good at this," you murmur.

"I've had practice," he says, pulling another pin free. "You fall asleep on my shoulder during movie nights and I have to undo your hair clips so they don't stab me."

"That's different. That's self-preservation."

"Maybe. But my methods are gentle either way." He pulls the last of the pins and your hair tumbles down in a dark, heavy wave, and he combs his fingers through it slowly, working out the tangles, and you close your eyes and let yourself feel it, the scratch of his fingernails against your scalp, the pull of the strands between his fingers, the way he's touching you like you're made of something fragile and valuable.

He moves to your jewelry next. The earrings first, tiny diamonds that had sparkled like stars against your neck all evening, and he sets them on the counter next to the pins. Then the necklace, a thin gold chain with a small pendant that he'd given you for your second anniversary, and his fingers are warm against the nape of your neck as he unclasps it, and you shiver.

"Cold?" he asks.

"No," you say honestly.

You feel his smile against your hair as he presses a kiss to the back of your head.

When the jewelry is all off and your hair is down and your face is bare and you're sitting in front of him in nothing but the robe, he steps back and you stand and turn to face him, and the look in his eyes shifts. Softens into something deeper, darker, more intent.

"Take off the robe," he says, and his voice is quiet, not a command but a request, gentle but with an undercurrent of something that makes your pulse quicken.

You undo the tie at your waist and let the robe slide off your shoulders, and it pools at your feet in a whisper of silk, and you're standing in front of him in the ivory lingerie set he'd bought for you. The one he'd surprised you with a week before the wedding, a small, elegant box left on your pillow with a note that said "for after," and when you'd opened it and seen the lace, the silk, and the delicate, ivory color that was so soft and so pretty and so deliberately chosen, you'd pressed your face into the note and laughed until you cried because even his gifts were thoughtful, even his surprises were considerate, even his lingerie was selected with the kind of care and attention that made you feel seen and wanted and loved.

The bra is delicate, sheer ivory lace that cups your breasts and barely conceals them, the nipples visible through the pattern of flowers and scrollwork. The underwear is matching, high-waisted and elegant, the same ivory lace, a small silk bow at the front that he'd definitely picked specifically because he knew it would make you smile. The set is beautiful, objectively, but it's the fact that he chose it, that he imagined you in it, that he went to a store or a website and picked this exact shade and this exact cut because he thought you'd look perfect in it, that makes you feel more beautiful than any piece of clothing ever has.

Jake looks at you.

For a long, charged moment, he just looks.

His eyes move over your body slowly, taking in the lace and the silk and the skin underneath, and his throat bobs as he swallows, and his hands, which had been steady and careful while removing your pins, are now gripping the back of the vanity chair hard enough that his knuckles are white.

"You're wearing it," he says, and his voice is rough.

"You bought it for me to wear," you say.

"I know, I just—" He stops. Starts again. "God. You look... I can't even... you're so beautiful. You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen in my entire life and I'm going to say that every day for the rest of our lives and it's never going to be enough."

Heat pools between your thighs, slow and warm and insistent, and you watch his eyes darken as he looks at you, watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster, watch the way his hands flex at his sides like he's fighting the urge to reach for you.

"Jake," you say softly.

"Yeah?"

"You already know what I’m about to say."

“And that would be…? What?”

“Touch me.”

A sheepish grin tugs at his lips, and he moves.

Two steps and his hands are on your waist and his mouth is on yours and the kiss is slow and deep and full of everything neither of you has words for. His lips are warm and familiar and they move against yours with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting, and his hands slide up your sides, his thumbs tracing the edge of the lace where it meets your skin, and you shiver and press closer and open your mouth against his.

He walks you backward, step by careful step, until the back of your knees hits the edge of the bed, and he lowers you down onto it with a gentleness that makes your heart ache, settling over you, his weight balanced on his forearms, his body a warm, solid line above yours. He kisses you again, softer now, his lips brushing your jaw, your cheekbone, the bridge of your nose, and then he pulls back and looks at you, and his eyes are so dark and so warm and so full of love and want that you feel seen in a way that goes beyond the physical, like he's looking at every version of you that has ever existed and loving all of them equally.

"Hi, wife," he whispers.

"Hi, husband," you whisper back, and the words are still new, still startling, still sending a little thrill through your chest every time you say them.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours, and his hands find the clasp of your bra and undo it with a practiced ease, peeling the lace away from your skin and tossing it somewhere in the direction of the floor. His palms find your breasts, warm and careful, and he cups them gently, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you gasp into his mouth and arch into his touch.

"Perfect," he murmurs against your lips. "You're so perfect. I've been thinking about this all day. Every time I looked at you during the ceremony, every time we danced, every time someone made a toast about us, I was thinking about getting you back here and getting my hands on you."

"Jake—"

"Is that bad?" He rolls your nipples between his fingers, gentle but firm, and the sparks of sensation shoot down your spine and pool hot and urgent between your legs. "Thinking about my wife like that during our wedding? Can't help it. You walked down that aisle and I was gone. I was a goner. I've been half-hard since you said I do."

You whimper, and the sound is small and needy and you'd be embarrassed if you had any capacity for embarrassment left, which you don't, not with him, not with Jake, who has seen every version of you and loved every single one.

"Look at you," he breathes, and he dips his head and drags his tongue across one nipple, slow and flat and wet, and your spine arches off the mattress like he's pulled a string attached to your back. "I've been dying to do this all night. You have no idea how hard it was to keep my hands off you during the reception. Every time you leaned over the table, every time you laughed and your dress shifted, I could see the outline of this set through the fabric and I almost lost my mind."

He takes your nipple into his mouth fully now, sucking with a slow, deliberate pressure that has your fingers tangling in his hair and pulling, and he groans against your breast, the vibration of it humming through your chest and settling deep in your belly. His other hand isn't idle — it's palming your other breast, kneading the soft flesh, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pulling and tweaking and working you into a state of such acute sensitivity that every touch feels like it's being transmitted directly to the throbbing heat between your legs.

"Jake, please—" You don't even know what you're asking for. More. Everything. Him.

"Shh," he says against your skin, and he switches sides, his mouth finding your other breast, his tongue circling the areola before latching onto the nipple and sucking hard enough to make you cry out. "I'm getting there. Let me have this first. Let me worship you the way you deserve."

His hand slides down your stomach, fingertips tracing the silk bow at the front of your underwear, and he hooks his fingers under the waistband and tugs, just slightly, just enough for you to feel the pressure against your hip bones. "I picked this set because I knew the ivory would look insane against your skin. I was right. God, I was so right. You look like you were made for this. Made for me to take apart."

He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts, and his mouth is hot and wet and deliberate, each kiss placed with the same care he used when he was removing your hairpins, like he's cataloguing every inch of you, like he's mapping the territory of your body and memorizing it for future reference. His hands slide down your sides, hooking into the waistband of your underwear, and he looks up at you from between your breasts with a question in his eyes.

"Can I?"

"Yes. Fuck, yes."

He pulls them down slowly, dragging the lace down your thighs, over your knees, off your ankles, and then he settles back between your legs and looks at you, really looks at you, and the expression on his face is one you'll never forget. Reverent. Hungry. Overwhelmed. Like he can't quite believe that this is real, that you're real, that you're his.

"My wife," he says, and his voice is thick and rough and reverent. "All mine."

"All yours," you confirm, and your voice comes out breathier than intended.

He hooks your legs over his shoulders, one and then the other, and the position opens you up to him completely, vulnerably, and you feel the cool air against your slick, heated skin for barely a second before his mouth is on you.

The first touch of his tongue against your cunt tears a sound from your throat that you don't even recognize, something raw and broken and desperate. He licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, and the heat of his mouth and the wetness of his tongue and the scratch of his slight stubble against your inner thighs is so much, almost too much, and your hands fly to his hair and grip hard.

"Jake—oh my god—"

He groans against you, and the vibration of it pulses through your core and makes your hips buck, and he presses his palms flat against your hips to hold you still and does it again, another long, slow lick, and then another, and another, each one deeper and more thorough than the last. His tongue circles your clit, then dips lower, pressing inside you, then drags back up, and the rhythm he sets is devastating, relentless, a slow and steady unraveling that has you trembling and gasping and saying his name like it's the only word you remember.

"Feel so good," he murmurs against you, and his voice is muffled and rough and the words vibrate against your sensitive flesh and make you jerk. "Taste so good, baby. My wife. My perfect wife. I could do this for hours."

"Please—"

"Please what? Use that pretty mouth."

"More. Please. Don't stop."

He doesn't stop. His tongue finds your clit again and circles it in tight, firm strokes, and two of his fingers slide inside you, curling upward, pressing against that spot that makes your vision blur, and the dual sensation of his mouth and his fingers working in tandem is so overwhelming that you feel the orgasm building already, a hot, coiling tension that's gathering speed and intensity with every passing second.

"You know what I kept thinking during the ceremony?" he says against your clit, and his lips brush the swollen bud as he speaks, and the graze of them is enough to make your thighs shake against his shoulders. "I kept thinking about how I was going to have you like this later. Spread out underneath me. Making these sounds. Being this wet for me. I wrote my vows with your taste still in my mouth from last night and I couldn't even concentrate because all I could think about was doing this to you on our wedding night."

"Jake, I'm close, I'm—"

"Come for me," he says against your clit, and the words are filthy and reverent and the permission is all you need. The orgasm crashes through you in waves, your back arching off the bed, your thighs shaking against his shoulders, your walls clenching around his fingers, and he works you through it, his tongue and his fingers never stopping, drawing it out until you're oversensitive and trembling and pulling at his hair and gasping his name.

He doesn't pull away immediately. He stays between your legs, pressing soft, wet kisses to your inner thighs, to the crease where your thigh meets your hip, to the swollen, sensitive flesh that's still pulsing with the aftershocks. His fingers slide out of you slowly, and he drags them through your slick, feeling the mess he's made, and he looks up at you with his chin wet and his eyes black and his lips swollen, and he says, "I want to do that again. I want to live between your thighs. I want to fall asleep with my mouth on you and wake up the same way."

"You're too goddamn greedy."

"For you? Always." He presses one more kiss to your clit, feather-light, and you jolt from the overstimulation, and he grins, this crooked, devastating grin that makes your stomach flip even though you just came hard enough to see stars.

He crawls back up your body and kisses you, and you can taste yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet and obscene, and the intimacy of it, the rawness of it, makes you whimper against his lips. His bare chest is pressed against yours, skin to skin, and you can feel his heart hammering against your ribs, feel the heat radiating off him, feel the hard, insistent length of him pressing against your stomach through his unbuttoned shirt.

"I love you," he says, and his voice is rough and wrecked and so full of feeling. "I love you so much. I'm going to make you feel so good tonight. I'm going to make you feel so good for the rest of our lives."

"Jake, I need you inside me. Please."

"Not yet." He shakes his head, and there's a dangerous glint in his eyes, something playful and dark. "I'm not done with you. That was just the appetizer, baby. I've been waiting all day for this. I'm taking my time."

He sits back on his heels and looks down at you, sprawled out and flushed and trembling on the hotel sheets, and his gaze travels from your face to your breasts to the wet, glistening mess between your thighs, and he licks his lips, and the gesture is so unconscious and so filthy that you feel yourself clench around nothing.

"Look at you," he says, and his voice has dropped into that register that makes your stomach tighten and your breath catch. "My wife. All spread out for me. You're shaking. You came so hard and you're still shaking. I love that. I love knowing I can do that to you. That nobody else gets to see you like this. That you're mine."

"I'm yours," you whisper. "All yours. Only yours."

"Only mine." He reaches out and traces a fingertip down the center of your chest, between your breasts, down your stomach, and dips into your navel, and then lower, through the slick, wet mess of you, and he doesn't push inside, just trails his finger through it, feeling how wet you are, how ready, how desperate. "God, you're drenched. I made you this wet. I did this. I turned you into this trembling, soaking mess just with my mouth and my fingers."

"Jake, please—"

"Please what?" He circles your clit with the lightest possible pressure, and you buck up into his touch, chasing more, chasing him. "Use your words, lovely. Tell me what you need."

"You. Inside me. I need you inside me. Please."

"Since you asked so nicely." He reaches over to the nightstand, and you hear the rustle of a wrapper, and then he's settling between your legs again and you feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and he pauses, looks down at you, and the look on his face is so open and so full of love that it steals your breath.

"Ready?" he asks softly.

"Ready."

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch of him fills you so completely that you both groan, his low and guttural, yours high and breathless. He stills when he's fully inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts against your lips, and you can feel him trembling, feel the effort it's taking him to hold still, to be gentle, to not just take.

"You feel so good," he whispers, and his voice cracks on the last word. "You feel so good, princess. I can't—I'm not going to last long, I've been thinking about this all day, you have no idea—"

"It's okay," you say, and you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. "I don't need you to last. I just need you."

He starts to move. Slow at first, deep and rolling, each thrust measured and deliberate, his body pressing into yours with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. His hands find yours, interlacing your fingers above your head, and he holds them there, pinned against the pillow, and the intimacy of it, the closeness of it, the way he's surrounding you and filling you and loving you all at once, is so much that you feel tears prickle at the corners of your eyes again.

"I can't believe you're mine," he says against your neck, his hips snapping forward a little harder, a little faster, and the shift makes you gasp. "I can't believe I get to have you forever. I can't believe you chose me."

"I'll always choose you," you whisper, and your voice breaks on it.

"Fuck—" His rhythm stutters, his hips jerking, and you can tell he's close, you can feel it in the way his cock pulses inside you, in the way his breath comes faster and more ragged, in the way his hands grip yours so tight it almost hurts. "You feel too good, I can't—I need—"

"Go faster," you tell him. "Don't hold back. I want all of you."

And he does. He lets go. His hips snap forward with a force that drives the breath from your lungs, his pace turning from measured to desperate in the space of a single thrust, and the sound of it fills the room, skin against skin, wet and sharp and urgent, and his moans are broken and raw and so fucking hot that you feel another orgasm building already, the pressure coiling tight and hot in your stomach. He shifts your legs higher on his waist, changing the angle so that every thrust drags against that spot inside you, the one that makes your vision blur and your nails rake down his back and your mouth fall open in a sound that isn't even a word anymore, just pure, unfiltered sensation given voice. The headboard is knocking against the wall now and neither of you cares, let the entire hotel know, let the entire world know that Sim Jaeyun is making love to his wife on their wedding night and neither of them can think about anything else.

"God, you take me so well," he groans, and his voice is wrecked, barely above a whisper, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. "You're so tight around me. I can feel you squeezing me. You're close again, aren't you? I can feel it."

"Yes—baby—"

"I want you to come on my cock," he says, and the words are a command and a plea and a prayer all wrapped into one breathless gasp. "I want to feel you fall apart around me. I want to feel you milk every drop out of me. Come on, baby. Give it to me."

"Close," he gasps, and his voice is wrecked, barely a voice at all, just breath and sound and need. "I'm close, I'm—are you—mmgh—"

"Close too. Keep going. Don't stop."

He doesn't stop. He drives into you harder, faster, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips, and you feel the orgasm cresting, feel the tension winding tighter and tighter until it snaps, and you come with his name on your lips, your walls clenching around him in pulsing waves, and he follows a second later with a sound that's almost a sob, his hips jerking erratically as he spills inside you, hot and deep and overwhelming.

Even after, he doesn't pull out immediately. He stays buried inside you, his cock twitching with the aftershocks, his hips making tiny, involuntary thrusts that make you both shudder and gasp each time, oversensitive and overwhelmed and incapable of stopping, and he kisses your face — your forehead, your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, the wet tracks on your cheeks that you hadn't even realized were there. His hands release yours and come up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears, and he's looking at you with an expression of such absolute, overwhelming wonder that you feel your chest crack open all over again.

"Hey," he says, and his voice is wrecked and raw and so full of love it's almost hard to hear. "Hey. I've got you. I'm right here."

"I know," you whisper. "I know you are."

He pulls out of you slowly, carefully, and you both wince at the sensitivity, and you feel the wetness of him leaking out of you, dripping onto the sheets, and the obscene intimacy of it makes you flush hot all over. He disappears into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a warm, damp towel. He sits on the edge of the bed and cleans you up with the same gentleness he used when he was removing your hairpins, the same care he used when he was unclasping your necklace, the same attention he gives to everything that involves you, and the tenderness of it makes your eyes sting because this is what your life is going to be now, this is what it means to be married to him, this quiet, steady, unwavering care that doesn't diminish with repetition or time or familiarity.

"Come on," he says, tossing the towel aside and offering you his hand. "Bath."

He leads you to the bathroom, and you'd drawn the bath earlier, the massive hotel tub filled with warm water and the complimentary bath salts that smelled like lavender, and he steps in first and then helps you in after him, and you settle between his legs with your back against his chest and the warm water lapping at your shoulders. His arms wrap around your middle, his chin hooks over your shoulder, and the two of you sit there in the steam and the quiet and the aftermath of everything, and it's so peaceful that you could fall asleep right here.

"Jake?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we do a virtual photobooth? On my laptop? I saw a filter earlier and I really want to take pictures with you."

He's quiet for a moment, and then he laughs, that full, warm, surprised laugh that you love more than any other sound in the world. "You want to take photobooth pictures right now? We're naked in a bathtub."

"So? The filter works on our faces. We'll angle it up. Please?"

"We look exhausted."

"We are exhausted. It'll be authentic."

He laughs again, and the way his chest shakes against your back makes the water ripple around you, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Okay. Let's do it."

Twenty minutes later, you're both sitting on the bed in your bathrobes, your laptop propped on the desk, the photobooth app open, and you're scrolling through the results of your impromptu photoshoot and laughing so hard your stomach hurts. There's one where Jake is making an exaggeratedly serious face while you're mid-blink, one where you're both doing finger hearts with bedhead and smudged under-eyes, one where he's kissing your cheek and you're grinning so wide your eyes are barely visible, and one, your favorite, where you're both just looking at each other, foreheads almost touching, the exhaustion clear on your faces but underneath it, unmistakable, that warm, steady glow of two people who have never been more certain of anything in their lives.

"I look dead," Jake says, peering at the screen.

"You look beautiful," you correct him.

"I look like I haven't slept in three days."

"You look like a man who just married the love of his life. Same thing."

He grins, and it's lopsided and sleepy and so endearing that you reach out and cup his face and kiss him, just because you can, just because he's yours, just because the ring on your finger says so.

You save the best photo and send it to yourself, already thinking about making it your phone wallpaper, already thinking about printing it and framing it and keeping it on your nightstand for the rest of your life. Because that's what this is now. The rest of your life. And every boring, ordinary, exhausted moment of it is going to be extraordinary simply because he's in it.

Sleep comes fast and heavy after that. You crawl under the covers, and he pulls you against him, your back to his chest, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm and slow against the back of your neck. The last thing you register before consciousness slips away is the weight of his arm and the steadiness of his heartbeat and the impossible, improbable, overwhelming fact that you are married, you are his wife, he is your husband, and tomorrow you're going to wake up and it's still going to be true.

You sleep for five and a half hours.

It's the alarm that does it, a chirping, insistent thing that you'd set the night before and immediately regretted, and Jake groans and buries his face in the pillow and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like "five more minutes" but might also be "I quit," and you laugh and shake his shoulder and tell him that your flight to Greece leaves in four hours and if he misses it you're going without him.

He sits up so fast he nearly headbutts you.

"Greece," he says, his eyes wide and sleep-rumpled. "Our honeymoon. Today. Right. Right?"

"Right."

"I'm up. I'm awake. I'm—" He yawns so wide his jaw cracks. "I'm mostly awake."

You manage to get ready in record time, a whirlwind of packing and checking suitcases and arguing about whose toiletry bag is whose and whether you really need three pairs of sunglasses for a week-long trip and yes you do, Jake, because they go with different outfits, and he shakes his head but he's smiling, he's always smiling, and the giddy, electric energy of being newly married carries you through the exhaustion like caffeine.

At the airport, you check in at the business class counter, and the agent looks at your tickets and then at your faces and then at your hands, and her eyes land on the wedding bands and she smiles and says, "Congratulations," and Jake grins and says, "Thank you, we just got married yesterday," and the agent's face softens and she upgrades you to first class, and you nearly cry right there at the check-in counter because apparently this is what the rest of your life is going to be, people being kind to you because you're so obviously, radiantly happy that it's contagious.

In the first class lounge, Jake insists on taking a photo of you with your boarding pass, and then another one of you with your coffee, and then another one of you looking out the window at the planes, and you roll your eyes but you let him because you know by now that Jake documents things the way other people breathe, naturally and constantly and without thinking about it, and you also know that in approximately three days he's going to pull up these photos and show you one and say "look how pretty you look" and you're going to pretend to be annoyed but actually you're going to melt.

On the plane, you settle into your seats, wide and plush and more like armchairs than airplane seats, and Jake immediately reaches for your hand and interlaces your fingers and holds on, and the simple, constant gesture makes your chest warm. The cabin is quiet, the lights dimmed for the overnight flight, and the flight attendant brings you champagne because you're honeymooners and that apparently means free champagne everywhere you go, and you clink your mini glasses together and Jake says, "To us," and you say, "To forever," and you both drink and then make faces because neither of you actually likes champagne but it's the principle of the thing.

You lean your head on his shoulder and he leans his head on top of yours, and you're both so tired that the exhaustion is a physical weight on your limbs, and you close your eyes and feel the rumble of the engines through the seat and the warmth of his body against yours, and you're drifting off when you feel his lips against your ear.

"You know what I keep thinking about?" he murmurs, and his voice is low and quiet, meant only for you.

"What?"

"You in that ivory lingerie set."

Your eyes open.

"Jake."

"I'm just saying. I've been thinking about it since you took the robe off. The way the lace looked against your skin. The way your nipples showed through." His fingers trace idle patterns on the back of your hand, and his breath is warm and ticklish against your ear. "I'm going to buy you so many pretty things. I'm going to dress you up in lace and silk and take my time taking it all off."

"Jake, we're on a plane."

"I know. I'm not doing anything. I'm just telling you what I'm thinking about." His lips brush the shell of your ear, feather-light. "Is that a crime?"

"You're impossible."

"Impossible to resist?" He grins against your ear, and you can hear the mischief in it, the playful, teasing edge that he deploys like a weapon.

"Impossible to deal with," you correct, but you're pressing your thighs together under the blanket, and he notices because of course he notices, and you feel his hand slide under the blanket and rest on your thigh, warm and heavy and not moving, just resting there, a promise and a tease all at once.

"Go to sleep," he whispers. "I'll behave."

"You'd better."

"I will. For now."

The emphasis on the last two words follows you into your dreams.

You wake up somewhere over the Mediterranean, the plane beginning its descent, and you look out the window and see the sea below you, a blue so deep and so vivid and so impossible that it doesn't look real, and you elbow Jake awake and point and he rubs his eyes and stares and says, "That's where we're going to be for the next week," and you say, "I know," and he says, "I can't believe I get to spend a week in Greece with my wife," and there's that word again, wife, still new and thrilling and still sending a jolt through your chest every time he says it.

Santorini is everything you'd dreamed of and more.

You've wanted to come here for as long as you can remember, ever since you saw a photo of the white-washed buildings and the blue domes and the caldera stretching out toward the horizon like the edge of the world, and you'd mentioned it once, offhandedly, years ago, back when you and Jake had first started dating, and he'd filed it away somewhere in that meticulous, loving brain of his and pulled it out the moment you'd started talking about honeymoon destinations, because Jake is a sucker for you in every possible way, and if your dream destination is a Greek island with sunsets and hot tubs and wine, then that's where he's going to take you even if it means coordinating logistics across eight time zones and two international flights.

The hotel is perched on the edge of the caldera, a cluster of white buildings cascading down the cliffside, and your room is the one at the very bottom, the one with the private terrace and the outdoor jacuzzi and the view that makes you stop in the doorway and forget how to breathe because the sea stretches out below you like a painting, blue and gold and shimmering in the late afternoon light, and the sky is so vast and so clear that it feels like you could reach up and touch it.

Jake comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder, and you both stand there in the doorway of your honeymoon suite, looking out at the most beautiful view you've ever seen, and he says, "Worth the five-hour flight?" and you say, "Worth anything," and he kisses your neck and holds you tighter and the sun is warm on your faces and the sea is glittering and you're here, you're really here, you're in Santorini with your husband on your honeymoon, and the happiness is so big and so present that you feel like you might vibrate out of your skin.

The first afternoon dissolves into a lazy, sun-soaked haze. You unpack in fits and starts, distracted by the view and by each other and by the bottle of wine that was waiting on the nightstand with a handwritten note from the hotel staff congratulating the happy couple. You drink it on the terrace, your feet dangling over the edge, the caldera spread out beneath you like a love letter written in water and stone, and Jake takes approximately four hundred photos of you with the view, of you with your wine glass, of you with the sunset turning your skin golden, and he shows you each one and says, "Look how pretty," and you say, "You're biased," and he says, "I'm objective. You're the prettiest person on this island and I have the photos to prove it."

You explore the town in the evening, winding through narrow cobblestone streets lined with shops and cafes and jewelry stores, and you stop in a little boutique and try on a linen dress that flows like water and makes you feel like a Greek goddess, and Jake watches you spin in front of the mirror and his eyes go soft and dark and he says, "Buy it," and you say, "I don't need it," and he says, "I didn't say you needed it. I said buy it. I want to see you in it again." So you buy it, and he buys a matching linen shirt, and you take a selfie together in the shop mirror like the couple you are, the couple who wears matching clothes in Greece on their honeymoon, and you look at the photo afterward and think, we're those people now, and the thought fills you with a warm, sheepish delight.

You buy gifts for everyone you love. A hand-painted ceramic plate for your mother, a leather journal for your father, a set of olive oil soaps for your sister. A tiny blue evil eye charm for each of Jake's members, because you'd discussed it and agreed that matching keychains would be perfect, and you find a shop that sells them in a row of different colors and you pick one for each of the guys and the shop owner wraps them individually in tissue paper and you tuck them carefully into your bag. Jake buys a set of worry beads for his grandfather, a silk scarf for his mother, a bottle of local wine for his father, and you watch him deliberate over each choice with the same seriousness he brings to everything and you think, not for the first time and not for the last, that you married the most thoughtful person on the planet.

Dinner is at a restaurant perched on the edge of the cliff, a candle on the table, the stars coming out over the sea, and Jake reaches across the table and takes your hand and says, "I want to remember this forever," and you say, "That's what the camera is for," and he says, "The camera can't capture how I feel right now. Nothing can." And you lift your phone and take a photo of him anyway, candlelit and starry-eyed and so handsome it hurts, and he rolls his eyes but he's smiling, and later that night you look at the photo and think he's right, the camera can't capture it, but it can remind you, and that's almost as good.

That first night in Santorini, after dinner and wine and a long, meandering walk through the lit-up streets of the town, you find yourselves on the terrace of your room, the jacuzzi bubbling and steaming in the cool night air, the sea a vast, dark expanse below you, and Jake looks at you with that look, the one that says he's thinking about something specific and it involves significantly fewer clothes than you're currently wearing.

"Jacuzzi?" he asks.

"Jacuzzi," you agree.

You change into your swimsuit, a simple black two-piece that you'd bought specifically for this trip, and when you step onto the terrace, Jake is already in the water, leaning against the edge with his arms spread along the rim, and he looks up at you and his eyes darken and his jaw tightens and you watch him bite his lower lip, a quick, unconscious gesture that sends a sharp pulse of heat straight to your core.

Jake is obsessed with your body. This is not new information. He has been obsessed with your body since the day you met, in various ways and to varying degrees, but the obsession has always been there, simmering beneath the surface of every glance and every touch and every lingering look he thinks you don't notice. He loves your breasts, loves them, can't keep his hands off them, can't keep his eyes off them, is constantly finding excuses to touch them or look at them or rest his head against them like they're pillows designed specifically for him. And he loves your ass, too, loves it with a devotion that borders on religious, is always touching it when you walk, grabbing it when you bend over, pressing himself against it when you're standing in line somewhere, and in Greece, in the heat, in the swimsuits and the shorts and the thin linen dresses that cling to every curve, the obsession has dialed up to a level that is honestly flattering and slightly inconvenient.

Like right now, for instance. You're standing on the edge of the jacuzzi in a black bikini, and Jake is looking at you like you're the sunset and the sea and the stars all compressed into a single person, and his teeth are digging into his lower lip, and you can see the hunger in his eyes, the raw, unfiltered want, and the sight of it, the knowledge that you do this to him, that you make him look like that, makes you feel powerful and desired and so, so hot.

"Get in here," he says, and his voice is lower than it was a moment ago.

You step into the water, the warmth enveloping you, and you settle across from him, letting the jets pulse against your back, and the two of you sit there for a moment in the steam and the starlight, the only sounds the bubbling of the jacuzzi and the distant crash of the sea below. Then his foot finds yours under the water, a casual, deliberate touch, and his toes trace up your ankle, your calf, and you look at him and he's looking at you with that crooked, knowing smile, and you feel the heat building between your legs that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

"Come here," he says.

You cross the jacuzzi and settle in his lap, your knees on either side of his hips, your arms around his neck, and he pulls you close and kisses you, and the kiss starts soft but doesn't stay that way. His hands find your waist, your hips, the curve of your ass under the water, and he squeezes and pulls you closer and groans into your mouth, and you feel him hardening beneath you, his cock pressing up against you through his swim trunks, thick and insistent.

"Feel what you do to me," he murmurs against your lips. "One look at you in that bikini and I'm gone. I'm a mess. I've been a mess all day."

"You've been staring at my tits all day."

"Your tits have been out all day. That dress you wore to lunch? The white one? I could see everything. I was hard through the entire meal. I had to put my napkin in my lap."

A laugh escapes you, and you bury your face in his neck and feel his chest shake with silent laughter too, and then his hands slide up your sides and cup your breasts through the bikini top, and the laughter dissolves into a sharp intake of breath as his thumbs find your nipples through the fabric.

"Jake—"

"Let me touch you. Please. I need to touch you."

His hands make quick work of your bikini top, untying it and tossing it somewhere behind him, and his palms find your bare breasts and he cups them, weighs them, squeezes them gently and then not so gently, and his thumbs circle your nipples until they're tight and aching, and you're grinding down onto him without meaning to, chasing the friction, the pressure, the feeling of him hard and ready beneath you.

"You have the most perfect tits," he says, and his voice is reverent and hungry and almost angry about it, like it's a personal offense how much he likes them. "I think about them constantly. During interviews. During rehearsals. During literally any moment when I should be focusing on something else, my brain just goes—" he squeezes again, harder, and you gasp "—right back to these. I'm not even exaggerating. It's a problem. I have a problem and I don't want to fix it."

"Baby—"

"Let me—" He doesn't finish the sentence. He leans in and takes one nipple into his mouth, hot and wet and relentless, and you gasp and grip his hair and arch into him. His tongue works the bud in tight, dizzying circles, then he sucks hard enough to make your spine curve, and you feel the sensation shoot straight down to your core, hot and electric and so intense that your thighs squeeze around his waist. His other hand isn't idle — it's on your other breast, rolling and pinching the nipple between his fingers, pulling and tweaking and working you into a state of such acute sensitivity that every touch feels amplified by a thousand.

"My wife," he breathes against your skin, switching to the other breast, his mouth hot and greedy. "My beautiful wife. I can't get enough of you. I'm never going to get enough of you."

His hand slides between your bodies, under the water, and his fingers find the waistband of your bikini bottoms and slip underneath, and his fingertips drag through your slick, swollen flesh, and the sound you make is somewhere between a gasp and a whimper and a plea. He circles your clit with a slow, deliberate pressure, and you rock against his hand, your body moving on instinct, chasing the pleasure, and his other hand is still on your breast, kneading, rolling your nipple, and the dual sensation is making you dizzy.

"You're so wet," he groans against your chest. "So wet for me. I've barely touched you and you're already this wet."

"It's been like this all day," you admit, and your voice is ragged. "Every time you looked at me. Every time you touched me. Every time you bit your lip."

"I know," he says, and there's a dark, satisfied edge to his voice. "I could tell. I can always tell. Your pupils get dilated and your breathing changes and you press your thighs together and I know exactly what it means because I'm the one who caused it."

His fingers slide inside you, two of them, and you clench around them and moan his name, and he groans in response, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. His fingers curl inside you, pressing against that spot, and his thumb finds your clit again, and he starts a rhythm that's steady and deep and absolutely devastating.

"Jake, I need you. I need your dick—fuck, please."

"Not yet." He shakes his head, and there's that dark, playful glint in his eyes again, the one that tells you he's going to drag this out as long as he can because he loves watching you squirm. "Let me make you come like this first. I want to feel you fall apart on my fingers before I fuck you. I want you so desperate that you can't even think straight."

"I'm already—" Your voice breaks as his fingers crook inside you, pressing hard against that spot, and your hips jerk involuntarily, water sloshing around you. "Jake, I'm already—"

"Not desperate enough. Not yet." He adds a third finger, and the stretch is delicious, the fullness just shy of too much, and he starts fucking you with them in earnest now, long, deep strokes that make you grip his shoulders and dig your nails into his skin. "I want you shaking. I want you begging. I want you so far gone that the only word left in your head is my name."

"You're—ah—you're such a—"

"Such a what?" He twists his fingers, and the new angle makes you see white. "Finish your sentence, baby."

"You're such a tease," you manage, and it comes out breathless and fractured and completely unconvincing.

"Am I?" He grins, and it's wicked, it's devastating, it's the smile of a man who knows exactly what he's doing to you and is enjoying every second of it. "Then tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want this and I'll stop right now."

"Don't you dare stop."

"Then I'm not a tease, am I?" His thumb presses hard against your clit and circles it in a slow, tight motion, and the combination of that with his fingers curling inside you, pressing that spot over and over, is enough to make your thighs clamp around his hand and your breath come in short, desperate pants. "I'm giving you exactly what you need. I'm making my wife feel good. There's nothing teasing about that."

The words, the raw, filthy honesty of them, push you closer to the edge, and you grind down onto his hand and feel the tension winding tighter and tighter, and his fingers are inside you and his thumb is on your clit and his mouth is on your breast and it's all too much, too much, too much, and the orgasm crashes through you in waves that make you tremble and gasp and say his name over and over like a prayer.

When you come down, he's looking at you with those dark, burning eyes, and his fingers are still inside you but still now, just resting, letting you feel the fullness as your walls pulse around him. He slides them out slowly, and you whimper at the loss, and he brings his hand up out of the water and licks his fingers clean with a slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue, and the sight of it makes your cunt clench around nothing.

"You taste like the sea," he says, and his voice is low and rough and fond. "Appropriate, given where we are."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're the one who just came in a jacuzzi in Santorini on your honeymoon. I think that makes you the ridiculous one."

"I hate your insufferable ass so much."

"No you don't." He grins, and it's so self-satisfied that you want to kiss it off his face, so you do, grabbing his jaw with both hands and kissing him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue, and he groans into your mouth and his hands grip your waist and pull you flush against him, and you can feel how hard he is through his swim trunks, the thick, hot length of him pressing against your core, and the kiss shifts from playful to desperate in the space of a single breath.

"Your turn," you murmur against his lips, and you reach between your bodies and wrap your hand around him through the fabric of his trunks, and his hips jerk up into your touch and he groans, low and guttural and desperate. "You've been so patient. Let me take care of you."

You tug at the waistband of his swim trunks, and he lifts his hips and you pull them down just far enough to free him, and his cock springs up, flushed and hard and leaking at the tip, and you wrap your hand around the base and squeeze, and the sound he makes — this broken, breathless, helpless thing — goes straight to your core and makes you throb even though you just came.

"God, your hand," he chokes out, and his head falls back against the edge of the jacuzzi, his throat exposed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. "I've been so hard for so long. You have no idea. You kept bending over in that dress today and I thought I was going to die."

"Poor baby," you say, and you start to stroke him, slow and tight, your grip firm as you slide your hand from base to tip and back again, spreading the wetness at the head down his length. "All that suffering. Let me make it better."

"Fuck—" His hands grip the edge of the jacuzzi so hard his knuckles go white, and his hips are moving, tiny involuntary thrusts up into your fist, and you watch the pleasure move across his face like weather, the furrow between his brows, the way his lips part, the flush spreading down his neck and across his chest, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, your husband falling apart in your hand.

"You know what I love?" you say, and you twist your hand on the upstroke, your thumb dragging across the sensitive ridge beneath the head, and his whole body shudders. "I love that I'm the only person who gets to see you like this. All those people who want you, who scream your name, who think they know what you look like—ugh, they have no idea. They've never seen you desperate. They've never heard these sounds. They've never felt you shake under their hands like this. This is just for me. Only me." You tighten your grip just slightly, twisting on the upstroke, and watch his abdominal muscles clench and his toes curl against the floor of the jacuzzi. "And I'm never sharing."

"Only you," he gasps, and his voice is wrecked, barely coherent. "Only ever you. I'm yours. Every part of me. All of it—ah—all of it yours."

"Good." You tighten your grip and speed up, stroking him faster, harder, and his moans are getting louder, more fractured, his hips snapping up to meet your hand. "I want you to come for me, Jake. I want to feel you spill in my hand. Can you do that? Can you be good for me?"

"Yes—fuck—yes, I'm—" He's trembling now, actually trembling, his thighs tensing under the water, his hands reaching for you and gripping your hip, your waist, anything he can hold onto. "I'm close, I'm so close, please—"

"Then come," you say, and you lean in and bite his earlobe, gentle but sharp, and that's all it takes. He comes with a broken moan of your name, his cock pulsing in your hand as he spills hot and thick over your fingers, his hips jerking erratically, his entire body taut and shaking, and you stroke him through it, slowing your hand as the aftershocks fade, milking every last drop out of him until he's gasping and oversensitive and pulling weakly at your wrist.

"Stop, stop, I can't—" He's laughing, breathless and overwhelmed, and you release him and bring your hand up and examine it with a theatricality that makes him laugh harder. "Don't you even think about stoppi—"

You lick a stripe up your palm, tasting him, salt, skin, and something so unmistakably Jake — and his laughter cuts off abruptly, replaced by a groan so deep it sounds like it's being pulled from the soles of his feet. You hold his gaze as you do it, deliberate and slow, letting your tongue drag across your skin, and you watch his jaw go slack and his chest heave and his cock twitch against his stomach, already filling again, already hard, because apparently the sight of you tasting him is enough to override every recovery period his body has ever known. His eyes are black, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left, and he's looking at you with an expression that's equal parts disbelief and desperate, rekindled want.

"If I die, I’m going to blame you," he says.

"Honestly, that sounds like a nice way to go." You grin, and you're about to say something else, something cheeky and self-satisfied, but then his hands are on your waist and he's lifting you and repositioning you, and you feel the hard, insistent press of him against your core — already half-hard again, already recovering, because Jake at twenty-something-years-old has the refractory period of a teenager and the stamina of a man who's been waiting his entire life for this.

"Get these off," you say, tugging at the waistband of his swim trunks, and he lifts his hips and you pull them down and his cock springs free, hard and flushed and thick, and you wrap your hand around him again and stroke him slowly, feeling him pulse in your palm, feeling the heat and the weight of him. You shift your position, settling over him, and you reach down and move your bikini bottoms to the side and guide him to your entrance, and you sink down onto him in one slow, devastating movement.

The sound he makes is wrecked. A broken, breathless moan that echoes off the terrace walls and dissolves into the night air, and his hands grip your hips so hard you know there'll be marks tomorrow, and his head falls back against the edge of the jacuzzi and his eyes squeeze shut and you watch the pleasure move across his face like weather, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

"Baby," he gasps, and the word is reverent, worshipful. "Oh my god, my wife. You feel so good. You're so tight. So warm. I'm not going to last, I—"

"Simply don't," you say, and you start to move, rolling your hips in slow, grinding circles, feeling him shift inside you, feeling every inch of the stretch and the fullness. "We have all week. Just feel it."

"Easy for you to say," he manages, and his voice is strangled, barely holding together. "You're not the one who's been on the edge for six hours. You're not the one whose wife has been parading around in a bikini all day looking like a goddamn Greek goddess. You're not the one who had to sit through dinner with a hard-on because you kept licking gelato off your spoon like that—"

"Like what?" You roll your hips deliberately, a slow, grinding circle that takes him to the hilt and holds, and his eyes roll back.

"Like you knew exactly what you were doing. Which you did. You absolutely did, don't even—" His breath hitches as you do it again. "Don't pretend you didn't know what you were doing to me."

"You like the bikini?"

"I'm going to buy you ten more. I'm going to buy you a bikini in every color. I'm going to make you try them all on for me like a private fashion show and then I'm going to take them off you one by one—"

"Jake." You roll your hips harder, grinding down onto him, taking him deeper, and his sentence dissolves into a moan that sounds like it's being pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. "Less talking. More feeling."

"I'm feeling," he gasps. "I'm feeling everything. I'm feeling you wrapped around me so tight I can barely think. I'm feeling how wet you are, how warm, how perfect. I'm feeling like the luckiest man alive because I get to be inside my wife on our honeymoon in Santorini and—fuck—and the stars are out and the water is warm and I never want this to end."

You lean down and kiss him, swallowing the rest of his words, and his hands slide up your sides, cupping your breasts again, his thumbs brushing your nipples, and he watches you ride him with an expression that's half awe and half desperation, like he can't believe this is real, like he's afraid to blink in case it disappears. The water laps around you, the steam rises into the cool night air, the stars are scattered across the sky like spilled diamonds, and you move together in the warm, bubbling water, your bodies finding a rhythm that's slow and deep and so full of feeling that it borders on overwhelming.

You change the angle, leaning back slightly and planting your hands on his thighs behind you, and the new position lets him see everything, the place where your bodies are joined, the slick, wet slide of him in and out of you, the way your tits move with every roll of your hips, and his eyes are glued to it, hungry and dark and so completely transfixed that you feel a surge of power so potent it makes you dizzy.

"You like watching?" you ask, and your voice comes out lower than you intended, rough with want.

"I like watching you," he says, and his hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, helping you set a pace that's faster now, more urgent. "I like watching my cock disappear inside you. I like watching you take me. I like knowing that nobody else gets to see this. Nobody else gets to have this. Just me."

"Just you," you confirm, and the words come out breathless, fractured, barely more than a moan. "Only you. Forever."

"Close," he chokes out, and his hips are jerking up into you now, his rhythm faltering, his hands gripping your waist. "I'm close, I'm—can I—"

"Come inside me," you say, and the words are barely out of your mouth before he's pulling you down onto him one final time and burying himself deep and coming with a sound that's your name and a moan and something that might be I love you, all of it tangled together into a raw, broken, beautiful noise that you want to record and play back for the rest of your life.

You stay there for a long moment, him still inside you, the water lapping at your skin, the stars above you, and he wraps his arms around you and pulls you against his chest and presses a kiss to your wet shoulder.

"I can't believe you're mine," he whispers.

"I can't believe you're mine either," you whisper back.

"Good. Then we're even."

You laugh, and he laughs, and the sound of it carries out over the caldera and into the night, and somewhere below, the sea catches the moonlight and turns it into a road of silver stretching toward the horizon, and you think, this is my life now, this impossibly beautiful, impossibly lucky life, and you close your eyes and hold on tighter.

The days in Santorini pass in a haze of sunshine and wine and each other.

You sleep late and wake up tangled together, the Mediterranean light filtering through the curtains in warm, golden bars, and Jake presses kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, until you're blinking awake and turning into him and the morning dissolves into something slow and soft and unhurried. He brings you coffee on the terrace, strong and sweet the way you like it, and you sit with your feet up and the sea below and the nowhere you need to be, and the luxury of it, the rareness of having time and nothing to fill it with except each other, is almost too much to bear.

He takes photos of you constantly. Candid ones, when you're not looking. You ordering at a restaurant, squinting at the menu in the bright sunlight. You examining a row of postcards in a tiny shop, holding one up to the light. You taking a photo of the sunset with your phone, your profile silhouetted against the orange and pink sky. You looking at something in a market stall, your head tilted, your hair catching the breeze. He doesn't say anything when he takes them, just quietly lifts his phone or his camera and captures the moment, and you only discover them later, when he shows you the camera roll with that soft, proud smile and says, "Look how beautiful you are," and you look at the photo, at the way he sees you, through his eyes, and your throat tightens because the woman in these photos is radiant and happy and so clearly, unmistakably in love, and you realize that's how he sees you all the time, not just in these moments but always, and the knowledge is so big and so overwhelming that you have to kiss him just to keep from crying.

"You need a new profile picture," he says one afternoon, when you're sitting on a stone wall overlooking the caldera with gelato melting in your hands. "Let me take one."

"I don't need—"

"You do. The one you have is from eight months ago. You've been a wife for four days now. You need an upgrade."

"A wife upgrade?"

"A profile picture upgrade. Come on. The light is perfect."

He positions you against the wall with the blue domes behind you and the sea beyond that, and he takes a dozen photos, adjusting your hair, tilting your chin, making you laugh until the shots are natural and bright and unposed, and when he shows you the best one, the one where you're mid-laugh with the sun in your hair and the Aegean behind you, you actually tear up a little because you look happy, you look so thoroughly, radiantly happy, and it's all because of him.

"See?" he says softly. "Told you. The most beautiful person on this island."

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

"I love you."

His face softens into something so tender that it makes your chest physically ache. "I love you too. So much."

You do all the couple things. All of them. You take matching photos in front of the blue domes, squished together with the wind in your hair, and Jake insists on doing a different pose for each one and you end up with a series that ranges from sweet to silly to borderline inappropriate. You find a photobooth in a tourist shop and squeeze inside and take a strip of photos, making increasingly ridiculous faces, and the last one is just you kissing, soft and real, and you cut it in half and each keep one in your phone cases. You buy the matching keychains for the members, small glass evil eyes in different colors, and Jake writes a little note for each one and you package them up in the hotel room and address them and set them aside to mail when you get home. You buy matching sandals from a shop near the harbor because you're a cliche and you don't care, and you wear them for the rest of the trip and take a photo of your feet side by side and Jake captions it "solemates" and you groan so loud the people at the next table turn to look.

He also stares at you. Constantly. In a way that is extremely distracting.

On the beach, when you're wearing a bikini top and a long maxi skirt, and you're applying sunscreen to your shoulders, and you look up and catch him staring at your chest with his bottom lip caught between his teeth, his eyes dark and hungry, and he looks away quickly when you catch him but not quickly enough, and the heat that floods your stomach has nothing to do with the sun.

At dinner, when you're wearing a dress that hugs your curves and you lean forward to reach for the wine, and his eyes drop to your cleavage and stay there for a beat too long, and when you straighten up he's adjusting himself under the table and pretending he's not.

On the terrace in the morning, when you step out in your underwear and a t-shirt, still sleep-soft and rumpled, and he looks up from his coffee and his entire body goes still and his jaw tightens and he says, very calmly, "You're trying to kill me," and you say, "I'm literally just getting coffee," and he says, "In that? With your legs out? And your—" he gestures vaguely at your entire body, "—everything? It's an attempted murder is what it is."

You laugh every time. Every single time. Because Sim Jaeyun, idol, performer, man who has been photographed by professionals and screamed at by fans and trained to maintain composure in any situation, cannot keep it together when you're wearing a bikini and a skirt and the sun is hitting your skin, and the knowledge that you have that effect on him is the most heady, intoxicating thing in the world.

The second time it happens, the morning of your fourth day in Santorini, is softer than the first.

You wake up before he does, which is rare, and you lie there for a moment watching him sleep, the way his lashes fan against his cheekbones, the way his lips are slightly parted, the way his chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths, and the morning light is coming through the curtains in soft, golden slats and painting stripes across the bed and across his skin, and he looks so peaceful, so beautiful, so completely yours, that you feel the familiar swell in your chest, the too-muchness of loving someone this deeply, and you press a kiss to his bare shoulder because you can't not.

He stirs. A small, sleepy sound. His arm reaches for you, pulling you closer, and he buries his face in your neck and mumbles something unintelligible, and you card your fingers through his hair and feel him melt against you.

"Morning," you whisper.

"Mmm. Morning. What time is it?"

"Early. Go back to sleep."

"Don't want to." He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another, then another, a slow, lazy trail up your neck, and his hand finds your waist under the sheet and pulls you flush against him, and you feel him, half-hard against your thigh, and a slow, warm pulse of desire settles between your legs. "Want you instead."

"You just woke up."

"I've been wanting you all night. It just carried over." He grins against your skin, and his hand slides from your waist to your hip, your thigh, and he grips the flesh there and squeezes, and you feel his cock harden fully against you. "Please?"

"You don't even have your eyes open."

"Don't need them. I know where everything is." His hand slides between your thighs, and his fingers brush against you through your underwear, and the touch is light and teasing and enough to make your breath catch. "Feel that? Already wet for me. You're always wet for me in the morning. I love it."

"Jake—"

"Shh. Let me. Let me make you feel good."

He shifts, pressing you onto your back, and he settles between your legs and looks down at you with heavy-lidded, sleep-soft eyes, and his hair is a disaster and there are pillow creases on his cheek and he's so beautiful it makes your chest hurt. He leans down and kisses you, slow and deep and tasting like sleep and morning and love, and his hands push your shirt up and pull your underwear down, and you lift your hips to help him, and the morning air hits your bare skin for just a moment before his warmth covers you again. His fingers find you immediately, two of them sliding inside with an ease that makes you blush because you are wet, you're soaking, and the slick sound of his fingers moving in and out of you fills the quiet morning air and makes you want to hide your face in the pillow.

"There it is," he murmurs, and his voice is rough with sleep, rough with satisfaction, and he curls his fingers inside you and you arch off the mattress with a gasp. "There's my girl. Always so ready for me. I just have to look at you and you turn into this—this pretty, dripping mess—and you think I'm the obsessed one?"

"You are the obsessed one," you manage, and he laughs, and the sound is low and warm and so fond that it makes your chest ache even as his fingers are doing obscene things inside you.

"Guilty." He adds a third finger, and the stretch makes you whimper, and he swallows the sound with a kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in the same rhythm his fingers are fucking you, and the dual sensation is enough to make your head spin. His thumb finds your clit and circles it with a maddeningly light pressure, barely there, just enough to make you chase it, and you buck your hips up and he pulls away, and the loss makes you whine.

"Jake—"

"Patience." He grins down at you, and his eyes are dark and sleepy and so full of affection that it's almost hard to reconcile with the filth his fingers are currently doing. "I want to taste you first. I've been thinking about it all night. Dreaming about it, actually. I woke up with my mouth watering."

Before you can respond, he's kissing down your body, his lips trailing fire across your collarbone, between your breasts, down the soft plane of your stomach, and when he settles between your thighs and breathes against you, the warm air hitting your wet, swollen flesh, you nearly come apart from that alone.

"God, you smell incredible," he says, and his voice is muffled against your inner thigh, where he's pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin, his teeth grazing the softest part of you just enough to make your hips twitch. "I could eat you out for breakfast every day for the rest of my life and die happy. Forget the coffee. This is what I want to wake up to. You, spread out for me, still half-asleep, making those little sounds—I'd never need another meal."

"You're—unh—you're so—"

"Say it. Tell me what I am."

"Impossible. Infuriating. The love of my life."

His laugh vibrates against your core, and then his mouth is on you, and every thought in your head evaporates like morning mist. He licks into you with a slow, thorough devotion that makes your thighs shake, his tongue flat and wide against your clit before narrowing into a point that circles and flicks and teases until you're writhing against the sheets, your hands fisted in his hair, your hips chasing his mouth. He hums against you, a low, satisfied sound that says he knows exactly what he's doing, and the vibration of it zips through your nervous system like electricity and settles in a molten pool at the base of your spine.

"You know what drives me crazy?" he says, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips brushing your clit with every word, and the graze is so light and so devastating that you can barely process what he's saying. "The sounds you make. These little—" he mimics the breathy whimper that just escaped you, and hearing it in his voice, rough and morning-low and so completely fond, makes you flush from head to toe "—I could record them and listen on repeat. I'd never listen to music again. I'd just listen to you falling apart for me over and over and it would be the only song I'd ever need."

"Jake, please—"

"Please what? Tell me. I want to hear you say it."

"Make me come. Please. I need—"

"You need what? My mouth? My fingers? My cock?" He laps at you again, one long, slow, devastating stroke that has your back bowing off the bed. "You have to tell me, princess. Use your words."

"Your mouth. Your mouth, please, I need—"

He doesn't make you ask again. He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, and the pressure is firm and rhythmic and so precisely calibrated to your body that you wonder sometimes if he has a map of you tattooed on the inside of his eyelids, and two fingers slide back inside you and curl against that spot, and the combination is lethal. It hits you fast and hard, the orgasm rolling through you in waves that make you cry out and clench around his fingers and grip his hair so tight he groans against you, and he works you through it with the same steady, devastating rhythm, not stopping until you're pushing at his head and gasping from the overstimulation.

He crawls back up your body with his chin wet and his eyes dark and that crooked, self-satisfied grin that makes you want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure. "Good morning," he says, and his voice is so casual, so conversational, like he didn't just rearrange your entire nervous system with his tongue.

"Good morning," you manage, and your voice is wrecked and your body is trembling and you feel like you've been turned inside out in the best possible way. "Get up here. I want you inside me."

He settles between your legs and you feel the head of his cock against your entrance, and he pushes in slowly, so slowly, and the stretch and the fullness and the tenderness of it makes you whimper against his lips. He's still for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel the fullness of him, the heat of him, the weight of him, and then he starts to move.

"Feel so good," he murmurs, and his voice is rough with sleep and rough with want, and his hips roll into yours in a slow, lazy rhythm that feels more like breathing than fucking, like your bodies have found a pace that they can sustain forever, unhurried and deep and so full of feeling that it makes your eyes sting. "My wife. My perfect, beautiful wife. I love being inside you. I love being close to you. I love you so much it hurts."

"I love you more," you whisper, and you wrap your arms around him and pull him closer, and his face is pressed into your neck and his breath is warm and ragged against your skin, and his hips are moving faster now, a little harder, a little more desperate, and the shift from gentle to rough happens in degrees, each thrust a little deeper than the last, each breath a little more ragged.

"You know what I love about missionary?" he says, and his voice is a low, rough rumble against your ear, and the question is so unexpected, so absurd, that you almost laugh. "I love that I can see your face. I love that I can watch every single thing you're feeling. I love that when you come, I get to see it happen right in front of me, these beautiful expressions that nobody else will ever get to witness." He rolls his hips deep, grinding against your clit on the downstroke, and your eyes flutter shut. "No, don't close your eyes. Look at me. I want to see you."

You force your eyes open, and his face is inches from yours, so close that his breath is your breath, and his eyes are so dark and so full of love and want and reverence that looking at them feels like staring into the sun. He's moving faster now, his thrusts deeper, more deliberate, and each one punches a small, helpless sound out of your throat that he catches with his mouth, kissing you between gasps, swallowing your moans and feeding you his.

"I'm close," you whisper, and your voice breaks on it.

"I know. I can feel you squeezing me." He shifts his angle slightly, and the new position means he's hitting that spot with every thrust, and the pleasure is building so fast and so intense that you can barely think. "Come for me. Come on my cock. Let me feel you."

The orgasm crashes through you like a wave breaking, your walls clenching around him, your back arching off the mattress, his name tearing from your lips, and he watches you, he watches, just like he said he would, his eyes on your face, drinking in every expression, every gasp, every flutter of your eyelids, and you feel him follow you over the edge a moment later, his rhythm turning erratic and desperate as he spills inside you with a groan that's half your name and half something broken and wordless.

He stays inside you, still half-hard, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard, and the morning light is painting gold across your tangled bodies and the crumpled sheets, and he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your eyelid, and murmurs, "Good morning for real this time."

You laugh, soft and breathless, and card your fingers through his disaster of hair. "The best morning."

He pulls back suddenly, and before you can question it, he's rolling you over, guiding you onto your hands and knees, and his hands are on your hips, steadying you, positioning you exactly how he wants you, and the casual authority of it, the way he handles your body like he knows every inch of it, makes a fresh pulse of wetness slick between your thighs. You feel the head of his cock, still hard, still ready, because Jake at this age has the recovery time of someone who's been waiting their whole life for a week of unlimited access to you, pressing against your entrance from behind, and he runs the tip through your slick, teasing, just once, before he pushes in.

"Again?" you ask, and your voice is breathless with disbelief and want.

"Again," he confirms, and he pushes in with one smooth, deep thrust that punches a gasp out of your lungs. The new angle is deeper, different, hitting a spot inside you that makes your arms shake and your moans go higher and needier, and his hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks that you'll find later in the shower and press your fingertips to with a smile so wide it hurts. He doesn't start slow this time; he sets a pace from the first thrust that's hard and fast and relentless, like he's been waiting for this, like the first round was just the warm-up and now he's taking what he really wants, and the sound of it, the wet slap of his hips against your ass, fills the room along with your moans and his grunts and the creak of the bed frame.

"God, you feel so good like this," he groans, and his voice is wrecked, barely holding together. "Your ass—I can see everything—the way you take me—fuck—you're so perfect—I'm obsessed with you, you know that? I'm completely obsessed with every part of you—"

"Jake—harder—please—"

He obliges, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes the bed creak, and his hand comes around to your front, finding your clit, circling it in tight, firm movements, and the dual sensation of him inside you and his fingers on you is too much, it's all too much, and you feel the orgasm building fast and hard and unstoppable.

He reaches up with his other hand and gathers your hair to one side, exposing the back of your neck, and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss there that sends a shiver cascading down your entire spine, and the combination of his mouth on your neck and his cock hitting deep and his fingers working your clit is so overwhelming that your elbows buckle and your chest drops to the mattress, and the new angle lets him sink impossibly deeper, and you hear him curse behind you, low and fractured and reverent, like he can't believe how good you feel.

"You know what I think about when I'm on stage?" he says, and his voice is low and rough and right against your ear, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck. "I think about this. I think about being inside you. I think about the way you sound and the way you feel and the way you look when you come. Every single performance, there's a moment where I'm singing and I'm thinking about you and I have to focus so hard on the choreography because otherwise I'm going to get hard on stage and that would be a scandal."

"Jake—”

"I'm serious. You have no idea. Every time I do that move in Bite Me, I'm thinking about fucking you. Every time. Every single performance. I've conditioned myself to associate it with the way you clench around me when you come and it's a miracle I haven't embarrassed myself live."

The filth of it, the raw, unfiltered honesty, the image of him on stage thinking about this, about you, about the way your body responds to him, it pushes you right over the edge, and the orgasm tears through you so hard and so fast that your arms give out and your face drops into the pillow and you're moaning his name into the fabric, your walls clenching around him in pulsing waves, and he follows a moment later, his hips jerking erratically, his hands gripping you so tight, his moan of your name dissolving into something raw and broken and so full of love that it makes your eyes sting even through the pleasure.

He collapses beside you, pulling you into him, and you both lie there in the warm morning light, breathless and trembling and so thoroughly, completely happy that words feel inadequate. He presses kisses to your shoulder, your temple, your hair, and you can feel his heartbeat against your back, still racing, still catching up, and his arm tightens around your waist like he's afraid you might disappear.

"Best morning of my life," he murmurs.

"You said that yesterday."

"It's still true. I'm going to say it every morning for the rest of our lives."

"That's a lot of mornings."

"Good. I hope there's a lot of them. I hope there's an infinite number of them and I get to spend every single one with you."

You turn in his arms and kiss him, soft and slow and tasting like forever, and the morning stretches out around you, golden and warm and completely, impossibly full.

"I'm hungry," he announces after a long, lazy moment, his voice muffled against your hair.

"Me too."

"Room service or each other?"

"Jake."

"I'm just saying. Both are valid options." He grins, and it's so boyish and so endearing that you want to bite his face, so you do, leaning in and sinking your teeth gently into his jaw, and he yelps and laughs and rolls you over and pins you to the mattress and kisses you until you're both breathless and giggling and thoroughly, completely, absurdly happy.

You order room service eventually. Greek yogurt with honey and fresh fruit and strong coffee, and you eat it on the terrace in your robes with the sea glittering below you and the sun warm on your faces, and Jake feeds you a strawberry and you feed him a bite of yogurt and it's so domestic and so sweet and so newlywed-coded that you should be embarrassed but you're not, not even a little, because this is your life now, this slow, sweet, ordinary magic of being married to your best friend, and every cliche in the book applies to you and you wear every single one of them like a badge of honor.

The rest of the honeymoon passes in a blur of blue water and white buildings and sun-warmed skin. You take a boat tour of the caldera and Jake gets sunburned on his nose and you take a photo and send it to the group chat and the members respond with approximately seventeen crying-laughing emojis. You try Greek coffee and hate it and Jake loves it and you argue about it for the rest of the day. You buy a painting from a street artist that captures the exact color of the sunset on your first night and you know you're going to hang it in your living room and think about this moment every time you look at it. You dance on the terrace to music playing from Jake's phone, slow-dancing in bare feet with the sea below and the stars above, and he dips you dramatically and you shriek with laughter and he kisses you while you're still upside down and the photo he takes afterward, the two of you disheveled and grinning and so clearly, absurdly in love, becomes your new wallpaper.

On the last night, you sit on the terrace with your feet in the cooling water of the jacuzzi, and Jake is beside you with his arm around your shoulders, and the sunset is painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and gold that look so unreal they might be a filter, and he says, "I don't want to leave," and you say, "Me neither," and he says, "We'll come back. Every year. Anniversary trip. I don't care if we're eighty. I'll carry you up the hill if I have to."

"You'd break your hip."

"Worth it."

You lean into him and watch the sun sink below the horizon and feel the warmth of his body against yours and the weight of the ring on your finger and the fullness of your heart, and you think about the past week, about the lazy mornings and the sunlit afternoons and the starry nights, about the way he looks at you like you're the only person in the world, about the way his hand finds yours without looking, about the way he says "my wife" like it's the most precious phrase in any language, and you think, I am the luckiest person alive, and you mean it with every cell in your body.

On the flight home, you fall asleep on his shoulder within the first hour, and he takes a photo of you sleeping and sets it as his lock screen and doesn't tell you until you're in the car on the way home from the airport and you see it when his phone lights up with a message, and you smack his arm and he laughs and says, "What? You look cute. Peaceful. Mine."

"Jake."

"What? You are mine. Legally. Binding contract. Can't take it back now."

"I wouldn't want to take it back."

His smile softens, and he reaches for your hand and interlaces your fingers and brings them to his lips and kisses your knuckles, right above the ring, and the gesture is so tender and so unconscious and so completely him that you have to look out the window and blink rapidly because you are not going to cry in the back of a taxi, you've cried enough in the past week to fill an ocean, but the tears come anyway because this is your life, this impossibly, overwhelmingly, heartbreakingly beautiful life, and you get to live it with him.

Two days after you get back from Greece, you're sitting on the couch in your apartment, still in the post-honeymoon haze where everything feels slightly unreal and slightly too good to be true, when Jake sits down next to you with his phone in his hand and a look on his face that you recognize as the one he gets when he's about to do something sappy and he knows you're going to give him a hard time about it.

"What?" you ask.

"I want to post something," he says. "About the wedding."

"Okay."

"It's a video. Of the ceremony. When they announced us. And us, you know, being us about it."

"Being us?"

"Laughing and crying and kissing. The whole embarrassing thing."

You smile. "That's my favorite part."

"Mine too. I've watched it like forty times. I'm not exaggerating. My screen time is concerning."

"So post it."

"I want it to be a collab. So it shows on both our accounts." He looks at you, and there's something vulnerable in his expression, something like he's asking for permission, like sharing this moment with the world is a big deal and he wants to make sure you're okay with it. "Is that okay?"

You think about it for a moment. About the fans who have been supportive since the beginning, who'd celebrated your engagement and your wedding with a warmth and a sincerity that had surprised you both. About the friends and family who were there, who lived it, who would love to see it preserved and shared. About the fact that your relationship has never been hidden or scandalous or something to be ashamed of, that it's been out in the open from the start, that the world has watched you fall in love and stay in love and now they get to watch you take this next step.

"Yeah," you say. "It's okay. More than okay. I want people to see it."

He smiles, and the relief and the happiness on his face are so genuine that you have to kiss him, so you do, and he laughs against your lips and says, "Okay, okay, let me post it first, then you can kiss me as much as you want."

He opens Instagram, starts a new post, selects the video. You watch over his shoulder as he trims it, cutting it to the most essential part: the officiant's voice saying "I now pronounce you husband and wife," and then the moment after, the two of you laughing through tears as he pulls you in for a kiss, the raw, unfiltered, overwhelming joy of it captured in fifteen seconds of video that somehow contains the entire universe.

He types the caption.

It was simple. The date and a heart. Simple. Corny. Absolutely perfect.

He adds you as a collaborator, and you watch your name appear next to his in the post settings, and the sight of it, your handles side by side, sharing this moment, makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Ready."

He hits post.

Within seconds, the notifications start. A trickle at first, then a flood, then a tidal wave of likes and comments and shares that makes both your phones vibrate so hard they nearly vibrate off the coffee table. Comments in Korean and English and Japanese and languages you can't read, all of them variations of the same thing: congratulations, I'm crying, this is so beautiful, you guys deserve all the happiness, MY PARENTS, the screaming crying throwing up emojis, the heart emojis, the ring emojis.

Jake reads them out loud in a running commentary, his voice getting softer and softer as he goes, and when he gets to one that says "I've been following you guys since the beginning and I'm so happy for you," he goes quiet, and you look over and his eyes are bright and wet, and he clears his throat and says, "I'm not crying, you're crying," and you say, "We're both crying," and he laughs, and it comes out thick and wet, and you take the phone out of his hand and set it on the cushion and pull him into your arms and hold him while the notifications keep coming, a constant, warm stream of love from people who have watched your story unfold and are so genuinely, generously happy for the next chapter.

The video plays on a loop in the corner of the screen. The officiant's voice. Your laughter. His tears. The kiss that sealed everything. And underneath it, the date and the heart, the simplest, truest, most Jake caption there could ever be, because what else is there to say about the day your life changed forever except the date it happened and a heart to represent everything that came after.

You hold him on the couch and he holds you back, and the sun sets through the window in a wash of amber and rose that reminds you of Santorini, and you think about the mountain where he proposed and the garden where you married and the island where you loved each other in every way a person can be loved, and you think about the ring on your finger and the man in your arms and the life stretching out in front of you, vast and unknown and so full of possibility that it takes your breath away, and you know, with a certainty that lives deeper than thought, deeper than language, deeper than bone, that you will love him through every single moment of it, and he will love you back, and that will be enough. 

It will be more than enough. 

It will be everything.

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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💿 ࿐ . . heaven by bryan adams

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

Yours to kiss and laugh with, yours to leave marks all over, yours to be absolutely destroyed by in the bedroom. It had been almost two months now since you had him properly. Two painful, sexless months. What was a woman supposed to do?

You tried not to resent the badge, telling yourself it isn’t its fault or the town’s or the emergencies that always seemed to happen just as he walked through the door, hat barely off his head before someone’s knocking again. Worst part was he forbade you from visiting him at the station, too scared you’d get hurt because of some or the other crook.

But sometimes, deep into the melancholic night, when his side of the bed was still cold, you remembered how it used to be.

You were barely more than kids when you got married. Too young, the older women whispered. Too reckless, the men at the bar said. But you had looked at Jay standing there in that simple suit—nervous, smiling too wide, hands shaking when he held yours—and you knew he was your Orpheus.

He used to laugh more back then too, a bright, easy laugh that filled rooms. He’d steal you away in the middle of the day just to walk by the creek. He’d tip his hat low and pretend to be some grand outlaw sweeping you off your feet. You’d cook together in your kitchen, bumping into each other on purpose, arguing over salt and laughing before the argument could even start.

If he rode out, you rode with him. If he fixed fences, you handed him nails. If you sat on the porch swing at sunset, his hand would find yours without looking, like it belonged there.

You were young, so painfully, beautifully young. And in love, in that uncomplicated way where nothing else mattered.

You were inseparable, the perfect example of love.

Love is anything but perfect. 

Now you sat on that same porch alone some evenings. The wood creaked the same, the sunsets were still gold, but the space beside you felt wider. Jay still kissed your forehead when he left in the mornings, still told you he’d be home soon, still called you “darling’” in that low voice that made your stomach flip.

But it’s different. He’s tired now. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes some days. When he came home, he’d collapse into a chair instead of your arms. You’d talk about supper, supplies, the weather—practical things, necessary things, safe things.

And you started to wonder. Did he still look at you the way he used to? Or did he see an obligation, a routine when he saw you now? 

You hated yourself for even thinking about it. But doubt is a quiet, persistent thing. It slipped in when the house was too quiet. When another week passed with only brief touches and half-finished conversations. You found yourself staring at your reflection sometimes, wondering if you’ve changed. Maybe it wasn't that he loved you less. Maybe it was that he was afraid.

Afraid to bring the weight of his job home. Afraid to let you see the things he saw. Afraid that if he let himself relax, even for a second, something would fall apart. You remember how young you both were—how fearless. How sure that love alone was enough to carry you through anything.

Now the love was still there. You felt it in the way he paused at the door and looked back at you, just for a second longer than necessary. In the way his hand lingered on your waist when he passed. In the way he softened when you said his name quietly at night.

But you still missed him.

Your Jay.

How cruel the world was to take him away from the softness.

“I keep telling you—” Your neighbour laughed as she hung up laundry, “—all you need is one magical garment to get your husband back.”

“I am not wearing that old thing.” You scoffed, handing her a wet cardigan, “What’s gonna happen anyway? He’ll see me in it and suddenly drop to his knees?” 

“Precisely.” She laughed, turning to you, placing her hands on her hips, “Just trust me this one time, and you’ll get your husband back this very night.” You rolled your eyes but your mind still drifted.

The white silk garter.

You hadn’t touched it in years. It had been tucked away carefully after your wedding night, folded with ridiculous tenderness as though it were made of spun glass instead of silk. You remember how young you’d been—how your hands trembled, how Jay’s did too, though he’d tried so hard to look confident. You remember the laughter more than anything. The way you both kept breaking into nervous grins like children pretending to be grown.

You cleared your throat and crossed your arms. “It’s old now.”

“So is your marriage, honey.” Your neighbor shot back, “And I’ve never given you bad advice to this day, have I?”

“What if I put it on and he doesn’t even notice?” You leaned closer, lowering your voice dramatically. 

“He’ll notice.” She insisted. “Men are simple creatures. Especially when silk is involved.”

“Is that so?” You laughed as you put the laundry basket down, “You really do get the wildest ideas when you’re not over at the bakery.” You said, inviting her over for a glass of water at your house. These were rare days that you got to hang out with her, on days she didn't open her bakery.

“Come on, show it to me at least!” She said, leaning back against your kitchen counter with her arms crossed. You snorted despite yourself, nonetheless inviting her up to your bedroom. Her eyes went wide as you opened your closet, pulling out the little piece from some forgotten corner.

“Oh. My. God.” She gasped, making you laugh.

“I keep forgetting how young you are.” You ran your fingers over the garter. 

White silk, slightly yellowed at the edges, delicate lace stitched along the top; and suddenly you’re twenty again—heart racing, cheeks flushed, believing that nothing in the world could ever wedge itself between you and the man who looked at you like you were the only thing that existed.

You sat on the edge of the bed, garter in your hands, and wondered if this was foolish—if a scrap of silk could compete with whatever weight he carried home in silence. 

“You’re considering it aren't you?” Your neighbour said slowly, lips curling.

“I’m considering burning it,” You retorted, though your ears were warm,  “If this doesn’t work, I’m blaming you for the rest of my natural life.”

“It’ll work.” She said confidently, grinning like she had won something.

“You are impossible.” You grinned.

But for the first time in weeks, something inside you felt less heavy, less afraid and more like that reckless, hopeful bride who once believed love could conquer anything.

Maybe tonight, you’d remind him of her.

_________________

Park Jongseong considered himself to be an alright man. 

Alright in the sense that he actually considered himself to be a fucked up piece of shit who couldn’t even spare a second for his treasure of a wife. Life had gotten so busy nowadays that he couldn't remember the last time he spun you around in the kitchen, held you in his arms and kissed you all over. 

Most nights, he came home late, right when the clock struck ten. You’d already be dead asleep on the bed, turned away from him, hair falling over your face to frame it in the most ethereal way ever. One day he came home to find you on the couch, apron still on and a cold cherry pie on the table; Jay wanted to be struck down by lightning right there and then. 

His wife.

His beautiful, amazing wife, who had stuck by his side even when he wasn't the sheriff he was now.

And this was how he treated you.

Jay paused outside the door, a habit he’d always had, standing there on the ‘welcome home’ mat for a second before stepping inside, as if shedding the outside world from his shoulders before fully crossing into his home. 

The house was quiet—lamps turned low, curtains drawn against the night, the air thick with the faint scent of…..lavender oil? Jay felt as if he were transported back to the night of his wedding, when your bedroom was all lavender, roses and some good fucking sex. 

His hat came off first and then a quiet exhale as he threw his boots off. 

“Darling?” He called, voice tired but still warm. 

“In here, Jay.” You answered, from somewhere in the living room. Jay stepped into the living room, unbuttoning one cuff absently. Something kept swelling in his chest, was it the amazing scent wafting through the house?

“You’re still up darling? I thought you’d—” 

And then he looked up.

And then the world stopped.

You had seen Jay angry. You had seen him determined, gentle, amused, even broken in the privacy of your arms after a particularly hard day. You had never seen him freeze like that, his hand frozen still mid-motion.

The fatigue vanished from his face so suddenly it almost startled you. His eyes, those sharp, steady eyes that intimidated half the town, widened in a way that made him look almost boyish. They narrowed with heat as he took you in, from the way the fabric clung to your breasts down to the way your hair came loose at some places.

“Hi honey.” You said sheepishly, toying with the fabric of your nightgown. 

You had stood by the mirror for a total of fifteen minutes, making adjustments to every inch of your body.  You’d pinned your hair up the way you used to in those early days, soft curls escaping on purpose. 

The gown itself was a simple, flowing thing in pale ivory, sheer enough in the right light to hint at the curves beneath without giving everything away. You remembered how his eyes had darkened when you'd worn it before, how his hands had roamed all over like he was tracing a map.

And beneath it all, known only to you, was that thin band of white silk. It was delicate, the lace edges soft against your skin, hugging your thigh just below the hem. You’d added a touch of perfume, the one he always said smelled like home and waited in the living room, the soft glow of the lamp casting warm shadows across the space.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You felt heat suddenly creep up your neck. What the actual fuck were you doing?

“You’re staring.” You managed softly. 

Your heart picked up pace as you ran your gaze over him in his uniform shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms. His dark hair was tousled, and a day's stubble shadowed his jaw. You saw the movement of his throat, the tightening of his jaw as though he were grounding himself.

“Can a man not look at his wife now?” The way he said it made your heart stutter, as he closed the distance slowly, “You look…” He stopped, eyes tracing you as though committing every detail to memory. “I don’t even have the right word.”

Jay’s hands found your waist, pulling you against him, and you felt the immediate hardness pressing into your belly. “What's all this, sweetheart?”

“Nothing much.” You avoided his gaze, looking down at your fingers, “Just thought I should remind the sheriff he has a wife.” 

Your hand slid down slowly to palm his hard cock through his hands. It had him graining, his hips bucking forward seeking more of your glorious touch. You smirked at the massive tent in his pants, before leaning in to brush your lips against the shell of your ears.

“You were gone for so long. Might as well have fucked someone else in this town.” You whispered, feeling his grip on your waist tighten, “Who’s gonna resist this pretty body anyway?” 

You pulled back, still avoiding his gaze, but the bruising pressure of his calloused hands on your waist told you everything you needed to know. 

Jay’s hands came up slowly to your chin, his calendar index finger resting underneath it, and then tilting your head up. You had to hold yourself back from humping against his length when you saw his face, brows slightly raised, his tongue poking the inner walls of his cheek as if to ask ‘how dare you?’ 

“No answer, husband?” You slowly inserted his finger in your mouth, sucking on it and then pulling it free, “Well then I guess I have to—”

You barely had time to pull back before his mouth was on yours, hot and demanding. His tongue pushed past your lips to tangle with yours as he backed you up against the wall, pinning you there with his body. One of his hands slid up to fist in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss further.

“What was that sweetheart?” Jay grunted into the kiss, “Who’s gonna resist this pretty body?” His free hand slid down to grab your ass, squeezing hard as he ground his cock against you. You could feel it throbbing, begging to be let out and buried deep inside you. The thought made you whimper, your own arousal growing as he marked you with his mouth and hands.

“Well this pretty body,” He nipped at your bottom lip hard enough to sting, “is mine.” He pulled back just enough to stare down at you with dark, heated eyes. 

You tilted your head up, meeting his stare with a playful pout. “Why don’t you come claim it then hm?” Your fingers trailed up his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath the shirt, “You still haven't apologised by the way. For keeping me lonely all these days.”

“Oh trust me.” Jay’s chuckle was low and promising, his thumbs rubbing circles on your hips through the thin fabric, “I’ll show you how sorry I am, darling.” He gave your ass a light squeeze as he kissed your neck, sucking a dark bruise onto your skin as he rocked against you.

His lips brushed your forehead, then your temple, before capturing your mouth in a deep kiss. It started slow and apologetic, but quickly turned hungry, his tongue sliding against yours as he backed you toward the hallway leading to the bedroom. He tasted faintly of bourbon, getting your senses drunk, though he hadn't touched you properly yet.

Jay scooped you up in his arms, muscles flexing against his shirt as he did. Your legs wrapped around his waist like a choreographed routine as he carried you down the hall. The bedroom door was already ajar and he kicked in shut behind him, the room bathed in soft moonlight. 

“Look so beautiful like this.” Jay muttered, before laying you down on the sheets with infinite care, your gown pooling it around you like a whisper. His eyes roamed over your body, drinking in the sight of you, before his hands traced the hem of your nightgown, pushing it up to expose your legs.

‘I’m the luckiest man in the world.’ He thought, as his eyes caught sight of the white fabric hugging your thigh. Jay wanted to tear that thing right off with his teeth, memories of your first night together flashing in his mind. 

“You really went all out, yeah darling?” Jay said, cupping your cheek in his hand, you nuzzled into it, “I’m so sorry sweetheart.” He kissed your forehead, “I’m so sorry I left you all by yourself.” Then your temple, “Won’t ever do it again, alright?” And then your neck, all the way down to your chest.

With a reverent touch, Jay explored your body like a country he had forgotten he’d discovered, his hands mapping every dip and swell with a tenderness that belied the passion burning within him. You gasped and writhed beneath him, lost in a sea of sensation as he stoked the fires of your desire higher and higher.

“Jay…” You whined, “Want you soooo bad.” 

“I know, darling.” One large hand settled on your hip, fingers splaying possessively over the curve where your gown had ridden up, exposing your skin to the cool air. He traced lazy shapes there—swirling patterns, perhaps hearts or initials, you couldn't quite tell through the haze of contentment—with the pad of his thumb, the touch feather-light and soothing. 

“You remember that thing we used to do?” Jay said, his voice thick. He leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh, until his breath ghosted over your panties. You were already wet, the anticipation building since you'd dressed for him, and he could tell. “That thing where you’d sit your pretty little ass down on my face?”

Jay gripped your thighs with the force of a thousand suns, yanking you towards him as he sat on his knees on the bed. The action sent a sharp shiver scores your flesh, of arousal and deep affection. You’d only done that thing once before, refusing to do it ever again in fear that you’d break his neck. But the ever loving man your husband was—death by your thighs sounded positively spectacular.

“You’re gonna sit on my face and I’m gonna show you how sorry I am, yeah?” Your breath hitched at the command, but you nodded, shifting back on the bed as he stripped off his shirt, revealing the broad expanse of his chest and his carved muscles.  

Jay laid down, propping his head on the pillows, and tugged at your hips. You straddled his face, the nightgown bunching around your waist, the garter still snug on your thigh. 

“Seong, you sure?” You asked, you breath coming hard, “I don’t want to—”

His hands gripped your ass and Jay pulled you down until your pussy pressed against his mouth through the thin fabric of your panties.

“Jay!” You whined high at the sudden movement, grasping at his hair to support yourself. Now you were reminded of the reason you married this man.

Jay’s tongue flicked out, tracing the outline of you, and you gasped, one hand bracing on the headboard. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and yanked them aside, exposing your slick folds. 

And then his mouth was on you, hot and insistent, his tongue lapping at your clit in broad, flat strokes. You moaned, rocking against him, the sensation overwhelming right from the start.

“Fuckkkk you taste exactly the same.” He murmured against your skin, “So damn sweet—feel like cherry pie darlin’.”

His tongue flattened and lapped at your dripping slit, dragging up from your entrance to your clit in one long stroke. The sensation hit you hard—wet heat sliding over your sensitive skin, making your hips buck involuntarily. Pleasure sparked through your core, sharp and insistent, your pussy clenching around nothing as you craved to be filled.

“Oh–oh Jay right there right there!” You cried, grinding down harder, thighs trembling as he sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue circling it with expert precision. He knew every inch of your pussy better than you did, and god did that make you want to marry him all over again. 

“Thaaat’s it baby.” His own arousal spiked at you flooded his mouth with your slickness, “Ride my face like you mean it, gotta show my pretty wife how much I missed her.” 

Jay was already rock hard, pre-cum leaking from his tip, obsessed with devouring your cunt before he claimed it. He was relentless, alternating between gentle licks and firm suction, slurp slurp slurp, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive inner thighs. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned in approval, the sound rumbling through you.

It didn't take long for the pleasure to build, coiling tight in your belly. You were sensitive tonight, your body primed from the neglect of the past weeks, and Jay knew exactly how to push you. His hands kneaded your ass, one finger dipping lower to tease your entrance, sliding in just enough to make you whimper. 

“Oh god—Jay I’m close.” But he already knew from the way your pussy was clenching like she was talking to him, “F-Feel so goooood…”

He hummed, not letting up, his tongue delving into you now, fucking you with it while his thumb rubbed your clit. The orgasm hit you like a wave against a sinking ship, your body shuddering as you cried out, pussy clenching around nothing. Jay kept licking, softer now but persistent, drawing out the aftershocks until they bordered on too much.

“Wait—ahh ah—Jay, too much!” You panted, trying to lift off of him, but his strong arms locked around your thighs, holding you in place.

“Not done apologizing yet, darling.” He said, his mouth latching back onto your clit.

 He sucked harder, his tongue flicking rapidly, the overstimulation was making your nerves sing with a mix of pleasure and ache. Tears pricked your eyes as another climax built, faster this time, your body betraying you under his skilled assault.

“So damn sensitive.” He muttered, “Haven’t trained her enough, have I?”

“Could have if you were ever home.” You mumbled low enough, but of course your sharp-eared husband heard you, now sucking your clit into his mouth like a starved man, rolling it between his lips. You cried out, the suction pulling a fresh gush of wetness from you, which he lapped up greedily.

You came again, harder, your thighs clamping around his head as you sobbed his name. Still, he didn't relent, his tongue tracing lazy patterns over your swollen folds, lapping up your release like he couldn't get enough.

“Please….Jay—I can’t…’s too much Jay!” You begged, your voice breaking, but there was a bratty edge to it, a challenge because part of you wanted to see how far he'd go.

He finally released you, his face glistening with your arousal as you collapsed beside him, chest heaving. Jay wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and something darker. 

“You’re really gonna make me work for it huh darling?” His laugh was dark, and he flipped you onto your back in one smooth motion, pinning you beneath his weight, “This your revenge or somethin?”

The nightgown rode up completely now, the garter the only thing left between you and total exposure. Jay's hands roamed your body, rough and possessive, cupping your breasts through the silk before shoving the gown up to your neck. He leaned down, sucking a nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch.

“Maybe it is.” You bit your lip, nodding defiantly, though your body was still buzzing from the overstimulation, “You’ve got a lot to make up for, sheriff.” 

You knew what it did to him when he heard you call him that. And you also knew what it got you.

“Brat.” He murmured against your skin, his hand sliding down to cup your pussy 

 You were soaked, sensitive from his earlier attentions, and his fingers slipped easily through your folds. He circled your clit once, twice, making you gasp, then pulled away just as the pleasure crested. “Brats don’t get to cum that easy, sweetheart.” 

“Jay please…” You whined, hips bucking up, but he held you down, his palm pressing flat against your mound. 

“Please what, beautiful?”  He slapped your pussy lightly, the sting sending a jolt straight to your core. You yelped, the sensation sharp and arousing, your clit throbbing under the impact.

“Fuck me.” You demanded, your voice laced with that bratty tone you knew drove him wild, “Please fuck me, sheriff. I’ll be a good girl, I swear.”

“Begging already are we?” He slapped your clit again, harder this time, and you moaned, your legs spreading wider instinctively, “You sound just as angelic as you did our first time, my dearest.” His words ignited something within you. Jay had always been a poet.

Your husband stripped off the rest of his clothes, his cock now free, thick and hard, the tip already leaking pre-cum. He positioned himself between your legs, rubbing the head against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness.

With one thrust, he buried himself inside you, streeetching your walls around his girth. You cried out, nails digging into his broad shoulders as he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours. Pain lingered at the edges, a delicious sting that heightened the sensations, making every inch of him feel more intense, as he set a punishing rhythm.

Just right for a brat.

“Pussy’s made—hah—for me.”  The words sent a thrill through you, your arousal spiking, wetness squelching around him, “Fits me like a fuckin’ glove.”

“Oh—ohhh so biggg.” You moan loud, your heart pounding against its cage. You certainly forgot how big your husband was, and he was certainly hell bent on reminding you.

 He angled his thrusts, grinding his pelvis against your clit with every stroke, building you up fast. You felt the orgasm approaching, your pussy fluttering around him, but just as you teetered on the edge, he stopped, buried deep but completely still.

“Jayyyy.” You whined, trying to rock against him, but his weight pinned you down completely, “Don’t stop please.”

“What did I say baby?” His hand came down on your ass, the slap echoing in the room, your cheek blooming with head, “Brats don’t get to cum that easy.” 

He pulled out almost entirely, then thrust back in, repeating the motion while his hand alternated slaps on your ass. Left cheek, right cheek, each one harder, making your skin tingle and your pussy clench around him. “You like that don’t you, my dirty darling? Gettin' wetter with every damn smack.”

“Harder Jay.” You taunted, pushing him further.

Jay's eyes flashed, and he flipped you onto your stomach briefly, yanking your hips up so you were on your knees. He slapped your ass again, the impacts raining down until it burned, then he reached between your legs and slapped your pussy directly, the wet smack making you jolt forward with a cry. The sting was intense, your clit pulsing, but it only heightened the need coiling inside you.

“On your back.” He ordered, flipping you once more, “Need to see my pretty pussy.” 

He hooked your legs over his shoulders, as he drove back into you, the new angle letting him hit even deeper. His thrusts were brutal now, his cock pistoning in and out, the obscene sounds of skin slapping skin filling the room. You were close again, so so close, your walls gripping him like a vice.

“Jay—no!” He edged you again, slowing grinds just as you hovered on the brink.

“Beg for it baby.” He slapped your pussy once more, lighter this time, and then thrust particularly deep, “I’m afraid the sheriff will only let good girls get what they want.”

Tears of frustration welled in your eyes, the overstimulation from earlier making every sensation amplified. “Please, Jay…..need it so bad.” You were a pathetic, babbling mess beneath him, “I’ll be your good girl sheriff, I promise—ahh fuck!”

“That’s my girl.”  But he didn't let you tip over, pulling back to edge you a third time, his hand coming down on your ass as he fucked you slow and deliberate.

“Can’t take it Jay—fuck.” You whined, squirming in his hold, “Please let me cum on your cock please, I’ll do anything."

And there it was.

What a beautiful woman his wife was.

Satisfaction crossed his face as he reached down, skilled fingers hooking under the silk garter on your thigh. With an achingly gentle tug, he slid it off, the lace dragging against your skin and sending shivers up your spine. He held it up, the white silk gleaming in the moonlight, then brought one end to his mouth, biting down on it gently. The other end he pressed to your lips.

“Bite.” Jay commanded, and you did, the silk muffling your moans as he thrust back into you. 

Now in full missionary, your legs wrapped around his waist, he fucked you with long, powerful strokes, the garter stretched between your mouths like a intimate tether. Every time he bottomed out, the pull on the silk made you both groan, the fabric dampening with your shared breaths.

His pace quickened, hips snapping against yours with a violent force, his cock swelling inside you. The edging had you wound so tight that the first orgasm crashed over you almost immediately, your pussy spasming around him as you screamed into the garter. He didn't stop, pounding through it, the silk pulling taut as he leaned closer, his forehead against yours.

“Cum for me, my darling.” Jay moaned around the fabric, his hand slipping between you to rub your clit. The overstimulation hit full force, your body convulsing as a second climax ripped through you, harder than the first. You bit down on the garter, tasting the faint salt of his sweat mixed with the silk.

Jay followed soon after, his thrusts erratic as he buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he filled you with hot spurts of cum. He released the garter from his mouth, tossing it aside, and collapsed onto you, both of you panting in the aftermath.

“Fucking hell.” Jay grunted, pulling out as slow as he could, cupping your cheek as he did. Your husband was a wildly dual natured man.

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his breath steadying as the frenzy of passion ebbed away, leaving only the quiet intimacy of your shared exhaustion. Your body hummed with aftershocks, muscles loose and sated, the ache between your thighs a sweet reminder of how thoroughly he had claimed you.

“You alright, darling?” He collapsed beside you, immediately pulling you into his comforting hold, “Need anything? Water?” 

‘No just—” You sunk into him, head on his chest as he ran his fingers through your hair, “—stay like this.”

Jay lifted a hand slowly, brushing a loose curl from your cheek. His fingers were rough and calloused, but his touch was ever so gentle.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He chuckled, “I don’t think you understand what you do to me, darling.” 

You tried to laugh it off, but your throat felt tight. “I was starting to think I didn’t do much at all anymore.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and his hand stilled against your face.

“Hey,” He said immediately, firm but soft, “Don’t” 

“I know it’s stupid but–”

“You think I stopped thinking about you?” Jay said, squeezing your hand, “I think about you every single day,” He said. “I think about getting home to you. I think about this house, about the porch, about you standing in the doorway.” His thumb brushed along your cheekbone. “I just…..stay away from you sometimes because I’m afraid.” 

Your brows knit. “Afraid of what?”

“Burdening you.” Jay sighed, “I don’t want this damn job to reach you, my dearest.”

Your heart clenched at his words. Oh your sweet, sweet husband. Still that naive boy you married all those years ago.

“You think I married you for easy days?” You whispered, running your thumb over his knuckles. His lips twitched faintly.

“No,” He laughed. “You married me when I was just a fool with a borrowed suit.”

“And I’d do it again,” You said without hesitation, “Just promise me you’ll let me come to the station sometimes. It gets boring here.” 

Jay considered it for a while, the moonlight falling into the room illuminating your face so perfectly. 

“Only if you promise to stay safe.” He said, to which you nodded frantically, making him chuckle, “Although I don’t think I’ll get any work done with your pretty ass hanging around.” 

“Good.” You giggled, “The town should know their sheriff has the ability to smile.”

“Only for you, darling.” 

_______________________

“One of those chocolate madeleines please.” You slid two notes across the counter, “And I’ll take a cream puff as well.” 

Behind the display case, your friend smiled sweetly at you. Flour dusted her cheek, and a streak of chocolate smudged near her wrist where she’d clearly tasted something mid-batch. 

“Just those?” She asked lightly, tongs hovering over the tray.

“Hmm.” You hummed, watching her carefully take the goodies out and package it, “It's for my husband.” 

“I figured.” She laughed, "Everything you bake goes into that man’s stomach. Tell him to save some for us too!” She leaned forward, “I was right about that garter, and I’m right about this.”

“First of all, someone's got to remind that man to eat.” You said, leaning your elbows on the counter, "Second of all…” You paused before smiling, “yeah you were right. Thank you honey.”

“Oh, I’m sure the whole town appreciates your dedication to the sheriff’s well-being.” She snorted softly.

You narrowed your eyes at her teasing tone, sticking a tongue out playfully, watching her fingers as she tied the ribbon neatly around the small brown box. The bakery smelled of melted chocolate and warm sugar, sunlight streaming through the front windows and catching the dust in the air. 

You had just come from your sister’s bar across the street, after listening to her troubles about some or other cowboy who had been hanging around the bar. ‘Troubles’, you laughed at the thought, more like young love.

“You know,” She slid the box toward you,  lowering her voice almost conspiratorially, “I tried something new today.”

“Should I be worried?” You arched a brow. You knew how much she loved to experiment, which often ended up in fire and smoke. 

“It’s harmless,” She insisted. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

She reached beneath the counter and lifted a single cupcake onto a small porcelain plate. Pale frosting swirled high on top, a faint dusting of cinnamon and something darker speckled across it.

“And pray tell what is that?” You said, peering suspiciously at the poor cupcake.

“An experiment.” She said proudly. “Something that will…..have the same effect as that garter.”

You stared at the desert in front of you, and then flicked your gaze to her, scoffing. “You made a love potion?” 

“It’s really subtle, I promise.” She grinned, “Plus I didn't have enough ingredients to make it the usual strength.”

You hesitated, eyeing the cupcake again. It looked innocent enough, almost too innocent. But the thought of walking into that sun-beaten station with something playful—something just for the two of you—made your heart flutter.

“Come on.” She said smoothly, “It doesn't hurt to have a little fun.”

“And you swear it’s not that strong?” Your friend nodded her head frantically, making you sigh and shrug your shoulders, “Alright then.”

“Yay!” She laughed, then carefully lifted the cupcake and placed it in a small white box separate from the others. “On the house,” she said.

“Absolutely not—”

“Consider it payment for that advice you gave me.” She said, “And also for making your husband my guinea pig.” 

You laughed, and picked up your boxes, shooting her a wink before bidding her goodbye and stepping back out into the afternoon sun.

You stepped outside into the blaze of the desert afternoon, the heat wrapping around you like a living thing. The sky stretched endlessly blue overhead, the sun merciless and bright, pressing against your shoulders. The ground radiated warmth through the soles of your sandals as you walked.

Your knee-length dress, a soft cotton fitted at the waist and buttoned down the front, fluttered lightly around your legs as a dry breeze swept through. The skirt swayed, brushing against your calves as you walked, the scent of cocoa drifting faintly from the boxes in your hands.

You walked toward the sheriff’s station, just a block away, pulse picking up the closer you got. You told yourself it was just the heat.

In reality, it was the thought of his expression when you would walk in. The way his tired eyes would soften, the way he’d lean back in his chair, hat tipped aside, sleeves rolled up to reveal those beautiful forearms, the way he’d spread his legs just right, inviting you in. 

God you wanted your husband so bad.

A bead of sweat trailed down your spine as you climbed the station steps, the wooden boards warm beneath your sandals. You paused at the door, taking a slow breath, adjusting the boxes so they wouldn’t tilt.

The desert sun blazed behind you, casting your shadow long across the threshold. Then you reached for the handle and stepped inside, the colder air of the building meeting your skin. The station smelled faintly of paper, dust and sun-warmed leather. Your sandals clicked softly against the wooden floor as you stepped fully inside, hearing the loud buzz of conversation soften a bit.

Two officers near the front desk looked up first, then another from behind a stack of reports. You offered them a warm, polite smile. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Ma’am.” One of them said quickly, nearly knocking over his inkwell in the process. You had invited most of them to dinner at least once, fed them and listened to their stories.But had never once seen you here.

You felt their eyes linger, curiosity sweeping through you moved down the short hallway with steady steps, hips swaying slightly. Heat still clung to your skin from outside, leaving a faint flush along your collarbones, the thin ribbon at your waist accentuating the gentle curve of you. 

At the end of the hallway sat his office, the door half open. You didn't bother to knock, just pushing it wider and stepping inside, closing it shut behind you. 

Jay sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, oh god those forearms. His hat rested on the corner of the desk and a stack of papers lay scattered before him. His head was bent, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Afternoon, sheriff.” You said lightly, walking up to his desk like a mischievous child.

Jay looked up, and for a split second, all his senses crashed. His chair creaked faintly as he leaned back, eyes dragging slowly from your face down to your legs, and then back, resting briefly on the boxes.

“Well if it isn't the biggest criminal in town.” He said, voice shifting lower, legs already shifting apart, “You, ma’am are guilty of stealing my heart.” 

You set the boxes carefully on the edge of his desk and took a step closer, resting your hands lightly on the wood. Jay leaned back further in his chair, boots planted wide, hands resting casually on the armrests. But there was nothing casual about the way he was looking at you.

“Do I have the right to remain silent, sheriff?” You walked around the desk slowly, your skin feeling warm. You could feel his eyes tracking every step, “Do I have the right to do this?”

And before Jay’s mind could process anything, you lowered yourself onto his lap, settling there quite comfortably. 

“Careful darling.” His hands came up fast, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other against your back as he pulled you firmly against him, “You’re really testing the law here.”

Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, forehead brushing with his, the solid muscle of his thigh pressing up against the heat building between your legs. The office was quiet, the door firmly shut behind you, sealing out the rest of the station's bustle.

 You could smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the paperwork scattered across his desk, but all your focus was on the way his body tensed beneath you, his breath hitching as you shifted closer.

“And what’s my sentence, sheriff?” You asked.

“Hmm, let me think.” Jay said, voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest into yours, “I suppose, life” One hand went up to stroke your cheek, “with me of course.” 

You smiled, leaning in to brush your lips against his ear. “How do you expect me to change with such a tempting sentence?”

Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the crisp fabric of his shirt, the badge pinned there cool under your palm. You rocked your hips subtly, grinding against his thigh, and felt him harden instantly beneath you.

Jay's eyes darkened, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. “You’re going to be the death of me.” But he didn't push you away, pulling you closer instead, his other hand squeezing your ass through your skirt.

“I got you something.” You said gently, reaching behind for the boxes, opening the smaller one first, “A cupcake.”

“Are you attempting to bribe an officer, young lady?” He said, gaze dropping to the neckline of your dress, the curve of your shoulders, then back up to your eyes. 

“A bribe you say?” You laughed, pulling out the small cupcake topped with thick, white cream. “Open up.” 

His eyes didn’t drop to the pastry, staying on you. He leaned forward, taking a bite. The cream smeared slightly on his lower lip as he chewed, his tongue darting out to catch it. You watched, heat pooling in your core, as he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing.

“Mmm caramel?” He said, licking his lips, lord give you strength, “What’s the occasion?”

“Just wanted to treat my husband.” You scooped a bit of the remaining cream onto your finger, holding it out to him. 

He didn't hesitate, capturing your finger between his lips, his tongue swirling around it slowly, sucking the cream off with deliberate strokes. The wet heat of his mouth made your pussy clench, imagining that gorgeous tongue elsewhere.

Jay's eyes locked on yours as he licked every trace, his suction firm, teeth grazing your skin lightly. “Tastes even better off you.” He released your fingers with a pop.

You brought your finger to your own mouth, sucking it clean, tasting the faint sweetness mixed with the salt of his saliva. You ground down harder on his thigh, the friction against your panties making you wetter, your skirt riding up slightly.

He groaned, his cock straining against his pants now, the outline visible as you shifted. Whatever was in that cupcake was working fast; you could feel the heat radiating from him, his grip tightening. 

“Fuck….darling, what are you doing to me? I feel weird.” You smirked, popping the rest of the cupcake into your mouth, chewing slowly before swallowing. 

“I’m not doing anything.” You hummed, your hands working at his belt, but he caught your wrists, shaking his head.

“Baby not here.” But his body betrayed him, hips bucking up slightly, pressing his thigh firmer against your aching pussy, The officers–”

“Just one Jay.” You released a soft whine, rocking faster, the seam of his pants rubbing your clit through the thin fabric, “Please?” Your breasts brushed his chest with each movement, nipples hardening under your blouse.

Jay's breath came in short bursts, his face flushing as the aphrodisiac surged through him. His cock throbbed visibly, begging for attention, but you ignored it, focusing on your own pleasure. You rode his thigh relentlessly, the pressure building, your juices soaking through your panties onto his uniform.

“Shit.” He hissed, one hand sliding under your skirt to cup your ass, urging you on. “You’re gonna make me lose my damn mind.” His other hand fumbled with his shirt, to unbutton it, but he stopped himself, glancing at the door.

“Let me make you feel good, sheriff.” You purred, leaning in to nip at his jaw. Your hips circled, grinding your swollen clit against him, chasing the edge but not quite tipping over. He was rock hard now, the aphrodisiac turning his arousal into something primal, his eyes glazed with need.

Just as you felt the first sparks of your orgasm flickering, a sharp knock echoed through the office. Both of you froze, your heart pounding.

“Sheriff? You in there?” A voice called from the other side—his fellow officer, sounding urgent.

“Fuck.” Jay cursed underneath his breath He lifted you off his lap in one swift motion, his strength making it effortless despite the haze of lust. “Under the desk. Now.”

You didn't argue, sliding off and dropping to your knees, crawling under the large wooden desk, his rough voice only increasing your arousal.

 It was cramped, the space just big enough for you to tuck in, your face level with his crotch. The door creaked open as Jay adjusted himself, trying to hide the massive bulge.

“Come in.” Jay said, his voice strained but steady. He scooted his chair forward, blocking you from view, his boots framing your hiding spot.

You heard someone step inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “Sorry to bother you, boss. Got an update on that theft case from last night. Looks like it was kids, but we found some prints that don't match.”

Jay cleared his throat, his hand dropping under the desk to grip the armrest near you. “Tell me more.” But his focus shattered the moment your fingers tugged at his belt again. He shot you a warning glance downward, but you ignored it, unbuckling him quietly.

The zipper rasped softly as you pulled it down, fishing his cock out through the opening, thick and veined, the head flushed dark red and leaking pre-cum. The aphrodisiac had him impossibly hard, pulsing in your hand, hot as a brand. You wrapped your fingers around the base, stroking once, and Jay's thigh tensed beside you.

The officer droned on, oblivious. “We dusted the safe—got a thumbprint. Running it through the system now, but I think it's that punk from the diner. You know, the one with the tattoos?'

“Mm-hmm.” Jay managed, his voice tight. Why was your mouth so fucking hot?”

You leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, tasting the salty bead of pre-cum. His cock jerked, and he shifted in his chair, one hand coming down to thread through your hair, not pushing but holding on for dear life.

You took him into your mouth slowly, lips stretching around his girth, tongue pressing flat against the underside as you slid down. Inch by delicious inch, you swallowed him, the musky scent of his arousal filling your senses. He was so thick, filling your mouth completely, the vein along the side throbbing against your tongue.

Jay's free hand gripped the edge of the desk above, knuckles white. “What….what else? Any witnesses?” His words came out clipped, breath hitching as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked particularly hard.

The officer paced a bit, papers rustling. “Some lady saw a truck leaving around midnight—a blue pickup, rusted fender. Matches that punk. We should bring him in for questioning.” 

You bobbed your head, taking him deeper, your throat relaxing to accommodate his length. Saliva coated him, dripping down to your hand as you pumped what you couldn't fit. 

The wet sounds were obscene, but muffled under the desk, drowned out by the officer’s voice. Jay's hips twitched involuntarily, fucking shallowly into your mouth, and you hummed around him, the vibration making him stifle a groan.

“Yeah, sound solid." Jay replied, his voice gravelly. “Pull him in first thing tomorrow.”

His fingers tightened in your hair, guiding you subtly, urging you faster. All his senses zeroed in on you—the slick heat of your mouth enveloping him, your tongue swirling around the head each time you pulled back, teasing the sensitive frenulum.

You could feel how close he was already, the aphrodisiac amplifying everything, his balls drawing tight against your chin as you deepthroated him. Your own pussy throbbed, neglected but aching from the earlier thigh-riding, juices trickling down your thighs. 

You slipped a hand between your legs, rubbing your clit through your soaked panties, but focused on him, sucking harder, lips sealed tight.

The officer chuckled. “You okay, boss? Sound a bit off. Late night?”

Jay's laugh was forced and strained. “Just……paperwork. Keep going—what about the evidence?”

As the officer launched into details about logging the prints and securing the scene, you ramped up your pace, head moving furiously now, mouth a wet, tight vice around his beautiful cock. 

You gagged softly once, twice, but pushed through, tears pricking your eyes from the effort. His pre-cum leaked steadily, coating your tongue, and you swallowed around him, milking him.

Jay's boot nudged your knee, a silent plea—stop. Or don't stop?

But his hand in your hair pulled you closer; every nerve in his body screamed from your mouth: the suction pulling at his shaft, your teeth grazing lightly, the way your throat constricted around the head. The office faded; the officer’s words blurred into white noise. All that existed was the hot, slick gliiide of your lips, the obscene slurp you made when you twisted your head.

“We need to cross-reference with the database from the last break-in.” The officer continued, leaning against the desk. “Might be connected. You think?”

“Absolutely.” Jay grunted, his abs clenching under his shirt. 

You felt his cock swell, the telltale pulse starting at the base. You sucked harder, one hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten further.

The officer paused. “You sure you're alright?”

“Fine.” Jay bit out, his voice breaking on the edge. “Just... hot in here. Tell me about the truck—any plates?”

You knew he was seconds away. Your mouth worked relentlessly, tongue lashing the underside, saliva dripping onto the floor between his boots. His thighs quivered, the muscles jumping under your touch.

“No plates visible, but we'll check traffic cams.” He said, wrapping up. “You want me to handle the warrant?”

Jay's hand fisted in your hair, hips jerking forward as he came, hot ropes of cum flooding your mouth. You swallowed greedily, not spilling a drop, your throat working around him as he pulsed, groan muffled into a cough. “Yeah—do that. Good work.”

The officer straightened. “Thanks, boss. Get some rest—you look beat.” The door opened and closed, footsteps fading.

Jay slumped in his chair, cock still twitching in your mouth as you licked him clean, savoring the last spurts. He pulled you up gently, zipping himself with shaking hands, eyes wild with post-orgasm haze and lingering aphrodisiac fire.

“You little minx.” He panted, hauling you onto his lap again. His cock, still half-hard, pressed against your thigh. “What was in that cupcake?”

“That’s a secret I’m afraid.” You grinned, kissing him deeply, letting him taste himself on your tongue, “Round two sheriff?”

Jay’s hands roamed under your skirt, finding your drenched panties. He rocked you against his thigh again, the teasing reversed now, his fingers circling your clit as his payback began, the aphrodisiac still burning in his veins.

“I hope you don’t have anywhere to be today, darling.” 

______________________

“You two are actually disgusting.” You sister scrunched her nose adorably as she took another swig of her beer

She was sprawled comfortably at the dining table, boots hooked around one of the chair legs, lazily tipping the bottle to her lips while she watched the two of you in the open kitchen like it was her evening entertainment.

Jay didn’t even try to look ashamed. You were standing between him and the counter, supposedly cutting slices of pecan pie. Supposedly.

In reality, his hand had found your waist about three minutes ago and hadn’t left, drawing shapes on your clothed skin and subtly kissing your neck, your back pressed to his chest.

“We’re married,” You pointed out sweetly.

“That doesn’t mean I need to witness it,” She replied flatly. 

“What do you think sweetheart?” Jay leaned down slightly, his voice dropping just enough for you to feel it more than hear it. “Should we kick her out?”

You elbowed him lightly. “You invited her.”

He grinned. “Not to sit in my lap.”

“I can hear you.” Your sister gagged from the table.

“Good.” You turned, pie server in hand.

The kitchen smelled warm and sweet, sugar and toasted pecans filling the air. The last light of evening filtered in through the window, casting everything in a golden glow. Jay stood close behind you, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly mussed from the heat. He looked relaxed in a way he only did at home, his thumb tracing an absent pattern at your hip. You tried very hard not to lean back into him.

“Am I getting food anytime soon?” Your sister asked, “Or are you two going to keep being disgusting.”

Jay finally released you long enough for you to carry the pie to the table. He followed with three plates, entirely unbothered by her dramatics.

“If we’re disgusting,” He said mildly as he set the plates down, “you’re free to leave, sweetheart.”

“I was here first, Park.” She pointed her bottle at him, although accepting the plate gratefully, eyes already wide at the sight of your pie.

“You live across the street, sweetheart.” You reminded her.

“And yet somehow I’m still the third wheel in my own sister’s house.”

You sat down beside Jay, knees brushing his under the table. He casually draped his arm along the back of your chair like it belonged there…..which it did.

You slid a generous slice of pie onto your sister’s plate. “Eat up. It’ll distract you from your loneliness.”

“I'm sorry what.” She narrowed her eyes, “I am not lonely.”

“Oh?” You said lightly. “So you weren't staring at those cowboys riding past the bar yesterday with your mouth wide open?” Jay coughed into his fist, very badly disguising a laugh.

“I was not.” Your sister’s mouth formed into a pout, the familiar tactics she employed to get out of being scolded by you and Jay.

Jay leaned back in his chair, looking between the two of you like he was watching a particularly entertaining courtroom argument. “Which cowboys?” He asked casually.

“Nobody!” Your sister defended herself, pointing a fork at you, “Your wife is insane, don’t listen to her.”

“Hey now.” You laughed, leaning your face on your palm, “I’m just saying.” 

“Hopefully it's not that bastard Sunghoon. Almost caught him today but he slipped away.” Jay sighed heavily and took a bite, “Last time he was in town I had to break up two fights and confiscate a stolen saddle.”

You grinned at your sister—she was never that great at keeping secrets and boy was this a big one. “Hear that? The sheriff disapproves.”

“I don’t disapprove,” Jay corrected calmly. “I just prefer when citizens don’t start saloon brawls every other week.”

“He did not start that fight,” Your sister snapped. Jay gave her a look, as if to ask how she knew and she quickly cleared her throat, “I was out that day and I saw what happened.”

“You sound very defensive for someone who isn’t staring.” You chuckled, titling your head at her. 

She groaned. “You two are insufferable.”

“We’re just saying he’s trouble, sweetheart.” Jay smirked.

“You’re trouble,” She shot back.

“That’s different.” You and Jay said at the same time.

She blinked at the synchronized response and then shook her head in disbelief. “This is exactly what I mean. You’re like….a unit. It’s disturbing.” She crossed her arms and huffed, “And quit acting like I’m gonna run off with someone.”

“You wouldn't survive five miles into the desert.” You and Jay snorted, as he squeezed your shoulder lightly, “You’ll find someone soon enough sweetie.” You cooed at her, “Someone to soothe you and all that lovey stuff.”

“I don’t need soothing.”

“You need supervision.” Jay muttered.

“Honestly,” She said, taking a dramatic swig of her beer, “maybe you two should just have kids already.”

You loved your younger sister of course. But you had to admit she had a talent for saying stuff that could shut people up.

“What?” You blinked, feeling heat rise to your neck.

“So you’ll stop hovering over me like I’m fifteen.” She scoffed, glancing over at Jay who had his fork paused halfway to his mouth, “You guys baby me too much.” She continued, gesturing wildly. “You lecture me about my life and you monitor my bar. It’s exhausting.”

“We do not monitor your bar,” You protested.

Jay cleared his throat. “I occasionally ensure it remains… orderly.”

“Exactly!” She threw her hands up with a crude laugh. “If you had children, you’d be too busy to interfere in my life.” There was a brief silence.

You laughed first. “Oh yes, because raising children is famously relaxing.”

She pointed at you. “You’d be great at it.” The words were casual—offhand, something that one said every now and then. 

But the way his blood rushed to his dick made Jay want to go outside and kick a tree. 

There was a subtle shift in his posture; his knee pressed a fraction closer against yours under the table, his heartbeat, steady and calm just seconds ago—seemed to pick up when you glanced at him.

“You think we’d make good parents?” You asked lightly, though your pulse had quickened.

Your sister shrugged. “Obviously. You already act like it with me.” She stole another bite of pie, “You two would have the most well-behaved little outlaws,” She added.

“Outlaws?” Jay laughed, trying to sound stable, and like he wasn't thinking about every position he could put his child into you in.

“With her stubbornness and your personality?” She said, “Terrifying.”

You laughed, but your eyes were still on him. His gaze had softened in a way you hadn’t seen before. Jay’s hand slid down from the back of your chair to rest at your waist under the table. He didn’t say anything, as you leaned subtly into your husband’s side, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest— feeling the way his hand lingered at your waist just a second longer than usual.

It would be a long night indeed.

______________

It was all bruising kisses and harsh words as soon as your sister stepped out the door. Jay didn't even wait till she had crossed the street, to grab at your waist and lift you up, carrying you to the bedroom like one carried diamonds and other precious things,

The words ‘you’d make good parents’ had ignited something primal within him, and now with your sister gone, and the house left all to you two, he was going to unleash it.

Jay’s mouth crashed against yours in the hallway, teeth nipping at your lower lip hard enough to draw a gasp, his hands rough on your hips as he hoisted you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, skirt bunching up your thighs, and you felt the hard ridge of his erection pressing against your core through his jeans. 

“You heard what she said, darling.” He moaned against your mouth, voice thick with need, “We’d make such good parents.”

You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, heart racing as he carried you down the hall. His strides were purposeful, possessive, each step jostling you against him, the friction making your panties dampen. 

“Jay.” You breathed but he silenced you with another bruising kiss, tongue thrusting deep, claiming every inch of your mouth like he owned it.

Your husband kicked the bedroom door open, the wood banging against the wall, and dumped you onto the bed with a controlled roughness that sent a thrill through you. You bounced once, skirt riding up to expose your thighs, and he was on you in an instant, looming over your body, his broad frame casting a shadow. His eyes raked over you, dark and hungry, hands already yanking at the hem of your blouse. 

“Clothes off.” His voice was low and authoritative, “Let me see that pretty body.”

Your fingers trembled with anticipation as you obeyed, peeling off your blouse, unhooking your bra to let your breasts spill free. His gaze zeroed in on them, nipples hardening under the cool air and his stare. 

You shimmied out of your skirt next, leaving you in just your panties, the fabric clinging to your arousal. Jay shed his shirt, revealing the taut muscles of his chest and abs, leading down to where his jeans strained obscenely.

He crawled onto the bed, caging you in with his arms, and started kissing you all over—not the harsh clashes from before, but slower, gentler presses of his lips that spoke of his reverence mixed with raw desire. He began at your neck, sucking lightly on the pulse point, teeth grazing just enough to mark without breaking skin.

“Need to worship this body.” He murmured, lips trailing down to your collarbone, nipping softly, “Before I pump you so fucking full with our child.”

Heat flooded your cheeks and between your legs at his words, the talk sending a fresh gush of wetness to your pussy. You arched into him as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling the nipple before he latched on, sucking hard enough to make you whimper. 

“Ahh—Jay please…” His hand cupped the other, thumb rolling the peak, pinching just shy of pain. You gasped, fingers threading through his hair, holding him there.

He chuckled darkly against your skin, switching sides, lavishing the same attention while his free hand slid down your stomach, fingers splaying possessively over your lower abdomen.

“Please what, my dearest? Please fuck a baby into you?” His kisses continued lower, peppering your ribs, your navel, until he hooked his fingers in your panties and tugged them down your legs, exposing your slick folds, “Cause that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.” He settled between your thighs, shoulders nudging them wider, and pressed a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then another higher, closer to where you ached.

He stripped off his jeans and boxers in one go, veins bulging along his thick cock, the head already weeping pre-cum. He was so damn big, and it was intimidating even after all this time, and your pussy clenched at the sight, knowing how it would stretch you.

Jay stroked himself once, twice, eyes locked on yours as he positioned the tip at your entrance.

“Look at me darling.” His tone was sharp, even as his eyes were soft. “You ready for me?” 

 With that, he pushed in, the broad head breaching you slowly, inch by sublime inch, your walls fluttering around the invasion. You cried out, the burn of his size making your eyes water, hands fisting the sheets as he bottomed out, balls pressed against your ass.

“So tight—ahh fuck.” He groaned, holding still for a moment, forehead resting against yours, “Good little pussy’s made for me yeah?”

 He started moving then, shallow thrusts that let you adjust, but soon deepened, hips snapping forward with controlled power. Each plunge hit deep, the angle brushing your g-spot, sending sparks up your spine. You wrapped your legs around him, heels digging into his back, urging him faster.

“Good girl, goood girl.” He panted, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider. “Feel how deep I am? Right where I need to be to breed you good, pretty girl.” 

"Please, Jay—hah—please..." You begged, voice breathy and desperate as he pounded into you. "Need you to fill me up—ahh!”

Your words only seemed to spur him on further, his hips snapping forward with bruising force as he drove himself into you again and again. The hand on your thigh tightened, fingers digging into your soft flesh hard enough to leave marks.

 His pace quickened, cock pistoning in and out, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room alongside your moans. Jay leaned down to capture your lips in a messy kiss, tongue mirroring his thrusts, while his hand slipped between you to rub your clit in firm circles.

“Close close, I’m close!” You whimpered, nails raking down his back, as pleasure coiled in your lower belly.

“Cum for me.” Jay’s voice was rough, “God she’s squeezin’ me dry, darling.” 

His fingers pressed harder on your clit, hips grinding deep on every thrust, and you shattered, orgasm hitting you like a truck. Your pussy convulsed around him, walls rippling, pulling him in as you cried out his name, body arching off the bed.

He didn't stop, fucking you through it, prolonging the bliss until you were oversensitive, twitching beneath him.

“Good girl.” He praised, slowing down just enough to let you catch your breath. But if you knew anything about your husband, he wasn't the kind to leave you alone after just one swig of ambrosia. 

With a grunt, he pulled out, your pussy clenching emptily at the loss, but he was quick to manhandle you—throwing your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half until your knees brushed your chest. The mating press pinned you open, vulnerable, his cock nudging your entrance again.

“Look at you.” He said, eyes blazing as he sank back in, the new angle letting him go impossibly deeper, the head kissing your cervix. You gasped, the fullness bordering on too much, but the stretch ignited fresh arousal. “My beautiful wife.” He thrust in earnest now, powerful slams that rocked the bed.

You were trapped, unable to do more than take it, hands clutching his arms as he dominated you completely. “Jay—fuck, it's too much.” You sobbed, but your body betrayed you, hips tilting to meet him, chasing the building pressure.

“You can take it, my dearest.” He leaned down to peck at your forehead, “I know you can.”

His hand found your clit again, rubbing relentlessly, while the other braced your thigh, keeping you locked in place. The position made every thrust target your deepest spots, the friction on your g-spot unrelenting. Sweat slicked his skin, dripping onto your breasts as he pounded into you, grunts mixing with your cries.

“Tell me you want it.” He huffed, biting down a moan as he felt you squeeze around him, “Tell me you want me to cum inside.” He leaned down again to nip at your earlobe making you moan loud enough for the whole town to hear.

“N-Need it.” You whined, words tumbling out in a haze of ecstasy, “Need it so bad Jay—need you to fill me—ahh god—fill me up.”

His rhythm faltered at your plea, thrusts turning erratic, harder. “Fuck, that's my girl. Gonna pump you so full, you'll feel me leaking out for days, baby.” 

Your second orgasm built faster this time, the overstimulation from the first amplifying everything, your pussy fluttering wildly around him.

“Cum with me.” He ordered, fingers pinching your clit. “Now.”

 The command tipped you over, ecstasy ripping through you as you clenched down, screaming his name. Jay followed instantly, burying himself to the hilt, cock pulsing as he unleashed thick ropes of cum deep inside. 

“Take it all.” His body shuddered with the force of his release, “Take every fucking drop.” He held you there, grinding against your cervix, ensuring every spurt coated your walls, breeding you thoroughly. 

He stayed locked inside as you both came down, breaths mingling, his weight a comforting press. Slowly, he unfolded you, legs lowering gently, but he didn't pull out yet, keeping his softening cock plugging you. 

“Stay like that.” He murmured, voice softening just a tad. 

The harshness melted away entirely just as fast as it had settled earlier in the evening. Jay kissed you sweetly, lips brushing yours in feather-light touches, moving to your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids. 

“Love you so much.” He whispered between kisses, hand stroking your hair, "Didn't hurt you did I?”

“You’re asking me that after all that.” You smiled, sated and cherished, pulling him closer as the warmth wrapped around you both, “I loved it, baby.” 

It was very rare for the town to see their cold-hearted sheriff ever soften, or even smile—he was as constant as the northern star in their opinion.

How lucky you were to see his rueful grin, as he pressed his soft lips all over you. He was your husband after all.

Only yours, for now and for as long as the cicadas kept chirping their song. 

fin. 

Taglist: @raven-unkind @bkatarina @shawnyle

He sat by the window nook now, completely drenched, hoodie clinging to his skin while droplets of rainwater dampened the built-in seat beneath him. Dark strands of hair dripped onto his forehead as the storm battered against the glass just beside him. The faint smell of rain followed him inside, familiar enough that you’d long since started associating it with him.

It wasn’t even hard for him to get in anymore.

Your room sat at the very front of the house, the small roof over the entryway sticking out just enough for him to pull himself up if he was careful. Four years together had apparently given him enough experience to do it almost effortlessly.

Well — mostly effortlessly.

“You act like I almost died getting here,” he muttered, lips pressed into a pout while you aggressively rubbed the towel over his head.

“You slipped last time.”

“I caught myself.”

“You almost took the gutter down with you.”

“But I didn’t.”

“You literally scared the shit out of me, Hee.”

Heeseung only grinned at that, soft and annoyingly pleased with himself, like your concern was something precious he wanted to keep.

You sighed dramatically, though your hands gentled almost immediately as you continued drying his hair.

Four years.

Sometimes it still startled you.

You’d started “dating” at sixteen in the careless, unserious way high schoolers often did — passing notes during class, sharing wired earphones during lunch, sneaking around after school with no real understanding of what commitment actually meant. Half the time, the two of you had only dated because your friends insisted you already acted like a couple anyway.

Back then, everything with him had felt light.

Fun.

He’d walk you home carrying your backpack even when you told him not to. You’d spend entire phone calls arguing about songs neither of you actually hated. He’d steal fries off your tray at lunch and swear your food somehow tasted better than his.

You’d broken up once for three days during junior year because he forgot your monthsary.

Then got back together because both of you were miserable about it.

Stupid teenage things.

But somewhere between then and now, things had shifted quietly into something deeper.

It happened slowly enough that neither of you noticed at first.

The late-night calls became late-night conversations about the future. The casual “I miss you” texts turned into him showing up outside your house after bad days because he couldn’t stand knowing you were upset alone. You started becoming part of each other’s routines without trying.

Without asking.

Now he climbed through your bedroom window in thunderstorms just because he wanted to see you for an hour before going home.

The worst part was that you always let him in.

“You’re staring,” he said suddenly.

You blinked, realizing your hands had stopped moving.

“Yeah, staring at this insane man in front of me.”

“That’s not what that look was.”

“Yes, it was.”

He laughed softly under his breath, reaching up to wrap his fingers loosely around your wrist before pulling your hand away from the towel entirely.

“I wanted to see you, pretty,” he murmured.

The teasing tone he usually carried was gone now, replaced by something quieter. More sincere.

Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far off.

“You always tell me to chase after the things I want, right?” he continued, eyes fixed on yours. “So I came here.”

Your expression softened immediately despite yourself.

God.

Four years later, and he still knew exactly how to get away with things.

You dropped the towel onto the floor beside him before stepping closer, your hands moving to cup his rain-cold cheeks. His skin was freezing beneath your palms, but he leaned into your touch instantly anyway, eyes fluttering for half a second like he’d been waiting for it.

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” you whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Still, you leaned forward anyway, pressing a lingering kiss against his forehead.

His shoulders relaxed beneath your hands almost immediately.

Then, quieter this time, with the corners of your mouth lifting into a smile, “Whatever you say, loser.”

It was no surprise to anyone that your parents were probably the strictest people alive.

Even random strangers you talked to in online chatrooms knew about it.

You were legally an adult already, yet somehow still lived under rules stricter than most middle schoolers. But technically, it made sense — you still lived under their roof while attending college. You’d had plenty of opportunities to move out, plenty of reasons to, too, but staying home meant attending your dream university without constantly worrying about tuition, rent, groceries, or whether you’d survive off instant noodles for the rest of the semester.

So you stayed.

In exchange, your freedom was practically nonexistent.

Your parents were the kind of people who believed every horrifying thing printed in newspapers or aired on television. One kidnapping case three cities away suddenly meant you weren’t allowed outside past seven. A segment about drunk driving meant lectures during dinner for an entire week. Every terrible thing they heard only made them tighter, stricter, more protective.

Most parents loosened their grip as their children grew older.

Yours only held on harder.

They had rules for everything. Honestly, the list was probably longer than the Code of Hammurabi itself.

No smoking. No drinking. No parties. No clubbing. Curfew before sunset unless it involved academics. Finish your chores before touching anything remotely enjoyable. Most importantly — absolutely no boyfriends.

Unfortunately for them, strict parents rarely created obedient children.

They created sneaky ones.

And you were living proof of that.

Drinking?

You started around a year ago.

Your first time happened with your boy best friend, Hoshi, during what your parents believed was an innocent afternoon walk. Somehow, that “walk” turned into the two of you sitting outside in broad daylight with cheap alcohol burning down your throat while you tried not to cough your lungs out in front of him.

The taste was awful.

But the feeling afterward wasn’t.

For the first time in a while, your mind felt quiet. Warm. Easy. Like every frustrating thing weighing on your shoulders had blurred around the edges for a couple of hours.

You still remembered desperately forcing yourself to eat afterward so your breath wouldn’t smell suspicious when you got home. Sitting around for nearly an hour pretending to scroll through your phone while trying to sober up enough to look normal in front of your parents.

Smoking?

That happened a few months ago.

Ryujin handed you a cigarette outside a convenience store while the two of you were buying materials for a class project. You only meant to try one drag out of curiosity.

You nearly choked to death immediately after.

Ryujin laughed so hard she had to hold onto the side of the building.

Then there was the biggest rule of all.

No boyfriends.

Which was ironic, considering you’d already had one since sophomore year of high school.

Four years.

Four entire years of sneaking around your parents behind carefully constructed lies and perfectly rehearsed excuses.

Late-night phone calls whispered beneath your blanket. “Group studies” that were actually dates. Deleted messages. Fake stories. Secret kisses stolen before you went back home pretending nothing happened.

It was exhausting sometimes.

Stressful, absolutely.

But thrilling, too.

Because despite the rules, the lying, the double life — you loved it so, so much.

You loved the freedom hidden inside rebellion.

And maybe, just maybe, you loved him enough to risk getting caught.

Heeseung was sitting in your desk chair now, lazily scrolling through your open tabs of Tumblr and Facebook like he owned the place.

Every few seconds, another ridiculous post from your university friends flashed across the screen.

Photos taken inside crowded clubs with neon lights washing over flushed faces. Videos from late-night drives with music blasting so loudly the audio distorted. Someone posting about a spontaneous sleepover at some questionable motel in the middle of nowhere. Another group catching flights out of the country just because they could.

Everyone always seemed to be doing something.

Living.

Meanwhile, you were stuck sneaking your own boyfriend through your bedroom window like a criminal.

Heeseung, completely unbothered by the injustice of your life, leaned back comfortably in the chair while wearing his old basketball jersey from senior year — the one he’d given you after graduation along with a pile of other sentimental things he claimed “smelled too much like high school.”

The loose jersey exposed his arms entirely, toned biceps flexing every time he scrolled or clicked something on your computer mouse.

It was distracting.

Very distracting.

A pair of gray joggers hung low on his hips too — another thing technically hidden inside your room. He’d accidentally slept over around three months ago after both of you knocked out while studying, and in the panic of sneaking him out before sunrise, he’d forgotten them completely.

Thankfully, your parents had never found the container shoved into the back of your closet filled with clothes you “didn’t wear anymore.”

In reality, half of it belonged to him.

You sat cross-legged on your bed nearby, flipping through the last few pages of your magazine while occasionally glancing over at him.

The black lace trim of your camisole brushed against your skin every time you moved, soft fabric hugging your body comfortably. The beige middle contrasted against the dark details perfectly, and paired with your lounge shorts, the ones your aunt gifted you two Christmases ago, you looked effortlessly pretty without even trying.

Heeseung had already looked at you at least ten times in the last five minutes alone.

Then suddenly—

“Wait,” he said.

You glanced up lazily.

“Hm?”

He pointed at your computer screen.

A newly uploaded post from Ryujin filled the monitor, a blurry group picture of your girlfriends packed together inside some club bathroom, all glittery makeup and drunk smiles.

The caption read:

y/n was actually the one who took the photo (hella real) :-) #wemissyoubaddie #funnightout #yolo

Your face dropped instantly.

“Fuck my life, this is so stupid.”

The bitterness in your voice caught Heeseung off guard enough for him to turn fully toward you.

“What’s up?”

You tossed your magazine aside with far more force than necessary before dragging a hand down your face.

“It’s just so unfair sometimes,” you muttered. “Everyone gets to go out and do normal college things while I’m locked up in this house twenty-four seven like the apocalypse is about to happen.”

Heeseung stayed quiet, listening.

“My parents act like if I leave the house past sunset I’m immediately gonna end up dead in a ditch somewhere,” you continued, frustration spilling out faster now. “Ryujin literally sleeps over at random people’s apartments. Sunoo went to Batanes, that… northernmost province in the Philippines or whatever, for literally three days without even telling his parents first. I don’t even know how the hell he got the money for that! Ugh, everyone gets to just… live normally.”

You stood up from your bed abruptly and walked toward your desk, arms crossing tightly over your chest as you stared at the stupid Facebook post still glowing on your screen.

“And meanwhile I have to lie just to breathe.”

For a moment, the room went quiet except for the rain outside.

Then you felt his hands.

Heeseung reached for your waist gently, pulling you backward until you stumbled between his legs with a surprised laugh leaving your mouth.

“Hee—”

Before you could complain, he tugged you fully down onto his lap.

Instinctively, you settled there comfortably, your arms looping loosely around his shoulders while his hands stayed warm against your waist.

“Shhh,” he murmured softly, pressing his cheek against your stomach for a second. “It’s okay.”

You sighed dramatically despite melting into him immediately.

“It’s not okay.”

“It will be.”

He tilted his head back to look at you properly then, expression calmer than yours always seemed to be.

“You’ll get to experience all that stuff someday,” he said quietly. “The parties, trips, dumb late-night drives, all of it.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“You will. I’m so sure of it.”

The certainty in his voice made your chest ache a little.

He rubbed slow circles into your waist with his thumbs.

“And when you do,” he added with a small grin, “I’ll probably be there annoying you through all of it.”

That finally pulled a reluctant smile out of you.

“You’re already annoying.”

“Mhm,” he hummed. “But you like me anyway, no?”

The chair creaks beneath you, knees pressing into the cushion on either side of his thighs. Your hands rest on his shoulders, fingers curling into the soft cotton of the basketball jersey. Heeseung’s hands settle at your waist, his fingers moving in slow, careful circles as if he’s still learning the shape of where it’s safe to hold you. 

He looks up at you, and the lamplight carves shadows along the sharp line of his jaw. His lips part, then close. 

A beat passes. 

Then another.

You feel the heat creeping up your neck, the weight of his gaze making your skin prickle. So you pout, just a little, just to break the tension, a soft downturn of your lips that's half real, half teasing.

His eyes catch it immediately. A slow grin spreads across his face, lazy and warm.

"You're cute when you get pouty," he murmurs, thumbs stroking the bare skin just above the waistband of your lounge shorts.

Your eyes narrow, but there's no bite in it. "The window is right there if you wanna leave."

He laughs, low and short, and his hands tighten on your hips. "Not a chance, gorgeous."

You roll your eyes, but the smile gives you away. Your fingers slide from his shoulders into the hair at the nape of his neck, soft strands slipping between your knuckles. He leans into the touch, eyes fluttering half-shut for a second.

"You're so warm," you say, quieter now.

"So are you." His voice dips, rougher. "I feel like I'm burning up over here."

The air between you both immediately thickens. 

His hands move — one sliding up your spine, the other settling on your thigh, thumb tracing absent circles on the inside. The fabric of his joggers is soft against your bare skin, and you can feel the heat radiating off him through the thin layers.

You lean in first.

Your lips brush his gently at first, testing. His breath hitches, and then he's kissing you back, soft and slow, his mouth molding against yours like he's got all the time in the world. One hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your face just right.

The kiss deepens gradually. His tongue traces your bottom lip, asking, and you part for him. The taste of him floods your senses, warm, faintly sweet from the soda he had earlier, utterly addictive. A small sound escapes your throat, swallowed by his mouth.

His hand slides down your back, palm pressing flat against the dip of your spine, pulling you closer. The chair shifts as he adjusts, and you feel it — the growing hardness beneath his joggers, pressing against your inner thigh.

He breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, "Fuck, you taste good."

"Shut up," you whisper, but there's no heat in it. You pull him back in.

This time, the kiss turns messier. Teeth graze your lower lip, tugging, and his groan vibrates against your mouth. Your hips shift forward instinctively, grinding down against him, and the friction sends a jolt straight through you.

Heeseung's breath stutters. His hands grip your hips, steadying you, guiding you into a slow roll that makes the chair squeak in protest beneath you both.

"Yeah," he breathes, lips trailing along your jaw, down the column of your throat. "Just like that, baby."

Your nails dig into his shoulders through the jersey. His mouth finds the hollow of your collarbone, sucking lightly, and your head falls back with a soft moan. His tongue soothes the spot, then he's kissing his way back up to your lips.

"You're shaking," he says against your mouth, half a question, half a statement.

"Mmm." You're not sure if it's from want or nerves or both. "Shut up and kiss me."

He laughs, breath warm and distracting. "Bossy."

But he does. His lips capture yours again, hungrier now, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. His hand leaves your hip to palm your breast through the lace of your camisole. The fabric is thin enough that you feel every ridge of his fingers, every press of his thumb as he finds your nipple and rolls it gently.

You gasp into his mouth. He smiles against your lips.

"Like that, baby?"

"Don't—" You cut yourself off with a shaky breath. "Don't be smug."

"Never." His thumb keeps circling, and his other hand slides down to grip your ass, pulling you harder against him. The pressure of his cock against your core is maddening through the layers of fabric.

You rock your hips again, a little more desperate this time, and the chair groans loudly beneath you. Heeseung's head falls back, eyes squeezing shut, a low groan rumbling from his chest.

"Fuck," he pants. "You're gonna make me lose my mind."

"What’s holding you back then? Let me."

Your hand slides down his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath your palm. His abs tense under your touch, and he watches you through heavy-lidded eyes as you trail your fingers lower, over the waistband of his joggers, stopping just short of where he's straining against the fabric.

"Please," he whispers, voice cracking.

"Please what?"

He swallows hard. "Please keep touching me. Don't—shit, don’t stop."

You lean in, lips brushing his ear. "Don’t sweat it."

Then you kiss him again — deep, consuming, all tongue and teeth and desperate little sounds. His hips buck up against you, instinct taking over, and you grind back down, matching his rhythm. The chair rocks with you, a steady creak-creak-creak that fills the room along with your mingled breaths.

His hand slides under your camisole, palm flat against your stomach, then higher until he's cupping your bare breast. His thumb flicks across your nipple, and you moan into his mouth.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at you. Your lips are swollen, your hair a mess, your eyes dark and hazy. He brushes a strand behind your ear, gaze soft. "So fucking beautiful."

"Kiss me again," you demand, breathless.

He does. He kisses you until your lungs burn, until the world narrows down to the press of his body against yours, the heat of his palm on your skin, the way his hips roll up to meet yours with increasing urgency.

His mouth trails down your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse point, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin there. Your fingers tighten in his hair, holding him close.

"Baby," he gasps against your collarbone. "I need—I need more."

"I know." Your voice is ragged. "I know."

He lifts his head, eyes meeting yours, pupils blown so wide they're almost black. His lips are red and wet, his breathing uneven. He looks ruined already, and you've barely started.

His thumb traces your hip bone through the fabric of your shorts. "Can I—"

"Yes."

The word tumbles out before he even finishes. You don't need to hear the rest. You want this. You want him.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, tugging gently, asking again with his eyes. You nod, and he takes a shaky breath before sliding his hand lower, palm pressing against the heat of you through your underwear.

Your breath hitches. His eyes lock on yours, watching every flicker of expression.

"Okay?" he whispers.

"Okay."

He kisses you again, softer this time, while his fingers begin to explore, tracing the outline of you through the damp fabric. Your hips twitch against his hand, chasing the pressure.

The chair creaks. Your heart pounds. His thumb circles slowly, deliberately, and you break the kiss to bury your face in his shoulder, moaning against the fabric of his jersey.

"I've got you," he murmurs into your hair. "I've got you, baby."

His middle finger drags through the slick fabric of your underwear, from your entrance up to your clit, pressing just enough to make your hips jump. You feel the heat of your own arousal soaking through the cotton, and from the way his breath catches, he feels it too.

"Fuck," he breathes, pulling back to look at you. His eyes are dark, hungry. "You're wetter than I was earlier, and I was standing in the rain without an umbrella or anything."

Your face goes scorching. The crimson climbs up your neck, floods your cheeks, burns the tips of your ears. You can't even look at him. You press your face back into his shoulder, mortified, and your hand flies down to swat his away from between your legs.

"Hey—" he starts, but you’re already guiding one of his hands where you want it, slipping it under your camisole so it rests against your skin. 

"Up here," you mumble against his jersey. "Focus on this."

He laughs, low and warm, but his fingers curl slightly as he keeps his hand under your camisole, steady against your skin. "Yeah? This is what you want?"

You nod, face still hidden.

He squeezes gently, thumbs finding your nipples, and a shaky breath escapes you. "Okay, baby. I got you. Whatever you need."

He massages you, slow and deliberate, both hands kneading your breasts while his thumbs circle your nipples until they're pebbled and aching. Your hips start moving again on their own, rolling against his joggers, seeking friction. The length of his cock presses against your core through the layers, and the feeling of it, thick and hard, straining against the soft cotton, makes your mouth go dry.

"I want you so bad," you whisper, the words spilling out before you can stop them. Your hips grind down slowly, deliberately, feeling him twitch beneath you. "You feel so, so good. So fucking big."

You bite your lip, and a soft moan spills from your throat, high and breathy.

His eyes darken. His hands tighten on your breasts, and he pulls you into another kiss, rough and demanding, all tongue and teeth and desperation. His hips buck up to meet yours, and the chair groans beneath the weight of both of you moving together.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. "Bed. Now."

Before you can respond, he stands, lifting you with him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and he carries you across the room, still kissing you, mouths slotting together in between ragged breaths. He pauses at the door, reaches back without looking, and twists the lock. The click echoes in the quiet room.

Then he carries you past the window nook, and you feel him pause again. He pulls back just enough to glance at the curtain, thin, pale, letting in the faint glow of the streetlight outside. He reaches over and yanks it closed, the rings scraping along the rod until the fabric is fully drawn, sealing the two of you in.

He lays you down on the bed, and the mattress dips beneath your weight. He follows you down, hovering over you, but then he sits back on his heels, hands finding the hem of your camisole.

"Can I?"

You nod, breathless.

He pulls it up and over your head, and the cool air hits your bare skin. Your breasts are fully exposed now, and his eyes go wide, his breath stuttering out of him.

"Holy shit," he says, voice barely above a whisper. His gaze drags over you, slow and reverent. "Your breasts are so big. Tiny ass waist..." He trails a finger down your sternum, between your breasts, over your stomach. "This is what you've been hiding from me?"

Your cheeks burn, but there's a thrill in his awe that makes you feel powerful. "Maybe, we’ll never know."

He shakes his head, letting out a disbelieving laugh. "Unreal."

His hands find your shorts next, hooking into the waistband and pulling them down your legs. Your underwear goes with them, and then you're bare beneath him, completely naked, and the vulnerability of it hits you all at once.

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "You smell so good," he murmurs against your mouth. "Everything shower?"

A surprised laugh bubbles out of you. "Yeah, actually."

He grins. "Knew it. You always smell like vanilla and something sweet. Drives me insane."

His hand slides down your body, fingers trailing over your stomach, through the coarse hair between your legs, until he reaches your slick folds. His middle finger glides through the wetness, gathering it, and you shiver at the touch.

"Look at you," he says softly, watching his own finger move. "So fucking wet for me. Is this all for me, baby?"

You can barely nod. Your breath comes in short, shallow gasps.

His finger circles your clit, featherlight, and your hips jerk. "That's it. Just relax. Let me take care of you."

He slides one finger inside you, slow, and the stretch makes your eyes flutter shut. He's barely in, just the tip, and already it feels like so much. He watches your face carefully, reading every micro-expression.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Keep going."

He pushes deeper, inch by inch, until his finger is fully sheathed inside you. The feeling is strange and full and good, and you clench around him instinctively.

"There you go," he murmurs. "Feel that? That's me inside you. Just one finger. Gotta get you ready for more, yeah?"

You whimper, and he starts to move, sliding in and out at a torturously slow pace. His thumb finds your clit, pressing tight circles, and the dual sensation makes your back arch off the mattress.

"That's it. That's my good girl. Taking me so well."

A moan builds in your chest, rising, and when it spills from your lips it's too loud — a sharp, breathy cry that cuts through the quiet room.

Heeseung's hand claps over your mouth instantly, but his smile is wicked. "Shh," he whispers, leaning close, lips brushing your ear. "We don't want Mr. and Mrs. L/N to hear their lovely daughter get fucked right now, do we?"

Your eyes go wide, and the heat floods your face again.

"Don't you?" he repeats, voice dropping lower. "Want me to stop?"

You shake your head frantically against his palm.

"Good girl," he says, and removes his hand.

He slides a second finger inside you, and the stretch is sharper this time, making you gasp. He pumps them slowly, curling them up, searching. When he finds that rough patch of nerves inside you, your whole body jolts.

"There it is," he breathes. "Right there, huh?"

He presses against it with every stroke, and your hands fly to the sheets, gripping them tight. His mouth descends on your breast, lips closing around your nipple, tongue flicking across the sensitive peak. He sucks gently, then harder, and the combination of his fingers inside you and his mouth on your chest has your mind going blank.

"So pretty," he murmurs against your skin, switching to the other breast, giving it the same attention. "Look at you. Taking my fingers so well. Think you can take my cock?"

You're not sure, but you want to try. "Yes," you manage. "Yes, I want it."

He kisses his way back up to your mouth, soft and sweet, a stark contrast to what his fingers are doing between your legs. "You're doing so good, baby. Tell me if it's too much."

"More," you whisper. "Please."

He withdraws his fingers, and you feel suddenly empty. He sits up, pulling his jersey over his head in one fluid motion, and your eyes travel over his bare chest. His shoulders are broad, his stomach toned, a light sheen of sweat making his skin glow in the dim light. You reach out, fingertips tracing the line of his collarbone, down his sternum.

He catches your hand, kisses your palm. "You can touch me all you want later. Promise."

He stands just long enough to push his joggers down, then his boxers, and his cock springs free — already hard, already dripping at the tip. Your breath catches. It's bigger than you expected. Thick. The sight of it makes your stomach flip with a mix of anticipation and nerves.

He wraps his hand around himself, stroking slowly. Three times. Once. Twice. Three. His eyes never leave yours.

"Enjoying the view, pretty?"

You can't form words. You just nod.

He climbs back onto the bed, positioning himself by your head. His cock is right there, inches from your face, and you can smell the clean scent of his skin, taste the salt in the air.

"Open up," he says softly. "Let me feel that pretty mouth."

You part your lips, and he guides himself inside. The weight of him on your tongue is heavy, unfamiliar, and you take him as best you can. His hand cradles the back of your head, not pushing, just holding.

"That's it. Nice and slow. Just the tip."

He moves gently, sliding in and out of your mouth at a pace that lets you adjust. His other hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear that slips from the corner of your eye.

"Doing so good for me, baby. Taking me so deep."

You gag slightly, and he stills immediately, giving you time to breathe.

"Okay?"

You hum around him, and he groans at the vibration.

"Fuck, that's good."

He keeps going, slow and deliberate, fucking your face with a tenderness that doesn't match the filth of the act. When he pulls out, a string of saliva connects his tip to your lips.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. "So perfect."

Then he moves down, settling between your legs. His fingers find your slick entrance again, sliding inside with ease. He pumps them slowly, watching your face, and you're already so sensitive from everything that every stroke makes you gasp.

"Look at you. So ready for me. But I want to hear you ask."

"Please," you whimper.

"Please what?"

"Please put it inside. Please, Hee."

His eyes darken. "Good girl."

He reaches over to where his wallet sits on the nightstand, pulls out a foil packet, tears it open with his teeth. You watch him roll the condom down his length, his hands steady, his gaze locked on yours.

He positions himself at your entrance. The head of his cock presses against you, and you feel the heat of him, the pressure, the promise.

"Ready?"

You nod, throat tight.

"Tell me if it hurts. We'll stop. I mean it."

"I know. I want this."

He pushes in.

The first inch is a stretch unlike anything you've ever felt. Your eyes roll back, and you fumble for the pillow, pressing it over your face to muffle the sound that tears from your throat.

He pulls the pillow away, gently but firmly. "No. I want to see you. I want to watch your face when I fill you up."

His hand covers your mouth instead, palm warm against your lips, and you're grateful for it as he pushes deeper. The stretch builds, a burning pressure that makes your eyes water, and then he's fully inside you, seated to the hilt.

He stills. Gives you time.

"Fuck," he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. "You feel... you're so tight. So fucking tight around me."

Your walls flutter around him, adjusting to the intrusion. He stays perfectly still, letting you feel him, letting your body learn the shape of him.

"Okay?" he whispers.

"Okay," you manage, voice muffled by his hand.

He pulls out slowly, then pushes back in. The drag of him inside you sends sparks through your entire body. He sets a rhythm, deep, slow, deliberate, and his hand stays over your mouth, his other hand gripping your ass, kneading the flesh.

"You're taking me so well," he murmurs against your ear. "First time for both of us, baby, yeah? Still feels like I’ve known your body forever.” 

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks, and he kisses them away.

"My good girl. My perfect fucking girl. Do you feel that? That's me inside you. I'm the only one who gets to have you like this."

His pace quickens slightly, and the sound of him moving inside you, wet and rhythmic, fills the room. He reaches up and massages your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

"Look at your tits bounce while I fuck you. Fucking perfect."

The pressure builds in your belly, coiling tight. He feels it too, feels your walls clench around him.

"That's it. You gonna come for me? Gonna come on my cock?"

"I—Hee, baby—"

"Come for me, gorgeous. Let me feel you."

His hand moves from your mouth to wrap around your throat, not squeezing just enough to send a thrill through you, and he fucks you faster, deeper, chasing his own release.

"I'm close," he gasps. "Fuck, I'm so close."

"Inside," you plead. "Come inside."

He groans, his hips slamming into yours, and you feel him pulse inside you, feel the condom swell as he spills into it. The feeling of him coming, the way his body shakes, the way he moans your name — it pushes you over the edge.

"I'm coming," you gasp. "Baby, I'm coming—"

He fucks you through it, his pace never slowing, and the overstimulation makes you cry out. He dips his head and sucks your nipple into his mouth, and the sensation doubles, triples, splintering through you like lightning.

Your orgasm wrings you out, clenching around him, and he keeps thrusting, slow now, riding it out with you.

When it subsides, he pulls out gently, and you feel empty again. He peels the condom off, and you watch as he strokes himself once, twice, spilling the remaining drops of his release onto your lips, your breasts.

"Open," he says softly, and you part your lips. He smears the last of it across your bottom lip, then leans down and kisses you, tasting himself on your mouth.

Then he disappears between your legs.

His mouth descends on your sensitive core, tongue flat against your folds, lapping up the mess of your release and his. You squeak at the intensity, thighs clamping around his head, but he grips your hips and holds you open.

"None of that. Let me taste you."

His tongue circles your clit, flicks across it, and your hips buck off the mattress. He eats you out like he's starving, tongue plunging inside you, then dragging back up to your clit.

"You taste so wet. Could drink you all night."

It's too much. It's not enough. Your hands find his hair, gripping, pulling, and he groans against you, the vibration sending you spiraling.

The second orgasm hits you before you're ready, sharp and sudden, and you cry out his name as you come undone on his tongue.

He laps it all up, gentle now, letting you come down. When he finally surfaces, his chin is wet, his lips are red, and he's grinning.

He crawls up beside you, pulling you into his arms. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Look at me."

You turn your head, meeting his gaze. His eyes are soft now, the heat faded, replaced with something tender.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face.

You blink up at him from where you are, he pulls the blanket over both of you carefully afterward, tucking you against his chest while warmth slowly settles beneath the covers.

“Good,” you whisper, voice slightly hoarse. “Really good.”

His expression eases immediately, thumb stroking gently across your waist.

“Any pain?”

“A little sore,” you admit quietly. “But it’s okay.”

He leans down to press a slow kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

“You did so well for me, baby,” he murmurs. “I know this was your first time.”

Your chest tightens a little at the tenderness in his voice.

“And it was yours too,” you whisper back.

A small smile spreads across his face.

“Yep,” he says softly. “Guess we trusted each other that much.”

You feel your eyes sting unexpectedly, emotion settling warm and heavy in your chest. Just something overwhelming and soft and impossibly intimate.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you mumble.

“Always.”

The answer comes instantly.

He pulls the blanket higher around your body afterward, making sure you’re fully covered before settling back against the headboard with you tucked securely against him. One of his hands slips into your hair, fingers combing through it slowly, while the other rests warm against your hip beneath the blanket.

Outside, rain still tapped quietly against the windows.

Inside, everything felt still.

Safe.

He presses another kiss to the top of your head before mumbling softly against your hair—

“Get some rest, pretty. I’m not going anywhere.”

⭐ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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💿 ࿐ . . dirty little secret by the all-american rejects

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

his grip on your thigh tightens, thumb stroking dangerously close to where your dress rides up. the rest of dinner drags on in a haze of small talk and laughter, every passing minute making the ache between your legs worse. by the time you help clear the table, you’re already wet, thighs pressing together as you move.

the second the bedroom door clicks shut upstairs in the guest room, jay is on you like a man starved.

he spins you around and pins you against the wall, mouth claiming yours in a deep, filthy kiss. his tongue slides against yours as one hand fists in your hair and the other yanks your dress up to your waist.

“you heard my mom,” he growls low against your lips, voice rough and dark. “she wants grandkids. and all i could think about during dinner was bending you over and pumping this tight little pussy full of my cum until you’re carrying my baby.”

you moan into his mouth, arousal flooding through you. jay doesn’t waste time. he turns you around fast, bending you over the edge of the bed so your ass is up and your chest presses into the soft mattress. his palm cracks down hard on your right cheek without warning. the loud smack echoes in the quiet room.

“fuck— jay—”

“shhh, baby. you gotta be quiet,” he warns, but his voice drips with amusement as he spanks the left cheek even harder. “unless you want them to hear how desperate my wife is to get bred in my childhood bedroom.”

he keeps going, alternating firm spanks that make your skin burn and your pussy clench. each slap sends jolts of heat straight to your core. you push back against him, whimpering, and he chuckles darkly before sliding two thick fingers along your soaked folds.

“so fucking wet already. you like the idea that much? getting knocked up while my parents sleep down the hall?” he pushes two fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep. “my dirty little wife wants me to fill her up tonight, doesn’t she?”

“yes,” you gasp, rocking back onto his fingers. “please, jay… i need it.”

he pulls his fingers out, and you hear the sound of his belt and zipper. a second later, the thick, heavy head of his cock rubs up and down your dripping slit, teasing your clit until you’re shaking.

“beg for it properly,” he demands, landing another sharp spank on your already tender ass.

“please breed me,” you moan, voice trembling. “fill me up. knock me up, jay. i want your baby so bad.”

he groans at your words and pushes in with one long, relentless thrust, stretching you open around his thick cock. the feeling of him burying himself into you makes you both moan. he stays there for a moment, grinding deep, letting you feel every inch.

“that’s my good girl. taking every inch like you were made for it.” he starts fucking you in slow, powerful strokes, one hand fisted in your hair while the other keeps spanking you between thrusts. “gonna fuck you so deep tonight. gonna pump load after load into this perfect cunt until it's dripping. you’re gonna sleep with my cum leaking out of you.”

his pace picks up, hips snapping harder, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with your muffled moans. he leans over you, chest pressed to your back, lips brushing your ear.

“imagine tomorrow morning at breakfast. my mom asking again and you sitting there with my baby inside you already. pussy still full of my cum from all night.” he spanks you harder, then reaches around to rub tight, fast circles on your clit. “tell me how bad you want it.”

“i want it so much,” you cry out, trying to keep your voice down. “want you to cum so deep. want you to breed me, jay. make me pregnant. please—”

he growls and fucks you faster, the bed creaking under the force. you cum hard first, clenching around his cock, your vision blurring as pleasure crashes through you. jay follows right after, burying himself as deep as possible with a low, broken moan.

“fuck— take it, baby. take every drop.” you feel him pulse inside you, thick ropes of cum flooding your pussy, so much it starts leaking out around where he’s still buried.

but he doesn’t pull out. he stays deep, grinding lazily, pushing his load further inside you.

“i'm not even close to done,” he pants, kissing the back of your neck. he finally pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thighs with a satisfied groan. “on your back. now.”

you obey on shaky legs. jay spreads your thighs wide and climbs between them, sliding back inside your cum-filled pussy in one smooth thrust. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half as he starts fucking you again, deeper in this position.

“look at me while i breed you,” he commands, eyes locked on yours. every thrust is deliberate and punishing. “you’re gonna take all my cum tonight. gonna keep this little womb stuffed until it catches.”

he spanks the side of your ass again even in this position, the sting making you clench tighter around him. his filthy words never stop — telling you how full he’s going to keep you, how pretty you’ll look pregnant with his child, how he’s going to fuck you every night until the test comes back positive.

you cum again, harder this time, and jay keeps going, chasing a second load. when he fills you up the second time, he stays buried deep, kissing you slow and possessive while his cock twitches inside you.

later, he flips you onto your stomach, pulls your hips up, and takes you from behind again. more spanking, more dirty promises whispered against your skin. he makes you ride him after that, hands gripping your ass hard as he guides you up and down, telling you to “milk his cock like the dirty wife you are.”

by the time you’re both exhausted, the sheets are messy, your ass is red and stinging, and you’ve lost count of how many times he came inside you. jay pulls you into his chest, one hand gently rubbing soothing circles over your tender skin while the other rests possessively on your lower belly.

“good girl,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “if you’re not pregnant after tonight… we’re doing this again tomorrow night. and the night after that.”

you smile against his chest, still feeling his cum slowly leaking out of you, and whisper back that you’re counting on it. the house is quiet around you, but your body is deliciously sore and full — exactly the way jay wanted.

© jongst4r, 2026

it starts at 7:12 a.m.

you wake up before him, already soaked and aching. jay is sleeping on his back, one arm thrown over his head, gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips. you crawl over him slowly, careful with your barely-there belly, and settle on his lap. your oversized sleep shirt is already pulled up, bare tits — noticeably bigger and heavier now — brushing against his chest.

you start grinding slowly, letting your wet pussy drag along the growing bulge in his pants.

jay stirs with a low groan, eyes fluttering open. “babe—”

“morning,” you whisper, voice already wrecked. you lean down and shove your tits right into his face, smothering him softly. “they’re getting so big, jongseong. feel them.”

his hands come up instantly, cupping your swollen breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitive nipples. he groans into your cleavage and latches onto one, sucking gently. your hips roll faster, desperate.

“can’t wait,” you pant. “need you inside me— please—”

he doesn’t even get his sweatpants all the way off. you just push them down enough to free his thick cock, line him up, and sink down in one smooth glide. the stretch is perfect. you both moan loud enough that you’re grateful your house is big and secluded.

“fuck— you're so wet,” jay hisses, head falling back against the pillow. his hands grip your hips, guiding you as you ride him hard and fast. “my pregnant wife woke up this needy again? gonna use me as your personal cocksleeve this morning?”

“yes,” you moan, bouncing on him shamelessly. your tits jiggle with every movement and he can’t stop staring. “your cock is mine. 24/7. i'm gonna keep you drained dry every single day.”

he sits up suddenly, wrapping his arms around you and thrusting up hard. the new angle makes you cry out. he kisses you filthy, tongues sliding, while one hand kneads your ass.

“good girl. take what you need. i’m yours.”

you cum fast and hard, clenching around him. jay follows right after, pumping you full with a deep groan. he keeps you seated on his cock afterward, rubbing your belly gently while kissing your neck.

“better?” he murmurs.

“for now,” you smile sweetly.

by the time he gets home from the studio that evening, you’ve already sent him six photos.

the first was just your tits in his favorite lace bra. the second was you in his shirt with nothing underneath, lifting it to show your tiny bump. the third was a close-up of your soaked pussy with the caption “come fill me up daddy.”

he barely makes it through the front door before you attack him.

the second the lock clicks, you’re on him — jumping into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist, mouth on his neck. jay stumbles back against the door with a surprised laugh that quickly turns into a groan.

“hi husband,” you purr, sucking a mark under his jaw. “missed your cock all day.”

“fuck, baby— let me at least take my shoes off—”

“no.” you reach down and palm him through his pants. he’s already rock hard. “bedroom. now. or the couch. or the kitchen counter. i don’t care.”

he carries you straight to the living room, lays you on the big sectional, and drops to his knees. he eats you out like a starving man — two fingers curling deep while his tongue works your clit. you cum twice before he even pulls his cock out.

when he finally fucks you, it’s deep and possessive, one hand protectively over your little bump the entire time.

“look at you,” he groans, thrusting slow and hard. “so horny for me even when you’re carrying my baby. my perfect cocksleeve.”

you claw at his back and beg for more.

the shower hijack happens two days later.

jay steps out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, hair dripping. you’re waiting on the bed in nothing but one of his button-ups, half open, tits spilling out.

the second he walks close enough you grab the towel and yank it off. his cock springs free, already half-hard just from looking at you.

“again?” he laughs, but his eyes are dark. “we did it three times this morning, baby.”

“and i need you again.” you push him onto the bed and crawl over him, dangling your heavy breasts in his face. he groans and catches one nipple in his mouth, sucking harder than usual. a tiny bead of milk leaks out and his eyes roll back.

“fuck— that’s so hot.”

you sink down on him again, riding him reverse cowgirl so he has the perfect view of your ass and your tiny pregnant belly. every bounce makes your tits slap together. jay spanks you lightly, gripping your hips, helping you move faster.

“gonna keep you like this forever,” he pants. “pregnant and horny and dripping for me every hour.”

“yes—” you moan, grinding down deep. “fill me up again, jay. want your cum leaking out of me all day.”

he does exactly that, pulling you down hard as he empties inside you with a long, broken moan.

the late-night pawing happens at 2:37 a.m. a few nights later.

you wake up aching again, pussy throbbing, nipples tight. jay is sleeping peacefully on his stomach. you slide under the covers, gently spread his legs, and start sucking him soft.

he wakes up halfway hard, groaning your name sleepily.

“baby— you’re insatiable.”

you just hum around his cock and take him deeper. when he’s fully hard you climb on top and ride him slow and lazy, using his body while he’s still half-asleep. his hands eventually find your hips, guiding you, thumbs stroking your bump.

“my good girl,” he whispers hoarsely. “using her husband whenever she needs. cum on me, princess.”

you do — twice — before he flips you gently onto your side and fucks you from behind, one arm wrapped around you protectively, hand cradling your belly as he fills you again.

by the end of the week jay is exhausted but stupidly in love.

he comes home one night to find you in the kitchen wearing nothing but an apron, tits fully out, bump proudly on display. you’re “making dinner” but mostly just waiting for him.

he doesn’t even speak. just walks over, bends you over the counter, and fucks you right there among the half-chopped vegetables.

“you win,” he groans, pounding into you. “i’m your cocksleeve now too. use me whenever, however. i’ll quit the group if i have to. just keep draining me every day.”

you laugh breathlessly and push back on him. “good. because this baby bump is only gonna get bigger — and my hormones are only getting worse.”

jay kisses your neck, hand rubbing your belly tenderly even as he rails you harder.

“good,” he whispers against your skin. “i love you like this. horny, pregnant, and completely obsessed with my cock. my perfect wife.”

you cum with his name on your lips, already thinking about waking him up with your tits in his face again tomorrow morning.

and jay — sweet, devoted, pussy-whipped jay — will happily let you. every single time.

© jongst4r, 2026

If there was one thing you wouldn’t have ever expected to do, that would have been dating and eventually getting engaged to someone who was younger than you.

The difference, if you could even call it that, was only about a year. 

It was funny, really, because ever since you were a kid, you had always imagined yourself ending up with someone older. Someone who would naturally take the lead, someone steady and mature and a little ahead of you in life. Even in high school, whenever your friends asked about your type, your answer was always the same. Older guys. Maybe someone in the same year if you really liked them, but never younger.

Then you met Jay in your university’s music club and suddenly none of that mattered anymore.

At first, it was purely superficial. You noticed him because he was ridiculously attractive. The kind of attractiveness that made people glance twice without even realizing they were doing it. Pretty in an unfair way. Sharp eyes, nice hands, effortless smile, sharp jawline, and that annoying habit of looking good no matter what he wore, whether it was an oversized hoodie during practice or a plain black polo during performances.

You remembered seeing him for the first time during club orientation, sitting lazily in the corner with a guitar resting against his thigh while someone else talked. He wasn’t even doing anything special. He just looked up for a second when somebody called his name, and you thought, oh, he’s handsome.

Then someone mentioned he was younger than you.

Immediately, your brain filed him away into the category of off-limits. Attractive, yes, but he’s younger, and younger boys weren’t your type.

Still, Jay had this way of slipping past your expectations without permission.

Maybe it was because he never acted younger around you. He carried himself with this quiet confidence that made it easy to forget the age gap entirely. Another possibility was the way he listened when you talked, genuinely listened, eyes fixed on you like he cared about every word coming out of your mouth.

If the two of you were standing side by side, most people assumed he was older.

You looked softer compared to him somehow. Friendlier. Easier to approach. Meanwhile, Jay had this composed aura about him that made him seem older than he actually was, especially when he stayed quiet. People always reacted the same way after finding out your ages.

“Wait, he’s younger than you?”

Every single time.

Every single time, Jay looked way too pleased hearing it too.

The more practices you attended together, the more your carefully built preferences started crumbling apart.

You found yourself looking for him first whenever you entered the club room. Saving the seat beside you without thinking. Waiting for his texts longer than you should have.

The worst part was realizing that despite being younger, Jay somehow made you feel more taken care of than anyone older ever had.

Which was ironic, considering you had spent most of your life being the one taking care of other people.

Being the eldest daughter in your family came with responsibilities whether you liked it or not. You grew up reminding your siblings to eat breakfast before school, checking if they brought umbrellas when it rained, nagging them to sleep earlier, helping with assignments that weren’t even yours. Half your personality had probably been built around making sure everyone around you was okay.

It was exhausting sometimes.

It also became second nature eventually.

Jay, for some reason, seemed to love that part of you.

Not because he was immature or incapable of taking care of himself. If anything, Jay was annoyingly competent on his own. He cooked better than you sometimes, carried heavier equipment during performances without complaining, remembered deadlines before anyone else did.

Still, he softened under your care in a way that made your chest ache.

He liked when you reminded him to eat after long rehearsals. Liked when you fixed his hair absentmindedly before performances. Liked when you scolded him for staying up too late working on arrangements.

Sometimes he would deliberately rest his head on your shoulder after practice and sigh dramatically just to hear you fuss over him.

“You’re tired?” you’d ask immediately.

He’d smile without opening his eyes. “A little.”

It was embarrassing how fast you folded every single time.

Your friends noticed it before you did. The way Jay gravitated toward you naturally, like he had already decided you were someone safe to lean on. The way he accepted your care without ego getting in the way.

Most men hated being fussed over too much. Their pride got bruised easily.

Jay, meanwhile, looked at you like being cared for was one of his favorite things in the world.

Maybe that was what ruined you completely.

For the first time, taking care of someone didn’t feel like responsibility. It felt wanted. Desired, even.

Every little thing you did for him mattered.

A few years passed quicker than you expected them to.

University ended, the music club slowly faded into memory, and somehow, through all of it, Jay stayed.

Now the two of you were engaged, living together in a condominium unit that finally started feeling like home instead of just a place to sleep in. His shoes stayed abandoned near the doorway no matter how many times you told him to fix them properly, his guitar picks appeared in random places around the apartment, and half of your closet had quietly become his.

Jay came from money. That much was obvious early on. Nice family, expensive upbringing, connections everywhere. People usually assumed life had been easy for him because of it.

What they didn’t see was how ridiculously hardworking he was.

Even back in university, Jay had never been lazy. He was the type to stay up until three in the morning finishing projects perfectly instead of settling for “good enough.” Now it was late meetings, endless calls, hours spent working on his laptop at the dining table until his shoulders started hurting.

Money gave him comfort, sure, but it never made him complacent.

If anything, Jay worked harder than most people you knew.

Ironically, the same man everyone found intimidating at first glance turned out to be the clingiest person alive behind closed doors.

You could literally be folding laundry on the couch only for him to walk over silently and drop his full weight onto you without warning.

“Baby,” you’d groan underneath him. “You’re heavy.”

“What? I missed my pretty baby.”

“You just saw me twenty minutes ago.”

“Does it change anything? I still missed you.”

Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

You used to think dating someone younger meant you would always have to act more mature, more composed, more responsible.

Instead, you ended up with a fiancé who looked intimidating enough to scare strangers but secretly wanted to be babied half the time.

Not that you were complaining.

Truthfully, you had grown embarrassingly fond of the way Jay always seemed to seek you out first. The way he naturally gravitated toward you after long days, arms wrapping around your waist before he even said hello properly. The way he rested his head on your shoulder whenever he got tired, quietly waiting for you to run your fingers through his hair.

Maybe being the eldest daughter your entire life wired something into you permanently.

Maybe Jay simply fit into that space too perfectly.

Either way, somewhere between university practices, late-night ramen runs, and years spent loving each other, taking care of him became the easiest thing in the world.

The kitchen smelled insanely good already.

Butter sizzling in the pan, garlic frying until golden, Cajun seasoning coating practically every surface you touched because you kept shaking it onto things without measuring properly anymore. A massive pot of seafood sat nearby waiting to be mixed in while several corn cobs cooled on a tray beside you, covered generously in butter and spices.

“This is gonna change your life,” you announced seriously while cutting another lemon in half. “I’m not even joking when I say this is literally going to be the best meal of your life.”

Jay leaned against the kitchen counter watching you with the most entertained expression on his face.

“Our life, rather,” you corrected. “I’ve perfected everything already.”

“You say that every time you cook seafood, baby.”

“Because every time, I improve it.”

A quiet laugh left him.

Jay was an exceptionally good cook himself. Annoyingly good, actually. The type who somehow made everything look easy no matter how complicated the recipe was.

Still, he always insisted your seafood tasted better. 

Not even just seafood either. Practically everything you made.

Every meal turned into the same thing eventually. Jay praising every bite like you personally invented cooking.

At first you thought he was exaggerating to be nice. Then you realized he genuinely just loved being taken care of by you. Loved sitting at the counter while you cooked, stealing ingredients from the chopping board until you smacked his hand away. Loved hearing you ask if the food needed more seasoning even though both of you already knew he would inhale the entire thing regardless.

“You know,” you said while stirring the sauce carefully, “sometimes I think you just hype up my cooking because you want me to keep feeding you forever.”

“Obviously.”

You blinked at him. “Wow! At least lie a little.”

Jay only grinned before walking closer, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist from behind.

“I mean it though,” he murmured near your ear. “You taking care of me is probably my favorite thing ever.”

“That sounded strangely pathetic.”

“No, listen,” he continued shamelessly. “You don’t understand how attractive it is watching you cook for me looking like this.”

You frowned. “Looking like what?”

“Domestic.”

“That is the corniest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It’s true.” His chin rested against your shoulder. “Think I’d let another person feed me corn this good?”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jay hummed thoughtfully behind you. “Still would marry you again over this seafood boil alone though.”

“You already proposed.”

“I’d do it twice.”

Warmth spread across your face despite yourself. Moments like this always got you embarrassingly easy. Jay being clingy, affectionate, constantly attached to your side like he physically needed your attention to survive.

Then, of course, he ruined it.

“You keep saying this’ll be the best thing you’ve ever eaten in your life,” he said casually.

“It will be! Trust me, both you and I will love it.”

Jay glanced downward meaningfully before pointing toward himself.

“Not this?”

You nearly dropped the spoon straight into the pot.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, horrified. “What the hell is actually wrong with you?”

You could already feel your composure slipping in ways you absolutely refused to acknowledge, even as you tried to focus on the pot in front of you. 

“What?” he asked innocently. “Valid question, baby.”

“You act like a teenage boy around me.”

“A horny teenage boy.”

“Jay!”

His laugh filled the kitchen immediately, bright and shameless, especially after you smacked his arm with the towel beside you.

That was the problem with him sometimes.

Jay looked so composed around everyone else. Polite, mature, intimidating even. Then the second the two of you were alone, he started saying the filthiest things imaginable with a completely straight face.

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, turning back toward the stove.

“You’re so in love with me, it’s obvious.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You love taking care of me too.”

His arms tightened around your waist slightly after saying it, nose brushing against the side of your neck for barely a second. The gesture itself was innocent enough, but paired with his voice, paired with the way he lingered there, it sent heat rushing embarrassingly fast through your body.

“You know what your problem is?” you said quietly.

“Hm?”

“You get way too cocky when I’m nice to you.”

Jay only smiled against your skin. “So keep being nice to me.”

You stared at the simmering pot for another second before sighing dramatically and setting the spoon down onto the counter.

“That seafood better not burn,” you warned.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Baby?”

“You’re annoying,” you informed him while turning around fully, hands sliding up the front of his shirt. “Actually so annoying.”

Jay looked entirely too pleased watching you move closer anyway.

With one last glance at the pot, you reached over and turned the heat down to low, just enough to keep it warm, not enough to keep it cooking. 

You rose onto your tiptoes.

Your fingertips found his jaw before your lips did, tracing the sharp line of it, the hard cut of bone and muscle that had made your stomach flip the very first time you saw him. Stubble grazed your skin, rough and dark, already shadowing his face even though it hadn't been more than twelve hours since he'd shaved. You followed the ridge of it from his chin up to his ear, slow and deliberate, like you were memorizing him by touch.

Jay's breath went shaky. His eyes fluttered half-closed, lips parting on a soft exhale.

"You know," you murmured, voice low, thumb brushing along his cheekbone, "maybe that seafood boil won't be the best meal I'll ever have in my life, hm?"

His pupils blew wide. That desperate, worshipful look flooded his face, the one that always made your cunt clench, the one that told you he'd follow you anywhere, do anything you asked, let you take him apart piece by piece.

"Baby," he breathed, and it came out like a prayer.

You kissed him.

Slow. Deep. 

Your lips pressed against his, soft and deliberate, and he melted into you immediately, his hands finding your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like he needed something to hold onto. His mouth opened under yours, a low moan vibrating against your tongue as you slid it along his bottom lip, tasting him. He tasted like the beer he'd been sipping while you cooked. Like warmth. Like home.

Your fingers slid into his hair, gripping the dark strands, and he whimpered, actually whimpered into your mouth, high and needy, and you swallowed the sound like it was the only thing you'd ever needed.

The stove hissed behind you. Butter crackled in the pot. You ignored all of it.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. His lips were red, slick, parted. His eyes were hazy, pupils blown, chasing yours.

"Let's take this over elsewhere, shall we?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but you were already moving, grabbing his wrist, pulling him off the stool and across the kitchen tile. He stumbled after you, all 180 centimeters of him, letting himself be dragged like he weighed nothing. Like being pulled by you was exactly where he wanted to be.

Park Jongseong, who closed deals worth millions in his sleep. Who had a reputation so sharp it preceded him through every boardroom in the city. Stumbling after you with flushed cheeks and quick breath, obedient and eager.

The stove bubbled softly as you passed it. The scent of garlic and butter hung in the air.

You reached the couch and pushed.

He went down without resistance, fell back onto the cushions, looking up at you with wide, dark eyes. His chest was already rising and falling fast. His hands lay loose at his sides, palms up. Waiting. Surrendered.

"Good boy," you said softly, climbing onto his lap.

You settled over him, thighs bracketing his hips. The weight of you pressing down made his breath stutter. His hands flew to your waist immediately, not quite grabbing, just holding, thumbs stroking the bare skin where your shirt had ridden up.

You kissed him again. Slower this time. Taking your time. Teasing his mouth open with gentle pressure, licking along his bottom lip, biting down just enough to make him gasp.

"Take off your shirt," you said against his mouth.

He scrambled to obey. The fabric was gone in seconds, tossed somewhere behind the couch without a second thought. His chest was bare beneath you, warm golden skin stretched over lean muscle, his nipples already hard from the cool air. You ran your palms down his chest, feeling his heart hammering under your touch, feeling the way his stomach tensed and jumped when your fingers grazed lower.

"So pretty," you whispered. "My handsome boy. You know that, don't you?"

He shook his head. A tiny, honest gesture. His cheeks were flushed, eyes dropping away from yours.

"You should," you said, tilting his chin back up with your fingers. "Because you are. Every inch of you. I could look at you forever."

His lips trembled. His eyes went glassy.

"Baby," he whispered, voice cracking.

You traced his collarbone with your fingertips. Then his shoulders. Then back up to his jaw, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs stroking his cheekbones.

"I love your face," you said softly. "I love your jaw. I love the way you look at me like I'm the only person in the world."

"You are," he said immediately. Desperate. Earnest. "You are, baby. You're everything. I can't—I can't think about anything else when you're in the room. I can't think about anything else ever. You're in my head all the time."

The sudden confession hung in the air between you, raw and unfiltered.

You kissed him again. Softer this time. A reward.

Then you rolled your hips.

A slow, grinding press of your cunt against the hardening length of him through both your clothes. His head fell back against the couch cushion. A moan slipped out of him, broken and raw, punched from his throat.

"Fuck—"

"Yeah?" You did it again. Slower. Dragging. Feeling him thicken beneath your heat. "Feel good, baby?"

"So good. Fuck, baby, you feel so—" His voice cracked. His hands flew to your thighs, gripping tight. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Just—don't stop. Please don't stop. Feels too good, I need—I need you so bad—"

You ground down again, watching his face twist with pleasure. His lips parted. His brows furrowed. Sweat glistened at his temple. He looked wrecked already, and you'd barely started.

"That's it," you murmured. "You're taking it so well. Such a good boy for me."

A desperate little sound escaped his throat. His hips bucked up against you involuntarily.

You slowed. Stilled.

He let out a whine, high and needy, pure desperation, his hands tightening on your hips.

"Please, please, baby, why'd you stop—"

"Because I want to taste you first."

His eyes went wide. His cock twitched visibly beneath his sweatpants, straining against the fabric.

The stove crackled in the kitchen. A soft, rhythmic sizzle. Butter and garlic are still warming.

You climbed off his lap. He reached for you immediately, fingers brushing your hip, not wanting you to go even that far.

"Stay," you said softly.

He froze. Hands dropping back to his sides. Obedient. Waiting. His chest heaved with every breath.

You knelt between his legs on the floor.

The position made him whimper, high and embarrassed and so fucking turned on. You could see it in the way his cock strained against his sweatpants, the dark spot of pre-cum already soaking through the grey fabric.

"Look at you," you said, palming him through the material. "So hard for me already. Been thinking about this all night, haven't you?"

"All day," he gasped. "All—all week. Every time you bent over something. Every time you licked seasoning off your fingers. I couldn't—I couldn't stop—"

You squeezed gently. His hips jerked.

"Please, baby, please—"

You pulled his waistband down. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the head slick and leaking, curving up toward his stomach. You wrapped your hand around the base, feeling the heat, the weight, the way he twitched in your grip.

"God," you breathed. "You're so beautiful. Every single inch of you."

His breath stuttered. "Baby—"

You leaned down and took the head into your mouth.

Just the tip. Slow. Your tongue circled him, tasting salt and want, the slick pre-cum spreading across your lips. His whole body jerked. A low, guttural moan rolled out of him, uncontrolled, shameless, loud.

"Fff, baby— "

You sank lower. Taking more of him into your mouth. Your tongue pressed flat along the underside as you went, feeling every ridge, every vein, every twitch. He was thick, stretching your lips, filling your mouth, and you moaned around him at the feel of it, the vibration making his hips buck.

His hand flew to your hair. Not pulling. Not pushing. Holding. Fingers trembling against your scalp.

"That's it," you murmured, pulling off just enough to breathe. A string of saliva connected your lips to his cock. "You're doing so good for me, Jay. Just relax. Let me take care of you."

His eyes were glassy. His mouth hung open. "I—okay. Okay, baby. I trust you. I trust you so much."

You smiled and took him deep again.

You set a slow, deliberate rhythm. Your hand worked the base while your mouth moved over the head, alternating between deep swallows and teasing kitten licks. You watched him, watched his stomach clench, his chest heave, his lips form words he couldn't quite get out.

"Please, please, please—"

Every plea went straight to your pussy, slick and aching between your thighs.

You pulled off with a wet sound. Stroked him slowly, watching his cock glisten with your saliva.

"You're so loud," you said. "I love it. I love that everyone would know exactly who you belong to if they heard you right now."

"I belong to you," he gasped. "Only you. Just you, baby, always, you own me. I'm yours. I've been yours since the first time you looked at me."

You took him back into your mouth.

Deeper this time. Your throat relaxed, letting him slide further in. He cried out, a broken, desperate sound, and his hips bucked up before he caught himself.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to—"

You hummed around him, and he moaned so loud it echoed off the kitchen tiles. The stove hissed in response, like the apartment itself was reacting to him falling apart.

You pulled off, breathless, saliva slick on your chin.

"Don't apologize," you said, voice rough. "I want you to let go. I want to feel you come down my throat. I want to taste every drop."

His eyes rolled back.

You swallowed him again. Faster now. Your hand working in rhythm, your mouth sucking, tongue pressing, and his sounds got higher, more broken, more desperate.

"Baby, I'm—I'm gonna, fuck— "

You looked up at him. Held his gaze.

And let him come undone.

His release hit your tongue, hot and thick, spilling in pulses. You swallowed around him, taking every drop, working him through it with your mouth and hand until his hips stopped bucking and his body went limp against the couch. His chest heaved. Sweat coated his skin.

You pulled off gently, licking your lips clean, savoring the taste of him.

"Good boy," you whispered. "You did so well. So good for me. I'm so proud of you."

He was panting, wrecked, his eyes half-lidded and dazed. "That was… shit, amazing, baby. Oh my god. I can't— "

"You can," you said softly, kissing his inner thigh. "You can do so much more for me, can't you? You're my good boy."

He nodded immediately. Eager. Desperate. Already half-hard again.

You stood up slowly, keeping eye contact.

"Then watch."

You pulled your shirt over your head. Let it fall to the floor. Your shorts followed, pooling at your ankles. You stepped out of them, standing before him in just your bra and panties.

His hands twitched. Reaching.

"Uh-uh, not yet," you said softly.

He waited. His chest rose and fell. His cock was already thickening again, hard and eager despite having just come.

"You're so greedy," you said, smiling. "So needy for me."

"I'm always needy for you," he breathed. "Every second. I can't help it."

You climbed back onto his lap. His cock pressed against your stomach, hot and hard, as you settled over him. You could feel the slick heat of yourself through your panties, soaking the fabric, making a mess of his thigh.

You reached down and guided him to your entrance.

Just the head. Pressing against you. Teasing through the soaked fabric of your panties.

He whimpered.

"Please, baby, please, I need—"

"I know what you need."

You pushed your panties aside and sank down slowly. Inch by inch. Feeling every ridge, every thick inch stretching you open. His mouth fell open. No sound came out.

"Fuck," you breathed. "You're so big. Always forget how full you make me. How good you feel inside me."

He gripped your hips. Not moving you. Just holding. Trembling.

"Take it," you said softly. "Take all of it. You can take it, can't you, baby?"

"Yes, yes, I can—"

"Good boy."

You lowered yourself fully. Seated. His cock buried deep inside you, filling you completely. You both stilled.

The heat. The stretch. The weight of him inside you.

You didn't move.

"I want you to feel this," you murmured, running your fingers through his damp hair. "Just feel it. Being inside me. Being mine. You feel that? How tight I am around you? How perfectly you fit?"

His hands slid up your back. Pulling you closer. His face pressed into your neck, breath hot and shaky.

"Mmgh, baby, I feel it," he whispered against your skin. "I feel everything. You're so—you're so perfect. So warm. I don't ever want to leave."

"Don’t leave then."

You stayed like that. Cockwarming him. Letting him feel every twitch, every clench of your cunt around him. The stove hissed in the kitchen. Water bubbling. Butter popping softly. The world existed somewhere outside, but here there was only this.

His hands moved to your back. Tracing your spine. Then up to your bra strap.

"Can I—" he started, voice small.

"Unclasp it."

He fumbled. His fingers slipped once, twice. You smiled, watching him struggle, watching the concentration on his face.

"Having trouble, baby?"

"Your bra is… it's tricky—"

"Try again."

He got it. The clasp gave, and the straps slid loose. You let the fabric fall away, baring your chest to him. His eyes went dark, hungry, reverent. He looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Touch me," you said softly.

His hands came up immediately. Cupping your breasts. Thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped at the contact, sensitive and aching.

"It's okay, baby," you murmured. "I'll feed you."

He leaned forward without hesitation. His mouth closed over your nipple, hot and wet, sucking gently. His tongue circled the peak, and you moaned, head falling back, fingers tangling in his hair.

"That's it. Good boy. Just like that."

His other hand kneaded your other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. He switched sides, mouth latching onto the neglected one, and you felt it everywhere, the pull of his lips, the graze of his teeth, the way his tongue soothed each sensitive peak.

His hips twitched beneath you. A tiny, involuntary thrust.

"Hungry already?" You laughed breathlessly. "Needy already, after just stuffing all that into my mouth?"

He whined against your breast. The vibration made you gasp.

"You're so fucking greedy," you whispered, but there was no complaint in it. Only wonder. Only adoration.

You rolled your hips. The barest movement. Just enough to make him moan around your nipple.

"Tell me what you want, baby."

He pulled off just long enough to speak, chest heaving. "More. Please, baby, please—more, I need more, I need you to move—"

"Beg me."

He didn't hesitate.

"Please. Please, baby, I'll do anything, I'll be so good, I'll be so good for you, just please… I need you to fuck me—I need to feel you—I need—"

"Good boy," you murmured. "Good, sweet boy. That's all you had to say."

You lifted your hips. Slowly. Letting him feel every inch of the drag, the friction, the slick heat of your cunt gripping him.

Then you sank back down.

And you started to move.

Slow. Deep. Grinding in circles at the bottom of every thrust. He moaned with every roll of your hips, his hands gripping your ass, guiding but not controlling.

"Look at you," you breathed. "Taking me so well. My perfect boy. My good, perfect boy."

His head fell back. His throat exposed, that sharp jawline you loved, the column of his neck, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed.

You leaned in and sucked a mark onto his throat.

He cried out. His hips bucked up, driving himself deeper.

"You like that?" you murmured against his skin.

"Yes, fuck, baby, yes—"

You sucked another mark lower. On his collarbone. Then his chest. Your hips never stopped moving — slow, deep, grinding, filling.

His hands roamed your body like he couldn't believe you were real. Over your hips. Your stomach. Up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples.

"That's it," you encouraged. "Touch me. Take what you need."

"I just need you," he gasped. "Just you. Only you. Always—oh god—"

You sped up. Just a fraction. Enough to make his breath catch.

"Please," he begged. "Please, baby, please can I—can I come?"

"Not yet."

He whimpered. Rocked his hips up to meet yours.

"Please, I've been so good—"

"Have you?" You slowed down. "Let me think about that."

"Please, please, baby, I've been so good, I took everything you gave me, I was quiet, I— "

"You weren't quiet at all," you said, smiling. "You were so loud. I loved every second of it."

He blushed furiously. "Then please—"

"Beg me again."

Another desperate plea. Higher pitched than the last, his voice cracking.

"I'm begging you, please let me come, I need it so bad, I need to come inside you, please, baby—I need to feel you—I need to come, please. "

"What do you call me?"

"Baby. My baby. My pretty girl. My... fuck—my everything. Please."

You leaned down and kissed him. Slow and deep. He melted into it, moaning against your lips.

"Be a good boy and come with me, won't you?"

His eyes flew open. "Yes. Yes, yes—"

You rode him faster. Harder. The couch creaked beneath you. His hands gripped your ass, guiding your rhythm, and you could feel your climax building, hot and tight and desperate, coiling in your belly.

"Come for me, Jay."

He shattered.

His release flooded you, hot and pulsing, his whole body shuddering beneath you. The feeling of it pushed you over the edge. You came around him, clenching, milking him through it, moaning his name like a prayer.

"Jay, fuck—that's it, good boy, my good boy—"

He kept coming, kept spilling into you, his hands gripping your hips so tight you knew there would be bruises tomorrow. You didn't care. You wanted them.

You collapsed against his chest.

His arms wrapped around you immediately. Holding you close. His heart hammered against your ear, wild and fast and alive.

For a long moment, there was only breathing. The soft hiss of the stove in the kitchen. The warmth of his skin against yours. The sticky heat between your thighs.

"That was—" His voice was wrecked. Gone. "I don't have words."

You lifted your head and kissed his jaw.

His stubbly, sharp, beautiful jaw. You traced it with your lips, pressing soft kisses along the edge of it, feeling him shiver under your touch.

"I love your jaw," you murmured against his skin. "I've always loved your jaw. Did you know that?"

He shook his head, eyes closed, a soft smile playing at his lips.

"I do. It's one of my favorite things about you. That and your hands. And your eyes. And the way you look at me like I hung the moon."

"You did," he whispered. "You hung everything."

You kissed him again. Soft. Sweet. A promise.

"Thank you," he breathed. "For—for taking care of me. For being so good to me."

"Always," you said. "You're my good boy. My perfect boy. I'll always take care of you."

His arms tightened around you.

The seafood boil sat between you both on the low table, still steaming, still heavily seasoned with Cajun spices and butter glistening under the warm kitchen light. The corn cobs looked borderline excessive in the best way possible, stacked like you had fully lost control and decided more was always better.

You had barely settled onto the couch when Jay was already beside you, closer than necessary, knees brushing yours as he pulled the tray a little nearer like he was in charge of it now.

“You should eat first,” he said, softer than usual.

You blinked at him. “Since when do you say that?”

“Since you look tired.”

That alone made you pause.

Jay had always been clingy, yes. Affectionate, yes. But this was different. Less teasing, more attentive in a way that made your chest feel warm in a quieter direction.

He peeled a piece of shrimp for you without asking, careful and slow, like it mattered, then held it out with a small expectant look.

“You’re spoiling me,” you murmured, but you leaned in anyway.

“Good,” he said simply. “Let me.”

The way he said it made it feel less like a joke and more like something he meant completely.

He shifted closer again, shoulder pressing lightly against yours, then nudged a corn cob onto your plate like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be doing this.

“You always do this for me,” he added after a moment.

“Do what?”

“Take care of me.”

You exhaled softly, watching him more than the food now. “You’re acting like I don’t enjoy it.”

His gaze flicked to yours briefly, then away like he was suddenly shy about admitting something obvious.

“I just like doing it for you too,” he said.

A small silence settled between you two, but it wasn’t awkward. Just full. Warm. Familiar in a different way than before.

Jay handed you another bite before taking one for himself, but his knee stayed pressed against yours the whole time, like he wasn’t fully satisfied unless he was close enough to feel you there.

“Eat more,” he said quietly after a while. “You barely touched yours.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, my chef.”

That earned you a small laugh from him, soft, fond, and a little clingy in the way only he could manage, even while trying to take care of you for once.

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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The night begins in a polished silence that feels heavier than conversation.

It's the kind that follows a public dinner where everything was perfectly performed but nothing felt real, and in the private elevator ride upward, you and Jay stand side by side without touching, yet hyper-aware of each other's presence in a way that makes even the smallest movement feel loaded with things neither of you are saying.

You don't look at him. 

You don't need to. 

You can feel the restrained energy radiating off him, the way he's holding himself with that infuriating composure that makes everyone else look slightly unsure of themselves. 

The elevator's soft lighting catches the sharp line of his jaw, the fitted polo shirt that hugs his broad shoulders and chest in a way that should be illegal at a formal event. 

You've spent too long pretending you don't notice these things, the way he fills a room without trying, the calm authority in his posture, how unfairly put-together he looks even now in private.

But tonight it's way, way, way worse. 

Tonight you keep catching the small things you're not supposed to care about.

The way he looked across the table when someone else made you laugh. 

The controlled silence he kept instead of reacting. 

The fact that he never asks questions he doesn't already know the answer to. 

Worse than anything else is the realization you refuse to say out loud, that you don't just see him clearly, you always have. 

Even when you were supposed to be treating him like a contract, not a weakness.

The dinner replays in your mind on a loop. 

The rival heir, some visiting businessman's son with a silver tongue and wandering eyes, had spent the entire evening making his intentions so damn clear. 

He'd leaned too close when he spoke to you, laughed too loudly at your quiet responses, let his gaze drag over you like he had every right to look. 

His hand had found your arm at one point, fingers lingering on your bare skin, and you'd felt Jay's attention sharpen from across the table.

Though he hadn't said a word, he had just watched you both, composed as marble.

It stung more than anger would have.

When the elevator doors open to the penthouse, the space is vast, expensive, and quiet in a way that should feel comforting but instead feels isolating. 

Floor-to-ceiling windows display the glittering sprawl of the city below, but neither of you pauses to admire it. 

You move through the room separately, shedding the weight of public appearances without acknowledging how tense the air between you has become.

You head toward the walk-in closet without a word, a room so large it feels like its own world, and begin removing your jewelry slowly, methodically. 

The diamond earrings first, then the bracelet, each piece placed with deliberate care on the velvet tray. 

Your fingers find the clasp of your necklace, but the angle is awkward, and you abandon it in favor of working on the pins in your hair.

It's something to do with your hands. 

Something to ground you while your thoughts stay tangled on the dinner, on the way Jay barely reacted, on everything he didn't say.

You're so lost in your own head that you don't hear him approach.

He enters without announcing himself, stopping just inside the doorway rather than fully stepping in. 

The silence stretches. 

For a moment there's only the sound of fabric shifting and the distant hum of the city filtering through glass walls.

You don't turn around.

"Jay, can you help me with the zipper?"

It comes out casually. 

Almost way too casually, like you're trying to ignore how aware you are of him standing there. 

How the temperature in the room seems to have risen ten degrees just from his proximity.

He approaches in silence. 

You feel him before you see him, the warmth of his body, the subtle shift of air as he moves closer. 

His hands are steady when they reach for the zipper at the back of your dress, but there's a pause before he touches you that feels like hesitation he doesn't allow himself to name.

Then the zipper begins to move.

He takes his time. 

Slowly, with deliberate patience that feels almost like punishment. 

The metal teeth give way one by one, exposing the smooth skin of your back inch by inch, and you can feel his gaze following the progress like a physical touch.

You exhale in frustration.

"Damn it, Jay, speed it up."

Your voice is sharper than you intended. 

Behind you, Jay goes entirely still.

"This isn't part of the agreement people think exists between us."

His voice is calm and controlled. 

But you can tell that there's something underneath it, something dark and tightly leashed.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to catch his profile in your peripheral vision.

"Neither is the way you keep acting like you're unaffected when you clearly notice everything."

That makes him pause. 

The zipper stops halfway down your back.

"Excuse me?"

You turn more fully now, and there's something dangerous in the way his dark eyes meet yours. 

You've spent too many nights biting your tongue, too many public events swallowing the words that want to spill out. 

Tonight, something in you snaps.

"You deadass just sat there all evening, watching that guy come close to me. You didn’t even bother saying a fucking word at all while he—" You cut yourself off, jaw tightening.

"While he what?" Jay's voice drops lower. "While he looked at you like you belonged to him? While he touched your arm and made you smile? While he spent the entire dinner trying to fuck you with his eyes?"

The crudeness in his tone catches you off guard. 

He never speaks like this, never lets the polished veneer slip enough to show the raw hunger underneath.

"Please, just look at your pathetic self," you say quietly, almost to yourself. "You're shaking."

He is. 

Just barely, a fine tremor in his hands that he's trying to hide.

"God, it eats me alive."

The confession comes out in a low, controlled voice that cracks at the edges.

"Watching someone else look at you tonight. Having to sit there pretending it didn't matter. Pretending I don't—" He stops himself, jaw clenching so hard you swear you can see the muscle jump.

You should step away. 

You should remind him of all the practical reasons this arrangement exists, all the boundaries you've carefully maintained. 

Instead, you hear yourself saying:

"Our arrangement was built on exactly that kind of emotional distance."

The words come out pointed, almost cruel. 

You're pushing him. 

You know damn well you're pushing him.

"Is jealousy really the first thing you've decided to break the rules over?"

Something shifts in his expression. 

The mask slips, just for a moment, and beneath it you see something raw and unguarded desperation, maybe. 

Want. 

Hunger that's been starved for too long.

"It's not just jealousy."

He steps closer. 

Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his chest, close enough that his breath ghosts across your temple.

"It's the fact that I can't tell anymore where the performance ends and what I actually feel begins."

The words hang between you. 

Your heart pounds against your ribs so hard you're certain he can hear it. 

This is the closest either of you has ever come to saying it, the thing that's been building for months in loaded glances and accidentally tender moments and nights spent lying awake thinking about the person sleeping in the next room.

Then he reaches for you.

His hand cups your cheek, gentle despite the tension radiating through every line of his body. 

His thumb traces the line of your jaw, and his eyes search your face like he's looking for permission, for rejection, for anything that might stop him from doing what he's about to do.

You don't stop him.

He leans in and kisses you.

It starts soft — almost tentative, a question more than a demand. 

Then, without warning, you make a sound against his mouth, something small and involuntary, and whatever restraint he had left shatters completely.

His other hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. 

The zipper, still halfway down, becomes irrelevant as his hands find your waist, your hips, pulling you against him with an urgency that makes your knees weak. 

You feel the hard planes of his chest, the strength in his arms as he holds you, and something hot and demanding pools low in your abdomen.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against your lips. "Tell me this is just… tell me you don't want this, and I'll walk away. I'll never bring it up again."

You don't tell him to stop.

Because who are you to tell him to stop? 

Instead, you reach for the hem of his polo shirt, pulling it up and over his head in one smooth motion. 

The fabric falls to the floor, forgotten, and for a moment you just look at him. 

The defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, the way the low light plays across his skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

"You're staring."

"I'm just appreciating." Your voice is dry, but there's no hiding the way your gaze keeps dropping. "Don't pretend you don't know what you look like."

Something like a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

Then his hands are on you again, sliding the dress off your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet in a whisper of expensive fabric. 

You stand before him in a pair of silk shorts, a bra, and underwear, suddenly aware of how exposed you are, how hungry his eyes look as they travel over you.

"Beautiful," he breathes. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this. How long I’ve thought about when this would finally come. About—"

He doesn't finish the sentence. 

Instead, he pulls you into another kiss, this one deeper, more demanding. 

His hands find the waistband of your shorts and tug them down without hesitation, leaving you in just your undergarments. 

The cool air hits your heated skin, but you barely notice because he's looking at you like you're an oasis in the middle of a dessert. 

You can see the effect this is having on him. 

The prominent outline of his erection pressing against his tailored pants, straining against the fabric. 

The way his chest rises and falls more quickly now. 

The dark intensity in his eyes that makes you feel both powerful and completely at his mercy.

"Jay." His name comes out as a whisper. "Fuck, just… touch me already, please."

He doesn't need to be asked twice.

His hands slide up your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra. 

Your head falls back as he explores, learning the map of your body with agonizing thoroughness. 

When he finally unclasps the bra and lets it fall, the sound you make is embarrassingly needy, a soft, desperate whimper that you can't hold back.

"Already making sounds for me?" His voice is rough, pleased. "And I've barely even touched you yet."

"I'm not—" You try to protest, but his hand slides lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, and whatever you were going to say dissolves into a gasp.

"Oh, you're not what? Not wet? Because I can feel how soaked you are through these panties." He presses his palm against you, and your hips jerk involuntarily. "Feel that? That's all for me, because of me."

Your usual silence is crumbling. 

Every brush of his fingers, every press of his palms against your heated skin, pulls another sound from your throat, louder than the last. 

For someone who's spent the entire relationship holding your tongue, keeping your thoughts locked away, you're making an awful lot of noise now.

And he notices.

Of course he does. 

"You're so vocal tonight." His voice is ragged, thick with desire. "I've never heard you make these sounds before. The quiet, composed woman I'm engaged to, the one who barely says two words at dinner, look at you now. Whimpering for me like I’m all that matters."

"I hate you," you manage, but it comes out breathless and unconvincing.

"No, you don't." He presses a finger inside you, and your knees buckle. "You love this. You love, love, love that I can make you fall apart like this. Damn it, just admit it already, won’t you.”

"I—"

"Admit it."

"Fuck, yes." The word tears out of you, louder than you intended. "Yes, I love it. I love your hands on me so, so much. I've thought about this—about you, god—"

He groans against your neck, the sound vibrating through your whole body. "Tell me. Tell me what you've thought about."

"Your mouth." You're past embarrassment now, past holding back. "Your hands. Shit, how you'd feel inside me. How you'd sound when you lose control, things like that."

"Fuck." He pulls his hand away, and you nearly sob at the loss. "I need to taste you right now, pretty ."

He turns you around, walking you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed. 

You fall onto the plush mattress, and he follows you down, settling his weight over you. 

For a moment he just looks at you, hair fanned across the pillows, chest heaving, eyes dark with want.

"Tell me what you want," he says. "I’ll hear you out… I need to hear you say it, use your words for me, pretty."

You reach up, palms flat against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingers.

"You, god, it’s you, Jay. I want you, all of you, actually. Your mouth, your fingers, your cock—I want everything."

He exhales shakily. 

Then he's kissing down your body, lips trailing fire across your collarbone, your sternum, the soft skin of your stomach. 

When he hooks his fingers into your underwear and pulls it off, you're completely bare beneath him.

"Spread your legs for me, gorgeous."

The command makes heat flood through you. 

You obey, and he settles between your thighs, breath warm against your most sensitive skin. 

Then his mouth is on you, and you genuinely forgot how to keep your mouth shut.

A loud, broken moan tears from your throat. 

Your back arches off the bed as his tongue works against you, slow, deliberate strokes that make your thighs tremble. 

He finds the spots that make you gasp, the pressure that makes your hands fist in the sheets, and he exploits every single one.

"Jay—oh god—oh fuck—"

"That's it." The vibration of his voice against you makes you jerk. "Let me hear you. I want the whole building to know who's making you feel this good."

Your usual silence shatters completely. 

Moans and gasps and desperate cries spill from your lips without permission, each one louder than the last. 

You can't control it, can't hold back, not when he's doing that with his tongue, not when his hands are gripping your thighs to hold you open for him.

"More, please, please, fuck—don't stop—"

He hums against you, and the pleasure spikes. Your hips roll against his face without your permission, chasing the sensation, and he lets you. 

Encourages it, even. 

His hands slide under your ass to tilt you closer to his mouth.

"You taste so fucking good," he growls against your flesh. "I could do this for hours, gorgeous. Eat this pretty pussy until you can't think, can't speak, can't do anything but come on my tongue."

The filthy words send a jolt through you. 

You've never heard him talk like this, never imagined the composed, controlled man you're engaged to had this side to him.

"You're close, aren't you?" He sucks on your clit, and you scream. "I can feel it. You're shaking. Come for me. Come on my face."

"Jay—Jay—I'm—"

The orgasm crashes through you without warning. 

Your whole body seizes, back bowing off the bed as pleasure whites out your vision. 

You hear yourself screaming his name, but it sounds distant, muffled by the roaring in your ears. 

He works you through it, tongue never stopping, drawing out every last aftershock until you're twitching and oversensitive.

When he finally pulls back, you're trembling and breathless. 

He rises over you again, lips glistening with your arousal, and you can see how much this has affected him, the heavy-lidded desire in his eyes, the way his body is straining toward yours.

"I want to be inside you," he growls. "Now, literally now. I can't fucking wait anymore."

He reaches for his pants, undoing them with shaking hands and shoving them down his thighs. 

His boxers follow, and then he's naked before you, and you have a moment to appreciate the body he's been hiding under all those perfectly fitted polo shirts.

He's gorgeous. 

Lean muscle and defined lines and hard, flushed cock jutting from a nest of dark hair. 

Thick. 

The tip glistening with precum.

He catches you staring and smirks. "See something you like?"

"Stop fishing for compliments and just fuck me already."

A surprised laugh escapes him, the first genuine sound you've heard from him all night. 

Then he's climbing over you, positioning himself at your entrance, and the laughter fades into something much more intense.

"Tell me if you need me to stop."

You nod. 

He pushes forward, slowly, letting your body adjust to the stretch. 

The sensation is overwhelming, the fullness, the intimacy of being connected like this after months of careful distance.

"Fuck—you're so tight, so sexy." His voice is strained. "So wet, so fucking wet. You're dripping around me."

"Move. Please. I need you to move."

He obeys. 

Slow at first, deep strokes that make you gasp with each thrust. 

His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling, eyes locked on your face like he's memorizing every reaction.

"You feel incredible." He groans, hips rolling. "Better than I could’ve ever imagined, and I imagined this a lot, baby. Every night. Fucking my fist thinking about you."

"Jay—"

"I'd think about your face when you come. The sounds you'd make. Now… shit—here you are, underneath me, taking my cock so well."

His words make you clench around him, and he hisses. 

You're being vocal again, gasps and moans and cries that fill the room, each sound spilling out without your permission.

"You like that? You like hearing how much I want you?" He thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes you cry out. "You like knowing that your fake fiancé has been obsessing over you? That I've been desperate to get my hands on you?"

"Yes—yes—fuck, more—harder—"

"Harder?" He obeys, snapping his hips faster. "Like this? You want me to ruin you?"

"Yes! God, yes, ruin me—please—"

His pace increases. 

You're being so loud now, louder than you've ever been during sex, louder than you thought possible. 

Each thrust punches another sound out of you, and the more noise you make, the faster he goes.

"That's it. Scream for me. Let me hear you." His voice is ragged, barely controlled. "The neighbors are going to know exactly who's making you feel this good. They're going to hear you screaming my name and know that you're mine."

"I'm yours, I'm yours—only yours—"

"Say that again, gorgeous."

"I'm yours, Jay! Fuck—yes—right there—don't stop—"

He shifts your leg higher over his hip, changing the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that spot with every thrust. 

The pleasure is overwhelming, building inside you like a wave about to break.

"You're going to come for me again, aren't you? I can feel you squeezing me. You're so, so close."

"Yes—so close—please—"

"Fuck, come—come on my cock. Let me feel you."

The orgasm tears through you, even more intense than the first. 

You scream his name, back arching, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks. 

He groans above you, hips stuttering as your walls clench around him, but he doesn't stop. 

He fucks you through it, maintaining the pace, drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling and overstimulated.

"One more," he growls. "Give me one more."

"I can't—too much—"

"You can, you will. For me—just for me."

He pulls out suddenly, and you whimper at the loss. 

But then he's flipping you over, pulling your hips up until you're on your hands and knees, face pressed into the pillow.

"This position." His hands smooth over your ass, squeezing. "I've thought about this. Having you like this. Face down, ass up, completely at my mercy."

He pushes back inside in one smooth thrust, and you moan into the pillow.

"No." He tangles a hand in your hair, pulling your head back. "I want to hear you, pretty. Don't muffle those lovely sounds."

He starts moving, harder now, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. 

You're loud again, cries and moans and desperate sounds that echo off the walls.

"You take me so deep like this." His grip tightens in your hair. "Feel that? Feel how deep I am? I'm hitting spots you didn't even know existed."

"Yes—yes—so deep—fuck—"

"This is what you do to me." His hips snap forward, relentless. "You drive me insane. Walking around this penthouse in those tiny ass shorts. Cooking dinner with that concentrated look on your face. Making me want you when I'm supposed to be pretending I don't."

"Jay—"

"I've jerked off to the thought of you more times than I can count. Thought about bending you over every surface in this apartment. About making you scream so loud the whole city knows you belong to me."

His words are pushing you toward another peak. 

You're so loud now, practically screaming with each thrust, and every sound you make seems to drive him faster.

"I love hearing you." His voice is strained, desperate. "I love knowing I'm the one making you lose control. The quiet, composed woman everyone else sees—she doesn't exist when I'm inside you. It's just me. Just us."

"Harder—please—I'm going to—"

"Come for me, pretty. Come on my cock again. I want to feel you fall apart."

The third orgasm hits you like a freight train. You scream, body convulsing, and he groans behind you as your walls clench around him. 

This time he doesn't hold back, his rhythm becomes erratic, hips pistoning faster, chasing his own release.

"I'm going to come," he growls. "Where do you want it? Inside? On your ass? Tell me—"

"Inside, please—fuck, Jay, I need to feel you—"

He thrusts deep one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he comes with a guttural groan. 

You feel the pulse of his release, the heat flooding your insides, and it triggers one last small orgasm that makes you whimper.

He collapses beside you, both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. 

For a long moment, there's only the sound of your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city.

Then he laughs, low and exhausted and genuine.

"I had no idea you were that loud."

You bury your face in the pillow, suddenly self-conscious. "I've never—I'm not usually—"

"I'm not complaining." He pulls you against him, pressing a kiss to your temple. "It was the hottest thing I've ever experienced, seriously. Every sound you made just made me want you more."

You're quiet for a moment, tracing patterns on his chest.

"We should do this again," you murmur.

He snorts. "Give me ten minutes and we will."

"That's not what I—" You swat at his chest. "I meant—this. Us, you know… not pretending to hate each other's asses anymore."

His expression softens. 

He tilts your chin up, making you meet his eyes.

"I don't want to pretend anymore either. I haven't wanted to for a long time."

"You could have said something."

"So could you."

Fair point.

He rolls onto his side, facing you, one hand propping up his head.

"I have a confession." His voice is lighter now, teasing. "When you said you wanted to 'do this again'—I was hoping you meant right now. I'm not done with you yet."

"Already? Most men need recovery time."

"I'm not most men." He grins, and there's something predatory in it. "And you haven't seen everything I want to do to you yet."

You raise an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"Ride me."

The command makes heat pool in your stomach again, despite your exhaustion.

"You want me on top?"

"I want to watch you. Want to see your face when you take what you need from me. Want to see how pretty you look bouncing on my dick."

"Wow, you’re so eloquent… you have a way with words."

"I have a lot of things." His hand slides down your side, gripping your hip. "And I plan to show you all of them before this night is over."

True to his word, he's hard again within minutes, helped along by your hand wrapping around him, stroking him to fullness while he groans and bit your shoulder.

"Get up here," he demands, pulling you on top of him. "Straddle me. Face me."

You position yourself over him, sinking down slowly. 

The angle is different, deeper in some ways, shallower in others, and you have control for the first time in your whole life. 

"Take what you want," he says, hands settling on your thighs. "Use me."

You start to move, experimenting with different rhythms and angles. 

His eyes never leave your face, watching every expression, every flicker of pleasure.

"That's it. Just like that." His thumbs stroke over your hip bones. "You look so fucking good like this. Taking what you need. Using me for your pleasure."

"You feel—" You break off with a moan as you find the right angle. "So good, so, so, so fucking good. You fill me up so perfectly."

"Made for me." His hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. "This pussy was made for my cock. We fit together perfectly like jigsaw puzzles.”

You're getting loud again, moans filling the room as you ride him faster. 

He groans beneath you, hips lifting to meet each of your movements.

"That's it, baby. Ride me. Take what you need." He pinches your nipples, and you cry out. "You're so sexy when you're loud. I love hearing how good I make you feel."

"Jay, I'm—"

"Uh-uh, wait for me, gorgeous. I want to come with you this time."

You slow down, trying to hold back, and he growls his approval.

"Good girl. So good for me. You listen so well."

He sits up suddenly, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. 

The new angle presses your clit against his pelvis with every movement, and you keen at the sensation.

"I want to feel you fall apart around me while I come inside you." His voice is rough against your ear. "Can you do that for me? Can you come with me?"

"Yes—yes—please—"

"Good. Now."

He thrusts up into you hard, and you both shatter at the same time. 

You scream his name as pleasure crashes through you, feeling him pulse inside you, filling you up again. 

He groans against your neck, teeth grazing your shoulder, hands tight enough on your hips to bruise.

When it's over, you collapse against his chest, completely spent.

"Round three in five minutes," he murmurs against your hair.

You laugh—weak and exhausted but genuine. "You're going to kill me."

"What a way to go."

But he's not joking. 

True to his word, he's hard again within minutes, his stamina is inhuman, and you're beginning to wonder if you've created a monster.

What kind of shit has this guy been pulling off in the gym to achieve so much? 

"Turn around," he says, hands guiding your hips. "I want you facing the other way. I want to watch that pretty ass bounce on my cock."

You hesitate. "You want—"

"Now." His voice leaves no room for argument. "I want to see you from behind while you ride me. I want to watch my cock disappear inside you."

Heat floods through you at his words. 

You've never been particularly adventurous in bed before, mostly because you've never had a partner who made you want to be. 

But Jay is looking at you like you're a feast he's been starved for, and you find yourself turning around, positioning yourself over him with your back to his chest.

"That's it." His hands smooth over your ass, kneading the flesh. "God, look at you. So eager. So desperate for my cock."

You sink down onto him slowly, and the new angle makes you gasp. 

He fills you differently like this, deeper in some ways, the pressure concentrated against your front wall.

"Fuck—you feel even bigger like this—"

"I am bigger." He grips your hips, helping you find a rhythm. "And you're going to take all of me. Every. Single. Inch."

You start to move, lifting yourself up and sliding back down. 

The sensation is overwhelming, the way he stretches you, the way his hands feel on your ass, the knowledge that he's watching himself disappear inside you.

"That's it. Ride me. Show me how much you want it."

"I do—I want it—want you—"

"Then take it harder. Faster. Fuck yourself on my cock like you mean it."

You obey, moving faster, grinding down with each stroke. 

You're loud again, moans and gasps and desperate little cries that fill the room. 

True to form, the louder you get, the more responsive he becomes.

"Yes—yes—oh god—right there—"

"Right there?" He thrusts up to meet you, hitting that spot perfectly. "Like this? You want me to keep hitting that spot while you scream for me?"

"Yes! Please—don't stop—harder—"

"Harder?" His grip tightens on your hips, and he starts fucking up into you with purpose. "You want me to ruin this pussy? Make it so no one else will ever feel right inside you?"

You're screaming now, completely beyond controlling the sounds coming out of your mouth. 

Every thrust punches another cry from your throat, and you can hear how wet you are, the obscene sounds of your bodies meeting echoing through the room.

"Jay—Jay—I'm—oh fuck—I'm going to—"

"Not yet." He stills your hips, and you whimper. "You don't come until I say. You understand? You hold it."

"I can't—it's too much—please—"

"You can. And you will." He starts moving again, slower this time, torturously slow. "I want to feel you clench around me when I tell you to come. I want you begging for it."

"Please—please, fuck, just let me—"

"Tell me you're mine first."

"I'm yours—I'm yours—only yours—"

"Say it louder."

"I’m yours! Jay, I'm yours—please—please let me come—"

"Good girl. Now come for me. Come all over my cock."

The orgasm crashes through you like a tsunami. 

You scream, actually scream, back arching, body shaking as wave after wave of pleasure tears through you. 

He moans beneath you, and you feel him pulsing inside, filling you up again as he follows you over the edge.

You collapse forward, barely catching yourself on your hands, breathing ragged and uneven. 

He's still inside you, still half-hard, and when he shifts, you whimper from the oversensitivity.

"One more," he growls. "I know you have one more in you."

"Jay, I literally cannot—I can't feel my legs—I… what the fuck are you even made out of?"

"I'll do the work then." He maneuvers you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so your ass is in the air. "You just lie there and take it. Let me use you."

"Use me?"

"Did I stutter?" He runs a hand down your spine, making you shiver. "I've been fantasizing about you for months. Years, maybe. And now that I have you, I'm going to take everything you'll give me."

He enters you from behind again, this time with your face pressed into the mattress, your hips propped up on a pillow. 

The position is sinful, animalistic, and you feel so deliciously full.

"This is my favorite position," he admits, voice strained. "Having you like this. Face down, ass up. Unable to do anything but take what I give you."

"Then give it to me." Your voice is muffled by the sheets. "Give me everything."

He starts moving, slow, deep strokes that make your toes curl. 

The sounds you're making are embarrassing now, whimpers and moans and desperate little cries that you can't control.

"You're so loud tonight." He groans, thrusting deeper. "I love it. I love hearing how good I make you feel. The woman who barely speaks at dinner being reduced to this. Screaming my name. Begging for my cock."

"More—please—more—"

"More?" He snaps his hips forward, and you yelp. "Like this? You want me to fuck you harder?"

"Yes! Harder—faster—please—"

He obeys. 

His pace increases, and you're being fucked into the mattress so hard the headboard is hitting the wall. 

Each thrust is punctuated by a slap of skin against skin and a desperate sound from your throat.

"This what you wanted?" He grunts. "Wanted me to use this pretty pussy? Wanted to be ruined?"

"Yes—yes—ruin me—please—"

"You're close again, aren't you? I can feel you tightening around me. You're going to come on my cock again like a good girl."

"I can't—I've already—"

"You can. You will. And you're going to scream my name when you do."

His hand snakes around to your front, fingers finding your clit, and you sob at the dual sensation. 

He's thrusting into you and rubbing circles on your most sensitive spot, and it's too much, it's everything.

"Come for me. Now."

Your final orgasm rips through you with an intensity that makes your vision go white. 

You scream his name, scream it like a prayer, like a plea, like the only word you know, and you feel him follow you over the edge with a guttural groan.

He collapses on top of you, both of you shaking, sweat-slicked and thoroughly spent. 

For a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing and the pounding of your hearts.

Later, much later, you're both tangled in silk sheets, bodies exhausted and satisfied. 

You've lost count of how many times he's made you come, how many positions he's bent you into, how many filthy things he's whispered in your ear.

"You know," you say, voice hoarse from screaming, "I always thought you were the composed, controlled type."

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "I was. Until you."

"Me? I didn't do anything."

"You exist." His arm tightens around your waist. "You walk around this apartment looking like that. You cook meals in those tiny shorts. You bite your lip when you're concentrating. You exist, and it drives me insane."

You're quiet for a moment, processing this.

"I've been pretending too," you admit softly. "Pretending I didn't notice you. Pretending the arrangement didn't feel like anything."

"And now?"

"Now I don't want to pretend anymore."

He smiles against your skin, genuine and warm.

"Good, I have no intention of letting you go."

"Possessive."

"You love it."

You consider protesting, but then again, he's not wrong.

"Maybe a little."

"Good answer." He shifts, pulling you closer. "Sleep now. I have plans for you in the morning."

"More? What the fuck?"

"Many, many more."

You drift off with his arm around your waist and his breath warm against your shoulder, thinking maybe the arrangement was always going to lead here. 

Maybe there was never a version of this story where you remained indifferent to each other.

Some things are worth breaking the rules for.

Even the ones you wrote yourself.

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

A car pulled into the driveway and your body jolted. You snatched the umbrella you’d propped by the door earlier and rushed outside.

Seungcheol moved quickly, unbuckling your son from his car seat. He barely stirred as the three of you huddled under the umbrella and hurried back toward the house.

Inside, your son shifted in Seungcheol’s arms, murmuring something with his cheek still pressed to his dad’s shoulder.

“Shit…his bag—”

“I got it. Just take him to his room,” you called over your shoulder, already heading back out.

When you returned, Seungcheol was crouched by the bed, easing your son’s shoes off. You headed straight for the dresser and pulled out a pair of pajamas. Skipping his bedtime bath made you wince, especially after camping. He smelled like campfire smoke and wet dirt. Lord knows if he’d had a proper shower in the last two days.

Tonight you let it go. There was no use waking him up, and you could always wash the sheets in the morning.

He wasn’t supposed to be back for another two. But the storm shifted course overnight, and was headed straight for the camping ground area. You’d called Seungcheol this morning, asking him to pack up early. Surprisingly, he hadn’t argued.

“He conked out right away,” he whispered. “Didn’t even make it past the park exit.”

“Sounds like he had a lot of fun,” you said, then paused. “Sorry I had to cut it short. I know he’s been looking forward to this trip all month.”

“No, no—it’s fine, really. Better safe than sorry.”

Redressing your sleeping son was a delicate balancing act. His limbs hung limp, head heavy against his dad’s chest, making every movement challenging. You reached for the hem of his shirt, and Seungcheol instinctively shifted his grip, steadying your son’s upper body so you could peel the fabric away. Your fingers brushed his as you tugged the sleeve free, and for a moment, neither of you pulled away.

You moved around each other without speaking, with Seungcheol adjusting his hold, and you working quickly to replace dirty clothes with clean ones. A hand on your wrist to help guide a pant leg. Panicked glances when your son stirred. It was a routine you hadn’t shared in a while, but it came back easily. Like muscle memory.

Once changed, Seungcheol gently laid him down. But the moment his head hit the pillow, his eyes fluttered open, bleary and disoriented.

“Mommy?” he croaked drowsily.

“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re home,” you murmured, brushing his hair back. “Go back to sleep.”

Seungcheol leaned in and kissed his forehead. “Love you, bud. I’ll see you next week, okay?”

Strangely, that made him more alert now. “Wait—where are you going?”

“Daddy has to go,” you said gently.

“Go where?”

He was still half-asleep, you told yourself. He knows this routine. “To his house.”

“No, don’t go. Please?” he begged, clutching his father’s wrist.

You forced a smile, smoothing his hair again. “Sweetheart, he has a long drive back, and I bet he’s tired. You’ll stay with him the whole week next week though.”

“Noooo, I want you both,” he insisted, voice cracking. “Please?”

You glanced at Seungcheol, torn. He gave a small shrug, already lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.

“I can stay a few more minutes,” he told him tentatively, then turned his gaze to you. “If…that’s okay with mommy?”

You sighed, then nodded. “Just until you fall asleep.” Your son squealed softly, eyes already fluttering shut in relief.

You settled opposite Seungcheol. Your son reached out and grabbed both your hands in a death grip—just in case one of you tried to slip away before he was fully asleep.

You hummed softly, threading your fingers through your son’s hair. Seungcheol flicked the nightlight switch, and the room was instantly filled with glowing constellations. You remembered when your son unwrapped it for his birthday—how he gasped in wonder, then whispered, It’s like camping…but inside. The memory elicited a quiet laugh from you.

Seungcheol caught the sound and glanced over. His eyes lingered on you, like he was seeing something he hadn’t in a long time. Something he forgot he missed.

Eventually, your son’s grip loosened. His face was peaceful again, lashes matching his dad’s resting against his cheeks. You eased your hand free, and Seungcheol did the same, rising first. You followed behind, pausing at the doorway for one last look before pulling the door closed.

In the kitchen, Seungcheol was rubbing his eyes. He looked away mid-yawn when he saw you coming down the hallway.

“Coffee?”

He hesitated. “I don’t want to impose—”

“Not at all. I offered,” you said, already reaching for the mugs. “Besides, I’d rather you not fall asleep on the drive home. Especially in this weather.”

He nodded, then smiled faintly.

You set a mug beneath the dispenser. “Still take it the same way?”

He was caught off-guard at the question, but eventually nodded slowly.

You handed him the mug, and for a moment, neither of you spoke, as the storm hummed steadily outside. Standing opposite each other in the kitchen wrapped in silence.

Seungcheol’s eyes flicked toward the hallway as he took a sip. “He’s getting so big. He was so excited to help me set up the tent.”

“Interesting.” You leaned against the counter, crossing one ankle over the other. “Last time you let him help, he got tangled in the rainfly and cried for twenty minutes. I thought you were going to throw him into the river,” you snorted.

He clicked his teeth, rolling his eyes at the accusation. “I was not going to throw him,” he muttered, but his smile faded. “I had a short fuse back then. I’m working on it.”

He swirled the coffee in his mug, then chuckled. “He’s just a very strong-willed kid. Like someone I know…” He arched his brow at you.

You shrugged, feigning innocence. “It builds character!”

“Yeah, no shit.” His laugh was soft, but tired.

You sipped your coffee, watching the way he stared into his mug, thumb tracing the rim.

“He asked if we could all go next time.”

You let out a small laugh. “Did you tell him no?”

“I said maybe.” He paused, eyes still on the mug. “He said he missed when we did things together.”

The words settled between you. You nodded slowly, unsure what to do with that. And tonight was hardly the moment to unpack it. “I think he just misses the idea of it.” Your eyes dropped to the floor.

“Sometimes I miss it too.” His voice came so quietly, as if he didn’t mean to say his thoughts out loud. You took a few beats before answering.

“I mostly miss the parts that didn’t hurt.” The words cut deeper than you intended. You weren’t trying to be cruel, just honest.

As much as you wished your son could grow up with both parents under one roof, you and Seungcheol knew that wasn’t possible. Not without reopening wounds that hadn’t fully healed. For all the things you disagreed on, there was one thing you had agreed on: you wanted your son to be happy. And in order to make that happen, you would not raise him in a warzone.

He nodded, quietly acknowledging.

He glanced at the clock behind you, cleared his throat. “I should probably get going.”

You watched him drain the last sip, then move towards the sink.

“Cheol, just leave it.” You tried to intercept him, but he was already rinsing his mug clean.

“Nah, I got it.” He set the mug on the rack and wiped his hands on his pants before heading toward the door. You rolled your eyes at the gesture, but bit your tongue. That’s not your job anymore, you reminded yourself then followed him toward the front door.

He paused at the threshold. “Thanks for the coffee.”

His hand hovered near the door latch, the other tucked into his pocket like he was restraining himself from reaching for you. His jaw tightened and shoulders lifted slightly, as if bracing against a familiar pull.

It had taken months of therapy to stand this close without recoiling. To be in the same room without wanting to rip each other’s head off. Still, tonight felt different. Heavier. Like something was pressing in from the edges.

You gave a small nod. “Drive safe,” you said automatically.

“Yeah.” His mouth tugged faintly, somewhere between a smile and a sigh.

“You should go before the wind picks up.” It was a half-hearted nudge, more suggestion than insistence.

“Guess I should.” But he didn’t move.

His gaze drifted—not to your eyes this time, but lower, to your mouth. You felt it again, that subtle shift in the air.

You looked away first, clearing your throat, but the tension didn’t ease. You swallowed hard. “Goodnight.”

“‘Night,” he echoed. He shifted his weight, hesitating—then stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you. You felt the uncertainty of his hold, but once you leaned in, it settled into something familiar.

It’s just muscle memory, you convinced yourself.

Your hands found the back of his jacket, and for a moment, you let yourself rest there. Into that nook between his chest, the warmth from it, the steady thrum of his pulse beating…It all came rushing back. The ache beneath. Not quite yearning, but something close to it. A whisper of what used to live between you, before the fights, before the silence. Before it all fell apart.

His hold slightly tightened, making you wonder if he felt it too.

He pulled back slowly, reluctantly. Then he opened the door. The cool air slipped in, and you flinched—not from the sudden chill, but from the thought of letting that door close behind him.

“Cheol!” His name tumbled out before you could stop it.

He turned immediately, brows furrowed.

Heart racing, you took a step, close enough to hear the subtle hitch in his breath.

Before your brain could process, your hand lifted, brushing along his jawline. His lashes fluttered, leaning into your touch instinctively.

But logic cut through. You shouldn’t reach for him. You shouldn’t want him. You just…shouldn’t.

You shook your head and stepped back. “Sorry. I… I need to stop.”

He caught your wrist, his hold gentle but firm. “Is that what you want?”

What you wanted was to talk yourself out of this.

He moved closer, crowding your space, whispering, “Tell me to stop.”

But the words wouldn’t come. You were standing at the edge of a cliff, telling yourself not to jump, and yet your body leaned forward anyway.

“Don’t.”

His arm banded around your waist, pulling you against him as his mouth claimed yours. No hesitation left—only the inevitable you’d been running from. He broke the kiss long enough to kick the door shut, the lock clicking into place.

And then you’re freefalling.

***********************

His lips crashed against yours, with raw, desperate hunger that took your breath away. Your hands flew to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him even closer in response.

Every step toward the bedroom was careful, breaths ragged but hushed—the kind of restraint born from not wanting to wake your son.

A loose floorboard betrayed you. It gave a sharp, sudden creak beneath Seungcheol’s foot, making you both go still. You both held your breaths, listening for any stirring from across the narrow hallway.

Nothing. Just the long stretch of silence.

Relief flickered, and desire resumed. Your fingers curled at his nape, tugging him back down to your mouth.

You moved again, a tangle of limbs and mouths stumbling through the dark hallway. The sound of the bedroom latch barely registered before you spun him, shoving him backward until he fell onto the mattress with a laugh. He barely had a moment to sit up before you were straddling him, settling into his lap and claiming his mouth again. It was as if the last two years had been erased. Just this—the heated, possessive slide of his tongue against yours, so intoxicating it made you ache with the regret of ever letting it go. His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks with a tenderness that made your chest hurt, your body molding to his like it had never left.

Your mouth broke from his, trailing a path of wet kisses down the column of his throat. You nipped at his collarbone, and he arched into you. His hands slid down your spine, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. He ground his hard length against the ache blooming between your legs.

“A little eager, are we?” you teased, your voice breathless.

“I don’t want to play games,” he rasped, his hand already sliding under your shirt to palm your breast, the material of your bra a rough tease against your skin. He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you?”

You shook your head, a shaky breath escaping you. With a dark smirk, he peeled your shirt off, his movements sure. Your bra followed, his fingers expertly working the clasp. He leaned back, his gaze raking over you, hungry and unabashed.

You cleared your throat. “My eyes are up here, sir,” you joked, though your voice was weaker than you intended.

He chuckled softly. “You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?” he murmured, his voice thick with awe.

The warmth that spread through your chest was dangerous, a feeling you couldn’t afford tonight. What you needed was raw, not soft. The cool air on your bare skin was a shock, but it was nothing compared to the searing heat of his mouth as it closed over a peaked nipple. You gasped, your back bowing as your fingers knotted in his hair. His tongue swirled and teased, his teeth grazing the sensitive tip with just enough pressure to make you whimper. Shocks of pleasure ricocheted through you, settling between your thighs, where the need for him was so painful you could physically feel it.

Your bottoms felt like a flimsy barrier against the slick heat that begged for him. You moaned, your hands fumbling with the hem of his shirt until he growled in frustration and yanked it over his head himself. You splayed your palms across the warm, solid expanse of his chest, the sight of him bare and wanting making your head spin. He kissed you again, a deep, claiming kiss, before his hand dipped past your waistband.

Without hesitation, his fingers slipped through your slick folds. “Oh, shit… all this for me?” he murmured, his voice a low growl that made your knees weak.

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, rocking your hips against his hand, shamelessly chasing the friction. He found your clit, swollen and desperate, and began to circle it with the exact, maddening pressure he knew you liked. Your eyes rolled back as white-hot pleasure shot up your spine.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered against your ear. “Let me hear you.” He slipped two fingers inside you, making you whimper at the sudden, perfect stretch. “So wet. So fucking perfect for me.”

Your hips moved on their own, riding his hand as the tension coiled tighter and tighter, ready to snap. You were so close, teetering on the edge from his touch alone, but it wasn’t enough.

“I need you.”

“Let me get you off like this,” he urged, his fingers stroking deeper. “You’re right there. I can feel it.”

Damn him and every damn secret of your body he still owned.

“No,” you choked out, forcing your hand past his to palm the hard length straining against his pants. You gave him a firm squeeze, pausing his movements as his hips jerked with a groan. “I said, I need you. Now.”

He relented, withdrawing his fingers, the loss a brief, hollow ache. But then his hands were on your bottoms, tugging them down your legs in one rough, urgent motion. You kicked them away, completely bare before him, consumed by a need so visceral it burned away every last shred of control you had.

He made quick work of his bottoms, and when you turned from the nightstand, he was gloriously naked and fully hard. A sight you knew by heart, yet one that still made your breath catch. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you onto the bed effortlessly. The air thickened instantly with his scent—and that fucking cologne. The smell that had been absent for a while was back, and you knew it would haunt your sheets for days.

As he settled between your thighs, he paused. His gaze landed on the foil square in your hand, brows furrowing with surprise. It was a silent but loaded question.

“What?” You pushed the packet into his palm, chuckling. “Safety first.”

A wry smile touched his lips, his eyes narrowing with curiosity and a hint of jealousy. “Who are you fucking?”

You held his stare, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make it feel like a power play. “Right now, you,” you finally answered.

A slow grin spread across his face. The condom was forgotten for a second as he crushed his mouth to yours, the kiss deeper, hungrier. He broke away to tear the foil with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours. The rustle was loud in the quiet room. You watched as his hands rolled it down his length—a riveting yet unfamiliar sight you’d hated yourself for wanting.

When he finally settled back over you, the skin-on-skin contact you craved was gone, replaced by a thin, sterile barrier that was a stark reminder that you were no longer the same people you used to be.

But the beauty of muscle memory is that it doesn’t care about time. All it takes is the right prompt, and your body flows right back into its old rhythm instinctively. His touch was that prompt.

He positioned himself at your entrance, the heat of him an insistent pressure against your slick flesh. He slid in, and the stretch and fullness took your breath away. A delicious ache that chased away every thought that wasn’t him, here, now.

“Missed this,” he grunted, more to himself than to you.

You didn’t answer. You just hooked your legs around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, and pulled him deeper. “Fuck… you’re so tight.”

A whimper was all you could manage, your nails scraping desperate lines down his shoulders. The feeling of being so utterly filled, the familiar shape of him, the alien friction of the latex—it overwhelmed your senses.

This was Seungcheol. Your Seungcheol. And yet, at the same time, he wasn’t.

His hips slowly pulled back—almost all the way out—before a rolling thrust buried him to the hilt again, forcing your back to arch off the bed. He set a punishing rhythm from the first stroke, deep and relentless, each one hitting a place inside you that made your eyes roll back and flutter shut.

“Eyes on me,” he demanded.

Your eyes flew open, meeting his with that same fierce, stubborn energy he’d always known. Neither of you said a word, but the argument was right there in the air between you. Every snap of his hips was a question: Remember this? And every helpless gasp he elicited from your lips was your only answer: Yes.

He shifted, angling his hips, and the next thrust dragged directly over your clit. You clenched around him again, milking his length as he drove into you, his rhythm unyielding.

“God, you fuck me so good,” you admitted shamelessly.

You were completely and utterly blinded by how good he made you feel. A cocky smirk touched his lips.

He withdrew, leaving you achingly empty for a heartbeat. He manhandled you onto your side, folding your legs together until your knees touched, then he entered you from behind. The new angle was devastating. The coil inside you tightened violently, pleasure building with every rut of his hips.

You could feel your climax approaching, a tidal wave gathering force just offshore. A cry tore from your throat, the intensity of his movement combined with the utter helplessness of your position hurtling you toward the edge.

“I’m close,” you gasped.

He grunted, his voice strained. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

His words were the final trigger. The room spun into a blur. Your body seized, muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic waves. The sharp and all-consuming pleasure ripped through you, leaving you trembling and boneless.

He fucked you through it, his movements becoming more frantic, chasing his own release. The sound of skin slapping against skin, his ragged breaths, your own whimpers filled the room.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice raw as his body seized above yours, then you felt that deep, rhythmic pulse as he spilled into you. For a moment, his full weight crushed you, his face buried in your neck, his breath ragged against your skin. Then he propped himself up, his chest heaving, his cock still inside you. The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and confusion. His eyes met yours before he rolled off, collapsing beside you. The air on your sweat-slicked skin felt cold with the absence of his warmth surrounding you.

You stared blankly at the ceiling for a few moments, until unspoken instinct drew your heads to turn, your movements sickeningly synchronized. The raw hunger in his gaze had faded, leaving behind a chilling clarity that was a perfect reflection of the horror dawning in your own gut. What the fuck did we just do?

The question hung in the air, joining the tense silence that had replaced the frantic sounds moments before.

***********************

While Seungcheol showered, you dressed by muscle memory, each layer settling on your skin like a reminder you didn’t want. The soft fabric felt foreign against skin still marked by the raw scrape of his stubble. The elastic of your underwear dug in like a bruising echo of his fingers on your flesh. Every piece of clothing carried its own impossible weight, yet none of it compared to the phantom heaviness of him on top of you.

You floated in those memories, untethered, until a single thought yanked you back to reality: your son.

You slipped out of the bedroom and padded down the hall. You eased the door open, and there he was—your beautiful boy, in a perfect, peaceful heap under the blankets. Mouth parted, one leg dangling free.

A pang of guilt twisted in your stomach. You’d been just feet away, his father pinning you to the bed while the storm raged outside. And here he’d remained, safe in his quiet sanctuary—completely oblivious.

You watched the steady rise and fall of his small chest, forcing your racing thoughts to slow and sync with his breathing, summoning your soul back to the one thing in your world that was still pure.

***********************

It was quieter when you made your way back to the bedroom. The shower was off. The door was ajar, and steam drifted out into the hallway, and with it, the scent of your shower gel and shampoo. It was another jarring reminder that he had been in your space.

He stood with his back to you, a towel slung low on his hips, water tracing paths over the expanse of his shoulders as he dried his hair. You pursed your lips, taking in the sight in front of you. Even now, the sheer sight of him was a physical blow, undoing you all over again.

He turned, and a slow, knowing smirk curved as he caught you staring. Heat flooded your face. You tore your gaze away, feeling like some flustered prude, instead of somebody who’d just been thoroughly fucked.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he chuckled, his voice a low rasp. “It’s not like it’s anything you haven’t seen before.” The light, teasing tone was an attempt to bridge this chasm of awkwardness that had opened between you. He was right, though. You knew every ridge of his chest, the deep V that tapered below his navel, down to the way his skin tasted. But that was before. In another life. Now, that knowledge felt like contraband you were still carrying—and you had to get rid of it.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” you muttered tightly. You pulled the door shut, attempting to contain the potent, dangerous temptation of him on the other side.

***********************

Down the hall, you heard your son’s bedroom door open and close. Moments later, Seungcheol appeared in the kitchen doorway, his hair still damp from the shower.

“Sounds like there’s a break in the storm,” he said, his voice soft.

“Yeah. It looked nasty for a moment there.” You turned back to the coffee machine, your back a rigid line.

He leaned against the counter, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on you. “Looks like you finally remodeled the bathroom.”

“Sure did.”

“Looks amazing. Better than what I could have done,” he joked, a weak echo of his old bragging.

He cleared his throat. “So, uhm… are you okay?”

You glanced over, your expression carefully neutral. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You were quiet after. I got worried when I got out of the shower and you were gone.”

“I just went to check on him,” you said, brushing it off.

He nodded slowly, his eyes searching yours, refusing to let it go. “And after that? You kind of ran off.” His voice dropped, the question a direct challenge.

You let out a sharp exasperated breath. “Look. So we had a moment. We’re both adults, right? Do we really need a post-mortem?”

You felt him retreat, the walls you’d just thrown up brick by brick coming up again. The silence stretched, and in your desperation to break it, you grasped for the first weapon you could find.

“So, I heard she took him to the zoo last week,” you said, your tone sharper than you intended. “Without you.”

The accusation hung in the air. It stopped him dead. She.

“S-sorry,” he stammered, running a hand through his damp hair. “I know we agreed I have to always be there, but the office called, and we were in crisis mode. I just didn’t want to let him down. She assured me she wouldn’t let—”

“It’s fine,” you cut him off, your tone deceptively calm. “I’ve resigned myself to the fact that there would be times when he’d have to be alone with her when you have him. I mean, she lives there.”

Hearing the calmness in your voice didn’t ease his worries, so you met his gaze with a small smile. “Relax. All I’m saying is that if she’s alone with our son, I’d like to know.” You knew you’d regret the next words even as you said them. “If you want, you can give her my number for emergencies. Tell her I don’t bite.”

“Thanks,” he said, the relief washing over him. “It… means a lot that you would offer that.”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “He, uh, also wouldn’t shut up about her sea lion impression. He brings that little plushie she got him everywhere.” The words spilled out too fast. You were talking just to fill the quiet, anything to drown out your thoughts—whether she made him groan like that, whether her taste lingered on his tongue, whether he was already counting the minutes until he could see her again. Stop! You bit the inside of your cheek.

“Yeah. She’s great with him.” He smiled fondly.

She’s great.

That was the sound of a door closing, a line drawn in the sand. The mind‑blowing sex was a distant memory, just like the version of him that had once been yours. What stood here now was just Seungcheol. Your son’s father. Her partner.

“So, about next week,” he began, hands sinking into his pockets.

“You can pick him up whenever. Just call. I’m working from home anyway,” you cut in, a tight smile stretched across your face.

“Oh. Okay. So… meet at the usual neutral pickup point?”

“Actually,” you said, the thought forming even as it left your mouth, a reckless impulse disguised as efficiency. “It might be easier if you pick him up here after I get him from school. It’s on your way, right?”

He froze. Not shocked, but slightly confused. As if he was replaying the sentence in his head, checking if he’d heard it right. You’d never let him pick your son up from the house. Not since the custody agreement. And for a beat too long, he let himself believe this meant something else.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice softer than it should have been.

“Yeah, it’s only practical!” You shrugged like it was nothing, hoping it would dash whatever internal monologue he was having in his head.

“Right. Practical.” He nodded slowly. The moment stretched, his eyes searching your face for a crack you weren’t offering. Then he redirected, building on the practicality of your offer, to make it sound more justifiable.

“Or… what if I just grab him from school? I get off early Tuesday. I can swing by, pick up his things, save you the interruption.”

You’d only meant to extend an olive branch, to prove you were unaffected. Yet his counteroffer hung there, reasonable and simple, and a reminder that you inadvertently cracked open a door you weren’t sure you wanted open.

“He gets out at 1:15, right? I can come by at 12:30?” he added, nudging that door wider.

The silence weighed heavily with words trapped in your chests. He was trying to be helpful. You were trying to pretend you didn’t need it. Neither attempt succeeded.

“Sure. I’ll have his bag ready.”

“Great. Tuesday at 12:30?”

“Tuesday at 12:30,” you echoed.

He leaned in, aiming for your mouth, but you turned at the last second. His lips brushed your cheek. Tonight was a one‑off. A lapse in judgment. Nothing more.

“See you,” he murmured awkwardly.

“Bye,” you whispered, your throat tightening around the word.

You listened to his footsteps fade down the hall, the creak of the door, the soft click as it shut. The sound brought a dull ache in your chest. You stayed where you were, surrounded by the scent he left behind and the echo of things you didn’t say.

But as your gaze drifted to the small pile of your son’s toys on the floor, the ache settled into something steadier, something you can almost convince yourself is peace. You didn’t lose everything. You just outgrew what wasn’t meant to last. Even if a part of you still wished it had.

Damn muscle memory.

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