“a-ah.”

he stretched.

it wasn’t just a stretch; it was a slow, unfolding of his entire frame. his arms raised above his head, interlocking his fingers and pushing towards the ceiling.

the movement was aquatic, a sigh of relief that spoke of his true nature.

and then you saw it. the hem of his simple white shirt rode up, exposing the slim, alabaster skin of his stomach. you’d run your hands over that skin before — smooth, hairless, and impeccably soft, like silk or the slick surface of a dolphin.

his abdominal muscles, not sharply defined but lean and taut, peeked out at you.

your lips opened in a silent gasp.

but it wasn’t just his stomach that was unfolding. the stretch pulled his jeans low, revealing the top few inches of his hips, the bones delicate but defined.

and there, just below his navel, where the fabric of his pants bit into his skin, you saw it.

a trail.

a soft, shockingly visible trail of hair.

it wasn’t thick and coarse. it was soft, wispy, like the fur of a sea otter’s underbelly. it caught the warm light of the lamp, each tiny strand a shimmering shade of lavender and violet.

the color of a bruised shell or the deep sea under twilight.

it started as a subtle line just below his navel and trickled down, disappearing into the darker confines of his jeans, leading your eyes straight to the swell of his cock, soft and resting against his thigh.

fuck.

a sharp, instantaneous jolt of pure, unadulterated lust shot through you, straight to your core; your mouth flooded with saliva — a primal reaction. but that was nothing compared to the sudden, soaking wetness that immediately started gathering between your thighs.

it wasn’t just a tingle; it was a gush, warm and slick, soaking into your underwear with such violent arousal it made you squirm.

fuck, fuck–

your pussy clenched, empty and hungry.

the image of that soft purple trail leading to his crotch burned into your retina.

“raf?” you whispered, your voice huskier than you intended.

he lowered his arms, turning to you with a slightly guarded smile. “hmm?”

“i... i never noticed that before.” you said, gesturing with your chin towards his stomach.

his smile froze. his duo-chrome eyes, usually so calm, widened just a bit. a pink hue bloomed across his cheekbones, contrasting stunningly against his pale skin.

“oh. that.”

he crossed his arms subtly over his torso. a shielding movement.

“i’m... sorry. i haven’t had time to... y’know… take care of it. it’s just... it grows so fast.” he sounded so embarrassed, like a teenage boy caught with porn magazines beneath his bed.

your heart melted… and yet the pulse of lust throbbed harder between your thighs. your boyfriend was so fucking hot naturally, and it looked like you needed to remind him of that.

you stood up from the couch and walked towards him, slow and steady, adamant to make use of this opportunity.

“don’t be sorry.” you murmured, stopping just inches from him. “i think it’s... really sexy.”

he snorted, still not looking at you. the redness of his cheeks intensified.

“sexy? it’s just... hair.”

“it’s your hair.” you said, reaching out to trace the edge of his shirt with your fingertips. he shuddered, pressing it down harder.

covering it more.

“it’s the beautiful color i love so much. i want to see it.”

“my love...” he tried to back away, but the armchair blocked him in his retreat.

“please, raf?” you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his chest, batting your eyelashes at him and flashing the sweetest pleading eyes you could muster up.

you would use your sweetness if it meant getting what you wanted.

“i’ve never seen it. i want to know every part of you. especially this part.”

he hesitated, his resistance waning because of your pouty lips and puppy eyes.

“it’s not... it’s not special.”

“everything about you is special to me.”

you whispered, your hands sliding around his slim waist, sneaking under his shirt from behind. your palms met the silky, warm skin of his back, caging him now in a tight embrace.

“please? just a quick look.”

shit, he couldn’t resist you.

he let out a long, shuddering breath. his arms unfolded, his hands falling to his sides.

“okay.” he surrendered, his voice barely a whisper. “just... be gentle.”

your heart thumped with triumph, and so did your sopping cunt, as you were slowly and carefully kneeling in front of rafayel.

that gesture alone earned you a guttural moan. “mhm, my love.”

yeah… you were going to eat him up.

you steadily lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing the soft, pale skin of his stomach. then your hands dipped lower, to the waistband of his loose pants.

and there it was, now at your eye-level. in all its glory.

rafayel’s happy trail.

the hair began just below his navel, a sparse, delicate line that traveled down, getting slightly thicker and more defined as it went. it curled softly at the base, leading into the dark fabric of his pants.

it wasn’t as straight as his head hair; it had a slight, more prominent wave.

“it’s so beautiful.” you breathed, your voice laced with awe. your fingertips hovered above it, not touching just yet. “it’s like... a secret. just for me.”

he watched you, his eyes wide and uncertain. flustered by your interest in something he considered unimpressive. “really?”

“really.”

you said, finally bringing your index finger to the top of the trail. the hair felt incredibly soft, like the fur of an otter. you traced it down, slowly, slowly, until your digit nudged the waistband of his pants.

“o-oh.”

he sucked in a sharp breath, his abdomen clenching, muscles popping out more. his own arousal was now increasing, shooting blood down to his cock and making it more visible in his baggy pants.

you were aware of the effects you had on your boyfriend; you always were. so you looked up at him from your kneeling position, your eyes half-lidded and full of need.

stirring him more.

“can i?” you murmured, your fingertips toying with the button of his pants.

toying with rafayel as well.

“yes.” he nodded, swallowing hard, embarrassment long forgotten.

you popped the button, then took hold of the zipper, dragging it down slowly. the sound seemed louder, booming in his ears together with his heightened pulse. you hooked your thumbs into the band of his pants and his boxers, your sultry gaze locked with his flustered one.

you pulled them down, just an inch, just enough to see more.

the hair peeked forth, now fully visible. it formed a neat, thicker patch over his pubic bone, curling slightly and lush. it was undeniably masculine and yet incredibly elegant, a perfect match for him.

“fuck, raf.”

you groaned, your hand shaking as you reached out and spread your palm over it. the softness against your skin was intoxicating.

you ran your hand down, caressing the purple-ornated skin, until your knuckles brushed against the distinct swell of his erection, straining against his boxers.

“my love...” he whimpered, his head falling back. his hand shot upwards and propped itself on the armchair behind him, seeking support. “it tickles.”

“tickles?”

you purred with faux mockery, sliding your hand inside his pants, over his boxers. your hand cupped him fully through the fabric, feeling the heat and the hardness of his cock. “it’s supposed to ache.”

“ah, sh-hit.”

“because then i get to put my mouth right there and make it feel really, really good.”

your mouth?

he moaned, low and long, his free hand tangling in your hair and smushing your face into his crotch. so close to his cock, yet still so far away.

“p-promise?”

“oh, it’s a promise, raffy.” you whispered, following his lead, your nose nuzzling into the exposed soft, purple tufts. you inhaled his musky scent mixed with something else — probably residues of his shower gel.

he smelled delicious.

“it’s a promise i plan to keep all night long.”

your words spill forth like honeyed poison, sweet and lethal, and rafayel’s entire body quivers in response. his fingers tighten in your hair, not pushing you away but holding you there, as if you were his only anchor in a storm.

“all night?” he breathes, his voice a shaky, disbelieving whine. “you’ll… you’ll kill me.”

“i’ll make you feel so good.” you murmur against his skin, your lips grazing the delicate hairs. you feel him twitch, a sharp, involuntary spasm of pleasure. “you’ll never shave your happy trail again.”

your hand, still cupping him through his boxers, gave a gentle, twisting squeeze. he gasped, a sharp, sucking sound, and his hips bucked instinctively into your palm. the fabric was wet now, a dark spot spreading at the tip of his cock, and you knew he’s leaking buckets of precum.

yummy.

you leaned in, your warm breath fanning over the soft fabric covering his aching cock. you pursed your lips, placing a gentle, wet kiss right over the aching length.

the muffled moan that escaped rafayel was music to your ears.

“so sensitive.” you teased, your voice a low purr. “i just gave it a little kiss and it jumped. should i stop?”

“no!” he moaned, the word bursting from him with urgency. “please… don’t stop.”

“then let me see you, raffy. all of you.”

your voice was firm, a soft command which is met by no refusal. your fingers hooked into the bands of his pants and his boxers, and in one, smooth movement, you pulled them down, together, to his ankles.

the sight that greeted you makes your mouth water instantly.

his cock sprang out, hard and thick, slapping against his stomach. it was pale and straight, the head a deep, flushed red, beautifully contrasting the soft lavender curls at its base.

the happy trail you adored led straight into that thick, neat patch, framing his erection like a work of art.

“fuck, you’re perfect.”

you breathed, your voice husky with want. your hand reached out and wrapped around his shaft, palming the heat and the solid weight of him. you gave a slow, torturous stroke, from base to tip, using his pearly precum, and his whole body tensed, a stranded sound clogging his throat.

“you… you like it?” he asked, his eyes shy, vulnerable, searching your face for truth.

“like it?” you leaned in, your lips parting just enough to let your tongue lick a slow, wet stripe from the very base of his cock, right up that sensitive underside.

he jerked, a sharp, uncontrolled movement.

“raf, i love it. i love how you feel. i love how you smell. i love how you taste.”

you said the last words while your lips were still pressed against his skin, and you tasted the salty, slightly musky precum on your tongue. it was the taste of his arousal, the physical manifestation of his desire for you, and it was making you dizzy with want as well.

“i– shit.”

you opened your mouth wide, your tongue flattening, and you took the head of his cock inside. swirling your wet muscle around the slightly rough edge of his engorged tip.

“gods!” he shouted, his head throwing back, his neck a long, arching line of desperation. his hands, now both tangled in your hair, trembled. “your mouth… it’s so warm.”

you hummed in agreement, the vibrations sending another shudder racing through him. you started to bob your head, slowly at first, taking him deeper and deeper.

your hand pumped the shaft you couldn’t yet reach, stroking in time with your mouth.

“ah, a-ah, ah.”

your other hand roamed downwards, cupping his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. they were heavy, tight, and so full of semen.

you will milk him dry.

“t-this is so–”

you pulled back suddenly, strings of saliva connecting your glossy lips to his slippery head. your breath hitched, your throat sore and used already. he watched you, his eyes wide and hazy with lust, so turned on by your fucked-out expression.

“you taste so good, raffy.” you rasped, your voice raw, yet full of determination. “i want all of it. i wanna feel you down my throat.”

you leaned in again, not even waiting for rafayel’s further comments, your intent unmistakable. your hands gripped his hips, nails digging into his skin, pinning him against the back of the armchair.

you opened your mouth wide, relaxed your jaw, and took him deep in one swift motion.

“l-looove–”

this time, you didn’t stop until your nose pressed against that soft, purple pubic hair. you inhaled his scent — musk, clean sweat, and your own saliva. he froze in place, legs quivering from the feeling of your throat around him, a sharp, guttural sound escaping him.

“oh, fuck!”

his voice cracked, completely overwhelmed by the new sensation. he could feel the incredible, wet tightness of your throat constricting around his cock, the gag reflex triggering around his tip.

it was too much.

his hands shot out, gripping the armchair behind him until his knuckles were white from pleasure and pain.

“fuck, fuc-ck.”

you held it there as much as you could, your throat working around him, your eyes watering as you looked up at his agonized, pleasure-consumed features. you were choking on him, air barely filtering through your nose, yet he was more breathless than you.

he was scraping so deep in your throat.

you pulled back shortly after, gasping for air, saliva and precum dripping down your chin. your lips felt swollen and sensitive, reddish from the pressure against his navel.

“look at you.”

you panted through strong gulps of air, gesturing to his tortured cock. it was glossy and slick, thoroughly coated in your spit. the purple hair around its base was darkened and clumped with moisture too, obviously affected by your sucking.

“so beautiful. all shiny and wet for me.”

“please.” he begged, his body tense and trembling, his eyes watering from the sudden lack of attention. “i’m so close.”

“i know, raffy.” you smirked, your hand returning to its steady pump around his shaft. “you’re always so close for me. your pretty cock gets so hard and leaky as soon as i touch it.”

you leaned down, taking him back into your mouth; not as deep this time, but with renewed vigor. you sucked hard, your tongue working over his slit, swallowing the salty precum that kept seeping out.

“i-i am so–” he warned, his voice breaking into a sob.

you pulled off just as he lost control, jerking your hand up and down more violently.

the first spurt hit your greedy tongue, warm and thick. you swallowed it immediately, tasting him — slightly salty, slightly musky.

so so delicious.

the second and third pulses arched high, landing on his own abdomen, painting white streaks across his pale skin and soaking into that beautiful purple trail.

“good boy.” you purred, watching him spasm, his body shaking with the aftermath. barely standing. “you cum so much for me.”

you leaned in again, but not into his cock.

no.

your tongue swiped through the pool of cum in his navel. you licked it clean, then moved up, cleaning the streaks from his stomach. your tongue swirled through his happy trail.

gathering his cum mixed with your saliva, making the soft hair even wetter.

“all clean…” you murmured, your lips nuzzling his stomach. “my sweet boyfriend.”

he was spent, breathing heavily, his eyes glazed over from the intense orgasm. you smiled, satisfied with his hazy state.

still, your own arousal was throbbing between your legs, pulsing for more.

“that’s just the first round, raffy.” you whispered, tracing his semi-hard cock with delicate fingers. earning a high-pitched moan from his lips.

“we’re not done.”

©pearlescenthoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

In the pouring rain, surrounded by flickers of lightning, his silhouette towered, advancing with a silent declaration. 

Lilac eyes embraced you, designed to hoard your being and consume you whole. Every moment of scrutiny provided intel he catalogued, features and habits you reckoned he obsessed over in the confines of his prison. Like now, when his eyes dipped to your sleeve, fixating on the marred skin of your wrist. 

His eyes narrowed, eyebrows furrowing as his lips distorted into a crude line, frustration prevailing over his composure. 

You had seen that look upon his face once, a few years prior. 

A gala hosted by your clan, one he had attended with blatant intentions. 

That night your eyes had never left his frame. He drank, he mingled, and he flirted. 

Rafayel, when adorned in the veil of seduction, was devastating. He toyed with femininity, and lured masculinity, governing both as his own. As you stood on the opposite end of the room, concealed by the conversing filth of aristocracy, you shamelessly stared. 

A man like that enticed like a sweet poison. One taste would be lethal. 

You weren’t a fool like the others who flocked to him like a moth enraptured by light. You kept your distance, paralleling his parade, making your way from one table of confections to another. When men approached, intrigued by your glamour, their attention barely tickled your desires. None had that dangerous smile, that smirk that made you want to lick and bite, delectable like a forbidden slice of chilled cake. And like that candied cherry atop that chunk of sugary delight, his lips would color, rubbed raw from your kiss. 

Not her kiss. 

Whomever had caught his attention had won his lips. Brazen, Rafayel kissed his latest interest with closed eyes, an index finger beneath her jaw, surrounded by a room full of spectators. 

He led her by his mouth alone, directing an act those around were captivated by. 

Including you. 

Jealousy scorched, catastrophic to the foundation built by your predecessors. It burned, and your hand found your chest, kneading the skin as if that itself might soothe the blaze. 

His tongue flicked, lapping at her bottom lip as his thumb pawed at her chin, urging her mouth to open. 

It did. A gasp escaped. 

Whether it came from your chest, or another’s, you wouldn’t know. 

His other arm wrapped around her waist, supporting her as her legs were robbed of strength, as feeble as the whipping cream you witnessed bakers in the kitchens beat and swirl. Baser instincts craved such a phenomenon, as no other had ever stripped you of your wits. While Rafayel had been privy to another man nibbling on various parts of your body, you had never made him yearn as intensively as he teased you. 

Rafayel’s kiss was sacred, his taste solely intended for your palette. Whether you would partake was an entirely different matter. Let him seethe in disappointment as you denied him, taunting him with ambrosial gloss and pleading eyes.

Your fingers grasped a fluke of champagne, the sparkling concoction sizzling the roof of your mouth. A welcoming distraction, yet not strong enough, not when Rafayel’s current fling was grappling at his strands of hair, knocking the hood of his leather overcoat onto his broad shoulders. 

Rafayel was sensitive there, you knew by how he would play with his own locks, tugging, eventually whimpering when his nails raked over his scalp. Alone, so desperate, fumbling to get his pants down his legs had been deemed absurd. The vent of his pants had been spread, his hand reaching deep to collect his length, poising it over the leathers across his abdomen. 

The raven-black gloves encasing his hand contrasted against the flushing crown of his cock. One bead of arousal slithered over his fingers, white as a pearl, remnants at the slit caught by the pad of his thumb to aid the slide. 

It was the same thumb that had pressed on your tongue earlier that day, hooking on your bottom row of teeth to yank your head to the side. You had bit down in return, indenting the leather. 

His hiss had cleaved through the air between you. 

“Was that supposed to hurt?” He had mocked, examining his hand with a tilt of his lips. Caged by the height of his frame, it was easy for him to rest the tip of his thumb against the crease of your mouth, wedging past your teeth to pet the valley of your tongue. “Why don’t we try that again, yeah?” 

He waited, patient, a predator hunting its prey. Even as saliva accumulated, dripping to collect at the curve between his thumb and forefinger, you both delayed. Your eyes rummaged through his gaze, running wild, exploring whatever he would willingly offer. Very little, if anything at all. 

The tip of his dagger threatened your ribs. With additional pressure, your posture stiffened, automatically rising in an attempt to evade the blade. But you refused to bite, to surrender to his whims. Victory was the last thing you would award him. 

He tutted, amusement swirling in the pigment of his irises. His pupils dilated, trained on you, spellbound. 

“Do you like this? Disobeying?” He pierced the leathers of your armor, not yet spilling blood. You flinched, an involuntary reaction you had hoped he’d never see. But as he had watched you since you could remember, your abandonment should be in his arms. “I said bite me, harder, I need to feel you till tomorrow.” 

Your hand encircled the blade at your side, squeezing until scarlet welled, warming your palm. The pain sobered. Exertion tore a cry from your throat, muffled by the grip he maintained over your tongue. You pushed his weapon away, launching from the wall to force him back. The weight of his thumb, now absent from your mouth, was missed. 

You swiped the back of your hand over your chin, clearing your face of any evidence. 

Rafayel chuckled, humored by your offense. His stare scoured your body, lingering at your lips, then your hand. 

His own tongue curled around his thumb, lips wrapping around the base, suckling until he reached the tip. 

“Every time you look at that vicious cut on your hand, think of me.” 

Then, he had disappeared, an expert in navigating the shadows and sins of night. 

In his room, you understood, mesmerized by his hand working the base of his length, rotating his wrist so his palm rubbed the thick veins sheathed by molten skin. If he were to offer his hand, you’d soak his glove from wrist to fingertip, kissing the planes of his palm, coiling your tongue through his fingers. If he wanted to pinch the tip of your tongue, and escort your mouth to his cock, you’d oblige. 

He hadn’t invited you to his bedroom, or this erotic display of sexuality. You had made yourself a participant via sly, nefarious means. Your hand was bandaged, throbbing where his blade had severed skin. You savored it, a souvenir provided by steel crafted for him. 

Perched on his nightstand, the moonlight streaming through his window accentuated the dagger. It had been flung, landing at an angle, elevated by miscellaneous items scattered. Such lazy discarding told a story of torment, as if he couldn’t wait another second to alleviate his ache. 

Laid diagonally across his bed, Rafayel was propped on a multitude of pillows, one leg bent at the knee, the other locked straight. His chest heaved with each pass of his hand. You recorded every reaction with intense eyes, hidden by an armoire. The perspective had been perfect, close enough you could note the sweat littering his face, yet far enough he would be unable to capture you. 

His pace increased, heels sinking into the mattress. The arc of his spine as he arched seared into your mind, concrete, etched into your memory. 

Rafayel whimpered, gasping as his hips bucked, ramming his length through his tight fist. He was teetering at the edge, if the greed in his movements was anything to go by. Words of encouragement dallied at the tip of your tongue, prepared to reason with his body, and inspire his release. 

“Fuck,” he gasped, tensing, shivering as he spilled, staining the dark colors across his abdomen. 

Languidly, he relaxed, chin dipping as he sighed. Glazed in lust, his eyes met yours, a satisfied smile gracing his mouth. 

That look of his, smug and seductive, was worn by him once more as he kissed his suitor. Their positions switched, his nose brushing hers as he slanted his lips over her mouth. His eyes opened, ensnaring you, the woman caught in his trap oblivious to her purpose. 

I know, he eyes relayed, that you’re watching. 

Humiliation threatened to wind its way through your frame, but just as you had with his thumb pressed to your tongue, you met his strike. You sipped more of your champagne, bracing your rear against the table, folding your arms. 

I’ll watch, you narrowed your eyes, challenging him, show me what you can do. 

This game you two had engaged in was ceaseless, and you had provoked him on instinct, as if simply breathing. What you couldn’t ignore was that weakness within, the fragment of doubt that had ripened with age. As priorities shifted, and autonomy was gained, questions flitted through your consciousness. 

Questions only one other would understand. 

That person had his hand underneath a woman’s dress, her hem bunched at his wrist, black glove stark against her thigh. Her leg climbed, hooking on the swell of his waist, settling him into the crux of her body. 

She clung to him, unabashed. 

Rafayel latched on with a mouth to her neck. He had looked away, eyes closed as he focused on brandishing the woman with a hickey.

Her hand danced around the collar of his jacket, the edge of her finger sneaking its way beneath the leather. 

Time slowed, the air seemingly thick and unfit for human lungs. You watched as her fingers swelled the garment, inching towards a location marked as your own. 

He wouldn’t. 

He would. 

You knew when her fingers found the scar at his shoulder, the raised line, jagged and imperfect, long and aged. Curiosity might have wandered her thoughts if her senses weren’t being ravaged, stimulated by a talented tongue. 

That was your only salvation - her lack of awareness. 

Because she was unknowingly venturing into a past, one that was shared by two, engineered to instigate an infinite, ruthless, inviolable bond. 

For sport, your parents had stood behind you, an array of weapons laid out on the butler’s cart. Rafayel had already chosen his, a dagger the length of his adolescent forearm. His parents were elated, unsettling smiles curling the ends of their mouths. 

You didn’t want them near you. If they stepped anywhere within your vicinity, you’d be tarnished. The same could be said for your own parents. 

Young and naive, you had equipped a sword, rationalizing the longer length would keep enemies at bay. 

It was pure luck your blow had landed. 

It was pure agony when Rafayel had screamed, his dagger clattering to the ground as his hand worked to staunch the bleeding at his shoulder. 

His revenge would come the next year, when he would be praised for slipping past your defenses. In your bed his palm would muffle your lips, his dagger sliding over your shoulder, carving an exact replica of the mark on his body. 

Your mother had chided you minutes after the attack, stitching your wound on a chair placed directly in front of the open window. 

Your mistake, she had pointed out, something to ponder. 

Much to her disappointment, your concern had fallen for a more trivial matter. Next to your pillow, your favorite stuffed animal sat, its button eyes unblinking. It was supposed to keep your nightmares in its belly, charmed by the local seamstress. 

Or so you had heard. 

Yet it had allowed one to come to life. 

On Rafayel’s tenth birthday, you’d leave it as a gift. 

You had to wonder if he thought back to such things when another touched his scar. You did, taking excessive measures so no other could come near it. Like the use of your sword, you had cast a bubble around it. 

Which led you to exit the gala. 

Another hand on his scar was like tar laid over your heart. Once hardened, it would render your thoughts, emotions, and logic useless. With Rafayel, it often resulted in your departure, the sight of him too difficult to bear. 

Pace hurried, you rounded the corner, out of the reception hall. The owner of the mansion who hosted the event had riches beyond any royal’s imagination. It showed in the expensive paintings tacked onto the walls, the wreaths of flowers hung upon railings and arches, down to the plush fabric of the rugs lining the hallways and common rooms. 

Art was a detour in your life you rarely took, mimicking actions of those you had stalked. Every once in a while you dressed the part, cooling yourself with a lace folding fan while bored eyes tracked brush strokes. Alone, you had no one to critique with. And even on your most desperate days, you refused to acknowledge Rafayel’s presence. 

Often, he’d blend into the crowd, prickling the back of your neck with his stare. 

As he was now. 

You hadn’t even reached the end of counting a minute before he was pursuing you. 

The phantom of his touch, how he might grab you, urged you forward. You had, after all, managed to upset him. Rafayel, throughout the years, angered when you didn’t provide the attention he chased. If you pushed far enough, his outbursts didn’t pertain to just you. 

It prevented you from running - the silent threats he aroused. 

His emotional surges belonged to you, and no one else. You would accept the burn of his blade, the grip of his fingers, the stern, frivolous look in his eyes. 

You shivered, diverting to another hall. This one was lined with doors on one side, a railing on the other, overlooking the indoor garden. Details you hardly cared for. 

Rafayel’s steps were obtuse, obvious to your ears. Such nuances were purposeful, he was as lithe as a cat, silent if he desired. This was a hunt, a type of play you both were raised to enjoy. Between the two of you, he excelled at prowling, natural in his way of observing. Some nights, you suspected he lounged in your room, watchful of your sleep. 

Perhaps he was even the reason lustful dreams manifested throughout your evenings. Marks on your body upon waking up gave such suspicions credibility. The most recent being a blossom of crimson on your wrist, crafted by skilled lips and ruthless teeth. 

You slowed your steps, heart rate erratic. 

“What a naughty little thing you are.”

His snarl tempted, voice depraved.

The leather of his gloves gripped you, his chest firm. 

Within his grasp, you ached. 

“You’re mine.”