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summary: you wake half-convinced that yesterday was a dream, but spencer reid and his shiny new wedding ring are quick to reassure you that it was all realβand forever has never looked so good.
genre: fluff | word count: 1.2k
tags: fem!reader, husband!spencer, newlyweds, just straight fluff, spencer is a wife guy, he's so in love it's disgusting, cuddling, title from a noah kahan song (duh), not proofread
notes: i don't usually write wedding/marriage fics, but i make an exception for spencer reid. he'd be such a whimsical little wife guy oh my god i hate him.
"And the edges of your soul, I haven't seen yet. Now I'm glad I get forever to see where you end." β Noah Kahan, Forever
For a moment, you arenβt sure where you are.
A bed, obviously. You can feel the plush of the mattress hugging your hip. The covers, freshly washed, covering your sleep-leaden limbs. Somethingβs thumping, steady, under your head. A heartbeat murmuring sweet nothings in your ear. A pair of strong lungs. Inhaling, exhaling. An arm around your waist. A hand on your shoulder.
Your eyelids fight against the last dregs of sleep, and you squint in the unwelcome face of the sun. It spills into the room through the sheer curtains, soaking you in its warmth and blinding you with its light. You shift, stiff joints groaning in protest, and press your face into his chest.
Bells. You remember bells. Confetti; the environmentally friendly kind. A bouquet of purple flowers, frozen mid-air in a hazy memory, landing in the reluctant hands of Emily Prentiss in another.
Something moves. His fingers are in your hair now, brushing through the strands with such painful gentleness it doesnβt even feel real. This is just another later of a dream, more warm and fuzzy scenarios created by your unconscious. It has to be, because nothing that isΒ realΒ could possibly feel soβ¦sacred. Itβs too perfect. You feel as though youβre floating, lighter than air.
Until the ache sets in. Itβs in your head, dull and heavy, dragging you back down to earth, clouding your mind with a fog that extends beyond simple drowsiness. And with it comes a sore throat. A dry mouth. Can you be hungover in a dream? Surely not, that would just be cruel.Β
You groan. The sound reverberates in his chest, rattles his tender heart. You hear him chuckle.
βUghβ¦time?β you mumble, voice hoarse.
βTen thirty-twoβ no, thirty-three,β he says in a whisper, keeping his words soft, inoffensive, like he knows your condition without you needing to complain about it. He sounds awake, and heβs smilingβyou can hear it.
With great effort, you raise your head, wincing as the light hits your face. His hand reaches out, casts a shadow over your eyes.
He isnβt smiling. Heβs grinning.
ββ¦hey.β
βHey.β He tucks some of your hair behind your ear, brown eyes turned to gold in the sunlight; honey, like his voice. βHow are you feeling?β
You lean into his touch, expression melting into a lazy smile. With a gentle sigh, you let your head sink back against his chest as you murmur, ββm good.β
Spencerβs arms wrap around you, holding you tight as he presses his nose to your hair. βJustΒ good?β
βGreat,βΒ you correct, shaking your head. βHappy. TheΒ happiest.β
βThatβsΒ better.β He kisses the top of your head. βIβd feel like a failure if my wife werenβt theΒ happiestΒ the morning after the ceremony.β
His wife.Β You swear you feel the world tilt.
βIβd have to find a way to fix that,β he adds, letting his fingers trail down your spine.
βOh yeah?β
βOhΒ yeah,βΒ he says. Heβs trying to sound serious, and he isnβt doing a very good job. βThatβs what Morgan kept telling me yesterday:Β happy wife, happy life.β
You huff out a short, breathy laugh. βAnd youβd take advice from Morgan?β
βIs it not true?β
βOh, itβs true. Justβ¦right message, wrong messenger, I guess.β You lift your head, meeting his gaze with a smile. βBut Iβm plenty happy. Youβve nothing to worry about there.β
βGood.β He fixes your hair again, smoothing any flyaways as he studies you with this look of intense focus, almost frowning, like heβs struggling to believe what heβs seeing, committing your every feature to memory in case you disappear. βAnd Morganβs had some successful relationships.β
You hum. βDefineΒ successfulΒ for me, hon.β
βHaving a favourable or desired outcome,β he says, not missing a beat. βSuccess is subjective, my love.β
βMhm.β You nod slowly. βAnd Morganβs idea of success isβ¦β
βIntense, short-term relationships.β
βRight, of course. So, naturally,Β heβsΒ the guy youβd go to for marriage advice.β
βI never said I sought him out,β he says, frowning. βI actually told him IΒ wasnβtΒ interested in any advice, orβ¦pep talks.Β But he kept badgering me as I was getting ready.β
βThatβs what the best man is for,β you muse with a solemn smile, βspewing unsolicited advice as he mops the sweat from your forehead.β
Spencer scoffs. βI wasnβt sweating.β
βYou so were.β
βIt wasΒ hot.β
βYou were shitting yourself,β you say, brows raised. βDonβt lie to me, Doctor Reid.β
βFine,Β MrsΒ Reid,β he concedes with a huff. βIΒ mayΒ have beenβ¦shitting myself.Β A little bit. Figuratively.β
Mrs Reid.Β Heβs trying to kill you.
You bite your lip, roll your eyes at the sight of his smug little smirk before trailing your fingers down his chest. Your wedding ring glimmers in the light as you draw lazy patterns along his skin. βI was shitting myself, too. Figuratively.β
βI didnβt notice,β he says. When you frown, he quickly adds, βIβm serious.β
βYouβre aΒ profiler,βΒ you say.
βAnd youβre beautiful.β
He says it like itβs a fact. Concrete. Unchangeable.
You laugh. You have to; you might cry if you donβt. βAndΒ beautyΒ is enough to render your years of profiling experience useless?β
βOnly yours.β
Yup, definitely trying to kill you.
βYouβ¦β you shake your head, feeling your smile falter. It shifts into something raw, something fragile.
Spencer cups your cheek, holds you steady. MurmursΒ βI love youβΒ in this agonisingly tender tone that only breaks you further.Β
You lean into him, closing your eyes as you admit in this small, quiet voice, βI thought it was a dream.β
βThe wedding?β
βMhm.β
βThe whole thing?β he asks, amusement seeping into his tone. βEven the staff threatening to kick Morgan and Garcia out for indecency?β
βI have aβ¦vivid imagination,β you say. You fall silent for a moment, pursing your lips, before adding, βButβ¦I doubt Iβd have been able to come up with those, um, vows of yours. Youβd have made a fucking incredible renaissance poet. Properβ¦dramatic.β
Heβs grinning again, pride swelling in his chest. βYou wanna hear them again?β
βDo you want to make your wife cry?β you ask.
βOnly if theyβre happy wife tears.β
βSadist.β
βI saidΒ happyΒ tears. Come here.β He grabs your waist, shifts you so youβre lying on top of him, chest to chest. βLet me recite my vows,Β please.β
You glare at him, barely able to contain your smile. βYou just want to show off.β
βPshh, no.β He shakes his head adamantly. βI just want to make sure thatΒ youΒ know just how grateful I amβ¦that I get to be the one to spend forever with you. Itβs an honour.β
The way his voice softens with each word has you closing your eyes, fighting back the stupid tears that threaten to spill if you keep looking at him. He brushes his thumb against your cheek, touch so light it feels almost reverent.
βAndΒ I want to show off, just a little.β
He laughs as you swat his hand away, hisses like youβve hurt him. You shake your head, try to speak but your voice comes out all wobbly, so you hide your face in the crook of his neck, and you sniffle when he hugs you.
ββ¦just recite the damn vows.β
βYes, maβam. Anything for my beautiful wife.β
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funny little headcanon is that i believe if victoria ever came out to her mom that shamsi would be like 'okay, that's fine. but i still don't understand why you do not want to go into surgery. all the other gay women are in surgery; do you not want to be a gay surgeon like yolanda and emery? what about your lesbian friend trinity, doesn't she want to do surgery as well? you can do better victoria'
SLEEP WITH ONE EYE OPEN β± spencer reid x unsub!reader
summary: spencer reid wakes up to an unexpected guest all up in his business.
genre: smut (MDNI) | word count: 3.5k
tags: reader is an unsub || DDDNE, dubcon, somnophilia, oral (m receiving), protected p in v, technically a home invasion but it's fine, enemies with benefits, toxic relationship, religious imagery, reader is nocturnal, title from a metallica song: enter sandman, not proofread
notes: another freak fic dedicated to @crime-bunny, my perverted twin. thereβll be a part two to this, eventually; i think spencer ought to get his revenge.
β€· unsub!reader masterlist α°.α
"Therefore, I urge you,Β brothers and sisters, in view of Godβs mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice,Β holy and pleasing to Godβthis is your true and proper worship."
β ROMANS 12:1 (NIV)
Youβre very light on your feet. Thatβs what you were told growing up; that you hardly made a sound, that youβd one day make an excellent ballerina. A perfect white swan.
You were quick, quiet, graceful. All traits desirable in ballet, equally applicable to serial killing. Though you doubt your parents had that βcareerβ path in mind when they would praise howΒ nimbleΒ you were.
Getting into the apartment is an easy feat. The key fits perfectly into the lock. The door doesnβt groan as you ease it open. Youβve already memorised which floorboards creak on the way to the bedroom.
Your flats slot perfectly beside his shoes, your leather jacket gets left on the back of his couch, and youβre left standing in your nightgown, navigating his apartment in the dark as though itβs your own. It isnβt something youβd usually wear to wander the streets of D.C in the dead of night, but flexibility is a virtue, and youβre always willing to make exceptions.
Spencer ReidΒ is an exception. HeβsΒ theΒ exception, really; you canβt think of anyone else youβd do this for. Nobody else has burrowed deep into your brain the way he has. Nobody else would make you peel back layers of protection, shed every boundary the way a snake sheds its skin, the way you have for him.
Maybe heβs managed to reach in and sink his fingers into the only softer parts of you that remain. Or maybe you, as a whole, softened for him.
Maybe itβs just a fault. A flaw in your proverbial programming. Your feelings for him arenβt rational, your fixation on him doesnβt make anyΒ senseβbut whatΒ does?Β
Youβre human,Β animal,Β driven by instinct. What is rational is subjective, the definition ofΒ senseΒ ever-changing.Β LogicΒ andΒ reasonΒ are little more than facades, costumes worn to make people feel better about themselves, to keep the animal at bay. They ought to realise that life gets a hell of a lot more interesting when they stop following rules, scriptures, tellingΒ them whatβs right, and instead follow what feels right.
Thatβs your philosophy, anyway. Youβre sure youβd be hard-pressed to find many people that agree with you.Β
Not even Spencer agrees with you, but you arenβt sure you can trust the moral rulings of a man whoβll happily fall to his knees at the feet of a serial killer. Heβs a hypocrite, forever condemning your actions, calling youΒ sick,Β all while going along with whatever twisted game you decide to play like a dog on a leash. Heβll bend to your every whim, mould his morals to better suit your desires, but heβll roll his eyes and moan about it firstβlike that somehow cleanses him of sin.
Spencer sleeps with his door openβwhy, youβll never understandβand youβre grateful, because it means you can waltz right into his bedroom without needing to worry about any squeaky hinges. And you wouldnβt want toΒ wake him.Β No, that would ruin the fun.
Heβs lying on his back, blankets kicked off, all leaden limbs and deep, slow breaths. Tousled hair and parted lips. A true sleeping beauty. It is, perhaps, the mostΒ at peaceΒ youβve ever seen him, unblemished by the chaos of his conscious mind, by your presence. You could quite happily linger in this doorway, watch him sleep until the sun rises, treat him as you would an art exhibit; look, donβt touch.
You take your time crossing the room, as though any sudden movement, however silent, may disturb him. Spencerβs a light sleeper, easily stirred, never able to let himself go. Itβs no wonder heβs so tired all the time; even in his sleep, he canβt truly rest.
The mattress sinks slightly under your weight as you crawl onto the bed. Your breathing is so quiet, so shallow, that you may as well be holding your breath as you carefully shuffle closer.
A streetlamp bleeds into the room through the blinds. Diffused streaks of pale light stretch across the bed, his face, like half a dozen halos. You tilt your head, taking a moment to admire his face. The sharp angle of his jaw; his brows, relaxed; the undeniable softness that replaces the tension you are so used to observing, and that, to you, seems almost alien.
You trail your fingers, touch awfully light, along his thigh. His pyjama pants are soft, freshly washed, covered in a purple plaid pattern that is just so Spencer. Youβd consider stealing them if they were more your colour. Your hand dips to his inner thigh, drawing lazy patterns before grazing his crotch. The contact is so brief, so mild, he probably doesnβt even feel it.
You watch him closely, studying him for any sign of a reaction, before you grow bolder. You cup his cock through his pants, relishing the warmth under your palm, the way it sends a rush of heat straight to your core.
His body responds to your touch without protest. Like it knows you,Β trustsΒ you. His cock stirs, presses against your hand.
Now youβre actually holding your breath. Biting your lip. Clenching your thighs. Fighting to contain the adrenaline thatβs coursing through you as it increases by the second, pushing you to act faster, to lead with a heavier hand. You have to remind yourself to breathe, to take it slow, toΒ controlΒ yourself before you wind up waking him.
You palm him through his pyjamas, steadily, movements so languid itβs almost annoying. His breathing shifts. His brows crease. He shifts against your hand, just barely. Yielding to your touch, asking for more.
Precious. Thatβs what he is. Heβs fragile, like this. Delicate in ways heβd never allow himself to be when awake, when withΒ you.Β When thereβs always a game to play, a faΓ§ade to keep up.
You struggle with his pants, with finding the balance between eagerness and prudence, as you try to get what you want without shattering this moment. His pretty cock springs free, already half-hard, and impatience has you abandoning his pants at his thighs so you can grasp it gently, listening to the way heΒ sighsΒ under your touch.
Itβs maddening, almost, the way his erection realises itself in your hand, the way his body reacts, even when unconscious, to your gentleness. He groans, and itβs one of the softest sounds youβve heard as you work his cock, keeping your gaze on his face, watching the slight twitches in his sleepy expression, manipulated by tender hand.Β
Your mouth has run dry. You lick your lips, chew on the plush, as you exhaust the last of your restraint.
You lean down, drag your tongue across the head of his cock, and almost moan at the taste of himβdoΒ moan at the little noise he makes when you take him into your mouth. Can somethingΒ beΒ maddening, if youβre already mad? Is there a limit to insanity? Do you breathe the surplus into him? Every time you fall into bed together, it seems he breaks that little bit more, and you heal. Piece yourself back together with all that youβve taken from him.
His cock twitches against your tongue. This is another thing youβre taking. Another line youβre crossing. Another thing heβll hate you for, and love you for. Heβs a masochist that way. You wouldnβt take so much if he werenβt so willing to give it. If he didnβt kneel at your altar, present his neck for your knife. Youβre both damned.
But doesnβt every relationship consist of rotten priest and innocent lamb? Sinner and saint? Corruption and consecration? Thatβs how itβs supposed to be, no? You trade places every now and then, wear each otherβs skin like shitty Halloween masks, pretend that theΒ sacrificeΒ holds any semblance of power. Thatβs all the sex is: Spencer, desperately imitating control; and you, holding the knife behind your back, pretending it isnβt there, pressed so deep into your skin youβd never be able to let it go, even if you wanted to.
A jerk of his hips, and his cock hits the spongy back of your throat. You just about hear him gasp over the sound of your own gagging, and then his fingers are in your hair, tearing you from him so fast youβd think youβd bitten him.
You meet Spencerβs awake, wide-eyed gaze with your own deer-in-headlights stare. Heβs half-sitting, propped up on one elbow. Mouth slightly agape. Cheeks flushed the same shade as his spit-coated cock.
βHow did you get in here?β
And the gameβs up. Shame, you were just starting to enjoy it.
βI used a key,β you say simply.
Spencer blinks at you. His grip on your hair starts to loosen, like what youβre saying might, for a moment, make sense in his sleep-clouded mind, but then he returns to his senses. βYou donβtΒ haveΒ a key.β
βI, uhββ you clear your throat, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before flashing him a smile. βI copied yours.β
βYouββ he releases your hair, retracts his hand like youβre something filthy. βYouΒ what?β
βJust in case youβ¦β Smoothing out your hair, you sit up. ββ¦needed help, or something. I was looking out for you, reallyββ
βNo.β Spencer cuts you off, shaking his head as he rubs his eyes. βThis isβ do you have any idea how out of line this is? How on earth could you possibly think this was appropriate?β
You shrug, opting to play dumb as you straddle him. He doesnβt try to stop you. βI thought youβd be happy to see me.β
βYouΒ broke intoΒ my apartment.β
βI used a key,βΒ you repeat.
βThatβs still illegal,βΒ he hisses. βCopying someoneβs key for the purpose of entering their home without their knowledge, and with criminal intent, is aΒ crime.β
βCriminal intent?β you scoff, biting back a grin. βI didnβt come here to rob youββ
βNo, you just came here to touch me in my sleep.β
You nod eagerly. βAnd you have a problem with that?β
Instead of answering your (very simple) question, Spencer just leans his head back against his pillow, muttering under his breath. You think you hear βGodβ slip between his lips. Typical.
βI donβt know what to do with you,β he grumbles, returning his hands to his face.
You click your tongue, trailing your fingers across the front of his shirt. βI can go back out and knock, if thatβll make you feel betterββ
βDonβt,β he warns, voice firm. βYou are justβ¦soβ¦β
He never finishes that thought. Instead, he reaches over to the bedside table. At first you figure heβs reaching for his glasses, but then his fingers graze the handle of the drawer, just barely out of his reach.
He taps your thigh. βGet off of me.β
βOh, come on,β you whine.
βIβm not asking.β
βCanβt we justββ
His hands are on your waist and, before you can finish complaining, heβs pushing you away. You land on the mattress with a petulant huff, resigning yourself to staring at the ceiling as he rummages through his drawer. You hear the familiar rustle of his condom box, followed by the softer, quieter sound of his pyjama pants being thrown aside.
βYouβre no fun,β you mutter, βyou know that?β
Spencer doesnβt respond. He doesnβt even give you a huff, or a sigh. He just rolls the condom on.
Heβs sick of you, or claims to be, yet he still yields to you every time. He still plays the game, still entertains your desires even when he knows that he shouldnβtβthat doing so is only reinforcing your behaviour.
Heβll complain about youΒ breaking in,Β but heβll still fuck you, even though you havenβtΒ askedΒ him to, because the truth is that he needs this just as badly as you doβif not more so. Spencer needs to give just as badly as you need to take, and heβll pretend itβs the other way around. Utter subservience masquerading as dominance; itβs his drug.
Fingers close around your wrist, and he pulls you back up to meet his lips. He kisses you like heβs starved, one hand tangled in your hair as the other slips up your thigh. He tugs at your panties, tears them off when you lift your hips. Tosses them into the dark before pulling you down on top of him.
You straddle him like itβs second nature, and the two of you slot together like pieces of a puzzle. Him on his back, and you above him. Half cast in shadow, half painted in the subtle glow of the streetlight, whispering curses into his mouth as his fingers find your dripping cunt.
βGod,β he breathes, almost groans. He sets his hands on your hips, gives you a gentle nudge so you pull back. βYou really were enjoying that, werenβt you?β
You smirk as you sit up, adjusting yourself so youβre lined up with his cock. Grasping the base, you drag the tip along your slick folds, relishing the way you can feel him pulsing under your palm. βWe both did,β you tease. βActually, I think you mightβve been enjoying it moreββ
A sharp gasp cuts through your words, followed by a poorly muffled cry as Spencer forces your hips down. His cock pushes into you without warning, and the painβtheΒ pleasureβhas tears pricking in your eyes before you can think to stop them.
He throws his head back with a hiss, fingers digging into your soft skin as he sinks you onto his cock, guiding you to take every too-big inch of him, until youβre sat flush against his hips. A choked whimper is all you can muster as your tight walls flutter around his length.
βFuckββ
βIβve got you.β
And heΒ hasΒ got you. Heβs holding you there, keeping you stuffed full of him until your body gives in.
He only lets go once youβve relaxed around him, once your whining has stopped and youβre making subtle movements of your hips, desperate to keep going now that the discomfort has subsidedβand he lets you.
You settle into a rhythm quickly, and Spencerβs even quicker to sink into the mattress, letting his hands roam the plush of your thighs as you take the lead. Your name leaves his lips in a whisper, and you swear the sound is more intoxicating, more addicting than any drug out there. His touch, his voice, the little hitches in his breath every time you roll your hipsβitβs enough to drive you fucking crazy.
And when he meets your gaze, you almost come undone on the spot. Because what you find plastered across his pretty face isΒ worship.Β The kind you can make out even in the dark; broken, but perfect.
Is this something youβre taking, or something heβs giving? Is there a difference? If there is, does it even matter?
His thumb brushes your clit, and your thoughts turn to static. Debating the ethical nuances of such a sinful relationship becomes difficult when youβre like this. Pleasure is pleasure, no matter how rotten.
Spencer could be your sacrificial lamb, the moth to your cursed flame, or just a sick flagellantβyou donβt care.Β Β Not when heβs beneath you, biting back moans and telling you just howΒ goodΒ you are at taking his cock, acting as the votary to your twisted godhead.
Tension builds in your core, compounded by the attention on your clit. The effortless workings of his hands have you inching closer and closer to the edge, and he isnβt even looking at what heβs doing. Heβs watching your face, transfixed. His hand, so perfectly tuned to the needs of your body, is the last thing on his mind; pleasing you is second nature. Like breathing, it doesnβt require thought.
Curses tumble from your lips as your hips stutter. You reach for the headboard to steady yourself, but as soon as you lean forward Spencerβs bending a knee, setting his foot on the bed so he can thrust up into you at a faster, harder pace. His hands grasp your hips, press indents into your skin that are bound to leave a mark, and hold you in place as he fucks you.
Youβve no choice but to surrender yourself, at that point. Back arched, both hands on the headboard, head thrown back as static crackles in your veins, mounts to something that is so dangerously close to catching fire.
ββ¦βm closeββ
Spencer mumbles something the same time you do. Equally as breathless. Words laced with an equally depraved amount of need. Heβs echoing the sentiment, fingernails cutting into your skin as his leg starts to tremble.
You come undone first. The orgasm hits your hard, and you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound as you come on his cock. Spencer groans as your cunt clenches around him, hugging his length tighter with each thrust as he fucks you through your release, and his follows close behind.
In the breathless space between moments, your mind moves slower than your body. You allow yourself to collapse on top of him, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you try to tame your ragged breathing. And he lets you.
His hand cups the back of your head. The other rests on the small of your back. He keeps you close. Presses his nose to your hair, lips following shortly after.Β
Seconds pass before you finally gather the strength to raise your head, to check if heβs lost his mind, but Spencerβs face betrays nothing. His brows are set in his usual frown, but the dark softens his features, and you can infer warmth where there shouldn't be any.
"Do you, umβ" You clear your throat, lips curling into that signature sly smile. "Do you want my key, or should I keep it? Save it for a rainy dayβ"
You hiss as spencer pushes you off him. Instead of complaining, you curl up at his side, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest before he decides itβs time to get up. He doesn't answer your question, and you don't push him to.
He rises to his feet, takes care of the condom, the wrapperβany evidence of what just happened. You think he's going to take care ofΒ you,Β too; drag you out of his bed, throw you out on the street, but he doesn't.Β
He glances back at you as he picks your panties up from his floor. He tosses them to you, but not without asking, in a quiet tone, "Are you going home?"
The question gives you pause. It's the inflection, the way his words are weaved to obstruct something else, spoken with a stiffness he knows you'll pick up on.
You narrow your eyes, tilting your head to one side. "Do youΒ wantΒ me to go home?"
He grabs his pyjama pants, ignores another loaded question. Because the day Spencer Reid is ever open with you will be the day Hell freezes over.
"There's nothing to do here," you add, seeing right through his silence. "Iβm not gonna be able to sleep just because you fucked me. Youβ"
"I know, butβ"
"βaren'tΒ thatΒ good."
Spencer still doesn't share in your humour, despite how much time you've spent together. He'll break every rule, bend every moral, but he'll never laugh at your jokes. He doesn't even crack a smile, just sighs and pulls his pants on.
"I was going to suggest you read a book," he says, voice flat.
He gets back into bed without another word. Faces away from you. Holds his breath in the silence that follows.
He wants you to stay.
"β¦okay," you answer, quietly. "Iβll goβ¦peruse your reading material."
All he gives you in response is a low hum.
β
Spencer wakes hours later to the sun streaming through his blinds, head resting on something that isnβt a pillow; pillows donβt have heartbeats.Β
His arm is draped over your waist, fingers loosely curled into the fabric of your nightgown the same way yours are curled into his hair.Β
Memories return in quick succession, each one adding to the discomfort simmering in his stomach, visceral. His skin crawls at the thought of you spending the night.
So, he raises his head. In the light of day, he sees you clearly: the book lying open across your face, shielding your eyes; your slow, deep breathing; your arm lying limp at your side.
The world goes quiet. He blinks, and the discomfort fades into a memory, the way it always does.
He brings his head back down to rest against your chest, and he closes his eyes.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch β’ No registration required β’ HD streaming