⋆lou⋆

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It's been a long time coming

Luke never planned to enlist. 

He was twenty-two when his older brother, Ben, was killed overseas. It gutted his family– especially his mother, who never forgave the world for it. Luke always was the quiet one, couldn't sit still in that kind of grief. Couldn’t just watch it happen again. So one night, after a fight with his father about “doing something with his life,” he signed up. No discussion. No goodbye. Just did it. 

At first, it was about honour, proving something and escaping everything familiar. But it became more than that. He got good at it. Too good. Long tours. Extended deployments. Classified assignments. The kind that leaves you coming home with scars no one can see. 

While he was gone, he only wrote to one person: You. Short messages, vague sentences. Sometimes weeks if not months apart, but every word was intentional when it came to Luke Hemmings. Every "I'm still breathing” meant “I need you to wait.”

He didn’t come back for the holidays. He didn’t take leave. No one knew when– or if– he’d return. Some people thought he liked the distance. 

The truth is, he didn’t come back because he was afraid he wouldn’t be the same man you remembered. 

Not soft enough. Not gentle anymore. Because out there, being hard kept you alive. And the only softness he allowed himself was the thought of your hands, your voice, your bed. 

The knock came just after midnight. 

Three slow, deliberate thuds that echo through your house like a threat or a promise– you can’t tell which. The kind of knock that doesn't belong to a stranger. The kind that drags something out of you that you’d buried long ago. 

You freeze in the hallway, wine glass half-drunk, and still warm in your hand. There's a movie paused on the screen behind you. Your blanket’s pooled on the couch. The city outside your window hums low and endless. 

But inside, it’s quiet. 

Too quiet. 

You weren’t expecting anyone. You don’t expect much of anything anymore. Not since he left. 

And for a moment, you don’t move. You just stare at the door like it might disappear. Like maybe your imagination had finally broken free from grief and made something solid. 

But the knock stays, still and waiting. 

You walk to the door in slow steps. Bare feet against cold wood floors. Your fingers tremble slightly against the lock as you unlatch it, twisting the knob like it might bite back. 

You open it with your breath caught halfway up your through, heart pounding against your chest, ears ringing. 

And there he is. 

Luke. 

Luke Hemmings. In the flesh. Standing on your front porch like some ghost your body never stopped missing, never stopped aching for, even when your mind tried to forget. 

The hallway light spills over him in fragments– bright against the wet sheen of his combat jacket, glinting off the brass of the dog tags resting against his chest. He is soaked to the bone, rain plastering dark curls to his forehead. His boots caked in mud. His military-issued duffel hangs heavy at his side, like he didn’t stop moving the second they let him go. 

He looked bigger. Broader. His shoulders strain against the seams of the jacket, his forearms thick and veined beneath the rolled up sleeves. There's a scar across his jaw that wasn't there before, faded but real. His face is harder, cut sharper by time and absence. 

It’s his eyes that do it. 

Those blue eyes- icy and infinite– lock onto yours with so much intensity you can feel it deep in your bones. They look over you like he’s starving. Like you’re water after a year in the desert. Like he can’t believe you're real. 

And then something shifts– his mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to say your name, and your wine glass slips from your hand. 

It falls in slow motion, hitting the hard wood with a soft clink, not quite shattering but rolling under the side table like it doesn’t matter. 

Because it doesn’t. 

Nothing does. 

He steps forward, slow and purposeful, as if you’re a threshold he’s finally allowed to cross. You feel the heat of him before he even touches you– his breath, his tension, the electricity coiled in his frame like a wire pulled too tight. 

And then he grabs you. 

His hands are rough, calloused, familiar– wrapping around your waist and lifting you like you weigh nothing. A reflex. A need. Like his body remembered you even when the rest of him forgot how to be gentle. 

You gasp. Your legs wrap around his hips without thinking, hands flying to his shoulders, clutching onto the soaked fabric and the impossible reality of him. 

His breath hits your ear, ragged and wet with the rain and want. It’s a sound you’d only heard in your dreams. Or maybe nightmares.

“I couldn’t wait another second,” he said, voice like gravel and thunder. Raw. Low. Shaking. 

He smelt like petrichor, sweat, and something metallic– faint like iron. His arms are banded tight around your back, the muscles in his shoulders shifting under your palms. You feel everything. The sheer strength of him, carved from months of survival. His grip doesn’t falter. Not once. He holds you like you’re the only soft thing he’s been allowed to touch in a long, long time. 

You pull back just enough to see his face. 

Close up, he looks even more unreal. There's a deep shadow under his eyes, like sleep’s been more of a myth than a fact. His stubble grazes your cheek. His lips are chapped. And his eyes– God, those eyes– they look like they’re memorizing you all over again. 

Neither of you says anything for a moment, you just look. Breathe. Try not to break. 

Your hand lifts to touch his jaw, fingers trembling. You don’t know if you’re checking if he’s real or holding him together. Maybe both. 

“Is it really you?” you whisper.

He nods once. Swallows hard. “It’s me, baby. I’m here.” 

The word ‘baby’ hits like a match to dry wood. You bury your face in his neck and inhale. Rainwater. Skin. Him. 

He’s shaking. Just a little. But you can feel it. 

“I didn’t think–” you start, but the rest gets strangled by emotion. By the terror you never named. That he’d never come back. That the silence would be permanent. That you’d grieve something without a funeral. 

His arms tighten. 

“I know.” His voice cracks. “I know, I’m sorry.” 

And suddenly, it's not enough to hold him. You need to feel. You need his skin, his weight, his mouth on yours. You need the space between you obliterated. 

You grab his face and kiss him– desperate, messy, trembling. It’s not clean or sweet. It’s years of silence and distance and every unsent letter. His hands slip beneath your thighs, lifting you higher, adjusting his grip without missing a beat. You can feel the veins in his forearms against the skin of your thighs, the flex of strength earned the hard way. 

When he groans into your mouth, it’s low and broken, like it's costing him something to not fall apart. 

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. 

“I thought about this. Every goddamn night,” he murmurs. “You. Your voice, your hands, our bed.” 

Your breath hitches. “You should’ve come home.” 

“I didn’t think I'd be the same man you left,” he says. “Didn’t think you’d want this version of me.” 

Your fingers tighten on his back. “I want whatever version made it back to me.” 

That does him in.

The door slams shut with a booted kick, and his duffle bag hits the floor like an afterthought. 

His fingers dig into your thighs as he walks you against the wall– his grip not gentle, but grounding. His palm slides over the small of your back like he needs to memorize every inch of you again, as though memory alone won’t be enough next time he’s taken from you. Luke squeezes once at your hip– too firm, almost bruising. You don’t flinch, you don't want him to let up. 

Your mouth opens– maybe to say his name, maybe to ask again if he’s real– but you never get the chance. He captures your mouth with his like a man possessed, kissing you round and deep and desperate. It's not careful or coordinated– it's gasping and teeth-clashing and too much all at once. His tongue slides against yours like he’s trying to devour the time lost between you. 

It's not the kiss of a man returning home. 

It's the kiss of a man who barely survived the distance. 

You whimper into it, hand scrambling at his shoulders, his jacket, anything you could clutch onto. But he won’t let you rush. One of his hands slides to cup your face– one hand, large enough to cradle your entire jaw, the back of your neck and the edge of your cheek all at once. The other grips your hip tighter, anchoring you in place like the wall behind you is suddenly optional. 

His biceps flex, hard, and unrelenting. As he pushes you back against the hallway wall. You feel the pressure of him in every place your bodies touch– thighs, chest, mouth, breath. The wall is cool against your spine, but his heat is everywhere else. Drowning you. 

“Fuck,” he mutteres against your lips, forehead pressing into yours. His voice is ragged. “You’re still the only thing that feels right.” 

You shiver in response. Now tugging at his shirt, clutching the soaked fabric, trying to peel it up to get closer. You need to feel skin. Need to get your hands on the body beneath the uniform, to make sure he’s still solid, still warm, still here. 

But he stops you. 

He leans back an inch, just enough to breath you in, thumb tracing your cheekbone. 

“I thought about this,” he says, his voice lower now, like a confession. “Every night. Thought about your hands on me. Thought about that mouth of yours. Thought about fucking you so hard you’d forget how long I was gone.” 

Your breath catches. His thumb moves down brushing the edge of your bottom lip. 

You can't speak, you just nod. Every part of you is already reaching for him, already unraveling.

He smirks– but it’s a cruel, aching thing. There is no softness to him now. Only need. Raw and razor-sharp. 

You don’t make it to the bedroom.

And he carries you like a soldier carrying important cargo. 

He sets you down on the edge of the counter with a low grunt. The marble is cold beneath your thighs, but the heat of him burns away the chill the moment he steps between your legs. 

He doesn’t ask before parting them– his hips shove them open and keep them there, his presence pinning you just as much as his hands. One arm snakes around your waist the other slides up– his palm wrapping around your throat in a grip that isn’t choking, but commanding. Controlling. Like he’s daring you to move. Like he knows you won’t. 

His thumb rests at your pulse point. 

“You wore this little shirt for me?” he mutters against your skin, his nose brushing along your cheek, his breath hot against your ear. “You want me to ruin it?” 

Your voice is a whisper. “Take it off.” 

His eyes flash, pupils dark and dilated. His fingers tighten slightly around your throat. 

“No,” he says, low and deliberate. “I want to tear it.” 

And he does. 

With one sharp tug, the thin fabric of your t-shirt splits like it's nothing. It falls open over your chest like a wound, exposing bare skin to cool air and the heat of his gaze. You gasp, stunned, but he doesn’t pause to admire. His mouth is already there– finding your collarbone, your throat ,and then the swell of your breasts. Biting, sucking, devouring like a man who’s forgotten what tenderness feels like. 

Your head falls back with a cry, hands threading into his curls, still damp from the rain. You feel his teeth graze your skin, followed by his tongue. He marks you like he’s reclaiming property. 

“Been dreaming about this,” he growls, breath hot as his hands slide up your ribs. “About these tits. About how you’d moan when I did this–” 

Luke pinches one nipple, hard, and you yelp, thighs clenching around his waist. He grins into the kiss crashing against your mouth– filthy, wet and full of teeth. 

You reach down for his belt, trembling fingers fumbling with the buckle, but before you get the chance to undo it, he grabs both your wrists and yanks them above your head– slamming them against the cabinets behind you with a force that makes your breath catch. 

One hand. That’s all it takes. Just one of his massive, battle-worn hands to hold you completely still. His strength is devastating. 

He looks up at you through dark lashes, jaw tight, “You still think I’m the same boy who left?” 

You don’t answer. Can’t. 

The other hand drops between your thighs. Pressing against your core to find how wet you already are. 

He growls, like actually growls. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice guttural and full of reverence. “Still mine. Even after all this time.” 

You arch against him, helpless, panting. He keeps your wrists pinned, fingers bruising your skin, and pushes your thong to the side– running two long fingers against your center, slow and heavy. 

You’re trembling now. Whimpering. Needing. 

“Say it,” He orders, leaning in. “Say you’re mine. 

“I’m yours,” you mumble, not trusting yourself to speak any louder. 

“Louder.” He grunts. 

“I’m yours Luke, only yours.” You repeat louder than the first time. 

He smirks again, that same hard twist of his mouth. His hand between your legs curls, sinking in. 

“Damn right you are.” 

You don’t remember how you made it out of the kitchen. 

One second, his hand was between your legs, and the next your weightless. Slung over his shoulder like a ragdoll. His arm is locked tight around the backs of your thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. You squirm, breath hitching as the countertop disappears behind you, replaced by the steady thud of his steps down the hallway. 

“Put me down,” you manage, through it comes out more like a moan. 

He smacks your ass. Sharp. Possessive. “Not a fucking chance.” 

The bedroom door crashes open. He tosses you onto the bed like you weigh nothing, and your body bounces against the mattress in a tangle of limbs and ruined clothing. He stands at the foot of the bed, chest heaving fingers at the hem of his shirt, pulling it off in one brutal motion. 

And– fuck. 

You forget how to breathe. 

His arms are massive now. Bigger than before. Ropey with veins and thick muscle like he spent every day in the gym trying to exorcise you out of his body. There’s a fresh scar carved across his left shoulder, and new tattoos inked down his arms– black and angry, still healing. His stomach is tight, every muscle cuts deep beneath his skin, but it's his arms that undo you. Those arms that once held you together, and just as easily tore you apart. 

You must’ve been staring, because he smirks. A sharp, dark thing. 

“You’re staring” 

“You’re huge,” You breathe out in response. 

“Come here” Luke speaks, slow and dangerous. 

He doesn't ask. 

Just grips your jaw and drops his voice “On your knees.” 

You obey before your brain even catches up, knees hitting the rug with your thighs spread and your palms resting on them like you’ve done this a thousand times. You haven’t. Not like this. Not with him looking down at you like you’re not even real. 

He stands over you, shirt discarded, jeans undone but still on, hanging low enough to tease you with every inch he hasn’t given you yet. His cock is already hard, straining against the zipper of his pants. He tugs his pants and boxers down in one swift motion letting them pool around his feet not bothered to rid them too preoccupied on the scene before him. 

His cock pops out, flushed, veined, twitching against his stomach. When he strokes himself, it’s slow– taunting– and his eyes never leave yours. 

“Open your mouth.” 

You do. 

His thumb drags across your lower lip at first, smearing it with pre-cum before slipping it inside. You suck without being told. He watches your mouth wrap around his thumb, jaw flexing as he exhales through his nose. Then he steps closer, taking his thumb out of your mouth, and replaces it with the tip of his cock, rubbing it along your tongue, over your lips, your teeth. 

“God, look at you,” he mumbles more to himself than anything. “Fucking perfect like this.” 

Then he pushes in–slow and thick– and your lips stretch wide around him, throat already working to take more. He’s too big to be polite. The first thrust makes your eyes water, makes you gag a little, but you don’t stop. He doesn’t stop. One hand finds the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, anchoring you as he starts to fuck your mouth like he owns it. 

“Take it,” he growls. “You wanted this– so fucking take it.” 

Tears spill down your cheeks, spit sliding down your chin, and still you stay there, kneeling, letting him use your mouth until your jaw aches and your thighs tremble. 

When he pulls out there’s a sharp pop and a string of spit connecting you, your lips red and swollen. You’re breathless. Wrecked already and you’ve only just begun. 

“Get on the bed” 

You scramble back, climbing onto the mattress on shaky limbs, trying to sit up straight. He kicks his pants off then follows you up like a storm. Like a man possessed. 

He climbs onto the bed as if he’s hunting you, knees sinking into the mattress, hands already on you. Kneeling above you, looking down with that damn smirk plastered across his face that hasn’t left since you first saw him. One hand wraps around your jaw again, the other raises to your face, the fingers that were inside you earlier pressing against your abused lips making you taste yourself. 

“Thought you’d have more in you after not seeing me for so long, but you’re already ruined.” he says, voice thick with lust. 

You shake your head no, swallowing against his fingers, trying to silently prove to him you had more in you. 

His laugh is slow and sharp, almost mocking. “Then spread your legs.” 

You do. Without hesitation. And he moves between them like he belongs there. He does. 

One hand grips your thigh, yanking it higher until your hips are tilted, exposed. He leans in and spits on your pussy– hot, dirty, primal. Then takes his fingers out of your mouth and uses them to spread it over your folds, thumb flicking your clit once, then twice, just to make you jump. 

“You’re dripping,” he mutters. “You liked choking on my cock that much?” 

You whimper, fingers digging into the sheets. “I liked everything.” 

That earns a sound from deep in his chest– a dark, broken groan. He grips your throat harder, not choking, just holding, grounding you and lines himself up with your entrance. His cock is heavy and hard against your folds, dragging slowly against your core to tease you before he finally– finally– presses in. 

It’s not gentle. 

It’s not sweet. 

It’s a stretch that burns, a push that makes your back arch and your mouth open in a silent cry. He fills you in one long, brutal thrust, bottoming out with a hiss between his teeth. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight.” he grits. 

You’re panting, trembling, nails clawing at his shoulders. You can feel him everywhere– too deep, too thick, brushing spots inside you that make your vision go white around the edges. 

“Shh,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your ear. “Let me feel you. Let me feel you take it.”

Then he starts to move. 

Every thrust is filthy. Hard. Persice. Like he knows exactly how to pull you apart. The bed slams into the wall with every snap of his hips. You’re moaning shamelessly now, high and desperate, each sound ripped from your throat. 

“You missed this,” he pants, words ragged. “Missed being split open on my cock. Like you're mine.” 

“I am,” You gasp. “I always was.” 

He snarls against your skin, grabbing your hips with both hands, slamming into you with ruthless, brutal precision. The room shakes. Your cries echo off the walls, half-broken sobs, breathless pleas. Your legs wrap around his waist, anchoring him in place even as your body threatens to shatter. 

He bites your shoulder hard enough to leave marks. Marks he wants there. Marks that say you're his. 

Your orgasm slams into you like violence– no warning, no build. It crashes through you like a wave, wrecking in its path. You scream, nails digging bloody lines into his back as your body convulses around him. 

But he doesn’t stop. 

He grinds through your orgasm, dragging it out, making you feel every goddamn second of it until you're writhing, twitching, trying to pull away– but he won't let you. 

“Take it,” he growls. “You said you could. So fucking take it.” 

He flips you without warning– ruthless- and drags you to the edge of the bed, ass up, chest pressed pressed into the mattress, hand fisted in the sheets. His hand cracks down on your ass once, then again, the sting blooming across your skin. 

You cry out, half from shock, half from how fucking good it feels. 

Then he’s slamming into you from behind, deeper than before, one hand around your throat again, the other on your hip, dragging you back onto every thrust. The sound of it is obscene– skin against skin, your breathless cries, his groans like thunder in your ear. 

When he comes, it’s with a growl, low and animal like. He buries himself and stays there, body shaking, flooding you with his cum as his rhythm finally breaks. He curses, loud and wrecked and collapses over your back, biting into the skin between your neck and shoulder. 

Even then, he doesn’t let go. 

He stays inside you, panting–letting out a low whine– one hand wrapped in your hair, the other splayed over your ribs like he’s to keep you there. His chest slick against your spine. 

Your name falls from his mouth like a mantra. Like he’s never letting go again.

You’re still catching your breath, the air thick with heat and sweat and the echo of everything he just did to you. 

Luke lies next to you, his body half draped over yours like he doesn’t trust the world enough to let you go, even for a second. One of his hands draws slow grounding circles across your back. The other is curled under your head, fingers tangled loosely in your hair like he’s still bracing to lose you. 

You shift towards him brushing a damp curl off his forehead. He’s beautiful like this– raw, unguarded, chest still rising and falling. 

He swallows hard, before speaking. “I didn’t think I’d make it back.” 

Your heart thuds at the honesty in his voice. You press your palm into his chest, right over the place you know his heart is thundering too. “Why didn’t you write more?” 

Luke’s eyes flicked up to your’s– wary, a little hallowed out. “Because if I did…I would’ve come back too early. And I wasn’t sure you’d still want me.”

You stare at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

His gaze drops to where your fingers are now tracing along the veins in his forearm. “I didn’t know if you’d want me like this. Hard. Mean. Always ready to break something.” 

You shift on your side, cupping his jaw. “You’re still you.” 

His mouth tightens, like he doesn’t quite believe you. “You don’t know the shit I was carrying around there. The kind of rage I felt. The noise in my head. It didn’t stop until I saw you again.” 

You kiss the inside of his wrist, slow and deliberate. “You came back.” 

He leans in then, kisses you– soft at first, then with the kind of need that’s all consuming. 

But this time you pull away just enough to guide him to his back. You don’t rush. You climb over him, straddling his thighs, trailing your fingers across his chest like you’re mapping him. 

He watches you in silence, jaw tense, as you lower your mouth to the scar just below his ribcage. You kiss it gently, then move to another– faded bruises, old cuts, places he’d been hurt and hardened. 

He flinches once, barely noticeable, when you graze a fresh mark near his hipbone. 

“You don’t have to–” he starts, but you shut him up with your mouth. First with your lips on the scar, then your tongue tracing the curve of his ribs. It’s reverent. Worshipful. 

“You’re not broken,” you murmur into his skin. “Not to me.”

Luke breaths in sharply, his hand fisting the sheets at his side. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You shift your hips against him slowly, grinding just enough to make him twitch beneath you, “I think I do.”

You take your time– sliding down, wrapping your hand around him. You watch him fall apart piece by piece, his head tilting back, throat exposed, hands flexing uselessly like he’s fighting every instinct to not flip you over and take control again. 

And for a while, he lets you. You guide him inside you with the ease of someone who knows him intimately– every angle, every tell. You ride him slow, anchoring your hands on his chest, your eyes never leaving his. 

His hands finally come up to your hips, grip tightening when you circle them just right. You moan quietly at the pressure, the stretch, the intimacy of being close again after so long– of him being all the way inside of you, held in that still aching place just before it comes too much. 

You lean down, your mouth near his ear. “Let me have you like this.”

“Fuck,” he groans, voice cracking at the edges. 

For a few minutes, it’s yours. All of him. His restraint, his focus, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made him feel quiet inside. 

But then something shifts. 

It happens in the way his hips suddenly thrust up into you, harder. In the sound he makes when you drag your nails down his chest. In the way his grip turns possessive. 

And then he breaks. 

He flips you before you can blink– body caging yours, his hands framing your face. 

“Enough,” he mutters, voice dark and filled with lust again. “You think you can kiss all my scars and take control like that and I’m just gonna lie there?” 

You smile– just a little. “It was working.” 

“Yeah. That’s the fucking problem” 

He kisses you hard then, tongue sweeping into your mouth as he thrusts into you again, deeper this time but not as brutal as before. It’s slower. Drawn out. Like he’s trying to undo everything he’s been carrying. 

Luke lifts one of your legs onto his shoulder hugging your thigh. Letting him bury his frustration, his need, his longing in every motion. Every time he bottoms out inside you, you feel the truth of it in your chest– that this is more than just sex. It’s everything he couldn’t say. Everything he couldn’t write down. 

“Say it again,” He whispers, kissing your ankle. 

You blink up at him. “Say what?” 

“That I’m not broken.” 

“You’re not. You never were.” 

He moves the leg off his shoulder, leaning over you pressing his forehead to yours, still moving inside you. “You were the only thing that felt real while I was gone.” 

Your eyes sting, emotions caught in your throat. “I waited. I would’ve waited longer.”

He groans– like that undoes him more than anything else. His thrusts grow uneven more desperate, like he’s chasing something he’s terrified of losing again. 

You tighten around him, your own climax approaching like a wave threatening to crest and crash all at once. Your breath stutters. He notices. His hand finds yours and laces your fingers together, grounding you through it. 

“Let go,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “I’ve got you.” 

And you do. You shattered beneath him with a broken gasp, body arching, clenching around him as pleasure bursts behind your eyes and sets your nerves on fire. 

The feeling of you coming apart around him is what pushes him over the edge. He curses into your neck, voice cracking as he thrusts once, twice more and then he’s spilling into you, head buried into your shoulder like can’t bear the distance of air between you. 

He doesn’t pull out right away. 

Instead, he collapses halfway onto you, holding you like the world might take you again. Like he’s not willing to risk a single inch of space. 

Eventually you shift so that he’s sitting up against the headboard, and you curl into his lap, your knees tucked beside his, your bodies still joined, his arms wound tight around your back. 

You ride him lazily like that— more swaying than thrusting, more holding than needing. Just chasing the afterglow of closeness, both of you worn thin and wide open. 

Your bodies move in a slow rhythm again, tender and quiet. His hands never stop touching you– your waist, your back, the line of your spine. You feel him starting to harden again inside you, but it’s different this time. Less desperation, more devotion. 

When you come again, it’s silent. Just a long exhale and a quiet, involuntary tremble, your whole body softening against his. Luke follows soon after with a quiet whimper and breathy groan, one last thrust and then stillness. 

This time, he stays inside you even longer. 

Neither of you says anything for a while. 

You press your lips to the curve of his shoulder. “I missed you.” 

His grip tightens, thumb rubbing mindless shapes on your back. “I’ll never leave you again.” 

You believe him. 

Because this time he’s not hiding.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The elevator doors slid open to the kind of party that didn’t care about curfews or consequences. 

Sound hit first– bass so deep it shivered up my ribs, vibrating in the railings at my side. Then the heat, dense and humid, smelling of sweat, perfume, clove cigarettes and the unmistakable haze of weed smoke curling into the rafters. The penthouse sprawled out in front of me, open-plan and industrial, all steel beams and concrete softened by walls of glass. The city glittered beyond them like it was in on the secret. 

The lighting was low and gold, shadows moving over bodies pressed close together, talking too loudly over the music, laughing into each other's ears. Nothing about the space was still; it pulsed, a living thing made of heat and noise and bodies. 

I stepped inside slowly– not because I needed to, but because I wanted to. Every click of my heels against polished concrete was deliberate, sharp enough to slice through the murmur nearest me. I didn’t rush to disappear into the crowd. I let them look. The black dress clung like it had been made for me and me alone, short enough to provoke questions, thin enough to answer them. The straps dug lightly into my shoulders, a physical reminder of how little I’d left to the imagination. 

Under it all, I knew exactly why I was here. 

It didn’t take me long to find the first one. 

Michael saw me before I saw him– at least, that’s what it felt like. He was leaning against a steel pillar on the far side of the room, half in shadow, one tattooed hand bent lazily around a glass, the other hand buried in the pocket of black pants. His platinum hair caught the dim light in flashes, dark pieces stark against the pale. 

Even in the noise and chaos, he seemed untouchable, like the room bent itself to his rhythm instead of the other way around. His head tilted slightly, eyes raking slow from the sharp point of my heels to the bare line of my legs, over the hem of my dress, lingering at my mouth. 

Then that smile came– slow, wolfish, not the kind that said hello. The kind that said you already know. 

I didn’t go to him. Not yet. 

Instead, my gaze drifted past, through the haze and countless bodies, until I found Luke. 

Luke was at the far side of the bar, leaning his hip to the counter like it had been built for him. He wore a loose black button up that hung open just enough to tease at the glint of a chain against his skin. Boots on, silver rings flashed as he took the blunt from whoever had just passed it. His curls fell into his face, catching the low light and when he laughed at something someone said, it was loose, unguarded. 

Then, as though the air between us shifted, his head lifted. Our eyes caught across the distance, and that grin– slower, lazier– curled over his mouth. The dimple appeared the one that promised softness but never meant it.

He didn’t move right away. Just took another drag, held it, let me feel his stare like the weight of a hand at the back of my neck. 

Michael didn’t wait. He pushed off the pillar with a subtle roll of his shoulders, cutting a path through the crowd without so much as brushing someone's drink. People stepped aside without looking, without knowing why they did. 

The closer he got, the more I felt it– his presence tightening around me like a leash I hadn’t seen him attach.

“You wore that for us?” His voice was low enough to thread under the music, rough enough to make my stomach tighten. 

I opened my mouth, but he didn’t wait for an answer. The back of his fingers skimmed up the back of my thigh, slow and certain, tracing the bare skin under the hem. His knuckles caught the edge of the mesh, lifted it just barely. His eyes darkened when he confirmed what he’d suspected. “Fuck– no panties?” 

The heat climbed my spine like a hand. I kept my chin high, though, meeting his gaze like the question was rhetorical. His smirk told me that was the right move. 

Behind him, Luke was moving now– slow and intentional, weaving through the bodies without ever taking his eyes off me. His gaze didn’t waver when he passed the last of the crowd; it stayed locked on mine like the rest of the room was just noise. 

By the time he reached us, Michael’s hand was heavy at my hip, keeping me turned toward him. Luke’s eyes swept over me once, unapologetically, before he lifted the blunt between two fingers in an unspoken offer. 

I reached for it, but his hand caught my jaw instead– hand spanning both sides of my face. His thumb tapped once under my chin– open. I listened. 

I watched him take a long drag, his chest rising as he inhaled the smoke. Then he leaned in slow, warm smoke curling into my mouth. His lips brushed mine just long enough to taste him, the burn in my lungs blooming into something hotter. 

“You taste like smoke,” he murmured. “and trouble.” 

Michaels grip shifted, drawing me back against him until the hard line of his body was flush with mine. His mouth brushed my ear. “Should’ve saved me some of that.” His tone made it unclear whether he meant the blunt or the kiss. Probably both. 

Luke’s fingers, still curled at my jaw, keeping me where he wanted me. His mouth ticked into that not-smile. “You’re already wet, aren’t you?” 

Michael’s hand left my hip, sliding down over my stomach, lower still, pressing through the thin fabric until I could feel the heat of his palm between my thighs. 

“Say it,” Michael ordered. “Say you’re wet just from seeing us.” 

My heart was hammering in my throat, the music a dull roar compared to the sharpness of his voice. “I’m wet.” 

Michael’s grin sharpened. “Good girl.” 

Luke’s lips brushed my jaw, while Michael’s hand curled over my ass through the mesh. People moved around us without noticing– or maybe they did, but no one dared to interrupt. 

Michael didn’t ask, he caught my hand and threaded his fingers through mine, turning toward the far side of the room. Luke fell into step on my other side, his palm steady at the small of my back. Between them, the crowd parted without a word. 

No one stopped us. 

Upstairs, the bass was muffled, the air less crowded. Light pooled softer here, shadows long and warm. I’d barely taken in the change when Luke caught my wrist and guided me toward a low couch half-hidden in the corner. 

“Sit.” His tone didn’t need to be sharp– it just was. I sat. 

He dropped beside me, loose-limed, knees spread, the blunt still burning faintly between his fingers. He took a slow drag without breaking eye contact, then leaned in again. His thumb brushed my lower lip before he sealed his mouth over mine and pushed the smoke into me again. 

I inhaled because I had to– not with his hand firm at the back of my neck. My lungs burned, my head spun, and when he pulled back, his lips stayed close enough I could feel his breath.

Michael appeared in front of the couch, setting his glass down on the coffee table in front of us with a dull clink. He doesn’t sit. He stood over me, looking down with a kind of gaze that stripped away the heels, dress and everything but the way I was breathing for them.

“Up.” 

I rose, the movement slow and deliberate. 

Luke stayed where he was, but his hand slid up to the back of my thigh, curling high enough to make my breath catch. Michael’s eyes flicked down to watch it– Luke’s rings against my bare skin– before meeting his bandmates' gaze with something unreadable. 

The air between them wasn’t just easy. It was calculated. 

It wasn’t two men circling each other for space. It was two men closing in– together– until there was nowhere left for me to go. 

Michael didn’t break eye contact when he finally moved. His hand found mine, fingers slotting between my one with an ease that felt intentional, and tugged me towards the far side of the room. Luke’s palm pressed to the small of my back, not pushing, just there— a quiet reminder that I was being steered, not walking under my own lead.  

When Michael reached the sliding glass door, he didn’t hesitate. The Los Angeles night air rolled in cool and sharp, wrapping around bare skin as he pulled me outside. The balcony stretched wide, the railing nothing but glass and steel, the city sprawling out in gold and white below us. The music inside dulled to a bass heartbeat, but it was still enough to hum through the floor underneath my heels. 

Michael positioned himself behind me, placing both of his hands on my hips as he rested against the balcony railing, the city lights framing him. Luke came up in front, a subtle wall of heat at my front. 

“Turn around” Michael said lowly, it wasn’t a request. 

I did, slow enough to feel Luke shift from behind me now. His body didn’t press, not yet, but I could feel the weight of his gaze at my temple. 

The steel was cool under my palms, the glass smooth beneath my fingers as I grabbed onto the railing, arms stretched around Michael. My reflection shimmered faintly against the cityscape– Luke behind me, Michael in front, both of them watching. 

Luke’s hands slid up my arms from behind, slow and steady, until his fingers wrapped around my wrists, adjusting my grip on the rail like he was correcting a stance. His mouth was close enough that his breath tickled the shell of my ear. 

“Don’t let go.” he murmured. 

Michael’s eyes tracked the movement, his mouth curling– not a smile but something sharper. He stepped forward, into my space, hands brushing the hem of my dress. 

“Cold?” he asked, fingertips grazing my thigh. 

“No,” I said, but my voice was softer than I meant it to be. 

Luke’s thumb stroked lazily over my waist. “She’s warm.” he said to Michael, as if testing something between them. 

Michael’s gaze lifted to Luke’s. “Not warm enough.” 

His fingers trailed up the inside of my leg, not rushing, skimming just high enough to make my stomach tighten before drawing them back down again. Every pass was unhurried, deliberate a slow drag of anticipation that was worse than contact. 

Luke shifted behind me, his chest brushing my back now. “Eyes on him,” he said, and I did.

Michael’s gaze was steady, reading me like he’d done this before– like he could map the whole of me just by watching the way my breath changed. He leaned in slightly, his hand settling at my hip, thumb brushing over the fabric of my dress. 

Luke’s hand left my waist to curl under my chin, tilting my head just enough that his lips brushed my jaw. He didn’t kiss, just hovered, letting me feel how close he was. 

Michael’s hand tightened my hip. “We could keep you out here all night,” he said, the city and the party and the world still spinning behind him. “Make you beg to be let back in.” 

Luke’s low hum against my skin made the hair on my neck rise. “She’d beg.” 

Michael’s mouth twitched. “Not yet.” 

He stepped closer, so the space between us was nothing but air and tension, and let his fingers trail under the hem of my dress again– high enough to promise, low enough to deny. 

Luke’s grip under my chin tipped my head back against his shoulder, his breath slow, measured. “Stay still for him,” he murmured.

The wind picked up, cool against my flushed skin. Every nerve felt strung tight between the two of them. One in front, one behind, both of them in control and neither of them giving me what I wanted. 

The wind caught the hem of my dress again, lifting it just enough for Michael’s gaze to drop. His eyes lingered, not in a lazy way, but like he was cataloging exactly how little I had left to give before I’d have to start giving everything.

Luke’s fingers left my chin, trailing down the column of my throat, over the thin strap of my dress, and stopping just where my shoulder met my collarbone. He pressed his thumb there, a steady weight that felt more like a command than a touch.

“Don’t move,” he said quietly, though my body was already doing exactly what he wanted.

Michael tilted his head, watching my face more than my body now, like he could see the places Luke’s words landed. His hand slid higher on my thigh, not rushing—never rushing—until his knuckles brushed the bare edge of my hip. He stayed there, still, the cool metal of one of his rings biting lightly into my skin.

“Feels like you’re holding your breath,” he said.

I was.

Luke’s lips brushed my ear, the faintest contact. “Breathe,” he murmured, and it was as much an order as anything else.

Michael’s thumb began a slow stroke along the curve of my hip, an unhurried, maddening path that never quite reached where I needed it. He glanced past me at Luke. “She’s already straining to keep still.”

Luke’s breath caught faintly against my hair—amusement, maybe, or approval. “Let her.”

I couldn’t see his face, but I could feel his smirk in the way his hand slid over my shoulder and down my arm, fingers brushing the inside of my wrist until he found the railing. He wrapped his hand around mine, pinning it more firmly to the cool steel.

“You don’t let go until I say.”

Michael stepped closer until his chest was nearly against mine, his free hand braced beside me on the rail. His eyes didn’t leave mine, even as his other hand smoothed back down my thigh with a deliberate slowness.

“You’d tell us if you wanted to stop,” he said, tone even, but edged with something darker—like he was giving me the only out I’d get.

“Yes,” I said, my voice barely above the pulse of the bass from inside.

Luke’s palm flattened against my stomach from behind, the heel of his hand resting just above my navel, the weight of it grounding and inescapable. He didn’t move it, just let the heat of his skin bleed through the thin fabric.

Michael’s gaze flicked down once more, then back up to meet mine. “Good,” he said simply.

The city roared quiet beneath us, the party still alive behind the glass, but out here the world had shrunk to the feel of their hands and the spaces they chose to leave untouched.

Luke’s voice was a low thread against my ear. “You’re not ready to go back inside yet.”

Michael’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t a smile. “Not until she earns it.”

And between them, with the night wind cool on my skin and their heat closing in, I knew exactly how long they could keep me here.

Luke moved my hair, sweeping it over my shoulder and Michael caught a strand in his fingers before tucking it behind my ear. The move was deceptively gentle, belying the fact that his other hand was already sliding the hem of my dress higher. 

Luke’s palm stayed flat against my stomach, holding me steady against him. “Lift your chin.” He muttered and when I did, his mouth skimmed my jaw, the scrape of his rings grazing my skin as his fingers caught my throat– not squeezing just a firm reminder of where I belonged in this moment. 

Michael watched the way Luke handled me, his gaze sharpening. “Spread your feet.” 

My fingers tightened on the railing, but Luke’s grip covered mine, pressing them back into the steel until I obeyed. 

Michael’s hand slid  up the inside of my thigh until his knuckles brushed where I was already warm and slick. The look he gave me wasn't surprise– it was possession. 

“She’s ready,” he said over my shoulder to Luke, and I felt Luke’s low hum against my neck. 

Luke’s hand left my stomach to hook under my chin again, forcing my eyes back to Michael. “Don’t look away.” he warned, and the weight of it left no room for defiance. 

Michael’s touch grew firmer, fingers sliding against me, making my knees want to give in. Luke’s arm locked around my waist keeping me upright, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Say what you are.” 

“Wet.” I breathed, but Michael’s raised eyebrow told me that wasn’t enough. 

“For who?” Luke pressed.

My voice caught. “For you.” 

Michael’s smirk was faint. “And?” 

My stomach tightened. “For you.” 

Luke’s grip at my waist shifted lower, holding me in place while Michael’s pace changed, still unhurried, but with a precision that felt like he mapped out every nerve ending before even touching me. 

The city blurred behind him. My breath came sharp. Luke’s mouth stayed close, muttering low praise between orders: Stay still. Don’t close your eyes. Take it.

Michael’s free hand slid to my jaw, tilting my head until I was looking up at Luke fully. The closeness made my lips part, an instinct Luke took advantage of instantly– his mouth crashing into mine in a slow, commanding kiss while Michael’s fingers worked with maddening certainty below. 

Luke kissed like he meant to leave a claim behind, his tongue sweeping slow, his teeth catching my lower lip. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed the damp edge of my mouth. “She’s close.” 

I whined in response, confirming his words.

Michael’s answering hum was dark. “Not yet.” 

The denial hit harder than the touch. I gasped, but Michael’s hand at my jaw kept me facing Luke while he slowed to a near stop. 

“She doesn’t get to finish until we say,” Michael told Luke, but his eyes stayed locked on me. “Think she’ll understand that?” Michael asked, cocking his head mockingly at me. 

Luke’s smirk was lazy. “She’s smart. She’ll behave.” 

Michael eased his touch away entirely, leaving me trembling against both of them and the railing. The wind was cool again,  but every inch of me felt too hot, too aware. 

Luke’s lips brushed my temple. “Inside.” he said quietly, but it was Michael who took my hand and led the way, Luke following closely behind– heat at my back, the city at my heels, and no question in my mind that they weren’t finished with me yet. 

The rooftop air still clung to my skin — sharp with night wind, thick with whatever they’d just done to me. My pulse was still in my throat when Michael’s fingers wrapped around my wrist, pulling me back toward the glass doors.  Luke trailed close enough that his chest brushed my back, his voice a low, satisfied hum in my ear.

The hallway was quieter. Too quiet.

When the elevator doors slid open, Luke stepped in first, that lazy, predatory way he moved making the small space feel even smaller. I followed, Michael behind me, and the doors shut us in with a heavy thunk.

Luke leaned against the mirrored wall, one boot hooked over the other, gaze raking slowly over me like he had all the time in the world. His eyes caught mine in the reflection, and he crooked a finger.

“Here,” he said. Not loud — just enough to make it clear it wasn’t a request.

I stepped closer.

Michael shifted behind me so his hand rested at my hip, his body angled to block me from the buttons, from the door, from anywhere but where they wanted me.

Luke’s fingers found my chin, tilting my face up. “You’re still flushed,” he murmured, thumb brushing just under my bottom lip. “Couldn’t stand still up there, could you?”

Michael’s hand squeezed my hip, grounding me — or maybe keeping me still.

Luke didn’t touch anywhere else. Didn’t lean in. Just stood there, looking. The silence pressed in, broken only by the hum of the elevator. My breath was too loud in my own ears.

“You want us to keep going,” Luke said finally, voice low and amused. “But you’ll wait.”

I swallowed. “Why?”

His smirk deepened, like I’d asked the exact question he’d been waiting for. “Because I said so.”

The elevator dinged. Michael’s hand slid from my hip to my wrist, curling around it just tight enough to guide me forward.

The Uber ride was worse.

Luke took the passenger seat, leaving me in the back with Michael. The space was dim, the driver oblivious, and Michael wasted no time in pulling me back against him, one arm looped low around my waist.

I expected his hands to wander. They didn’t.

Instead, he laced his fingers through mine and pressed my hands down into my lap, holding them there like I was a flight risk. His breath ghosted the shell of my ear.

“You want to touch yourself,” he murmured, not even phrasing it like a question.

I felt my cheeks heat. “Maybe.”

“You do,” he said, voice a growl this time. “But you won’t. Not until we say.”

Up front, Luke chuckled under his breath without turning around. “She’s already squirming.”

Michael’s hold tightened. “I know.”

The rest of the ride was unbearable. Every bump in the road, every flicker of streetlight across Luke’s profile in the front seat, every shift of Michael’s thigh under mine — all of it a slow burn with nowhere to go.

By the time we pulled up to the curb, my pulse was hammering so loud I almost missed Luke’s soft, cruel promise as he opened the door.

“Inside,” he said. “Then we’ll see how patient you’ve been.”

The door closed behind us with a muted click, cutting the quiet hum of the city outside from the heavy, intoxicating scent inside Michael’s house. The leather couch was a dark, plush throne beneath me, the mirrored wall opposite fractured our reflection into shards– the three of us caught in their merciless gaze. Beyond that, the bedroom door waited open, sheets tousled and shadows pooling like a promise. 

Michael didn’t hesitate. His hands slid up under the hem of my dress, lifting it with deliberate slowness, exposing my thighs to the cool air and their hungry eyes. I swallowed, pulse fluttering in my throat as Luke lowered himself in front of me, his fingers trailing a feather light path along the sensitive skin of my inner thighs before parting me.

The first touch was gentle, teasing– the contrast to the fierce hunger in Michael’s breath hot against my neck as he sat beside me. Luke’s tongue flicked out suddenly, wet and precisely, pressing against my folds with a wetness that sent a shiver spiraling down my spine. 

“Taste her,” Luke’s voice was rough. 

Michael’s response was a guttural groan that vibrated against my skin. “Already fucking addicted.” 

I reached instinctively towards Luke, desperate for more contact but Luke’s palm landed hard on the inside of my thigh, the sting sharp enough to steal my breath. 

“Did I tell you to touch?” His words weren't a question. 

I arched into his palm, lips parting in amona that betrayed how much I wanted it all– the roughness, the control, the claiming. 

“You want it rough tonight?” Michael’s voice dropped, thick with promise. 

Luke looked up, smiling between my legs, all predatory teeth. “She wants to be used.” 

Michael stood up, kneeling beside Luke. Both boys threw a leg over their shoulder. They moved in synchronized precision– Michael’s fingers curling inside me, tracing slow, deliberate circles, while Luke’s tongue explored with relentless, wet hunger. My body betrayed me, muscles contracting, head falling back against the cool plush cushions as the world dissolved into nothing pleasure. 

Then Luke pulled back, lips slick and swollen. Without hesitation he leaned down again, this time sinking his tongue deeper between my folds, tasting me fully, completely– slow, languid licks that stole my voice and left me gasping. 

“Jesus fuck.” I muttered out reaching for anything to grasp onto, ultimately finding Luke’s curls and Michael’s wrist, which was pinning me against the couch keeping me from squirming. 

Luke’s dark and demanding eyes met mine. “Michael” he said no more than a whisper, “You have to taste her too.” 

I closed my eyes waiting for the contact of Michael’s lips latching onto my core. Until I heard a muffled moan. Opening my eyes, between my parted thighs, there they were, in a heated kiss with each other. 

Luke’s hand firmly grasping the hair at the nape of Michael’s neck. Their lips slamming together with a fierce hunger, tongues sliding out to explore, taste. Michael moved one hand to Luke’s hip, the other tangling in the curls at the back of his head, angling his head up, ultimately taking control over the kiss.

Luke’s free hand grasped my knee still swung over his shoulder as if he was stabilizing himself from Michael’s force. 

The kiss was a conversation without words, raw and charged — a sharing of power and possession that left me breathless just watching. Their mouths moved with a practiced ease, tongues dueling and dancing, lips sucking and biting gently, tasting not just each other but me through the residue of desire that lingered between them.

Luke’s thumb brushed Michael’s lower lip, pulling it taut before slipping inside, eliciting a soft moan from him that I felt deep in my bones, and my heat. Michael’s hand tightened in others hair making Luke groan and palm himself through his pants. 

The mirrored wall caught every angle of their exchange– the slick press of their mouths, the way Luke’s eyes fluttered shut in surrender, the sharp intake of breath Michael gave as Luke bit gently along his bottom lip. 

They finally broke apart slowly, lips brushing, foreheads resting together for a heartbeat longer. Michael’s gaze flicked to mine, filled with possession and lust. 

“Addictive.” Luke muttered against my skin. 

Michael hummed in response. 

Then Luke’s mouth descended again—this time on me, hot and demanding, his tongue claiming every inch while Michael’s fingers resumed their torturous, perfect rhythm inside me.

I was utterly theirs — marked, stretched, ruined — and I hadn’t even left the couch yet.

Michael’s hand was firm at the back of my neck as he guided me down off the couch. My knees hit the rug, the fibers coarse under my bare skin, and I felt the weight of both of them standing over me– their shadows stretching tall against the mirror wall. 

Luke’s hands moved with unhurried precision, undoing the buttons of his shirt, his eyes locked on mine like I was already on my knees for him in his head. When he reached for his belt, the metallic slide of it coming free made my pulse spike. 

Michael’s voice was close in my ear, “Hands behind your back.”.

I obeyed, the movement pulling my shoulders back, making my chest arch forward. 

Luke handed Michael his discarded belt, the metal clinking together. Without a word, he looped it around my wrists, securing them just tight enough to bite my skin. A delicious sting that made my chest rise and fall faster. 

Luke stepped closer, undoing the last button, and I looked up at him through my lashes. The smug curve of his mouth told me exactly how much he liked me in this position. 

“Open wider,” Luke said, his tone that perfect mix of demand and indulgence. “Take it all.” 

Michael knelt behind me, his knees bracketing my hips as his hands spread me open again, fingertips teasing the slick heat between my thighs. His palm pressed into the small of my back, grounding me as I leaned forward and took Luke into my mouth. 

The first slide of him over my tongue was thick, heavy– the stretch of my lips around him making my throat tighten. 

Luke groaned from above me, breaking eye contact to throw his head back, leaving his neck on display. 

“Deep,” Michael ordered, his fist twisting in my hair, forcing my gaze upward. “That’s it look at him while he fucks your throat.”

I keep my eyes on Luke even while he’s blissed out, even as he begins to thrust– shallow at first, testing the give of my throat, then deeper until the base of him brushes my lips and my gag reflex shutters. 

“Fucking hell, look at you all wrecked on your knees for us.” Luke groaned out, eyes blown wide. 

Behind me, Michael's fingers worked with a different rhythm– pressing inside me hard, curling just right, dragging slow, wet sounds out of me that made Luke shutter. 

When I had to pull back for air, my lips dragging along Luke’s length, Michael’s hand tightened in my hair, and his other found my jaw. 

“Open.” 

I did as I was told, and he leaned around me just enough to spit in my mouth. The heat and taste of it hit me all at once– filthy and intimate– and I swallowed without hesitation. 

“Good girl” Michael hummed, his voice laced with satisfaction. 

“Filthy little thing, made for this.” Luke added with a dark, teasing grin. 

I went back down on him, deeper this time, the wet slide louder now. Mascara blurred my vision as it ran down my cheeks in dark streaks, and spit clung to my lips, stretching in messy strings when I pulled back. 

Michael’s fingers were relentless, pumping into me fast and hard, his thumb pressing against my clit making me moan against Luke’s length. 

“You’re shaking,” he said, against my ear. “Haven’t even fucked you yet.” 

They held my hair together now– Luke guiding my head with his thrusts, Michael anchoring me steady from behind. Luke’s groans deepened, breathing sharper, one hand moving to grip my jaw so I could barely move except to take him deeper. 

Michael’s hand slid out of my hair, wrapping around Luke’s length when I paused to breathe, his eyes on Luke’s face the entire time. 

“You gonna finish in her throat?” Michael questioned words heavy with challenge. 

Luke’s laugh was breathless and dark. “Not yet.”

And then Michael’s grip tightened on me, on Luke, and I knew I wasn’t getting a say in how the next few minutes played out. 

Luke’s groans were low, vibrating straight into my chest as Michael’s fingers stayed wrapped around him, watching me, watching him. I could feel both of their gazes on me, the weight of possession making my skin crawl with heat. 

Michael tightened his grip on my hair, forcing my head down a fraction more. “You liked being watched, don’t you?” he murmured. “Like you’re nothing but a toy for us to play with?” 

“Yes,” I gasped, bucking my hips forward at Michael’s hand that had been moved from Luke’s cock back to my center. 

Michael’s fingers slide from me, wet and glistening in the dim light, and he doesn't even glance my way before catching Luke’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Open,” he orders. Luke parts his lips instantly, and Michael presses those fingers inside. 

I can’t look away, from the way Luke’s lashes lower, from the deliberate pull of his mouth as he sucks, tasting me like it’s something sacred. 

“Good boy,” Michael murmurs, pulling his fingers free with a pop. Luke swallows, jaw tight like he’s deciding whether he wants to growl or kiss him for it. 

Luke’s eyes snap to mine, something dark and feral flickering behind his dark eyes– like he’s still tasting me, still feeling the weight of Michael’s hand on his jaw. My breath catches, brain all fuzzy and blissed out, and for a second none of us move. The air hums with the kind of silence that feels like the moment before a match is struck. 

Then Michael’s hand slides to the back of my neck, tugging my impossibly closer towards him. “We’re not finished with you yet, not even close sweet girl.” he says, voice vibrating through me. Luke’s lips curl, slow and dangerous, like he already knows exactly what’s coming next. 

My chest rose and fell too fast, lungs dragging air that felt too thick, too hot. Michael’s hand was now braced against my hip, Luke’s hands under my armpits as they got me to my feet. 

They didn’t speak, but I saw it– the quick exchange over my shoulder, some wordless agreement that made the air feel sharper. Both of them guided me towards Michael’s bedroom, their hands on my skin making me feel like I was on fire. The floor under my feet felt uneven as they steered me across the room. The bed loomed like something inevitable– wide, low, messy sheets rumpled. The glow of a lamp caught in the metal rings on Luke’s hand as he pushed me down onto the edge, making me sit before I could even think about resisting. 

Luke stood over me, tilting my chin up with two fingers, while Michael removed the belt from my wrists. “Lie back.” The rasp in his tone made it impossible to focus on anything else other than him. 

The mattress dipped as Michael moved to the other side. “Arms up.” His hands caught mine, guiding them above my head, his thumbs pressing into my wrists.

The sharp click of metal made my breath hitch. I looked up in time to see the glint of silver before the cuff bit snugly around my wrist, then the other. Luke’s hand firm at my jaw, keeping me looking at him even as my body reacted to the restraint.  

“There we go,” he said, eerily softly, like he was too focused on the way my pupils were blown wide. “Better like this, isn’t it?”

I arch an eyebrow, lips tugging into a smirk despite the nerves and hear. “You could’ve at least made them fuzzy hand cuffs.” I pushed, pulling the cuffs taut against the bed post. 

Michael’s voice cut in before Luke could even respond. “You’re going to take everything we give you.” The way he said it wasn’t threatening– it was inevitably.

Luke shifted down my body, mouth grazing over every inch he passed, fingertips tracing lazy, possessive lines over my ribs, my hips. I squirmed, but the cuffs kept me stretched out, every moment just making me more aware of how open I was. 

When he reached my thighs, he didn’t part them– just let his knuckles graze the inside so lightly I shivered. And then he brought something into view. Small. Black. Sleek. 

The quiet hum of the vibrator started low, almost unthreatening, but my whole body tightened anyway. 

“So sensitive, baby.” Michael hummed watching the scene in front of him as he rose from the bed and stripped from his clothes. 

He returned to the bed, sitting opposite of where Luke and I were, knees spread, one hand lazily stroking himself while his eyes tracked every twitch of my body. The way he watched me made me hotter, the way his breath hitched when Luke finally pressed the vibrator to my clit made me dizzy. 

“Oh my fuck–” The sound tore out of me, back arching, toes curling. 

Luke’s free hand, slid between my legs, fingers pushing inside of me, slow and deep curling just right like he’d already done earlier. I could feel the vibator’s rhythm against him, the push and pull until I couldn’t separate one from the other. 

“She’s already dripping onto the sheets.” Luke said to Michael, voice thick with pride. “Feel.” 

I felt Michael’s fingers replace Luke’s for just a second, dipping inside before dragging his slick-coated fingers along my lips. “Look at you, fucked out already.” 

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t– because I wasn’t done, because I couldn’t be done– but Luke pressed the toy harder and the words dissolved into a helpless moan. 

I was close–too close– hips arching before I could stop myself. 

Luke notices instantly. “No,” he said sharply, pulling the toy back just enough to make me cry out in frustration.. “You’ll cum when we say.” 

I shook my head, tugged at the cuffs, desperate. “Please–” I whined out. 

“Not yet,” Michael drawled, shifting close, hand still moving over himself. “You want it too much right now.”

The hum of the vibrator disappeared. For a moment, I thought Luke had given– until something colder than air touched me and my whole body convulsed. 

A fucking ice cube. 

“What the– where the hell did you get that from?” I shot up, talking in between breathless gasps. 

It was almost unbearable, sharp and numbing all at once as he circled it over my clit, watching my hips twist against the mattress, in an attempt to get away from the cold. 

“Breathe.” Luke ordered from between my legs. “Let it in.”

I tried. I tried to relax, to give myself over to the cold, but every pulse and twist inside me made it impossible. My breath came in short, ragged gasps as my body betrayed me, hips arching, hands clawing at the sheets, wrists trapped in the restraints. The ice pressed and slid deeper, each tiny motion sending a sharp, burning ache through my core, and the mixture of pain and pleasure had me whimpering against him before I even realized it.

When the ice was fully melted, replaced by the vibrator’s heat and hum, the contrast made me gasp so loudly Michael chuckled from beside us. 

The vibrator hummed against me, ice still lingering in memory, making every stroke of Luke’s fingers feel sharper, crueler, hotter. My body was nothing but sensation, trembling under them, hips pressing up even though my wrists were pinned. Every breath, every gasp, every moan seemed to fill the room.

Luke leaned down, lips brushing my ear. “You like feeling this helpless, don’t you?”

I whimpered, trying to nod against the restraint, throat tight, words lost. My chest heaved, spine arching off the mattress as he pressed the vibrator harder, curling his fingers inside me.

Michael’s hand ghosted over my side, then slid over to pinch one nipple while simultaneously sucking on the other. His gaze didn’t leave mine, sharp and heavy. He pulled back with a pop, licking a long stripe from the valley of my boobs all the way up my neck towards my ear. “Look at yourself… so ready for us. Can’t stop trembling for us, you're a mess.” 

I shook my head violently, breathless, moans spilling out. My thighs were quivering, the handcuffs biting into my wrists so aggressively I’m sure they would draw blood soon. 

Luke moaned at the sight. 

“I–please–oh god–” I gasped, thrashing around, on the edge, not knowing how much longer I could hold back. 

Michael whispered in my ear, close enough that his lips brushed against me. “Beg for it. Beg like you mean it.” 

My voice broke into a strangled cry. “Please… make me…I need it…I want it!” 

Luke smirked, slow and cruel. His fingers found the same spot inside me that made me jerk, twisting just right as the vibrator ground against my clit. “So fucking perfect.” he hummed. 

I lost it then– tiny shudders, whimpers, cries mingling with the hum of the vibrator and their low grunts and praises. Every nerve was exploding, but Luke pulled the toy back just a fraction, dragging me along the edge again. 

“Not yet,” Luke said, fingers still curling inside me. “Not until I say.” 

Michael chuckled darkly, dragging a thumb along my clit, replacing the vibrator, pinching just hard enough to make me hiss. “You’re going to come, and you’re going to scream our names. Both of them.” 

I could barely breathe, white dots forming in my vision, heat pooling so deep it felt impossible to hold. Then Luke whispered, slow and commanding: “Take it all. Cum for us. Show us who owns you.” 

That broke me. My body arched, mouth open in a ragged scream, wrists stinging against the cuffs as everything inside of me collapsed. Waves of sensation ripped through me, breathless, trembling, my whole body shaking with release as Luke and Michael both guided me through it, hands, lips, weight pressing me down, keeping me on the edge and then letting me fully fall into it.

I moaned their names over and over, ragged, broken, utter devotion spilling from me. Luke’s fingers stayed curled inside me, Michael’s fingers ran over my clit while murmuring dark praises against my ear, his voice vibrating through my chest. “God, you're so pathetic and beautiful all at once, every inch of you belongs to us.” 

Every shiver, sob, trembling moan, belonged to them. I couldn’t think, couldn’t move beyond the haze of pleasure and possession. I was utterly theirs– marked by the taste, the touch, the control. 

When it finally ebbed, my body still quivering, Luke leaned down, lips brushing against my temple. “Perfect.” 

I exhale shakily, eyes half-lidded, still utterly exposed. The air smelt of sex, sweat and possession. I could feel the way they were watching me, weighing me, and my skin buzzed with the electricity of their gaze. 

Then Luke shifted, lowering his head toward Michael. My breath caught at the sight, still raw from everything, watching Luke’s hand trail over Michael’s chest, the teasing brush of fingers. Michael’s eyes locked onto Luke’s, and the faint twitch of his lips told me what was coming. 

Luke leaned closer, mouth brushing against Michael’s. I couldn’t look away, chest still trembling, watching the dynamic unfold– the way Luke kissed him like he was claiming him too, like he had to make Michael feel every inch of control. 

Michael groaned low, hand brushing Luke’s hair, tugging gently but possessively. “That’s it…that’s mine,” he said. The words weren’t gentle– they were marking, claiming, staking a line between them while I stayed pinned, soaked, shivering and taking it all in. 

Luke’s lips parted, sucking Michael in slowly, showing me every second of it. His hands wandered up tracing Michael’s chest and sides, firm but teasing, coaxing sounds from him that I couldn’t help but feel in my core. Every brush of tongue, tug of hair, every moan resonated through the room and through me, making me arch against the mattress helplessly.

I whimpered, needy even in my spent state. Michael caught my eyes. “You’re ours,” He said, the way his voice dropped sent a shiver racing from my chest to the tips of my toes. “Every part. Don’t even think you get a break.” 

Luke leaned back just enough to smirk at me, wet and glossy from Michael, lips swollen. “But we can have a little fun first,” he murmured before diving back in, sucking, teasing, tasting him while I stayed pinned, watching, trembling, and utterly consumed by the two of them.  

Michael’s hands weren’t idle either. One pressed around my front holding me flush against the mattress, while the other tangled in Luke’s hair, tugging just enough to make him moan, making him suck harder and deeper. The wet sounds– licks, groans– filled the room. My thighs clenched together so hard they ached. 

“Mhm— Oh shit shit shit.” Michael moaned out, tipping his head back as Luke pushed down on him even further, his hand now pulling Luke’s hair causing the other boy to moan against him. 

Luke lifted off of Michael for air, looking over at me like I was prey. “You see this, baby?” he muttered, shifting up to kiss Michael again. “You like watching me do this to him?” 

I nodded, unable to form proper thoughts let alone a proper sentence. 

Michael moaned out, gripping Luke by the jaw, guiding him back down to take him again, pressing his thumb against Luke’s lips to make him taste, hold, savor. “You’re mine,” he growled. “Take it all, right there.” 

Luke hissed, hands roaming over Michael’s hips and chest, tugging, gripping, tasting, and every moment sent shockwaves through me. I was watching like I could feel every slick swipe of tongue, every deep, wet moan, that vibrated through the mattress and into me. It felt as though it was being drilled into my brain. 

I was still trembling, pinned and overstimulated, breath sporadic as Luke pulled back from Michael’s dick with a satisfied smirk. Michael’s chest rose and fell, slick with sweat and the low him of their voices charged the silence made my core pulse again, wet and needy, even though I’d just been pushed to the brink without even being touched. 

Luke’s hand rested briefly on my thigh, thumb brushing my slick, still quivering folds. The look they exchanged—hungry, feral, completely in sync—made my knees weak. I knew, without a word, what was coming next.

Luke leaned down and whispered in my ear, lips brushing against my cheek softly. “Relax… just for a moment.” 

Then, unexpectedly, he moved to the cuffs around my wrists. “We’ll give you a little freedom,” he said, his fingers working the locks intentionally slowly, drawing it out. The metal clicked, and I could finally flex my aching wrists. Just enough to breathe more fully, stretch, arch into him without restraint, but still entirely in their control. 

“Watch.. And learn your place, sweet girl. This is what we do to you, and you get to see it from the best seat in the house.” Luke muttered, against my shoulder, kissing his way down my torso before getting up and stocking towards the nightstand, looking for something. 

Michael shifted, centering himself on the mattress, with a deep, deliberate groan, legs spread, eyes locked on me. “Get on me.” He ordered. 

I swallowed hard, legs still shaking, and straddle him carefully, hips tilting so he could enter me slowly. The stretch made me gasp, raw and needy, and I could feel every inch of him sliding inside, the slow burn of fullness. Michael’s hands cupped my hips, pressing me down, guiding, steadying, while my breath hitched in ragged bursts. 

I could feel Luke come back, the bed dipping from behind, his presence and warmth of his body undeniable. My thighs quivered around Michael as Luke’s hand traced the slick along my folds, then circled my rim, teasing, just brushing the tight entrance. I jolted, hips instinctively tilting back, pressing further into him. My sudden movement caused Michael to hiss from under me, teeth clenching at the feeling. 

“You feel so ready for me,” Luke murmured, his breath hot against my neck. He teased my opening with a finger again, making me gasp. “So wet, so perfect.” 

Michael groaned, thrusting up into me slowly, making me arch over him, taking him deep, every movement controlled but relentless. “Look at you, so open… so fucking good for us already.” 

Luke’s other hand trailed along my spine, pressing me flush into Michael, before he brought it down to my hip, his hand over Michael's as he pushed another finger inside my ass, stretching, teasing, prepping, while Michael drove into me. 

The sensation of Michael filling me, and Luke’s fingers made me cry out, voice breaking in desperate moans. “Ahh– fuck, fuck.” 

“You’re going to take both of us,” He said while curling his finger inside, tracing circles while pressing just enough to make me shake violently. “Every inch…but I need you to relax, don’t fight it.” 

I couldn’t fight it. Hips bucking. Breath shaky, utterly consumed. 

“Take him,” Michael muttered, voice low and thick, completely halting his thrusts, and then his hands slid from my hips to my ass, spreading me wide, holding me open perfectly for Luke. Heat surged through me, pulsing in time with the rhythm of their control. Eyes fluttering shut at the exquisite overstimulation of it all. 

Luke didn’t hesitate. He pressed his tip against my entrance, pausing just a fraction to let me feel the stretch, the anticipation. I whined out, gasping at the feeling, every muscle taught and desperate. Then slowly, he pushed in, first an inch, then deeper, filling me completely, stretching me in a way that made my head fall against Michael’s shoulder. 

The stimulation was relentless, making something inside of me snap. Instinctively, teeth finding flesh, I bite down on Michael’s shoulder, low and hard, moaning around it as I ground back. He groaned sharply, hands tightening around my ass, chest pressing me harder into him, the sharp bite only seemed to drive him and Luke wilder. 

“God, you’re wicked.” He responded, and I shivered, the sensation of biting, owning, and being owned all at once making me gasp and tremble between them. 

“Oh my fuck,” I gasped, voice broken, hips jerking. Luke’s hand settled on the middle of my back between my shoulder blades pressing me down with one hand while the other gripped my hip. 

Michael groaned low, hands still gripping my ass, spreading me perfectly for Luke with each careful, deliberate push. “Take him” he whispered again, thumb brushing my clit, adding pressure with every inch Luke entered. “All of him…mine, and his too.” 

Luke pushed deeper, slow but unrelenting, letting me feel every inch, every stretch. “Look at you,” Luke said from behind me, voice low, leaning over just enough for his teeth to graze my shoulder. “So tight, so perfect, all mine, all his, all for us.” 

Once they both found their rhythm, it was like my body was a vessel for them, every movement precise, every groan and thrust synched in a way that made my knees week and my chest rise and fall so fast I thought I might pass out. Luke moved slowly and deliberately, stretching me inch by inch, while Michael’s steady thrust grounded me, claiming me with every push. 

The dual sensation was maddening, overstimulating, slick dripping between them. I could hear their heavy, staggered breaths, low and guttural, but then they started speaking– not to me, not even in my direction, but to each other. 

“I can feel you every time you move.” Luke said through clenched teeth. His hand dug deep into my hip, pressing me flush against him, while his other hand came up to the back of my neck gripping firmly. The pressure made me tilt my head back against him, breath hitching, completely consumed by the sensation. 

Michael groaned, throwing his head back, “I know… you’re making me lose it.” he said, fingers tightening on my ass, spreading me impossibly further for Luke, guiding, claiming. His thrusts became more insistent, measured and powerful. I cried out, overwhelmed at the way they moved together inside me. 

Neither of them broke eye contact with the other, caught in a silent conversation, that mutual possession that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with them. I felt it all– the press of Luke’s chest against my back, the weight of his hand at the back of my neck, Michael’s fingers digging into my flesh– every motion claiming me completely. 

“Every inch…I feel it,” Luke hissed, voice rough, still speaking to Michael, not me, thumb pressing into my hip in rhythm with Michael’s thrusts. 

“Good.. I can feel you too.” he hummed. I shook at the intensity, the way his dominance pressed through every movement. 

Their rhythm shifted, fluid and seamless, a motion I was trapped in, overwhelmed by, utterly lost to. My body shook between them, every nerve ending screaming and all the while they whispered and groaned and claimed each other inside of me. 

I couldn’t form words, couldn’t even think—just feel. Luke’s fingers dug into the back of my neck, holding me steady even as he moved, keeping me flush against him and Michael, every inch of me consumed. Michael’s thumb pressed into my clit in time with his thrusts, sending shivers through my spine, while Luke’s chest pressed against me, his grip at my neck grounding me in their dual control.

“You’re mine… mine to feel.” Michael said, voice thick, still speaking to Luke, not me. 

“And you’re all his too,” Luke breathed back, jaw tight, teeth grazing my neck, hand still firm, holding me exactly where he wanted me, keeping rhythm steady and deliciously torturous. 

“Fuck, she’s stuffed,” Michael groaned low, hand lightly slapping my cheek, marking me, grounding me in their dominance. The sting only made me moan louder, helpless and aching, utterly consumed.

Luke pressed his forehead to my neck, lips brushing my ear. “Taking both of us like a good fucking slut,” he growled, fingers moving from my hip to my clit, circling over the spot that Michael’s thumb had been teasing. His other hand tightened at the back of my neck, every movement precise, every touch claiming me entirely.

The dual sensations, the overstimulation, the press of their bodies and the heat of their rhythm—it was too much, and yet I wanted it all. I couldn’t stop the desperate moans, couldn’t stop the little whimpers that escaped me as Michael’s hand lightly slapped my cheek again, drawing a gasp from my lips. 

“I’m… I’m…” I cried, voice breaking, eyes fluttering shut. My body shuddered violently as Michael’s thrusts became more insistent, Luke’s hand at my neck steady and commanding, and the combined pressure, depth, and relentless rhythm pushed me over the edge.

Luke’s teeth grazed my shoulder, marking me, while Michael’s hands tightened on my hips, controlling my movements, spreading me open perfectly for Luke. The overstimulation was exquisite, every inch of me consumed, trembling, burning, completely at their mercy.

My body clenched around them, hips bucking, breath taking, voice lost in ragged, desperate moans. Luke pressed deeper, hips grinding from behind. I could feel the weight of Michael’s dominance with every thrust. 

“Oh, fuck… yes,” I sobbed, shaking, letting go completely, my orgasm crashing through me like a wave, muscles clenching, spine arching, cries spilling into the charged air.

Michael groaned low, gripping me tighter, thrusting deep as I rode out the tremors, while Luke’s hand at my neck held me still, pressing me into the center of their heat. Every movement, every touch, every bite and slap became sharper, faster, more intense, driving us all higher.

Luke pressed his forehead harder against my neck, growling, “Take us with you, baby… all of us.”

I cried out again, body shuddering violently, slick dripping, chest heaving, completely undone, utterly claimed.

Then I felt Luke stiffen behind me, a deep growl vibrating through me as he tensed inside me. Michael’s hips stuttered in perfect unison, his grip on my ass tightening, dragging me flush to him.

“Oh, fuck… I’m gonna—” Luke gasped, voice rough and ragged, pressing into me fully as his release hit, sending tremors through me.

Michael followed, deep groans cutting through the air as he let go, thrusts shuddering as he finished inside me, hips pumping one last time, every inch of me soaked with them. .

I sagged between them, muscles quaking, trembling, still pressed flush to their heated sweaty bodies. Luke’s hand loosened slightly at the back of my neck, but his chest stayed pressed to my back, still claiming me. Michael’s hands rested possessively on my hips, steadying me, marking me with every touch. 

Their bodies pulled away from me finally, leaving me trembling, chest heaving, a mixture of both of them dripping down my thighs, utterly spent and completely raw. I sank back against the sheets, trying to catch my breath, but even without their weight pressing into me, I could still feel echoes of their dominance pulsing through me. 

Michael leaned back on his elbows, letting out a low groan, eyes dark and heavy. “Shit…she’s leaking everywhere,” he muttered, voice rough, gaze flicking down to where I was dripping. 

Luke dropped beside me, hands trailing down my side, fingers brushing along my sweat slicked skin, thumb circling over my sensitive clit lightly, careful, teasing. He leaned close, forehead resting against mine, eyes soft but intense. “You’re everything,” he murmured, voice low, almost worshipping, lips brushing mine briefly. 

They let me breathe for a moment, their heat still surrounding me without pressing too hard, giving me space but keeping me completely under their control. I shuttered as Luke’s fingers toyed with the edge of a plug he had pulled from the drawer. Michael’s hand rested on my hip, steadying me, thumb brushing my overly sensitive skin, holding me in place while Luke slowly slid it in, filling me in that delicious, slightly foreign stretch. 

I gasped at the sensation, nerves on fire, hips lifting slightly as if begging for more. Luke’s thumb pressed against my clit again, moving in lazy circles, teasing, while Michael’s fingers traced teasing patterns along my abdomen. 

They exchanged a glance above me, eyes locking, and I felt the weight of their control even in this quieter moment. They weren’t done with me—they hadn’t needed words to make that clear—but for now, they let me ride the aftershocks, trembling and dripping, caught between exhaustion and desire

I was still trembling, when Luke lifted me off the mattress, firm but careful. He guided me slowly, until I was straddling his face. His back pressed into the mattress, hands gripping my thighs as I hovered over him. I was faced away from the headboard, leaning down so my hands rested against Luke's chest in an attempt to steady myself. 

“You like this,” Michaell said, standing on the mattress in front of me now. “Take care of me while I watch him worship you.”

I leaned back slightly, tipping onto Luke’s face. His lips parted eagerly against me, guiding me down against his mouth. The first flick of his tongue was hot, hungry and filthy. Making my thighs shake against his head, but then I realized what he was doing– licking deeper, slower, tasting me like he’s savouring something more. My breath catches when I remember Michael had finished inside me, and the low satisfied sound Luke made from beneath me tells me he hasn’t forgotten either. He’s licking it up like it’s his, like every drop belongs to him. 

Michael didn’t wait. His hands gripped my shoulders tilting me forward as I leaned down to take him in my mouth. “Open for me,” he ordered, voice rough. “I want to feel your mouth on me while he eats you out.” 

I obeyed instantly, lips parting, tongue swirling, taking him in while Luke’s tongue worked mercilessly against me from below. The overstimulation, the heat, the slick dripping down me– every nerve in my body screamed. 

Luke groaned from under me, muffled but needy, biting at my inner thigh. His hand slid up, fingertips skimming the curve of my waist, before reaching around and cupping my tit in his hand. His thumb brushes over my nipple, slow and teasing. The jolt of sensation shoots straight through me. I gasp around Michael, the sound vibrating in my throat, and Luke’s other hand tightens on my thigh, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. 

My one hand shoots back, finding Luke’s hair tugging at his curls. “Ride him right… that’s it, good girl.” Michael said through clenched teeth, as I began to swivel my hips against Luke’s face. 

“That’s it… take all of me. Keep him eating you out while I fuck that pretty mouth of yours.” Michael ordered, as his grip shifted tilting my head just right, letting me take him deeper, guiding my rhythm. 

I moaned, the overstimulation rocking me, grinding between them, feeling every tug, press, and lick, completely consumed. Luke’s teeth grazed my inner thigh lightly, marking, holding me in place as arched impossibly further towards Michael, lips and tongue working in tandem with the sloppy, perfect worship from below.

“God… look at you,” Michael murmured, hands steady, hand gripping my hair as he leaned down slightly, voice husky. “Taking him and me at the same time. You’re ours.” 

Luke groaned, muffled beneath me, hands clutching my thighs, gripping, holding me in place as his tongue flicked over me, sucking, licking, claiming me. Michael’s voice deepened, rough, possessive. “Yeah… just like that. Take it all… show me how much you belong to us.”

I was trembling, slick and overstimulated, still straddling Luke’s face while taking Michael deep, hips rolling slowly, every nerve ending on fire. His hands gripped my hair tightly, tilting my head just enough, keeping me focused, utterly under his control, while Luke’s lips and tongue devoured me from below, precise and claiming.

“God… you feel so good,” Michael groaned, voice rough, low. “So wet, so fucking perfect.” He thrust deeper, hips steady, relentless. “I’m gonna—gonna lose it, baby. Take it all.”

I gasped, choking slightly around him, swallowing instinctively as he slowed just enough to let me adjust. Luke’s hands gripped my thighs, holding me steady, thumb brushing my clit in lazy, deliberate circles, pushing me closer to my own breaking point. The overstimulation was exquisite, chaotic, and perfect.

Michael’s thrusts stuttered, deep groans vibrating through me. “Fuck… I’m gonna come in your mouth, baby. Take it.” His hips slammed slightly faster, pulling me flush to him, hands tangled in my hair, holding me still. I gagged lightly, moaning around him, hips jerking as the first wave hit him deep, warm, flooding my throat. I swallowed reflexively, choked, moaned, feeling him release, the heat filling me completely.

Luke’s tongue flicked and pressed, teasing, overstimulating, and my body shook violently. My muscles clenched, my hips bucked, and the overstimulation mixed with the release down my throat, the slick pressing over Luke’s face, and the hot, claiming touches from both men sent me spiraling. I could feel myself trembling, muscles quaking, my own orgasm building on top of the chaos of Michael finishing inside me.

“God… yes,” Luke groaned beneath me, voice deep and ragged, hands still gripping my thighs, holding me down. I moaned, slick running over his lips and cheeks, dripping down, every nerve ending alive, every inch of me trembling.

“Let go” Luke muttered, between licks, , thumb pressing into my clit lightly, teasing just enough. “I want to feel you. Don’t hold back, baby—come for us.”

The words hit me like a spark, and I felt the tension coiling in my body unraveling, my own release already slicking down my thighs, heat building impossibly fast. My hips bucked instinctively, chest heaving, and I knew I was seconds from tipping over, the pleasure almost unbearable, every nerve screaming, every touch from them amplified by their control.

I gasped, trembling, slick dripping, every inch of me alive, and surrendered fully to the wave, letting my body shake and clench, crying out their names, utterly consumed. I whimpered, a soft, broken sound, hips jerking instinctively. “Mmm… please… I—” My words dissolved into gasps and needy whines as the tension coiling in my body unraveled, slick already slicking down my thighs, heat building impossibly fast.

My chest heaved, hips bucking, and I felt the pleasure spiral higher and higher, every nerve screaming, every touch from them amplified by their control. I cried out their names, whines tumbling into moans, trembling, every inch of me alive, surrendering fully to the wave, letting myself shake and clench, utterly consumed.

I was trembling, slick dripping down my thighs, when Luke shifted beneath me. His hands gripped my hips, holding me steady as his chest rose and fell fast.

“Fuck… baby… so good…” he groaned, voice low and ragged. “Even after all that… still mine…”

Before I could react, he bucked slightly, pushing me off him with a gasp and a wet moan, chest heaving. His fingers dug into the sheets beside him as he tensed, then released, trembling. I watched, still trembling myself, as his body shuddered, hips flexing once, twice, and he came over himself, untouched, overstimulated, groaning my name quietly.

I was still shivering, chest heaving, thighs slick and trembling, when Michael’s hand pressed lightly against my hip. His voice was low, rough, and commanding.

“Clean him,”  Michal murmured, nodding toward Luke’s abdomen. “Every last drop. I want it gone.”

I whimpered, still sensitive, still pulsing, but obeyed, leaning forward slowly. Luke’s chest rose and fell beneath me, eyes half-lidded, lips parting in quiet groans as I lowered my mouth to his skin. My tongue flicked, lapping at the mess, tasting him, hot and salty, trembling as I worked to follow Michael’s order.

Michael’s hand remained at my hip, steadying me, thumb brushing lightly against my skin as he watched, his eyes dark and possessive. “Better,” he murmured, voice low and approving. “Keep going. Don’t stop until I say.”

Luke groaned beneath me, shivering, hands still holding the mattress, utterly consumed by the lingering waves of his own release. I shuddered, tongue tracing carefully, tasting him fully, feeling the heat and weight of both of them pressing into me, completely theirs even in this quieter aftermath.

I sagged against Luke’s chest, slick and trembling, still trembling from the overstimulation, every nerve ending alive. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me close, chest warm beneath my cheek. I felt the slow, steady rise and fall of him beneath me, grounding me, letting me come down from the chaos.

Michael knelt beside us, hands gentle now, wiping the remaining slick from my thighs and stomach, each touch deliberate but tender. “Almost done, baby,” he murmured, voice low, soothing, possessive. One last swipe and he leaned down, carefully removing the plug from me, slow enough to let me relax with a hiss and shiver at the stretch leaving me.

Luke pressed his lips to the top of my head, letting me melt against him. Michael wrapped a soft blanket around the three of us, cocooning us in warmth, the weight of the blanket a gentle pressure holding us together.

“Next time,” Michael murmured, brushing my hair back from my face, voice playful but rough, “the mirror.”

Luke chuckled against my temple, fingers lacing with mine over my chest. “Or the fucking studio desk,” he added, his lips ghosting over my shoulder, a low murmur of claim.

I let out a soft hum, wrecked, content, utterly spent, feeling the warmth of both of them holding me, fingers entwined, the softness of their touches grounding me. Safe. Owned. Satisfied.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The house was a madhouse. Every corner is packed tight with bodies buzzing on cheap beer and louder music. The air was thick and sticky with sweat, cigarette smoke curling in lazy spirals overhead and the kind of wild chaos that only a frat party on a Friday night could deliver. 

I stepped inside late, the door swinging shut behind me with a soft click that somehow felt louder than the music. I didn’t scan the crowd like I usually did. Didn’t look for anyone in particular. I didn't need to. 

I could feel him before I saw him. 

That pull in my chest– a familiar kind of tension, electric and sharp. He was here, somewhere. The air shifted, subtle but undeniable. 

I caught the flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye– him. Sitting low on the stairs, jaw clenched tight so I could see the stubborn glint of his lip ring. The way his fingers gripped that nearly empty beer bottle was like he was trying to keep from smashing it on the floor. 

He didn’t look like he belonged here, not really. Not in the thick of this mess. But there he was, and every muscle in my body tightened. I leaned back against the wall near the keg, just far enough from the chaos to watch it without getting swallowed up. My dress was short, black fabric barely skimming the curve of my hip. I didn’t bother with underwear tonight, part of the game, part of the tease. I could feel his eyes burning into me like heat through fabric. 

I caught a guy’s eye from across the room– one who’d been talking my ear off since I got here. Lean, confident, trying way too hard. He said something, and I laughed– slow and deliberate. My lips parted slightly, gloss catching the light as I slowly licked the rim of my plastic cup, savouring the feel of it, the taste of cheap vodka lingering on my tongue. 

I wasn’t here to be polite. I wasn’t here to be safe. 

I knew he was watching me.

I could feel it in the way his body tensed– how his hands curled into fits at his sides, and how his jaw clenched so tight I could almost hear the grinding. His lip ring flashed with every hard suck of his teeth, a silent warning. Half-hard, I bet. Fuck, I could feel the heat of him from across the room. 

Someone else– some asshole who didn’t know better– brushed up against me from behind. I didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. I let it happen. 

He probably thought he was claiming something. Maybe even that I was an easy mark tonight. I just smiled– slow, teasing, like I was sharing a secret with the dark air around me. Like I was daring him to try harder. 

My smile spread as I caught Luke standing. The world seemed to tilt.

His eyes were fire. His movements were like a storm breaking loose. 

He pushed through the crowd, voice low and rough. Cutting through the music like a blade. 

“Party’s over!” he yelled. “Go the fuck home.” 

The crowd went silent, shock rippling through the room. Then bodies started moving, clearing out like a tide pulling away. 

And still, I stayed. 

Leaning against the wall. Breathing steadily. Waiting. 

I tipped my cup toward him– a mock toast. “That for me?” 

He stepped closer, teeth sucking hard on the edge of his lip ring. His voice dropped low, a growl that shook something loose inside me. 

“You know it is.” 

My smirk deepened, and I whispered, “Then come prove it.” 

I went and hopped over on the kitchen counter while Luke cleared out the rest of the house. 

Outside, you can still hear the hum of the engines and voices– the stragglers clearing out, the night collapsing in on itself. But here it’s just us. The air’s heavier than it should be, thick with something unspoken, and I swear I can feel the vibration of him pacing behind me before I can even see it. 

I’m perched on the counter like I own the place. Because, right now, I do. 

My legs swing slightly, heels tapping against the cabinets, fingers curled loosely around the edge. There’s a half-drunk cup of something forgotten beside me, but I don’t need it anymore. My buzz comes from him— riling him up, and pulling him taut.

Luke’s pacing was in slow, agitated strides, his boots hitting the floor harder than necessary. He can’t stand still, not with the way I’ve wound him up. Broad shoulders rising and falling. That silver chain around his neck was swinging with every sharp turn of his body.  His hands are twitching like he doesn't know what to do with them. 

He’s unravelling. 

And I’m the thread in his teeth. 

He stops suddenly, standing in front of me, chest rising with shallow breaths. His jaw tightens, and he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “You like punishing me.”

I tilt my head, watching him from under heavy lashes as he steps between my knees. 

There’s no fear in me. Just heat. Thrill. The slow, sweet pulse of power slides through my bloodstream like honey and smoke. 

“You like being punished,” I murmur, dragging my fingers along the chain at his throat until they reach his lip ring. I brush it with my thumb, just the softest pressure, just enough to feel him tense. 

He sucks on his teeth again, jaw flexing beneath my touch. That little gleam of metal disappears between his lips for a beat– a tell. His version of restraint. 

He looks like sin in skin. Wild curls, flushed cheeks, hands curling into fists at his sides. I can feel the heat rolling off him. I can feel what he’s holding back. 

“You gonna let me fuck that attitude out of you, sweet girl?” he growls low, voice like gravel dragged across velvet. 

I laugh. Quiet. Dangerous. 

“You don’t have it in you.” 

My words slice clean, sharp, designed to land where he’s already raw.

He moves in a flash, hands snapping to my hips like he’s starving for something he can’t name. His grip is firm, grounding, but he still hasn’t pulled me to him. Not yet. He’s holding back. Still giving me space to run– even if we both know I won’t. 

I don’t flinch. Don’t move. Just look up at him with something just shy of pity in my eye.

“You think you’re in control?” he asks. 

My lips part slowly, the space between us now small enough I can taste his breath on mine– mint, beer and tension. 

“No,” I whisper. “I know I am.”

Silence snaps tight between us, a string pulled to breaking. 

And still– I don’t look away. 

His fingers twitch again against my hips, like he’s one breath away from losing the last bit of self-control he’s pretending to have. His eyes go darker. His shoulders square like he’s remembering just how much space he takes up. He stares at me like a challenge. Like a question he already knows the answer to. 

The air feels thinner suddenly, too charged to breathe properly. That chain around his neck catches the kitchen light again– a glint of silver against flushed skin. 

“You talk a big game,” he says, voice thick, slow, drawn from deep in his chest. He leans in, his mouth grazing the shell of my ear. “Are you sure you can handle it?” 

I don’t answer. Just smile. Because he still doesn’t get it. 

He thinks this is about handling him. 

It's not. 

It’s about making him melt. 

I reach for his belt. Slow. Purposeful. My knuckles brush against the hard line of his abs as I undo the first loop. I keep my eyes on his lip ring– watching it gleam, watching him breathe through his nose like he’s trying to behave. I drop my gaze to his hands. Big, calloused, twitching. Then back to his body– the way he towers over me, broad and hulking like a storm barely restrained. 

“God, you’re big,” I murmur, tugging at his belt, pulling it through the loops of his jeans. I tilt my chin just enough to meet his eyes. “Bet you’ve ruined girls for less.” 

His breath catches– just for a second. 

“You want me to ruin you?” he asks, words dripping from his mouth with ego, with need. 

I tug him forwards by the open belt. “I want you to try.”

That does it. 

He steps in closer, flush against the counter, between my knees. My dress hikes higher. His body heat slams into mine. And still– I’m calm. My fingers toy with the undone belt like it’s a leash. 

His lip curls, jaw twitching. 

And then, bold and deliberate, I lift my hand to his jaw and spit in his mouth. 

He doesn’t flinch. 

He swallows. 

His throat works around it slowly, intentionally, and when his eyes meet mine again, they’re blown wide and black with something dangerous.  

“Good boy,” I whisper, praising him. 

He shudders. 

And then his hand wraps around my throat– not hard, not rough. A warning. 

He leans in, lips ghosting over mine as he mutters, “Be nice.”

I laugh, the sound catching between us like a spark. “Why?” I hiss. “So you don’t finish too fast?” 

His grip tightens around my throat just enough to make my pulse jump. 

And I know I’ve got him. 

He talks like he’s in control. Acts like he’s the one running the show. But I can feel the tension in his arms, the way he’s holding himself back. The way his breath stutters when I lick the edge of his lip ring. The way his body is already betraying him– hard, desperate, aching for the permission I haven’t given him yet. 

He’s not fucking me. 

I’m breaking him apart. 

And he’s going to thank me for it. 

Luke lifts me off the counter effortlessly, like I’m nothing more than a feather. The heat radiating off his skin presses against me as he carries me across the room, his grip tight and commanding. He finds a room and slams the door shut behind me. Hard. Final. 

We’re already breathing like we’ve run for miles. But neither of us is tired– just strung out on the edge of something that’s about to snap. 

He doesn’t look around the room. Doesn’t care what bed we’ve landed near. Doesn’t bother with the light. His attention is razor-sharp, locked on me like I’m prey and he’s forgotten how to be gentle. 

My back hits the wall. His hand wraps around both my wrists, slamming them above my head. His body crowds into mine, thigh between my legs, chest heaving. His breath fans across my face, and I can taste the desire in it. 

“Stay still,” he snarls. 

So I tilt my hips into his thigh, grinding against him. Slow and deliberate. 

“Make me.” 

His mouth crashes into mine like punishment. 

It’s not a kiss, not really. It’s a bite. A devouring, teeth dragging my bottom lip open, and I bite back harder. He groans, growls, and grinds into me. Hands everywhere– yanking at fabric, tearing my dress to my waist. His shirt is already gone. We’re nothing but heat, sweat and spit. 

My nails rake down his chest– long, deliberate stripes. Red blooms under my fingertips, and he groans like he likes it too much.

“You’re so fucking–” he chokes out, biting down hard on the curve of my shoulder, “--fucking mean.” 

“Good,” I whisper. “You like it when I’m mean.” 

He yanks me from the wall like he’s done pretending. 

I land on the bed with a bounce. Knees spread, dress still bunched at my waist. I don’t reach over for him. I just look– slow, possessive– watching him tear his belt off and shove down his jeans. He’s flushed, panting, hard and twitching with need. That damn chain still hangs around his neck, swinging, and muscles in his broad shoulders flexing as he crawls over me. 

I slide down the bed, plant my knees, and sink to the floor. 

“Let me taste you,” I murmur, voice all silk and poison. “Let me take control.” 

He’s breathing so hard I can see his ribs stutter. 

I take him in my mouth, slow, savouring the taste of him. My tongue circles the tip. My lips wrap tight around his shaft, and I hum low, just to feel the way he twitches against my tongue. 

His head tips back. One hand fists in my hair. His thighs shake. 

“You like that?” I purr, pulling back with spit glistening on my lips. “You want me to take care of you, baby?”

He groans. Deep and wrecked. 

I work him again– deep and slow, then fast and shallow, a rhythm just out of reach. My hands dig into his thighs. He jerks. Moans. Tries to fuck my mouth, and I pull back with a grin. 

“Not yet,” I say. “You haven’t earned it.” 

“Fuck–, I’m gonna–”

“You’re not gonna do shit until I say.” 

He growls, yanks me up off the floor with both hands and flips me onto the bed like a rag doll. Before I can tease him again, he’s inside me– no warning, no build up, just raw, thick heat slamming into me from behind.

I cry out, half-shocked, half-shattered. My body seizes around him. He fucks me hard, hand tangled in my hair, dragging my back to his chest as he ruins me from behind. 

“You want to be in charge?” he spits against my neck. "Still think you’re calling the shots, baby?”

But I’m laughing through every thrust. 

“Oh, Luke,” I pant. “You’re already losing.” 

That flips a switch. 

He growls– deep and primal– and pushes me down into the mattress, his hand closing around my throat as he holds me there. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to know I could stop this any second– but I won’t. 

Because I want to drown in it. 

His other hand slides between my legs, fingers slick and skilled. He knows exactly where to touch me, how to push me towards the edge– and just when I get there, he stops.

“No,” he snaps. “Not yet.” 

I sob through clenched teeth, body aching, desperate. 

“Please,” I choke out. 

He pulls out. Flips me over. Stares down at me like I’m something holy and unholy all at once. 

His hand skims down my torso, slow, intentional. But his eyes? Still wild. Still starving. 

Luke bends down between my legs.

Then– 

He leans in and bites the inside of my thigh. Hard. Not playful– possessive. Like he wants to make me again, deeper this time. My breath catches, spine arching. He soothes the sting with his tongue, then licks upwards, right to where I’m dripping for him. 

I twitch. 

He pulls back just enough to look up at me– mouth slick, jaw clenched like he’s holding back from eating me whole. 

Then he says it, voice all dark smoke and promise. 

“You wanna come?” he asks.

My hips twitch again. His eyes narrow. 

“Beg.”

I grab his face, drag him down by the chain around his neck until our noses brush. 

“I’ll do worse than beg.” 

I flip him over. Straddle him. 

And ride him agonizingly slow. 

His head tips back with a strangled gasp. His hands are gripping my thighs like he might lose his mind. I grind down, rocking my hips in tight, punishing circles. Every movement is torture. 

He’s panting now. Eyes wild. Big, sweaty, shaking underneath me. 

“Please,” he gasps. 

I cock my head. 

“Say I’m your favourite.” 

He blinks up at me. Dazed. Lost. Desperate. 

“You’re–fuck–” his voice cracks. “You’re my favourite.”

I tighten my grip on his jaw, leaning close. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I fucking better be.” 

He moans like it hurts, like it heals. And then– eyes still locked on mine– he reaches up and grabs my throat again. His thumb brushes my pulse point, gentle, reverent. But his grip is still firm. 

And that’s when I do it. 

I lean down, spit in his mouth again. 

He groans like it’s a goddamn prayer. Swallows. Then whimpers. 

“Mhm– fuck.”

His hands clamp hard on my hips, and he starts thrusting up into me, taking over the rhythm. 

I claw down his chest, leaving welts. Blood beads at one scratch. His body jerks. He loves it. 

“You want me to come?” I gasp, riding him harder. “Make me.” 

He grabs my ass, slaps it once– loud and stinging. “Fucking come, pretty thing. I want it all over me.” 

His voice is wrecked now. He’s close. I’m closer. I can feel it in my spine. In the shake of my thighs, in the way my breath starts catching on every thrust. 

And he does it– slides one hand between us, rubs my clit just right, and I can’t hold back any longer. 

The orgasm rips through me like a scream– my body locks, my hips grind down hard, and I cry out his name like it’s sacred. 

Luke shouts– hips stuttering– thrusting deep one last time as he comes with a guttural groan. He clutches me tight, fingers digging bruises into my ass as he spills inside me, body twitching through every pulse. 

He doesn’t let go right away. 

Still inside me. Still panting. Still shaking. 

His arms wrap around my waist like a cage– like he’s scared I’ll slip through his fingers if he loosens his grip even slightly. His forehead presses to the curve of my chest, sweat-slick and heavy with breath, his mouth open against my skin. He mutters something– low and broken– that I don’t catch, and I don’t ask him to repeat it. 

Because his hands are already sliding. 

Down my thighs, around the backs of my knees. Up my spine with his fingers splayed like he’s learning the shape of me from scratch. 

He’s too spent to move properly, but his mouth doesn’t stop. He kisses up the center of my chest, slow and dragging, tongue flicking out where his lips pass the edge of my sternum. It's not sweet. It’s not even gentle. It’s worshiping. And borderline unhinged. 

And then his voice, still hoarse, “Where does it hurt?” 

I blinked down at him, confused. 

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look up at me. His face is flushed and wrecked and still beautiful– hair plastered to his forehead, pupils blown wide, mouth kiss-swollen and twitching. 

“Show me,” he rasps. “Where it hurts.” 

I don’t answer. 

So he takes my silence as permission. 

He flips us fast– too fast, still high on adrenaline– and pins me underneath him, mouth already trailing down my chest again. 

I let out a breathy curse, hips shifting, too sensitive to bear it but not willing to stop him. 

His lips skim lower. Over the curve of my ribs. Down the center of my stomach. He pushes my thighs apart and hums, as if he’s cataloging damage. 

“You left scratches here.” His thumb brushes a spot on his chest– four red angry lines dragged across his front from when I clawed at him earlier. He smiles crooked and almost proudly. 

But then his voice drops again. Rougher. Closer to a growl. 

“But I know I fucked you up worse.”  

He slides down between my legs. Doesn’t even pretend to be coy about it. Just settles there, his hands pushing my thighs wide open, mouth trailing over the inside of my knee like it’s a threat. Like he’s warning me. 

I arch involuntarily when he kisses and licks the tender, bitten place on the inside of my thigh– the one he marked earlier. 

“Here?” he mutters. “Did it hurt when I bit you?” 

I nod, breath catching. 

He bites again. Not hard enough to leave new bruises, just hard enough to sting. Then licks the mark gently, tongue slow and warm. 

“Good.” 

He drags his mouth up–up–up, and doesn’t stop. 

Another scrape of teeth near my hip. Another kiss just beneath my navel. His tongue swipes through the mess between my thighs, making me jolt from overstimulation, but he holds me down– hands firm on my hips like he’s anchoring me to the bed. 

“Still so fucking wet,” he whispers, more to himself. “You liked that, did you, sweet girl? Being ruined like that?” 

I moan– shaky, helpless. 

He licks into me again– deeper this time, slower– then pulls back, lips slick, eyes locked on mine. 

“Tell me where else it hurts.” 

I manage a whisper, “My throat.” 

A flash of heat from his eyes, “Yeah? From my hand?” 

I nod, embarrassed, but he looks anything but sorry. 

He climbs back up my body and presses a kiss to the base of my throat– then licks slowly up the length of it like he’s soothing something scorched. His hand comes up to gently cup my jaw. Fingers curling beneath it– not choking this time, just holding. 

“That’s mine now,” he says into my neck. “Every sound that comes out of it.” 

Another kiss. Softer. 

Then rougher again as he slides his palm around the side of my neck and presses just enough to feel my pulse flutter against his thumb. 

“Show me more.” 

I barely get the words out–” My chest", before his mouth is already there. Dragging down, teeth grazing the swell of one breast. He kisses right above my heart, slow at first– then bites.

Hard. 

I gasp, fingers flying to his hair, pulling and clawing. 

And he groans– like pain and pleasure have blurred together beyond distinction. Like this isn’t about fixing me. It’s about claiming what he broke. 

“Say it,” he growls. 

I blink, dizzy. “Say what?” 

“That I’m your favourite.”  

I exhale a laugh, but he’s not joking. 

He pushes his hips down, against me, still semi-hard, unbelievably, and his voice comes lower, more desperate now. Almost boyish. 

“Please.”

I freeze. 

His eyes are wild. Red-rimmed. Big. He’s panting. Big, sweaty, shaking overtop of me.

“Say I’m your favourite.” 

I lean up, hand fisting in his curls and whisper:

“You’re my favourite.”

His whole body shudders. 

I tighten my grip. Pull his mouth to mine until we’re nose to nose, breath tangled. 

He groans– loud, wrecked, undone– and kisses me like he’s trying to crawl inside my lungs. Like ‘favourite’ isn’t a title, it’s a need. 

Then, without warning, he pulls back, breathing ragged and grips my hips, pulling me across the bed towards him. “Come with me.” 

He lifts me– strong arms folding around my waist, pulling me flush to him. The heat radiating off his skin is almost unbearable, but I don’t want him to stop. Not yet. I let my hands drift up to his shoulders, fingertips tracing the taut muscles. 

His mouth finds mine, rough and demanding, tongue sliding over my lips as he walks us to the bathroom. I cling to him, breath hitching when his teeth scrape my jaw with just enough pressure to sting. I tug his curls, tug him closer, desperate to feel every inch. 

I feel the cool countertop at the back of my thighs as he sets me down to turn the shower on. The sounds of our breathing mix with the pounding water. I can’t help but let out a breathy laugh, heart pounding. His eyes flicker with dark amusement as he spreads my legs, placing both hands on my knees before tracing them up to my hips. 

“I’m going to make you beg,” he promises, voice low and thick. His fingers tease along my inner thigh where he bit earlier. 

“Tell me how much you want it,” he murmurs, his fingers curling tighter against my thigh, sending jolts of pleasure. 

I bite my lip, eyes locked on his, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “Please…” 

He grins, wicked and possessive, biting his lip. “Say it.” 

I breathe out, “I want you.”

“Say it again,” he demands. 

“I want you, Luke.” 

“Good girl,” he growls, voice thick with approval. 

He lifts me from the counter and carries me into the shower. The warm mist greets us, steam swirling, tiles slick. 

He turns me toward the water, his hands pressing into my back, guiding me beneath the hot spray. His lips find mine again– urgent, demanding– I wrap my arms around his neck as the water pounds over us. 

His hands roam, mapping my curves, fingers trailing over skin slick with water and desire. 

The weight of him, the scent– it’s overwhelming, dizzying.

I feel the tile press against my back as Luke moves us, one hand gripping my thigh, guiding it over his waist, as the other is sliding up to curl around my throat. The pressure is perfect– just enough to take my breath, to make my pulse race. 

“Look at me,” he demands, forehead pressed to mine, eyes dark and intense. “Wanna see you fall apart.” 

I swallow, breath hitching, voice barely more than a whisper. “I am.”

His thumb brushes lightly over my pulse point, then drags down my neck, slow and deliberate. He studies the way I shudder under his touch, eyes narrowed, calculating.

 “You think that’s falling apart?” he murmurs, voice low and amused. “You’re not even close.”

Before I can answer, his grip loosens and his hand slips under my jaw, tilting my face up. His other hand comes to my mouth, thumb teasing at my bottom lip until I part them instinctively. 

His gaze stays locked on mine—unchanging.

“Open.” The command is calm, but absolute.

I obey. Breath shallow. Chest rising and falling.

And then he spits—slow, deliberate—into my mouth. The sound of it, the intimacy, the complete surrender it pulls from me…it sends a fresh wave of heat straight to my core.

“Swallow,” he says, thumb still resting just inside my lips.

I do. Never looking away from him.

He groans low in his throat, eyes flashing. “Atta girl.”

The praise floods through me like wildfire.

His hand slides down my sternum, between my breasts, across my stomach. Not touching where I need him, not yet. Just skimming, teasing. Mapping me like I’m his to memorize.

“You’re burning up,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my jaw, then another under my ear. “But you still haven’t begged enough.”

I let out a strangled sound—part whimper, part challenge. “What if I don’t want to beg?”

His mouth curves into something dark, amused. Dangerous. “Then I’ll just keep you like this. On edge. Shaking.” His fingers drift to my inner thigh, maddeningly close. “Needy.”

I try to shift my hips toward his hand, desperate for contact. He steps back just enough to deny me, and the frustration makes my breath catch in a soundless gasp.

“Please.” It slips out before I can stop it.

“Not good enough.” He presses a single finger between my legs—barely any pressure, but it makes me cry out.

“Luke—please,” I try again, voice thinner, needier now. “Touch me. I need you.”

That gets him. Something shifts in his eyes. He growls again—low, rough—and lifts me like I weigh nothing. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice wrecked and low, dragging his mouth down my throat. “That’s it. That’s my fucking girl.”

His other hand fists in my hair, pulling just enough to tip my head back further, to expose all of me to him. Then his mouth is on mine again– rough, punishing, all tongue and teeth. He kisses like he owns me. 

And maybe he does. 

He trails a hand down, slow and teasing, dragging over the curve of my stomach before slipping between my thighs. Fingers stroke once– slick heat– and then he pauses. Teasing. Circling. Pressing. His rhythm is precise and devastating, just enough to make me shake but not enough to let me fall. 

“Say it,” he murmurs against my lips.

“I’m yours,” I whisper, hips already grinding against his hand, chasing friction. 

He growls low in his throat, hips rolling forward until I feel the hard length of him press against me, a threat and a promise. “Who’s in control?” he asks again, more forcefully now, as if daring me to lie, 

“You are,” I gasp. 

“Louder.”

“I’m yours,” I say, louder this time, breathless and raw. 

He grins– dark and triumphant– before biting down on my other shoulder, teeth sinking into skin. I cry out, half in pain but more in pleasure. He doesn't apologize, just licks the mark. 

Then water splashes, hot and sudden, as he lifts me and sets me on the built-in bench of the shower. The spray hits us both, steam curling around our bodies like smoke. 

He steps between my legs, dragging me to the edge of the bench until I’m straddling him. I move against him slowly, teasing myself with every inch as he holds me in place. His hand grips my waist with bruising force, fingers flexing, thumbs tracing the edge of my ribs like he’s memorizing every breath I take. 

“Beg for it,” he barks, eyes locked on mine.

“Please, Lu, I need it. Need you.” I mumble out, dizzy with need. “Please… please make me come.” 

He thrusts deep and slow, each movement a measured burn. His mouth finds my neck again, biting and sucking, branding me in places everyone can see. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, clinging, moaning into the steam-filled air as he works me open. 

The water drums harder, but not louder than my moans, not louder than the way his name breaks from my lips like a prayer. 

“You want me to come?” he pants, voice thick and tight. 

“Yes,” I gasp, nails clawing down his back. “Please.” 

“Say it.” 

“I want you. I want all of you.” 

That’s all it takes. 

He snarls, low and broken, before slamming into me harder. Faster. Hands on my ass, my hips, holding me down as he thrusts up into me like he can’t get deep enough. Every grind of his hips steals my breath. Every groan wrecks me further. 

My orgasm slams into me fast and vicious. I convulse, around him, crying out, nails biting into his skin as everything goes white, hot and blinding, 

“That’s my girl, doing such a good job,” He praises, pushing the hair out of my face, coaxing me through my high before he hits his. 

“Fuck–” he chokes, hips suttering. Then his arms lock around me, and he comes with a guttural shout of my name and a bite to the neck as his whole body shudders against mine. 

We stay like that– soaked, panting– while the shower rains over us, washing away everything but the heat between us. His breath is ragged against my skin. My heart is still racing. I don’t know where I end and where he begins. 

His hands never leave me. His mouth presses one last kiss to the mark he left on my throat. 

Between the quiet hum of heartbeats racing and water pouring, something unspoken lingers. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Part 1: The Four. 

(Luke's POV)

The First:

The suite smells like fresh linen, wood polish, and expensive nerves.

Sunlight pours through the tall windows, catching on the dust motes in the air, making everything feel a little cinematic– too bright, too sharp. I stand in the middle of it all, shirt hanging open, collar wrinkled from the way I keep tugging at it. My tie's already been thrown onto the back of the couch. Twice. Every time I go to get ready, I end up pacing again. Restless. Half-feral with anticipation.

The space is big–bigger than I expected it to be– with heavy curtains drawn halfway back, an antique mirror leaning against one wall, and a bar cart in the corner that none of us has dared to touch yet. The venue is some restored estate outside the city, all stone terraces and glass chandeliers, the kind of place you book when you want your wedding to feel like it might outlast time itself.

The others are here– Michael has his feet propped up on the coffee table, scrolling through something on his phone. Ashton is fussing with his cufflinks by the mirror like he's presenting an award, and Calum's sitting cross-legged on the floor, pretending to finalize his best man speech but mostly just throwing grapes at me every time I sigh. The room is full of noise, the kind of harmless chaos that usually calms me, but today it's static.

All I can do is miss her. Like an ache. Like a bruise under my ribs.

"You good?" Calum asks without looking up.

"Yeah," I replied.

"You've said 'yeah' fifteen times in the last half hour."

"Well, I meant it differently each time," I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.

Truth is, I don't know what to do with myself. It's not cold feet. It's not even the pressure of the day. It's the fact that she's somewhere in this building, behind some closed door. Getting her makeup done, probably laughing with her bridesmaids, sipping something bubbly. Slipping into a dress I'm not allowed to see yet. And I can't see her. Can't touch her. Can't even hear her voice.

I am losing my goddamn mind.

Last night was the last time I'll have ever gone to bed without calling her my wife. And somehow that makes everything sharper today. Like I'm walking around with no skin.

I pace again, this time from the mirror to the windows, then back towards the arched doorway that leads to the suite's small lounge. The walls are all soft golds and creams, the ceiling high enough to echo. My reflection catches in the mirror— bare chest, half-done buttons, tattoos exposed, jaw clenched. I look like I'm waiting for a fight.

"She'll show," Michael says casually. "You know, unless she saw the group chat and changed her mind."

"If she leaves me at the altar," I say, without blinking, "I'm following her."

"Romantic and slightly terrifying," Calum says, tossing another grape.

Then– a knock.

It's light. Confident. Just once.

We all go still.

Ashton crosses the room and cracks the door open, only to grin and swing it wide.

Standing there, holding a plain white envelope, is one of her bridesmaids – dressed down, makeup half-done, hair clipped back, but smiling like she knows exactly what she's doing.

"What's this?" I ask as she walks up.

She places the envelope in my hands like it's fragile. "I was instructed not to say anything except: 'Don't open ahead, don't let the guys see, and don't drop it.'"

Then she spins on her heel and disappears through the suite door, leaving behind the faint smell of hairspray and perfume.

I look down. Thin envelope. Unlabeled. Whatever's inside has weight to it– not paper. A photo.

I slide a finger under the seal and pull it open slowly, like it might bite.

And there she is.

Curled up on our bed at home. My hoodie hangs loose around her shoulders. Her legs are bare. One knee tucked under her, the other stretched long. Her hair is a mess, soft around her face, and her smile is a quiet kind of dangerous– knowing, tender, intimate. Like she's not posing for the camera, just waiting for me to come to bed.

It hits me hard. Harder than I expected. I forget the room, the guys, the ceremony– everything.

I flip the photo over.

I wanted you to see me the way I feel when I think of you. Love you. Don't be late. 

My chest twists.

I sink onto the edge of the velvet chaise near the mirror, elbows on my knees, photo in both of my hands. I run my thumb gently along the corner, careful not to smudge it. There's something about the curve of her smile in that photo– like she already knows what I'm feeling now. Like she's been feeling it too.

"She's insane," I say softly to myself.

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Insane like…'I should call someone? Or…"

"She sent me a photo." I can barely tear my eyes away. "A Polaroid. She's wearing my hoodie."

"Ohhh," Calum whistles. "We've entered the tease era of the day."

I flip the photo again and tuck it into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, right over my heart.

"No one else gets to see it."

It feels sacred. Not just the image, but the act. The intention. Knowing she wanted me to have this moment, before everything else. She wanted to remind me of what we already are, before all the guests and vows and photos.

"You're smiling," Ashton says quietly, walking over to me, patting my back. "You didn't do that once this morning."

I lean back and exhale. My chest feels looser, lighter.

"Yeah, she does that to me."

The Second:

I managed to finish buttoning my shirt. That's about the extent of my progress.

The tie's still untouched. My hands keep fidgeting with the cuffs, rolling and unrolling them like I forgot how sleeves work. Every few minutes, I catch myself glancing toward the door. Thinking maybe it'll knock twice this time. Maybe she'll just walk in wearing that hoodie in real life instead of tucked into the side of my suit jacket in Polaroid form.

I can't stop thinking about that photo. That look in her eyes. The way she somehow made our bed look like the most intimate place on the planet. The way she looked at me– even through the lens, even knowing I'd see it later.

She wrecked me with one picture.

The guys are still buzzing in the background— Ashton's reading some wedding trivia off his phone like it's the Oscars, and Michael and Calum are arguing about whether the band playlist should include one of our old songs. I'm barely listening. Everything in me is pacing, even when I'm sitting still.

Then it happens again.

Another knock.

Softer this time. Almost playful.

Michael beats me to the door, opening it with a knowing smirk.

Another bridesmaid stands there, this one holding an envelope between two fingers like she's handing off classified intel. "Round two," she says. "And don't act like you didn't like the first one."

I gave her a look. "You guys planned this, didn't you?"

"Don't shoot the messenger, Hemmings." She grins and slips away before I can say anything else.

This envelope's thinner, but somehow feels heavier in my hands.

I already know what's inside.

Still, my heart kicks like it's trying to warn me.

I tear it open, slower than the first time. Careful. A little afraid of what she's about to do to me again.

The photo slides into my palm.

Fuck.

She's sitting on the kitchen counter at home, legs bare and stretched out, laughing like I just said something that made her lose it. She's wearing nothing but my band tee– the old threadbare one, with the cracked logo, holes near the hem. The one. It's long enough to hang loose, but just barely. Her hair is messy again, wild and sexy in a completely unintentional way. One hand is behind her on the counter for balance. The other's holding a coffee mug— my mug. Her thighs are parted just enough to make me insane.

I flip the photo over…

For when you missed breakfast x 

I drag a hand down my face, biting back a groan. "I'm not going to survive today."

"That bad?" Calum questions, raising an eyebrow in my direction.

I don't respond. Just get up and start pacing again. This time with purpose. My blood is too hot now. I can feel it under my skin, all charged and restless. Like I'm burning from the inside out.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

The photo isn't soft like the first one. It's more playful. Cheeky. She's saying 'I know exactly how to distract you, and I'm doing it on purpose' without saying it.

I slide the photo into the same pocket where the first Polaroid is. My chest feels tighter now. Not in a bad way. Just full. Heavy with a mix of love and need while also something lower— darker– twisting and swimming behind my ribs.

Michael watches me with a grin plastered across his face. "Is the second one better than the first?"

I glanced at him, eyes narrowed. "I'm not answering that."

"Which means yes."

"I said I'm not answering it."

I turned towards the window again, mostly to cool off. Resting my forehead against the glass and focusing on my breathing. Outside, the courtyard is being decorated. Flowers everywhere you looked. Chairs lined up perfectly. It all seemed so still compared to what was happening inside of me.

She's turning today into a game. A slow, teasing, perfectly executed form of torture. And I don't want her to stop.

The Third:

We've been moved from the groom's suite to what the planner called the "final prep lounge". It's quieter here, off to the side of the gardens, near where the ceremony will take place. A room nobody uses except the couple and whoever in the party needs a breather before they walk out in front of a hundred or so people.

It's got this old-world feel, bookshelves built into walls, dusty with old books that were there for aesthetic more than function. There's a velvet couch underneath a wide window overlooking the garden and a few chairs scattered around. Everything feels suspended in time. Numb with anticipation.

I can't stop messing with the cuffs of my suit jacket. I've been doing it for ten minutes straight. Nerves aren't new to me– hell, I've played in front of stadiums– but this feels different. Bigger, heavier.

Ashton is leaning in a corner, scrolling through his phone, claiming he is 'too antsy to sit'. Calum is messing with his tie in the mirror, mumbling something under his breath about needing a drink. Michael is looking through all the old books, trying to figure out which one is the oldest purely based on looks alone.

And then there's a knock at the door.

Sharp. Meaningful.

Cal opens it, and another one of the bridesmaids steps inside. She's glowing, like they all are today, but there's something mischievous about her smile. She walks straight towards me, heels clicking against the hardwood floors, and hands me a small, plain white envelope. Just like all others.

She doesn't say anything— just winks and then she's gone again.

I stare at it for a second.

My chest tightens.

By now, I know the game she's playing.

I tear the seal open. My hands aren't steady anymore. My fingers brush the edges of the Polaroid, and I already feel my blood stirring before I even see it.

When I do– fuck.

It's her, in our bedroom. Not staged, not artificial. Just her.

She's standing in front of the full-length mirror, backlit by the late afternoon sun. She's wearing black lace, barely wearing it. The kind that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Thin straps falling from her shoulders. A deep cut bra that lifts and exposes in a way that should be illegal. Matching bottoms that sit high on her hips, making her legs look even longer, even more sinful.

Her lips are parted, just a little. Like she'd been talking to the camera. Her eyes are locked on her reflection– and mine now. There's a rawness to it. A quiet heat. It's not the lingerie that undoes me– it's her expression. The way she is so completely herself in it. Beautiful. Bare. Powerful.

And the caption?

Don't drop this one in front of your mom. 

I swallowed hard. My throat is dry.

"Jesus," I mutter, low enough that only I can hear it.

My hands cover my mouth, rubbing across my jaw. My pulse is pounding. I glance over at the guys, half-afraid someone can read it on my face. What I just saw, what I'm thinking.

Ashton looks up from his phone briefly, notices something, but says nothing. Cal raises a brow, gives me a lazy grin. But the room's gone quieter now. They can sense a shift.

The teasing from earlier is gone.

Because this one– it's not just flirty. It's not cute or cheeky, it's intimate.

It's hers. For me.

I stare at the photo a little longer than I should. Thumb tracing the edges, careful not to smudge the image. I tuck it safely right where the other two are, over my heart in my jacket pocket.

Sitting down on the arm of the couch, I look outside at all the white chairs, flowers, and the aisle– attempting to steady my ragged breathing.

Every time I think I've hit the ceiling with how much I want her, she finds a new way to undo me.

And we haven't even made it to the vows yet.

The Fourth and Final: 

It's been twenty minutes since the last Polaroid.

I've been alone for ten of them.

The wedding planner told me to wait here until she came to get me and took the guys with her. "Just breathe," she said, like that's easy to do right now.

The last three polaroids weighed down my jacket pocket.

I haven't stopped thinking about it.

She's on the counter, in our bed, laughing like she owns the whole goddamn world.

She kind of does.

I rub my palms down the front of my thighs, trying to focus on anything but the way my heart won't slow down. I've been pacing the length of the room, over and over. Tie's done. Jacket's ready. Vows are in the pocket of my slacks, worn soft from how many times I've pulled them out, reread every word, re-memorized every breath.

Then I hear it— barely a sound.

A light knock.

I turn, expecting the wedding planner.

But no one's there.

Just something left just inside the door.

Another goddamn envelope.

My breath catches, I already know.

This one is quiet.

I grab it gently, like the air might shift if I move too fast, and sit down on the edge of whatever chair is closest to the door. My fingers are careful, reverent. I slide the photo out.

And everything stills.

She's bare.

Laid out in golden light, like she took this seconds after stepping out of the shower. Her back arched, legs tucked underneath her, and she had one hand on the mattress to hold herself steady. Her head is turned slightly toward the camera, toward me. Her hair was falling wildly down her back. Her eyes–

Fuck. Her eyes.

They're not playful. They're not soft.

They're something else entirely.

Open and unfiltered. Daring me to feel everything this moment is.

My throat tightens.

I press the heel of my palm against my chest, right over my tie, because I swear to god my heart's never beat like this before. It's her. All of her. Unapologetic, unafraid. This isn't just sex. This is trust. This is her saying; I'm yours. Now. Later. Always. 

And I feel it so deeply in my bones.

My hand shakes as I run it through my hair, the photo still held in my other hand like it's some kind of holy artifact. Sacred and private and mine.

No note. No words.

She doesn't need any.

I exhale slowly, jaw tight from how hard I'm clenching it. I'm seconds away from losing it completely. The way I want her right now, it's not calm. It's not polite. It's overwhelming. Fierce, like I could walk into the hallway and forget the whole ceremony just to find her. Just too–

I laugh under my breath, breathless and wrecked.

"Jesus, baby," I whisper, leaning forward. "You're really trying to kill me before I can even make it down the aisle."

I look up at the ceiling, breathing deep, trying to hold it together.

Not long now. I just have to make it a few more minutes.

Then she's mine. Fully, forever.

And so help me God.

Part 2: The Reception. 

(Her POV)

The reception is a blur of music, light, and heat. String lights sway above us like stars, and someone's spinning Fleetwood Mac again– third time tonight. The dance floor is all bare feet and laughter, the smell of champagne and sweat clinging to everyone like a second skin.

But none of it matters.

Not the music. Not the speeches. Not the cake I've ever tasted.

Because all I can feel is him.

He's across the room, talking to someone– I think a cousin, maybe a drummer. I don't know. I don't care. His sleeves are rolled up, the collar of his shirt open, and his tie hanging loose around his neck. And his jaw is clenched in the way it always gets when he's trying not to lose control.

I know that look.

I gave him that look.

And I haven't touched him in over an hour.

That's part of the fun.

Earlier, I'd been subtle. Fingers under the table. Whispers into his ear that made him twitch in his seat. Dancing with him so close, my lips brushed his throat while I silently reminded him of what I was wearing underneath my dress.

His breath had stuttered. I felt it. Right against my collarbone.

Now? Now I'm just watching him unravel.

He meets my gaze from across the room. I tilt my head slightly and take a slow sip of champagne, letting my tongue dart across the rim of the glass. Just enough to make his knuckles tighten on the drink in his hand.

Good.

He's trying to play it cool like always.

But I know him.

And right now, he's strung so tight I bet he'd break with one whispered word.

So I give him none.

I let the moment linger, then turn away and laugh at something Calum says, even though I didn't hear a word. My skin feels electric. Every inch of me is aware of him watching. Of the way this dress clings to my thighs. The way the slit rides higher when I move.

Eventually, I feel him behind me again– close, hovering. He doesn't touch, but I feel the heat of him like a hand against my spine.

"You're being evil," he says lowly, voice like gravel.

I don't even turn around. Just sip my drink.

"You're going to kill me."

"You'll die happy," I replied.

Before he can answer, someone shoves a Polaroid camera into my hand. "Last one of the night! Newlyweds, front and center."

I grin and grab his hand before he can think to resist. "Come on, rockstar."

He lets me drag him to the wall, where people have been snapping candid shots all night. It's covered with photos now— lipstick stains, someone mid-cartwheel. And ours is going to be nothing like theirs.

I turn and press my back to his chest. Guide his hand to my waist, then lower. Lower still.

He stiffens.

"Relax," I whisper, reaching for his other hand and sliding it gently across my collarbone, up to my throat.

"That's enough," he warns.

"Shhh," I mutter. "Just look at the camera."

He doesn't move. I feel his breath at my temple, warm and staggered.

Then I tilt my head. My lips brush against his jaw– just barely.

Click.

The flash blinds us both.

I grab the photo before he can. Shake it, watching the ghost of an image start to blossom.

He stays behind me, breathing heavily. His hands are still planted where they were in the photo, like he's trying to not haul me into the nearest dark hallway.

The photo develops slowly. When the image clears, I turn around to face him and hold it up for him to see.

He freezes.

His hand is still curled around my throat– not hard. Just there. Like a promise.

In the photo, his eyes are closed. My mouth on his skin. And I'm looking at the camera like I planned the whole thing.

Because I did.

"It's a good one, don't you think?" I asked, all sugary innocence.

He doesn't answer.

"You knew what it'd do to me," Luke finally says.

I smile.

"I've been trying to ruin you since this morning."

I slide the photo into his jacket pocket, where I can feel the other ones are.

Then I turn and walk away.

Barefoot. Back straight. My dress swayed around my legs like smoke.

I don't look back.

I don't have to.

I know he's following.

Part 3: The After.

(Her POV)

The limo door clicks shut, and we're alone again, finally. The noise of the reception fades behind tinted glass and closed windows, and it feels like I can breathe again– for a second.

Then I catch the way he's looking at me, like I lit a match and dropped it on a pile of gasoline. I glance out the window, pretending not to notice, but I let my hand slide over his thigh. Slow. Deliberate. Just above the knee.

He doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch.

But I feel the way he tenses under my touch. The muscle in his leg tightens, his breath catches, and when I steal a glance at him, his jaw is tight.

He's looking out the window, like he's trying to stay calm. Like if he looks at me, he'll lose whatever composure is left in him, helping him cling to his sanity all night.

I squeeze a little.

His head turns toward me.

"You really did that to me today?" His voice was rough, quiet as if someone else could hear him.

I don't look at him. Instead, I trail my fingers higher. Not enough to be obvious, just enough to provoke.

"You made it through the reception," I murmur, smoothing my dress over my legs like I haven't been just driving him insane for hours. "Barely."

His hand moves.

Not gentle or patient.

His palm slides under the hem of my dress's slit, up my thigh with a kind of reckless hunger I can feel in my teeth.

"You think you're in control right now?" he says.

I smirk. I don't answer.

But my body is already betraying me– heat pooling between my legs, heart pounding like it knows exactly what's coming.

His fingers stop right where lace meets skin. Just resting there. Waiting. Like he's daring me to react.

He leans in again. His breath was hot on my neck.

"Careful," he growls. "You're gonna find out what happens when I'm finally not playing nice.

The second we're inside the hotel suite, the facade cracks.

The door shuts with a violent click behind us, and his mouth is on mine before I can say a word. All tongue and teeth and raw, pent-up need.

I don't remember walking, but Luke's already pushing me backward, crowding me until I hit the door again. My back slams into it, and I gasp— not from pain. From the way he's touching me now. Like he's starved.

His hands are already on the zipper of my dress, tugging hard, clumsy and desperate. One hand cups my jaw as his mouth crashes into mine again, teeth scraping my lower lip.

"You've been fucking with me all day," he mutters against my lips.

He's not wrong.

I kiss him back just as hard, fingers threading through his curls, tugging until he groans. "Do something about it then," I dare.

And he does.

His hands slide under my thighs, and suddenly, I'm off the ground. Legs wrapped around his waist, back still pressed to the door as he holds me there like I weigh nothing.

I wrap my arms around his neck, breath ragged, as he grinds against me through layers of clothing. Every moment is frantic, fueled by hours of teasing looks and whispered innuendos.

"You don't get it," He mutters, voice strangled with restraint. "You don't get what you do to me."

He kisses down my throat, rough and hungry, like he's trying to brand me.

I lean my head back against the door, moaning as one of his hands slips beneath the lace between my legs.

He pauses, and when his thumb brushes over the soaked fabric, he groans against my neck. "Fuck."

I bite down on my lip and arch into his touch. "Still think I'm not in control."

He laughs, but it's dark. "Not anymore, you're not."

Then goes back to kissing down my throat. Sucking on my collarbone. Hard, and this time there's no teasing.

Just fire.

He drops to his knees. Just like that. In the entry of the suite, my dress bunched at my waist.

The carpet brushes the tops of his boots. He doesn't even blink.

"Are you serious?" I breathe, but it's more of a gasp than a question.

He looks up at me from between my thighs, blue eyes darkened past recognition, jaw set like he's ready to ruin me. One of his hands curls around the back of my calf, guiding it over his shoulder. The other hooks into the waistband of my panties– lace, black, deliberately chosen.

"You knew exactly what you were doing," he murmurs, and then—

Heat. Tongue. Pressure.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't take his time. He licks me through the lace, firm and slow, until my knees actually give a little and I grab onto his shoulders just to stay upright. The grin he gives me then– crooked, smug, devastating– is all teeth.

He moves the lace aside. Bare skin, no more teasing.

And then he's back at it. Mouth sealed, tongue working in circles, maddening and slow and fucking perfect. My fingers tangle in his hair before even realizing it– tight and possessive, grounding myself.

"Oh my god–" I gasp, hips rocking against his face. He holds me steady with a firm hand under my thigh, pulling me in like he wants me to suffocate him.

The drag of his mouth, the obscene wet sounds, the way his stubble scrapes my inner thighs— it's all too much and not enough all at once. I can't even think. Can't breathe. My entire body arches towards him.

He moans into me, low and rough, like he's getting off on the way I fall apart.

And then he finds it. That exact spot. The one that makes me tremble.

He focuses there, lips tight, sucking just right– flicking his tongue until everything in me coils tight like a wire pulled too far.

"Don't stop," I choke out. "Luke— fuck, don't stop."

I grip the back of his head like I might float away if I don't anchor myself to him.

And then it hits.

Pleasure cracks through me, hot and binding. I cry out, thighs shaking against his shoulders, stomach tightening as my orgasm slams through me, fast and hard. He holds me steady through it, licking me through the aftershocks like he's determined to taste every second of it.

My vision swims. I'm panting, clutching his shoulders, legs barely holding me up.

Luke finally pulls back. His lips are slick. His mouth is swollen. He looks so proud. Wild and dangerous.

"One," he says, voice smug and confident, standing slowly like a predator who knows he's just begun. He presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh before rising. Then his eyes meet mine.

"You're not walking tomorrow."

He lifts me off the door and carries me to the bed, standing me right beside it— his mouth already on my shoulder, my jaw, the corner of my lips like he can't stand the distance between us.

I expect the same kind of urgency that had me unravelling in his mouth a minute ago.

But no.

It's like now that he's tasted me, he wants to make the rest of this last.

He lays me down, careful, reverent. The room spins a little with how gentle his hands are. His eyes drag down my body over the dress I wore just for this, over the flushed skin that still hums from his mouth.

His hands find the zipper again.

He kneels in front of me, beside the bed, fingers ghosting along the line of my back as he pulls the zipper down– inch by inch, his mouth following, warm and open against my skin. He doesn't rush. Each kiss is a confession for him. A slow unravelling.

My dress falls in soft folds around me.

And then I hear it– a sharp inhale from his chest. A curse under his breath.

I glance down at him, heat prickling at my neck.

I'm in the same black lingerie from the third Polaroid.

The one that I'm sure made him dizzy.

The one I took, knowing exactly what it would do to him.

His voice is ragged when it breaks the silence. "You planned this. Every second."

I don't say anything. Don't have to.

He trails his fingers up the inside of my thigh. Presses a kiss on my hipbone. Then another, lower, warmer.

"You knew I'd lose it."

A kiss on my stomach.

"You knew exactly what this would do to me."

He moves higher, lips brushing the curve of my ribs, the underside of my bra. His hand slides to my back, unfastening it with infuriating slowness, like he wants to savour it.

I arch into his mouth when he kisses the side of my breast, his tongue flicking over the skin like he's claiming it.

But then he pulls back.

Stands.

And the air in the entire room changes.

The softness evaporates. What's left is heat. Control. A rawness in his eyes I've never seen before– something older, darker, starving.

"On your knees."

His voice was low and firm. There's no room for question in it.

My breath catches in my throat. He watches my process with his words. Watching me hesitate for one second too long.

"You made me wait," he says, taking off his shoes. Then his shirt. "You wore this little fucking set and left me sitting with those pictures. For hours. Thinking about this body. About that mouth. About what I'd do the second I got my hands on you."

He unbuttons his slacks, watching me like a wolf watching its prey.

"You don't get to play innocent now."

Heat pools low in my stomach.

I drop down to my knees slowly. He watches every move like it's sacred. Or sinful. Or both.

"Good girl," he murmurs. "Right where I want you."

I look up at him through my lashes.

"You waited," I whisper. "I thought about it every night."

His breath stutters. His hand knots in my hair, pulling it back to make me look up.

"Say it again."

"I wanted this," I say bolder this time. "I wanted to make you lose control."

"You fucking did," he growls, eyes blazing. "You have no idea what you've done to me."

He strokes himself slowly in front of me, just enough to make my mouth go dry. Then he taps his cock against my bottom lip.

"You're gonna take all of it, baby. Every inch. No teasing this time. No games."

I open my mouth for him, and he throws his head back and groans like it physically hurts him to be touched.

"Look at me," he says, sliding in deep, hand tight in my hair. "Eyes on mine. You don't look away unless I tell you to."

I moan around him, already dizzy from the fullness, from the possessiveness in his grip, from the way his jaw clenches like he's seconds away from losing it.

He thrusts slowly at first, controlled.

Then harder.

Faster.

Dirty words pouring from his lips, one after another:

"Fucking perfect mouth–"

"It's like you were made for this–"

"Look at you– so fucking needy, choking on it like you love it."

His rhythm falters as he gets close, voice shaking with restraint.

But he doesn't let himself finish there.

One second I'm limp on the floor, wrecked from his mouth, the next I'm in his arms again– lifted like I'm weightless. He doesn't give me time to breathe.

My thighs lock around his waist as his mouth crashes into mine, open and hot and tasting like me. He walks me backward, gripping my ass, barely looking where he's going. The suite blurs past in streaks of gold light and shadows, until my back slams into the wall hard enough to make the mirror rattle.

I gasp, arms flying around his shoulders. "Luke–"

His mouth moves down to my neck, biting down just enough to make me gasp.

"You think I'm done with you?" he growls, grinding against me. "I haven't even started."

Then he's inside me.

No warning. Just one rough, brutal thrust that steals the breath straight from my lungs.

I cry out, nails scraping down his back. The wall is cold on my back, but his body is fire– his skin, his breath, his hands everywhere.

"Fuck," I gasp, clinging to him, legs tightening.

His pace is punishing, hips slamming up into me like he's trying to make a point. My head tips back and hits the wall again, a sharp thud. His hand comes up, fingers sliding over my throat.

"Keep your eyes on me." He demands, gritting his teeth.

I do– barely. His face and neck are flushed, jaw tight, blue eyes dark and locked on mine.

"Look at me when I ruin you," he says.

Then his hand tightens.

My eyes roll back. My body arches against his, and every nerve is on fire. The pressure on my throat makes everything sharper– every thrust, every sound, every pulse of heat between my legs.

"Fuck— Luke–" I choke out.

He growls low in his chest, voice filthy and worshipping.

"God, this fucking body. This cunt. All mine. You hear me?"

I nod, choking on a moan. "Yours– yours–"

He presses in harder, deeper, lip brushing my ear. "You made me wait. Dressed like a fantasy, touching me like it meant nothing. Then wore that fucking lingerie from the Polaroid. You wanted this."

I whimper.

"You wanted me like this. Didn't you?"

"Y-yes," I gasp.

Luke pulls out suddenly, and I almost collapse, but he doesn't let me fall. He turns me– spins me so I'm facing the wall, palms splayed out, bare chest pressed against the cold surface.

"Hands up. Spread your legs."

I do, shaking. I feel the rough drag of his chest to my back, his hand locking around my throat again as he lines up and thrusts into me from behind.

Deeper. Angled. Brutal.

I scream. There's no point holding it back.

He grabs a fistful of my hair, pulling my head back so my cheek's pressed to the wall.

"Louder," he growls. "Let them hear you. Let everyone know who's fucking you like this."

His other hand slides over my hip, down to where we're joined, fingers rubbing hard, fast, perfect. I saw something out that might be his name.

I'm close. Too close. I can feel it building again, like lightning coiled in my spine.

His hand in my hair is back on my throat. Tight.

"You want to come again?" he grits out. "Beg for it."

My mouth falls open. No words coming out. His head was fuzzy from his hand on my throat.

"Please," I manage. "Please, Luke– I'm so– fuck, I need–"

"That's it." He mumbles. "Come for me."

I shatter. Harder than the first time. It rolls through me in waves, hot and violent. Every nerve stripped bare.

He follows with a deep, guttural sound, burying himself inside me one last time as he finishes, hips stuttering, grip bruising.

We're both panting. Ruined. Feral.

"That's two," Luke says between breaths.

Then his arms wrap around me from behind, holding me up as my legs give out entirely. He carries me to bed, lies down gently, then pulls the sheets over us like he's sealing something sacred. His breath is still ragged when he kisses my bare shoulder.

My fingers drift over his chest. "Did you like the photos?"

He doesn't speak right away, just leans over the edge of the bed and reaches into his discarded jacket, pulls out one of them– creased, warm from being kept too close.

"This one," he says, handing over the fourth one I gave him, the one of me naked on our bed at home. "I nearly lost it."

My heart stutters. He adds, quieter, "Kept it over my heart."

I lean in and kiss him slowly. "I knew you would."

His mouth grazes mine in lazy, drugging kisses, when his hand slides lower— fingertips teasing, tracing, memorizing. His touch is less frantic than before, but no less consuming. Kissing me like he has all the time in the world, like there's nothing else outside this bed, this moment, and the heat reforming between my legs.

Luke's lips drag across my mouth, over my jaw, down my neck, and I let my eyes flutter shut. My pulse trips. He takes his time tracing over every part of me he hadn't before– soft grazes across my ribs, the dip of my waist, and then—

His hand slides lower, slipping between my legs, like he already owns the space. I shift toward him instinctively, but he plants a firm hand on my hip, holding me still.

"Easy," He mumbles against my shoulder, voice rough. "You'll take what I give you."

It should make me bristle. But it doesn't. It makes me ache.

His fingers move slowly at first— barely there. A soft, maddening tease that brushes where I want him more. I breathe through my teeth, every nerve lit and waiting. When he finally pushes two fingers inside, my hips lift off the mattress in a sharp gasp.

"Shit," I breathe.

"Keep still. Let me feel you." His voice is calm, measured. Dangerous.

I try. God, I really try to behave the way he wants— motionless and obedient under his hands— but I'm unravelling too fast. His fingers curl inside me, already knowing the exact spot that'll break me.

My back arches without permission, jaw slack.

"Please," I whisper. Not even sure what I'm begging for– more, harder, anything.

He kisses the corner of my mouth, still slow. "Please, what lovie?"

"I want you."

He doesn't stop moving his fingers, but his voice turns colder, commanding. "No. That's not what I asked."

I open my eyes. His gaze pins me in place, his thumb stroking over my clit until my entire body locks up with need.

"Tell me what you are. Say it."

My pride holds on for a second too long. And then he curls his fingers again, right there, and everything inside me contracts, my breath catching on a sob.

"Yours," I say, broken. "I'm yours."

His mouth crushes down on mine in a kiss that tastes like a reward— possessive, dirty, deep. "Good girl."

His pace doesn't change, but the pressure does. More controlled. More devastating. My legs shake. My hands claw at his back, arm, shoulder, anything I can hold onto as he fucks me with his fingers like it's the only thing that's ever mattered.

"That's it— my pretty mess, dripping all over my hand. You know what you're doing to me?"

Luke's words make me shake, whimper and plead for release even though I'm already so close I can hardly breathe.

And then I'm gone. Clenching around his fingers with a cry I can't hold back, thighs trembling, closing in on his hand, back arching off the bed as he works me through my orgasm until I fall limp against the mattress, spent and silent.

He holds me there, one hand splayed low on my stomach, his fingers still inside, claiming me.

“Three down, one to go.” 

He's on top of me now. Finally.

The weight of his body feels grounding, not crushing. Heavy in the best way— solid, real, like I could fall apart underneath him and nothing would escape the cage of his arms.

His hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking it slowly, like I'm not just something to touch, but something to be known. Memorized. Like he's collecting every moment we've made tonight and storing it somewhere he can reach.

I open my eyes and look up at him, and for a moment, neither of us moves.

His forehead rests against mine. Breathe shallow. Lips parted. Blue eyes locked on mine like they could hold me still. And maybe they do. I've never felt this quiet inside. Never felt this seen.

Then, in a voice like he's telling a secret he's never said out loud, he whispers, "You're my wife."

My chest stutters. I don't know if it's from the words or the way he says them.

Like a prayer, a promise.

Then louder, rawer, almost ruined, "You're my fucking wife."

And with that, he slides into me again.

No hesitation. No ramp-up. Just full, slow, relentless depth— like he knows exactly where I need him and refuses to give me anything less.

I gasp, legs tightening around him. One hooked over his hip. The other wrapped around his thigh, drawing him impossibly closer.

He stays deep, grinding instead of thrusting. Like the friction itself is enough. Like he wants me to feel everything. Wants to make sure I remember this even in dreams.

I whimper his name, again and again, and every time I say it, he groans like it's undoing him.

"You feel that?" he whispers, lips brushing against my jaw. "How fucking good you take me?"

I nod. Not able to trust myself to say anything.

He holds my face in one hand like I'm fragile, scared, something rare that he's been given exactly once and refuses to fuck up.

His other hand threads through mine, pinning it above my head on the pillow. Our fingers laced. His grip is unrelenting, steady. Like if he lets go, the moment will too.

"Look at me," he says.

I do. God, I do.

And I see it all.

The awe. The hunger. The helpless, wrecked affection he's never been good at hiding when we're like this— when nothing else exists but skin and need and the way we break for each other.

"Fuck—I love you. I love you," he says, almost like it hurts. "So much it scares me."

And then kisses me, full, soft, aching. As if we have all the time in the world, even if we don't. He can pour every unspoken word into my mouth, and I'll understand.

It's all heat and friction and sweat-slicked skin, but somehow still tender– his fingers through mine, our foreheads touching like we're trying to crawl inside each other and stay there.

I hold onto his jaw, thumb tracing the curve of his cheek. He presses our foreheads together again, eyes fluttering closed.

We stay like that, building our highs together— slow and scared.

His name falls from my lips in a whisper, then again. Then louder.

He moves deeper, harder. Still holding eye contact. Still inside me like he's proving his vows with every stroke.

"Don't stop," I breathe. "Please— Luke, fuck."

"I'm not going anywhere, sweet girl," he promises me.

My body arches against him, lost in it. His hair falls into his eyes, and I reach up to push it back just so I can see him better. So I can memorize this.

His hand moves from my cheek to the back of my head, holding me to him as I fall apart beneath him. He doesn't let go. He doesn't rush. Just stays with me, inside me. Through every wave.

And when he comes, it's with a sound I'll never forget— like he's breaking open and finally, finally letting me in.

We finish together. Messy, gasping and clinging.

Name after name after name. His. Mine. Ours.

Like a spell cast in sweat, breath and skin.

Like there's no one else in the world but us.

We don't move right away.

“And that’s four.” He says breathless. 

He collapses onto me, bodies still tangled together, breath still short. His weight is solid, skin flushed and damp against mine.

I wrap my arms around him, legs still draped over him. His heartbeat thunders against my body.

We stay like that for a long time.

Eventually, he shifts, rolling us so I'm on top, sprawled across his chest. He kisses my shoulder, my temple, the corner of my mouth— soft, lazy kisses that feel like aftershocks.

His hand moves to my hair, combing through the strands slowly, like he's trying to soothe both of us back to earth.

His thumb traces the curve of my cheekbone, and his voice breaks the silence– wrecked but tender.

"You could send me Polaroids every day for the rest of my life…"

He swallows, chest rising beneath me. Finishing the sentence like it hurts.

"And I'd still never get used to you."

I smile against his collarbone. My lips brush his skin as I reply, sleepy and smug. "Good."

My fingers trail down the center of his chest, where I can still feel his heart hammering.

"Because I plan to keep ruining you."

He exhales a laugh– soft, disbelieving– and pulls me closer as if I'm somehow still not close enough.

Neither of us says it, but it's in the quiet, heavy air between us:

We were never going to be the same after this. 

And neither of us wants to be.