𝑅𝐼𝑅𝐼

note: my first william fic🥳 the girls and i had a timeeeeeee with that pottery video so i had to write something because it was really making me ✨tingle✨. as always enjoy and tell me what you think!

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The warm glow of the studio lights cast golden hues over the room, reflecting off the damp sheen of the spinning clay. The air smelled of earth and something faintly musky—maybe the clay, maybe the lingering scent of William’s cologne. Either way, it was intoxicating.

You had both been waiting weeks for this pottery date, but between his matches and your packed schedule, the timing never aligned. Until tonight. And now, here you were—knees touching as you both sat in front of the wheel, hands trembling slightly as you tried to center the clay.

William let out a low chuckle, watching as the mass of clay wobbled under your uncertain hands. “Let me help you bébé” he murmured, his deep, accented voice sending a shiver down your spine.

Before you could protest, he reached for another chair, dragging it behind yours. The scrape of wood against tile barely registered before he settled in—his long legs bracketing yours, his chest pressing flush against your back. His presence engulfed you, surrounding you in his warmth, in the scent of him—clean, rich, subtly spiced. It made your pulse stutter.

His hands found yours, covering them with ease, his fingers warm and firm as they guided your movements. The clay was soft beneath your touch, pliant, shifting under the gentle pressure of both your hands.

“Just like that bébé” he whispered, his lips dangerously close to the shell of your ear. His voice was low, smooth, almost teasing. “You have to keep it steady, or it will fall apart.”

The words, innocent in context, settled deep in your stomach, curling like a slow-burning fire.

You swallowed thickly, forcing your focus back on the clay, but it was impossible when every breath William exhaled ghosted over your skin, sending sparks of heat straight to your core. His fingers laced with yours, guiding them up and down the spinning strangely cylindrical shaped clay. Smoothing, shaping, molding. The way the unshaped clay leaned to the side reminded you of the curvature of William. How he hits some many unknown spots inside of you.

Your mind drifted, thoughts slipping into dangerous territory. His hands were large, skilled, his grip both firm and delicate. You imagined them elsewhere, imagined those same fingers dipping inside you with the same careful precision. The way his chest molded to your back, the solid weight of him behind you, how easily he took control.

A sharp inhale betrayed you, your breathing shifting ever so slightly. William must have noticed because his grip on your hands tightened, just a little. His thumb brushed over the back of your knuckles, slow, thoughtful.

“Faster” he murmured, instructing you to press the pedal.

You did, and the wheel spun quicker, the clay stretching, lengthening beneath your touch. But you weren’t thinking about the vase anymore. No, all you could think about was the way his voice dropped an octave when he spoke in your ear, the way his body heat seeped into yours, the way his fingers still moved over yours, teasing, coaxing, controlling.

His breath was heavy now as he tried with a small amount of strength to keep the clay in the middle of the wheel. He let out a few grunts that sent you down a spiral. Each exhale a low rumble near your ear. You weren’t sure if it was the effort of keeping your hands steady or if he could feel the same tension building thick in the air between you.

Then, his voice dipped lower, darker. “Get it wet for me”

The instruction was innocent enough—he wanted you to add more water to the clay before it dried out. But the second the words left his lips, your stomach clenched, heat rushing through you in waves.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the bowl, scooping up water and letting it drizzle over the spinning clay. But in your mind, all you could hear was the weight of those words, all you could think about was how wet he was making you.

For a moment, you let your eyes flutter shut, let yourself get lost in the sensation of his hands over yours, the steady rhythm, the quiet intimacy of it all. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the strength in his arms as he held you still, the way his breath stuttered ever so slightly when you shifted against him, his heartbeat steady on your back.

A low hum vibrated in his chest. “Bébé?” His voice was softer now, laced with amusement. “Y/n? You can stop the wheel now—we got the shape you wanted”

Your eyes snapped open.

The clay had transformed—what had once been a messy, phallic-shaped lump was now a perfect, smooth vase, ready to be fired and painted. You had no idea how long it had been like that, how much time had passed while you were caught up in everything else.

William was quiet for a moment, but you could feel the smirk on his lips before you even turned to look at him. His fingers lingered over yours, his chest still pressed to your back, his breath still warm at your ear.

“Alright, they said we just leave the pieces on the wheel and they come and pick them up” he murmured, his tone knowing, teasing, promising. “Ready to go?”

Your pulse thrummed.

Yes. Yes, you were.

William stayed close behind you, his chest still pressed against your back, his hands still covering yours. The wheel had stopped spinning, the clay was molded perfectly, but the tension in the air hadn’t settled—it had only thickened, stretching between you like an invisible thread ready to snap.

Finally, he exhaled, slow and controlled. “Come bébé” he murmured, his voice deep, rough around the edges. “Let’s clean up”

His hands slid from yours, trailing lightly over your wrists before pulling away completely. The loss of contact left your skin tingling, hyperaware of the warmth that was no longer there. You swallowed and stood up, but your legs felt unsteady—whether from sitting too long or from the way his voice had been in your ear all night, you weren’t sure.

William noticed. Of course he did.

A smirk played at the corner of his lips as he straightened to his full height, towering over you. “You okay baby?”

The way he said it—low, teasing, laced with something smug—made your breath hitch.

You rolled your eyes, trying to act unaffected, but he saw right through it. He always did.

The two of you moved to the sink, side by side, hands covered in clay residue. The water ran warm over your fingers as you rinsed off the mess, but the real distraction was William—how he stood so close, how his arm brushed against yours, how he watched you with darkened eyes through the mirror above the sink.

“Pretty good for your first time” he murmured, voice smooth as silk. “I liked watching you work”

His gaze flickered down, slow and playfully, and the way he said it made it clear—he wasn’t talking about pottery anymore.

Your breath stuttered. “Glad I could entertain you”

William smirked, reaching for a paper towel. Instead of handing it to you, he took your wrist gently, turning your palm up as he slowly—too slowly—wiped your hands dry, his touch lingering over your fingers. His thumb brushed over the sensitive skin of your wrist, pressing lightly against your pulse.

“Always do” he murmured.

Heat coiled in your stomach.

You knew you needed to leave before things spiraled right here in the studio, but every second stretched out, every movement felt drawn-out, and teasing.

Finally, you both grabbed your coats, the fabric sliding over your skin like an afterthought. He helped you with yours, pulling it over your shoulders, his fingers grazing your bare collarbone before smoothing the lapel down.

“Ready?” he asked.

Hell yes. You thought.

But you nodded anyway.

As he led you toward the door, you reached out, grasping his arm—needing the connection, needing to feel him under your fingers. His muscles flexed slightly under your touch, but he didn’t say anything, just let you hold on as he opened the door and led you outside into the cool night air.

The walk to the car was slow. Tension curled between you like thick smoke, wrapping around every step, every glance. The air was crisp, but it did nothing to cool the heat simmering between you.

William opened the passenger door, stepping aside to let you in. But before you could move, he leaned in close, one hand bracing against the car beside your head.

His scent wrapped around you—something rich, something warm, something distinctly him. His lips hovered near your ear, his breath warm as he murmured, “Get in bébé”

It was a simple request. But the way he said it—commanding, full of promise—made your entire body shiver.

You swallowed hard and slid into the seat, your thighs pressing together instinctively. He closed the door with a soft click, rounding the car and slipping into the driver’s seat with effortless grace.

The car was silent as he started the engine, but the energy between you was deafening. The air felt thick, heavy, charged. You shifted slightly, trying to find some semblance of control, but when William’s hand landed on your thigh—casual, but firm—your breath caught in your throat.

His fingers flexed slightly, his thumb brushing along the inside of your knee.

“You’re quiet” he mused, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye as he pulled onto the road. “Something wrong?”

You turned to look at him, his profile sharp under the glow of the streetlights. His jaw was tight, his grip on the wheel firm. He looked composed, relaxed even—but you knew better. You could see it in the way his fingers drummed lightly against your skin, in the way his chest rose and fell just a little too calculated.

You exhaled slowly. “Just thinking about… getting home.”

William let out a soft hum, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Yeah?” His fingers inched higher up your thigh. “What about it?”

Your pulse thrummed. “Just that I’d rather be there right now”

That did something to him. His fingers twitched against your skin, his grip tightening slightly. His jaw clenched, and for the first time, he broke eye contact with the road for a brief second, flicking his gaze toward you.

Dark. Heated. Possessive.

His foot pressed just a little harder on the gas.

The rest of the ride was silent, but the tension didn’t fade—it only thickened, crackling between you like static electricity. Every glance, every breath, every small shift in your seat felt loaded, stretched taut.

By the time he pulled into the driveway and cut the engine, you were already reaching for the door handle. But before you could move, his hand shot out, gripping your wrist.

“Aye aye wait, let me get your door” he murmured, sounding slightly confused as to why you would ever reach for your door when he always does.

You turned to him, your breath catching when you saw the look in his eyes—dark, hungry, filled with all the things he hadn’t said yet.

Slowly, he reached for his own door handle, stepping out first before rounding the car. He opened your door just as slowly, offering his hand.

You took it.

The second your fingers laced together, he pulled you up—too fast, too sudden, too intentional. You barely had time to react before you were against the car, his body crowding yours, his hands bracing on either side of you.

“Still thinking about getting home?” he asked, voice a rough whisper.

You swallowed hard, your pulse pounding against your ribs. “Not really. No”

A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. “Good”

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It was soft at first, teasing, like he was savoring the moment. But then you sighed into him, pressing closer, and something in him snapped.

His hands gripped your waist, his body pressing into yours, deepening the kiss with a slow, consuming hunger. His fingers traced along your spine, his grip tightening like he couldn’t get enough, like he needed more.

By the time he pulled back, his breathing was uneven, his forehead resting against yours.

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you like this for hours” you murmured.

Your lips tingled, your whole body alight with want. “You don’t have to wait now” he whispered, trailing his fingers up your arm, across your collarbone, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. A deep chuckle rumbled through his chest, vibrating against you.

And with that, he led you inside and to your bedroom—where waiting was no longer an option.

A slow, heavy silence settled between you, thick with anticipation. William’s grip on your wrist lingered, his thumb stroking over the delicate skin just above your pulse, tracing slow circles that sent a ripple of heat straight through you.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

His dark eyes roamed over you, taking in the rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips parted slightly as you tried to steady your breath. His own breathing was measured, deep, his broad chest rising and falling in a rhythm that felt too controlled—like he was holding something back.

Your skin prickled as he finally moved, his free hand reaching up to toy with the lapel of your coat. His fingers, long and warm, ghosted over the fabric before he slipped one button free. Then another. And another.

Each movement was excruciatingly slow.

Your breath caught as the last button came undone, the heavy material sliding apart. His hands, now unhindered, spread the coat open, his fingers grazing over the thin fabric of your top beneath. The contrast of warmth against cool air sent a shiver down your spine.

William smirked. “Cold bébé?”

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “No”

His smirk deepened, approval flickering in his gaze. He slid the coat off your shoulders, the weight of it disappearing as it pooled at your feet with a soft thud.

For a moment, he simply looked at you.

His gaze swept over every inch of exposed skin, dark and intense, lingering on the way your nipples strained against your top, the way your thighs pressed together like you were already trying to contain the tension thrumming through you.

Then, he sat down.

Spreading his legs, he pulled you between them, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs, firm and possessive. The heat of his palms burned through your jeans, his thumbs tracing lazy circles just beneath the curve of your ass.

He leaned in.

His breath, warm and steady, fanned over your clothed stomach as his lips hovered—so close, yet refusing to touch. His hands squeezed gently, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel him, grounding you in the moment.

Then, he lifts your shirt slightly and pressed his lips to your skin.

Soft. Slow. Controlled.

A sharp inhale escaped you as his mouth moved lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your hip bones, his tongue flicking out to taste, to tease. Each kiss lingered, warm and wet, the faintest hint of teeth grazing your skin before he soothed the spot with his tongue.

You clenched your fingers into his hair, not pulling—just holding. Needing something to keep you tethered.

William inhaled, then exhaled against you, his voice a deep murmur vibrating against your skin. “You smell so good” he mused, pressing another kiss, this time firmer, just above your waistband.

His fingers toyed with the button of your jeans, flicking it open with a practiced ease. Then, just as slowly, he dragged the zipper down, the sound loud in the quiet room. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband, brushing against your lower stomach, teasing but not rushing.

“Lift” he instructed, voice low, smooth as silk.

You obeyed, shifting just enough for him to tug your jeans down your hips, dragging them over your thighs, your calves, before discarding them somewhere behind him. The cool air kissed your newly exposed skin, making every nerve stand on end.

His eyes darkened as they trailed over you, lingering on the damp spot forming on your panties. He didn’t comment, but the way his jaw tensed, the way his hands flexed against your hips, told you everything.

Then he moved again, gripping the hem of your top and pulling it over your head in one smooth motion. Your arms instinctively crossed over your chest, but William tsked, catching your wrists and gently pulling them away.

“Laisse-moi te voir chérie” (Let me see you darling)

The way he said it—low, reverent, like he was asking and demanding all at once—made your stomach tighten.

His fingers traced over your bare skin, the lightest touch, following the curves of your waist, up to the swell of your breasts, stopping just shy of touching where you wanted him most. His eyes flicked up to yours, gauging your reaction, watching the way your breath hitched.

He didn’t say it out loud but his eyes told you how beautiful he thinks you are. How much he admired you, in every way.

Your skin felt hot, your whole body thrumming with the weight of his attention. “William…”

He hummed, pleased by your breathlessness.

Then, swiftly, he guided you down onto the bed, following until he hovered over you, his weight pressing into you just enough to make your breath catch.

His lips found your throat, pressing slow, lingering kisses before his teeth grazed against the sensitive skin. You gasped as he sucked, harder this time, leaving behind a mark you knew would still be there in the morning.

His hands mapped your body, fingertips tracing, memorizing. His soft palms scraped lightly against your soft skin, the contrast sending a delicious shiver through you.

One hand drifted lower, teasing, testing, before slipping between your thighs. His fingers brushed over your panties, feeling the heat, the dampness, his breath hitching slightly against your neck.

“Déjà si mouillée” (Already so wet) he murmured, voice thick with approval. “I haven’t even touched you yet”

Before you could respond, he slid your panties down, taking his time, his fingers grazing over your thighs as he discarded them. His gaze stayed locked on you, dark, smoldering, as he traced a single fingertip along your inner thigh, moving achingly slow toward your center.

Then—finally—he pushed one finger inside.

A sharp gasp slipped from your lips as he moved, slow, measured, his other hand pressing against your stomach to keep you still. He worked you open, thrusting in and out at an unhurried pace, watching your every reaction. You could already hear your juices drenching his finger.

“Look at you” he murmured, almost to himself. “So perfect for me”

A second finger joined the first, stretching you just enough to make your back arch, your thighs trembling around him. He curled them, pressing up—hard—against that spot that made your whole body jolt.

A smirk tugged at his lips. “How does that feel mon amour?” His voice was rough, almost teasing. “Are you gonna cum for me bébé?”

You couldn’t answer—not with the way your breath hitched, your body responding to every slow, devastating movement.

Then, just as you teetered on the edge, William withdrew his fingers.

A whimper of protest left you, but he only chuckled, sitting up slightly. He lifted his fingers to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste you. His eyes locked on yours the entire time, as he wrapped his lips around his fingers.

Your breath hitched, heat pooling in your stomach all over again.

Then—he pressed those same fingers against your lips.

“Open”

The single word sent a shiver through you. You obeyed, parting your lips as he slid his fingers inside, letting you taste yourself on him. His gaze darkened, his smirk deepening as he watched you suck them clean.

He hummed murmured, voice thick with approval.

And then—he reached for his belt.

His eyes stayed locked on yours, his smirk promising something slow, something devastating, as he murmured, “Let’s see if you can take more bébé”

You lick your lips, anticipation thrumming through your veins as you watch him undress with a torturing slowness. His fingers grip the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head, revealing a chiseled torso adorned with tantalizing muscles and glistening skin that catches the dim light. Each ridge and contour of his abdomen flexes as he unbuttons his pants, letting them drop to the floor with a soft thud. His boxers follow suit, sliding down his thick, toned thighs, leaving him completely exposed. Your eyes widen as his dick springs free—thick, veined, and proud. Its light brown shaft contrasts against his skin, the pink tip flushed and needy, curving slightly to the left as it pulses with arousal. Your breath catches, and your mouth waters at the sight of him.

“I can take more” you murmur, voice trembling with desire, the words a plea that escapes your lips. “I need more”

His eyes darken, filled with an insatiable hunger that matches your own. Slowly, he lowers himself between your thighs, the warmth of his skin searing against yours as he presses your legs wide, framing his hips. His hands trail up the soft curves of your thighs, spreading you open as he dips his head to capture your lips. His kiss is deep, consuming—his lips melding with yours in a passionate dance, tongues tangling as if he’s tasting you for the first time. His mouth moves with an urgency that leaves you breathless, every kiss more demanding than the last, like you’re the only thing sustaining him.

His lips trace a scorching path down your neck, his breath hot against your skin, making your pulse flutter wildly beneath his touch. When his mouth finds that sensitive spot just below your ear, he sucks gently, his teeth grazing your skin, sending shivers down your spine. A soft moan escapes your lips, but it quickly turns into a desperate whimper as he positions himself, the head of his dick pressing insistently against your entrance. Slowly, achingly slow, he pushes inside, stretching you open, inch by torturous inch, until he’s fully seated within you.

A guttural groan rumbles from deep in his chest, vibrating against your collarbone as he buries himself to the hilt. His forehead rests against yours, eyes closed, breathing ragged and heavy. “No matter how many times I’m inside” he murmurs, his voice thick and gravelly, fingers threading through your hair tenderly, “better every time” His eyes open, locking onto yours with an intensity that steals your breath away, his gaze filled with raw, unspoken emotion.

He stays still, letting you adjust, the fullness of him sending sparks of pleasure rippling through your body. Then, he begins to move—slow, languid strokes that drag against your walls, setting every nerve ending ablaze. He moves with expert precision, each thrust deeper than the last, his hips rolling in a sensual rhythm that leaves you gasping for air. His eyes never leave yours, watching every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face, memorizing each soft moan and breathless sigh.

But soon, his restraint wanes. He shifts, lifting both your legs with effortless strength, draping them over his broad shoulders. The new angle sends him deeper, the thick length of him pressing against that perfect spot inside you, making your back arch off the mattress. He leans forward, folding you in half beneath him, his chest pressing against yours, his skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat. His thrusts grow harder, more demanding—each one a powerful surge that forces desperate cries from your lips.

Your nails dig into the thick muscle of his biceps, fingers clutching desperately as he pounds into you with an unrelenting rhythm. Every stroke is deep, precise, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. His body is a furnace above you, his skin burning against yours, slick with sweat. You can feel the heat radiating from him, every flex of his muscles, every slight shudder of restraint in his body as he pushes deeper, stretching you to your limit.

“Oh William” you whimper, voice breaking as the intensity of his thrusts robs you of breath. Your head falls back against the pillows, but he doesn’t let you escape—his large hand cups your jaw, tilting your face back toward his. His dark eyes are hooded, half-lidded with lust, locked onto you with a gaze so heated it makes your stomach coil tighter. He watches every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face, drinking in each gasp, each moan, each helpless whine that spills from your lips.

“This what you wanted baby?” His voice is rough, laced with desire, the deep timbre vibrating through your very core. “Fucking you nice and hard, just like this, yes?” His words are punctuated by a sharp thrust that knocks the air from your lungs, makes your toes curl, makes your back arch into him.

“Yes” you breathe, voice barely above a whisper, barely coherent through the pleasure wracking your body. Your fingers slip down his arms, nails dragging over the sculpted ridges of his forearms, gripping at anything you can hold on to. “Oh, yes—please.”

A dark smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, but his expression is wrecked with need, his body trembling slightly as he tightens his grip on your thighs. His fingers sink into the soft flesh there, anchoring you beneath him as his pace quickens. His hips snap forward with a bruising force, slamming into you over and over, deeper and harder, until the pleasure borders on unbearable. The room fills with the intoxicating sound of your bodies colliding—wet, fevered, the slap of skin against skin mixing with his deep, husky grunts and your breathless cries.

His dick drags along your inner walls, each thrust hitting every single perfect spot inside you, making your vision go dark at the edges. But it’s the way his pelvis grinds against your swollen clit with each deep stroke that sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through you, your body wound so tightly it feels like you might snap.

Your breath stutters, chest heaving, every muscle in your body tightening as the pleasure mounts higher, higher, until you’re teetering on the edge. The coil in your belly twists, tighter and tighter, heat pooling low in your stomach until you feel like you’re about to burst.

“Uhh baby—I’m cumming,” you gasp, your voice raw, trembling. Your hands fly to his back, nails digging in, desperate, as your entire body locks up beneath him. “Please don’t stop”

He groans at your words, his thrusts growing more erratic, more desperate. His head falls forward, forehead pressing to yours as he slams into you, driving you over the edge. And then it hits—your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, white-hot and all-consuming. Your body shakes, your walls fluttering around him, gripping him so tightly that he lets out a strangled groan, his pace stuttering as he fights to hold on.

But he doesn’t stop. He rides you through it, fucking you harder, deeper, until you’re a trembling, breathless mess beneath him. The overstimulation has you gasping, your body writhing as he wrings every last drop of pleasure from you.

A few more hard, punishing thrusts, and then he’s pulling out, scrambling up your body. His hand wraps around his dick, stroking himself furiously, his jaw clenched, his muscles glistening as he hovers over you. His breaths come in sharp, ragged pants, his eyes locked onto you—your heaving chest, your sweat-slicked skin, the way your body glows in the aftermath of your orgasm.

And then—he breaks.

A desperate moan rips from his throat as he spills himself over you, hot, thick ropes of cum painting your chest, your stomach, even reaching your neck. His entire body shudders, his hips jerking as he milks the last of his release onto your skin. His head falls back, eyes squeezed shut, the sheer force of his orgasm wracking through him, leaving him trembling above you.

When he finally comes down, his chest still heaving, his dark eyes meet yours once more. You hold his gaze as you dip your fingers into the sticky warm mess on your skin, gathering it up and bringing it to your lips. Slowly, you suck each finger clean, savoring the taste of him with a teasing smirk.

The sight has him groaning again, his head falling forward as he watches, utterly wrecked, utterly mesmerized. His hands drop to the bed beside you, as if he needs to brace himself, as if the sheer filth of you licking him off your fingers is enough to make his legs give out.

“Fuck” he breathes, voice hoarse, shaky, still dazed from the intensity of it all.

Leaning down, he captures your mouth in a slow, languid kiss, tasting himself on your lips, his tongue sweeping across yours in a possessive, lingering claim. Finally, he pulls back, collapsing beside you, strong arms wrapping around your waist as he pulls you against his chest.

His fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine, and with a breathless chuckle, he murmurs, “Maybe we should do dates like this more often. You laugh shyly into his chest “I don’t think we’ll make it out of the parking lot if we go on another date like that”

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note: sorry this took kind of long. i got carried away but on the bright side its long and very entertaining ;) as always, enjoy and tell me what you think.

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Wilo had a hard day.

The game against PSG had stripped the spirit from his body in the cruel way only football can—slowly, then all at once. The locker room was too quiet afterward, filled with heads hung low and the kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, just numb. He sat toward the back of the team bus, slouched in his seat, headphones on but no music playing. His fingers toyed absently with the edge of his jersey. Defeat clung to him like sweat. It wasn’t just the loss—it was knowing that the season’s hopes had come undone with it. That it was over.

“Maybe next year” he muttered under his breath, not believing it.

But then—buzz. His phone lit up in his palm. He glanced down, expecting some team update or sponsor message, but instead his heart caught fire at your name.

11:56 PM

you – katrina needs you

Katrina.

His lips quirked despite the weight in his chest. That name—your name for her, your little inside joke—hit him like a memory in full surround. You’d dubbed your pussy “Katrina” after that first night together, when he’d made you come so hard and so fast, you’d nearly cried. “She’s dangerous” you’d said between giggles, sweat-slicked and high off the release. “Natural disaster levels.” he said back

He hadn’t forgotten. Couldn’t.

The name stuck. Not just because it was funny—but because it was true. You were the storm, and he? He drowned in you willingly every time.

He stared at the message, thumb hovering. His whole body tensed. He wanted you, badly—but sometimes, you liked to play. Tease him. Make him jump through hoops before you let him taste what you both knew belonged to him. Tonight though, he wasn’t in the mood for riddles. He didn’t want to earn it—he needed to lose himself in you. Quiet the ache in his chest, the buzzing in his head. You were the only one who could silence everything.

He tapped out a reply anyway.

12:00 AM

wilo – tell her no games.

A minute later:

12:02 AM

you – she said why would she play games when you know she has needs and you’re the only one who can please them.

His throat went dry.

His dick twitched under his sweats.

It wasn’t just about sex. It never was.

The way you texted him, matched his heat with yours, said what you said without hesitation—it wasn’t just lust. It was alignment. Shared hunger. He needed to feel that again, even if only for tonight.

And time was never on your side. Your tour schedule, his travel demands, the constant cameras, the necessary secrecy. You lived in fragments, stolen moments behind closed doors. When you had the chance to see each other—really see—you took it. Because the rest of the world didn’t give you much.

He couldn’t miss this. Not tonight.

12:12 AM

wilo – will be there in one hour. send me location.

12:14 AM

you – don’t be late. we’re waiting.

You tossed your phone onto your chest and let a smirk rise to your lips, body already pulsing with anticipation.

A soft laugh escaped you as you pressed your thighs together, trying to trap the ache that was growing between them. He had that effect on you—Wilo didn’t just fuck you. He touched something deeper. And when he was gone, you swore your body remembered him.

Your girls used to joke:

“Y’all don’t be fuckin’, y’all be screwin’.”

And they had proof. That one time they walked in on you two mid-session—they never recovered. The sounds, the sweat, the headboard slamming, the cries that echoed down the hall. Wilo moaning loud, your voice breaking like you were being murdered. They still brought it up with raised eyebrows and fake concern.

“I don’t know how your pelvis is still intact” one of them had said last week.

You didn’t care. You liked it that way.

You wanted to scream. To feel him inside you so deep it changed your anatomy. You wanted to shake and cry and forget your own name. You wanted to feel that stretch in your lower stomach where his tip pushed so deep, it felt like pressure on your soul.

You were lost in those thoughts, fingertips tracing the hem of your shorts, when your phone buzzed again. His ringtone.

You answered instantly.

“Y/N,” he said. His voice was a low growl, dipped in that thick, beautiful accent that made your stomach flip.

“Mmm?” you hummed, coy and soft.

“I’m trying to hurry but there’s traffic. Don’t touch yourself. I will do it. Just wait. I be there in a few minutes.”

A sharp breath escaped you. Your fingers froze.

“I’ll wait,” you whispered. “I love fucking you too much to do it myself.”

He audibly exhaled, like he’d just been punched in the chest.

“I will crash if you talk like this chérie,” he said tightly, voice shaking with need.

You giggled, teasing but not. “Oh we can’t have that. You have to eat me first, then you can crash your car.”

He laughed, really laughed—and it lightened the air between you. The tension, though, still pulsed underneath like a drumbeat.

“Okay. I will see you soon” he said, and hung up quickly—before you could tempt him into veering off the road entirely.

As soon as Wilo hung up the phone, you tossed it onto the couch and headed straight to your room. You moved with purpose—slow, sultry, almost ritualistic. Tonight wasn’t about trying too hard or dressing up for show. This wasn’t new. Even with how rare your meetups had become, there was something sacred in the routine. Familiar. Intimate. Raw. You knew what he wanted. You knew what you wanted. That was all that mattered.

You slipped into something barely-there: a loose black sleep shirt and matching shorts, the kind that clung only where they wanted to but swayed easy with every step. No panties. No bra. You weren’t in the mood for clothes to get in the way. Tonight was about access, about urgency. You considered shaving for a second—not out of shame, but habit. The hair between your thighs had grown out just a little, but honestly? This wasn’t a night for vanity. He didn’t care. You could show up with a full, wild bush and he’d still bury himself in you like he was starving. He wanted in. He always did.

You walked back out to the foyer, checking each blind to make sure the world couldn’t peek in. Privacy was survival in your world. Your fingers tugged the last blind into place—and that’s when you heard the knock. Three firm thuds. You froze. Your heart paused. Then—an excited grin spread across your face. You gave yourself a quick, silent twerk of celebration—pure instinct, pure joy—before smoothing your shirt and gliding to the door.

When you opened it, there he was.

Big. Broad. Towering. His presence filled the doorway before he even crossed it. He radiated this primal confidence—the kind that came from knowing he was wanted, needed. Big dick energy if you will. His gaze landed on you like he already knew what was waiting for him, and his whole body was humming with intent. His hands were clenched, jaw tight, like he was trying to hold himself back out of respect. But the fire was right there—behind his eyes, in the heat radiating off his skin. This wasn’t just desire. This was need.

He knew he’d satisfy you. Knew that once he got his hands on you, there’d be no doubt. Because your pleasure was his pleasure. Watching you unravel, hearing you moan, feeling you clench around him—that was what got him off the most. He didn’t just enjoy your reactions; he craved them. Needed them. And you? You weren’t afraid of that hunger. You leaned into it.

But he also knew that pain made you sing. The right kind, at the right time. The sharp slap to your ass while he drilled into you from behind. His hand yanking your hair back while you cried out his name, bent over the kitchen counter. You didn’t want gentle all the time. You wanted that fine line between too much and just enough—where it almost hurts, but it feels so fucking good that you beg for more. You wanted him to ruin you lovingly, to bruise you where only you and he would know. And Wilo? He lived for that balance. He took pride in it.

“Can I come in?” he asked, towering over you like a shadow you never wanted to outrun.

You turned, walking deeper into your apartment as you tossed over your shoulder, “You’re not gonna bite me, are you?”

“If you want, I will” he said, stepping in and closing the door behind him. His arms slid around your waist with ease, his chest pressing into your back, his hips firm against your ass. That heat—his heat—wrapped around you, soothing and maddening all at once. The scent of his cologne mixed with the natural musk of a long day. You inhaled it like oxygen and tilted your head back onto his shoulder.

He moved your hair to the side, his lips brushing against the soft skin behind your ear, trailing down your neck, your jaw. His hands roamed your body slowly, reverently.

“I was late,” he murmured into your ear, his voice low, thick with desire. “I make up for it now.”

You barely noticed that he was walking you until your back met the wall. His hips ground into you, pressing his hardness against your ass. You whimpered, hips arching back to meet him, eager to feel more. You rocked against him, creating friction that made you both exhale.

“Fuck me, Wilo. Right now” you whispered, cheek resting against the wall, your voice breathy and begging.

“I will, chérie,” he murmured, turning you around. “Let me make up for being late.”

But as he spun you, his strength underestimated the moment—your head bumped the wall. “Ahhh, shit,” you hissed, clutching the back of your skull.

“Oh—I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry,” he said immediately, kissing your cheeks with urgency, his eyes wide and soft with guilt.

“I can’t fuck if I have a concussion, William,” you said through a wince, voice dry.

“Is okay. I’m doing the fucking” he replied with a half-laugh, brushing kisses down your face and neck, trying to soothe your annoyance. You rolled your eyes, but let it slide. You were too hungry for him to care.

He sank to his knees, his palms running down your sides. He hooked one of your legs up over his shoulder with ease, positioning you perfectly against the wall. His hands were firm, grounding you there. Your fingers tangled into his curls, bracing yourself.

His lips ghosted over your inner thigh—open-mouthed, wet, messy. He knew you liked it filthy, liked to feel it all. You gasped when he groaned into your skin, tongue tracing slow patterns that only teased what you knew was coming.

He licked up the inside of your thigh, pausing to admire you. The loose shirt you wore barely covered anything. There was nothing between you and him but the humid air.

He looked up at you, eyes low, voice thick. “My Katrina… so good for me” he whispered, lips grazing your folds. His breath made your knees weak.

Then, he devoured you.

There was no slow build-up. He latched onto your clit like he’d been waiting his whole life to taste you again. His tongue moved with confidence—pressure perfect, rhythm locked in from memory. You cried out, head falling back against the wall.

Your grip on his hair tightened, legs trembling already. He wasn’t eating you out. He was feasting. Like you were the last meal he’d ever have, and he was determined to make it count.

When he slipped his middle finger inside you, you nearly lost it. You were already dripping—soaking. He moved inside you with purpose, curving up, stroking that spot he knew would have you unraveling.

“Fuck—Wilo” you gasped.

He didn’t stop. He hummed against your clit, the vibration making your hips buck. When he felt you twitch, he pushed another finger inside and started pumping harder, tongue relentless.

You were undone.

You cried out, thighs spasming as your orgasm tore through you like lightning. Your free leg gave out, but before you could fall, he hooked it up too. Now he was holding you—both legs over his shoulders—as he continued devouring every drop of your release. His tongue never wavered. His arms locked you in place. He wanted all of it. Needed all of it.

He didn’t stop until he was sure you were empty—and even then, he gave you one last, slow lick, like he was savoring you. Your hands slipped from his hair, your whole body trembling.

And when he finally looked up at you, his lips and chin glistening, his eyes were glazed with lust—but also pride. He looked like a man who’d just worshipped at the altar of your body.

Because for Wilo, making you cum wasn’t just about satisfaction—it was about power. Connection. It was about giving you exactly what you needed… and being the only one who could.

He let go of your legs one at a time—slowly, carefully, like you were something sacred and fragile. His hands gripped your thighs gently, lowering them as if he didn’t trust gravity to treat you the way he did. Your body was trembling, spent, soaked. You clung to his shoulders as he rose to his full height, your head resting briefly on his chest like you needed help staying grounded.

Your eyes were glazed, unfocused, wandering off into the blissful haze of your orgasm. Everything was warm and distant, like you were still floating in the pleasure he’d given you. You barely noticed the wetness seeping through your shorts—your own cum dripping down your inner thighs, clinging to your skin, staining the fabric. You’d soaked yourself for him. You didn’t care. You wanted to stay in this fog.

“Are you here bébé?” he asked, voice low, mouth close to yours.

You could smell yourself on his breath. Tangy, raw, earthy. That alone made your thighs clench again, made your lips part in instinct. He’d eaten you like a man possessed—and now the proof of that was on his tongue, in his beard, and in the air between you.

You wanted to taste it too.

So you kissed him.

Messy. Sloppy. Greedy. There was no finesse to it—just heat. Your lips collided, opened, moved with a hunger neither of you could control. His hands slipped down to your ass and gripped. Not soft, not gentle—hard, like he needed to mark you, to claim you again. You moaned into his mouth, tongue tangling with his as you tasted yourself, as you shared yourself with him. That primal mess of saliva, breath, and sex between your lips made your head spin.

You could feel his dick pressing into your stomach—hard, hot, throbbing. The length of it rested against you like a promise. You knew it was ready. Ready to stretch you, drag against your walls, fill you until the only thing you could do was take it. It twitched against your skin like it was aching to be inside you. You wanted that too.

You pulled away and looked up at him. His pupils were blown—huge and black, swallowing the brown of his irises. His lips were slick, swollen, parted. His whole body was tight with restraint, like he was hanging on by the thinnest thread. He needed you now.

Just like you needed him.

“Go to my bedroom and wait for me there,” you said, smirking against his lips. “I have to get something real quick, okay?”

He nodded once. Then he leaned in, breath brushing your ear as he whispered, “I will have no clothes when you come back.”

He pulled back to look at you, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed like he was daring you to take too long. His control was hanging by a thread. You giggled, pecked his lips one more time, and turned away.

You could hear the way he rushed off to your room. Could practically feel his urgency in the way his feet hit the floor, quick and heavy. It made your stomach flutter.

You walked calmly to the back closet of your apartment—the one that held your real secret. You reached up onto the highest shelf and pulled down the camera. Your camera. His camera. The camera.

The one he bought for the two of you in Milan—the trip that was supposed to be innocent, but ended up changing everything. The one that had seen you in every angle, every position, every orgasm. The one you used to satisfy yourself when he wasn’t around. When your fingers weren’t enough and only the sight of him fucking you open could make you cum.

You clutched it to your chest and, just before walking back, decided to strip. You needed to match his energy. His greed. His need. You took off your shirt, your shorts, everything—your skin already tingling from the thought of his hands back on it. You walked slowly to the bedroom, completely bare.

And there he was.

Laid out across your bed like he belonged there. Hands behind his head like a king, relaxed—but his dick was anything but calm. It was angry, needy, pointing straight up toward the ceiling. Higher than Travis Scott. The tip was flushed, red and leaking. The veins stood out, thick and pulsing, running down the length like maps toward your ruin. You licked your lips.

His dick was made for you. To fill you. To drag against every nerve ending inside you. To make you scream, cry, beg. To make you come back to life again and again.

“Finally you come back. Thought you left me,” he said, voice low and teasing as you closed the door behind you.

“No,” you purred, holding the camera up in your hand. “I was just looking for our friend.”

You saw the recognition flash across his face immediately. The memory. The hunger. The camera was a symbol—of all the dirty, beautiful, wild things you’d done together. His eyes darkened.

“Let’s record again,” you said.

“Are you asking?” he asked, sitting up and scooting toward the edge of the bed.

“Do I really have to ask? I know you want to.”

You straddled him slowly, one knee on either side of his hips, your heat hovering just over his length. His dick twitched between you, hungry for your body.

“I do,” he said, reaching for the camera. “Lemme see.”

He turned it on and pointed it toward your face. “Hi, camera,” he said, grinning.

You turned your head, shy at first, laughing softly.

“Non,” he said, voice stern. “Don’t be shy. You want this. Say hi to camera.”

You turned back, smiled wide, and said, “Hi, camera,” with a soft giggle. But he wasn’t here for giggles. He wanted a performance. He needed it. You always performed for him—and tonight, he was ready to devour the show.

He propped the camera on a pillow at the end corner of the bed, angling it perfectly. You both knew what was coming. He leaned back against the headboard, spreading his legs just a bit.

“Crawl to me, bébé.”

You obeyed immediately. Crawling slowly, deliberately. Your ass swayed with every movement, hips rolling with intent. You knew the camera had a perfect view—and you wanted to watch it back later, when he wasn’t around. You wanted to relive every second.

You crawled between his legs and positioned yourself close to his dick. No hands this time. Just your mouth. You licked long, slow stripes from base to tip, letting your tongue explore him. He groaned deep in his throat.

His hand gripped your hair—not to force, but to guide. You were in control. He was just the canvas.

With your back arched and your ass high, you moved your mouth over him, lips wrapping around the tip, tongue swirling. You moaned softly—just enough to let him feel the vibration. He threw his head back.

This was more than pleasure—it was release. For both of you.

You added your hands, twisting as you sucked. You didn’t want him to cum yet—not until he was buried inside you—but you needed to taste him. Just a little. Just enough to satisfy that hunger you’d been nursing for weeks.

Your eyes locked with his as you sucked harder, your mouth stretching around him. You wanted him to see it. To feel how much you wanted him. He was right there.

“Stop, stop. Let me fuck you now,” he said suddenly, voice rough but tender.

You popped off him and sat up, waiting.

He leaned forward, moving behind you with a grace that was almost terrifying. He turned you so that your body was stretched across the bed—your profile in full view of the camera. He pressed your back down until your ass was high in the air—his favorite angle. You were open. Exposed. Busted wide just for him.

His. His ass. His pussy.

He grabbed the camera and aimed it right where his hips hovered behind you.

“Look at thiz,” he said in that thick, hungry accent. “So sexy.”

He jiggled your ass with one hand, and you caught the hint—so you started to twerk back on him. Just enough to make him groan.

“Mmmhm… there you go bébé,” he whispered, utterly satisfied.

You glanced over your shoulder and smiled at him—mischievous, filthy, and completely gone.

Then he took his dick and ran the tip up and down your slit. Teasing. Spreading your slick across your folds and over your clit.

“So wet… Katrina miss me, hm?”

“She said she doesn’t wanna be empty anymore,” you said, voice thick with lust, eyes locked with his. “I think you should help her out Wilo.”

He grinned, cocky and crazed with lust.

Then—finally—he pushed in.

Only the tip.

And it was already perfect.

“Yessssss… ughhhh,” you sighed, pure relief leaking from every syllable as your head dropped.

“Ughhhh,” he groaned low and deep behind you, voice rich and full of satisfaction. The camera sat in full view, capturing every inch as his swollen, flushed tip slowly disappeared inside your soaked pussy, his other hand wrapped tightly around your hips like he was steadying himself just to survive the feel of you.

You were already clenching—around him, around the sheets, around the wild heat spreading through your limbs. You didn’t know how many times you were going to cum tonight. You just knew it would be too much. Maybe not enough. Either way, you needed it. You craved every drop of what this night had to offer.

He started slow. Shallow strokes. Just the tip. In and out. In and out. You could hear how wet you were, the obscene sound of your arousal echoing off the walls. You moaned without thinking, your swollen walls tightening with each pass of his head over your most sensitive spots.

“You said no games Wilo,” you huffed, breath hitching as you turned your head back to look at him, brows furrowed.

He locked eyes with you. “You’re right bébé,” he said—then with zero warning, he pushed all the way in.

You screamed, “Ahhhhhh—fuck!” as your hands clawed at the sheets, back arching uncontrollably. Your face buried into the mattress like it could soften the impact of how deep he was.

Wilo set the camera down, knowing this wasn’t going to be a one-hand moment. He needed both. Both to handle you. To control this. To lose himself.

He grabbed your head, angling it toward the camera so it could see the wrecked expression on your face. And then—he started to really fuck you.

Long, heavy strokes. Thick. Intentional. Every thrust sank into you like he wanted to leave a permanent mark. His hips slapped against your ass, his balls landing with perfect rhythm. The sound alone had your eyes rolling back.

“Oh—” he moaned, deep and heady, “you feel so fucking good. So good.” His head dropped back.

You could feel it. Another orgasm creeping up like fire licking your spine. He didn’t stop. His hand lifted in the air and came down hard on your ass.

The slap stung—but in the best way.

“Again baby,” you begged, pushing your hips back onto him, needing more.

He smacked it again. Harder this time.

You moaned like a prayer. Like a promise. It hurt—but god, it felt so fucking good.

You looked right into the camera. But it wasn’t close enough. It needed to see this. Needed to catch it all. So you reached beside you and grabbed it, angling it perfectly beneath where his thick dick was disappearing inside you.

“So nasty for me bébé,” he said with a smirk, completely turned on by your boldness. This was what he loved—when you let go, when you stopped pretending and just gave in to the chaos between you.

His grip tightened around your hips. He started slamming into you, faster, harder, your pussy stretched and soaked, your moans almost turning into sobs.

This was the screwin’ your friends joked about.

The headboard knocked against the wall.

Your whole body jolted forward with every powerful thrust.

“Fuck—Wilo—oh my God, don’t stop, I’m gonna cum!” you cried out.

He didn’t need to be told twice. He kept going, unrelenting, and just like that, you came around him with a scream.

“Ughhh—oh yesssss!” you shouted.

The camera captured it all. Your pussy spasming violently, gripping him like a vice. Slick and creamy, your release clung to the base of his dick.

Your arms gave out, and your knees buckled as you collapsed flat on your stomach, panting and dazed.

Wilo slowly pulled out and grabbed the camera, angling it downward to show his wet, glistening dick.

“Made a mess all over me,” he said, voice thick, pride swelling behind every word. Then he spread your cheeks, exposing your glistening, dripping entrance.

“And look at this… I love fucking this pussy,” he whispered. His tone made your spine tremble.

He placed the camera on your nightstand, carefully adjusting it so it captured both of you fully. He wasn’t planning to pick it up again until he was watching his cum leak out of you.

Wilo laid down beside you and whispered, “Sit here” gesturing toward his face.

You didn’t think you had the strength left in you—but you moved anyway. Straddled his hips and scooted forward, inch by inch until your wet core hovered above his mouth.

He didn’t wait. His arms locked around your thighs, and he pulled you down.

You hissed at the sharp sting of his mouth on your oversensitive clit. He sucked it in like he missed it. Like he needed it.

His big brown eyes stared up at you—soft, unblinking, almost innocent—while his tongue worked filthily between your folds.

You started grinding. Slow, needy. His nose bumped your clit as his tongue dove deeper. You gasped.

“Oh fuck, William, I’m gonna cum again. Please…”

You didn’t know why you begged. You never had to. He always gave you everything.

He hummed against your clit, the vibration forcing your hips to rock harder. You were close again. So close. And then—

Something shifted. Sharp. Sudden.

Before you could process it, clear liquid burst from between your thighs and into his open mouth.

You screamed.

Your body shook with the force of it, legs trembling, thighs clamping around his face.

“Oh my God, oh my God—fuck!” you wailed.

He never looked away. Even with his face soaked, even as your eyes clamped shut from the force of it all, his gaze was locked on you.

He was hypnotized—by the way your chest bounced, by the pleasure shaking your entire frame.

When your body finally stilled, you tried to slide back down his chest. Shaky, dazed, breathless.

“Katrina almost got me that time” he laughed, his voice ragged.

You couldn’t even speak. He didn’t mind.

He just pulled you in and kissed you—messy, wet, raw—just like how you kissed him after he ate you the first time.

His face glistened with your release. His neck, his beard, his lips.

You loved how he smelled with you on him.

If you could bottle it and make him wear it, you would.

He laid between your legs like he belonged there—because he did. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, legs hooked over his hips as if your body refused to let him go. He kissed you slow, deep, until your lungs forgot how to work without his breath in them. His hands mapped you like he was rediscovering you—gripping your thighs, palming your waist, squeezing your breasts. When he slid one of your legs higher, propping it up just right so the camera on the nightstand could catch every second of him stretching you open, you shivered. You knew what he was doing. He wanted a memory—full view of the way your pussy welcomed him in.

“I’m happy I came,” he whispered, pressing kisses over your cheeks, your jaw, the soft skin under your eye. “Missed you.”

Your heart tugged in your chest. The sincerity in his voice hit different when it was between strokes and moans.

“I missed you too, William,” you replied honestly, voice small but sure. You pulled him in again, and just like that, he sank inside you.

The stretch was immediate. The burn and the fullness took your breath away. You moaned into his mouth, arms clenching around his shoulders. Your nails scraped lightly down his back as he began to thrust—deep, not soft, not slow. He wasn’t being careful now. He was fucking you. Giving you the ache you craved. The bed creaked violently beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall in a stuttering rhythm. The side table trembled, a glass toppling over and hitting the floor with a dull thud, ignored. The pillows fell off the bed completely. None of it mattered. You were consumed.

He grunted into your ear, hot breath brushing your neck. “Don’t pull it out. You better fucking leave it in.”

Your back arched at that. “Wilo—fuck, please—” you whimpered, and that only made him go harder.

This was the rhythm your body begged for when he was gone. The kind of pace that made your toes curl and your eyes roll back. Just rough enough to leave you sore, but never enough to make you want it to stop. Your pussy pulsed around him with every thrust. You couldn’t think, couldn’t form words—just moan and scream, letting him do whatever he wanted with you.

“Can you hear it?” he growled into your ear. “How wet you are for me chérie.”

You could. It was obscene. The slick, messy squelch of your bodies meeting, again and again. It sounded like your pussy was trying to pull him deeper. Like it didn’t want to let him go either. It sounded like fresh mac and cheese. Like soggy cereal. Like heaven.

You were soaked. The kind of soaked that made the sheets damp beneath you. The kind of soaked that had your thighs and his glistening. The kind of soaked that meant your laundry would be a whole different battle tomorrow.

Then he hit a spot—one he hadn’t touched before tonight—and your eyes snapped open. That was it. That was the trigger. A tidal wave of pleasure surged through your belly, and your mouth fell open in a silent scream.

“Oh—fuck! Wilo!” you cried out as your orgasm slammed into you, unstoppable. And just like that, he followed.

“Bébé,” he groaned against your neck, voice strained as his hips stuttered.

You both came, bodies jerking in unison, sweat mixing with cum, breath catching like you’d both run a marathon. He filled you up completely, spilling deep inside you with long, guttural moans, hips twitching as your pussy milked every drop from him. You swore you could feel him throb as he emptied himself.

He laid there a while, just breathing. Listening to your soft gasps. One of your legs still hung limply over his shoulder, trembling with the aftershocks. He lowered it gently and pressed soft kisses all over your face, still whispering your name like a prayer.

“You alright? How you feel?” he murmured, brushing damp strands of hair from your face.

“I’m good,” you nodded with a slow smile. “I’m good Wilo.”

He sat up, slowly pulling out of you with a deep breath. He grabbed the camera quickly, eager to capture what he knew would be his favorite part. He pointed it down between your legs just as his thick, warm cum began to spill out of you. It dripped over your folds, creamy and heavy, a glistening reminder of how much you took from him. He dipped two fingers inside you, gathering a bit of the mess and dragging it back out slowly, then raised the camera to your flushed, glowing face.

“Open” he said lowly.

You looked right into his eyes as you opened your mouth, and he slid those fingers between your lips. You sucked them clean without breaking eye contact, moaning softly as you did.

He groaned. “Mmm.”

Then he leaned in to kiss you again—wet, messy, unhurried. His face and neck were still slick with your scent. You could smell yourself on him, and you loved it. If you could bottle that scent and make him wear it every day, you would.

Still holding the camera steady, he pulled back just enough to whisper, “Bye,” with a cheeky little wave and soft giggle.

You laughed too, flushed and breathless as the screen faded to black.

He tossed the camera somewhere on the bed, not caring where it landed. All he wanted was you in his arms. He pulled you close, cradling your back to his chest, his chin resting gently on your shoulder as his breath tickled your neck.

“Thanks for letting me come over” he murmured, his voice quieter now, gentler. The rough edge of lust was gone, replaced by something softer. “I really need this.”

You let out a little hum, barely able to speak through the haze of exhaustion. “I needed you too… missed you a lot,” you mumbled, your words slurring slightly, lips heavy with sleep.

He smiled against your skin, rubbing slow circles into your stomach. “I’ll see you more now. Season’s over. I can come to you, we can keep doing this… if you like.”

You loved that he said it like that. No pressure. No awkward questions. No trying to make it something it wasn’t. He got it. He always got it. This wasn’t about love or promises—it was about the space you two created when you were together. Fucking. Laughing. Touching. Talking sometimes. Just two people doing what felt good with no expectations. And you loved that.

“Mhmm,” you replied, smiling faintly. “I want that. I wanna do this with you. More.”

He kissed the back of your shoulder in response. You both lay there in silence for a while, your breathing syncing up. The heat of his body behind you, the soft weight of his arm across your waist, the occasional brush of his lips against your back—it was perfect.

Eventually, he stirred, voice low so he wouldn’t disturb the comfort you’d settled into. “I will clean up and shower. Have to go back before coach finds out I’m not there. I will be in big trouble.”

You nodded sleepily, barely opening your eyes.

He slipped out of bed and padded softly to the bathroom. You heard the water run, the sound of drawers opening. A few minutes later, he returned with warm clothes for himself and a handful of wet wipes for you. He moved gently, cleaning between your thighs with such care it almost made you emotional. Like you weren’t just someone he fucked. Like you were someone he wanted to care for.

After he wiped you clean, he scooped you up into his arms without a word and carried you to the couch. He knew you loved sleeping here sometimes, wrapped up in your favorite fluffy blanket with the soft light from the kitchen glowing nearby. He laid you down, covered you carefully, then stroked your head with a tenderness that made your heart ache a little.

“Rest,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “I’ll text you when I’m home.”

tag list: @sucredreamer @irishmanwhore @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt

@btslover117 @kennaskorner

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@amirawrah @simplementemeencantafutbol

@kjlovesbigwilo

note: i absolutely loved writing this omg. idk what is about and wilo and dreams lately…? maybe it’s because he’s the man of my dreams…..😃 okay bad joke. anyway. a little fluff in here :)) i added the song after editing the final draft because i realized the storyline was similar to the song. or maybe beyonce has just completely brainwashed me idk. fine with both options tbh. next up is alejandro, levi and then noni. as always, enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been twenty-seven hours since you last slept.

Not that light, accidental dozing-off kind of rest either — you hadn’t laid your head down on anything softer than a stack of textbooks or a stiff kitchen chair. Your body ached in places you didn’t even know could hurt. Knees tight, hips creaking like old floorboards, and fingers swollen from gripping highlighters and scribbling notes with desperation. You had been clinging to consciousness the way a tired swimmer clings to a lifeboat. This test—your final one before graduation—felt like a doorway, the last heavy door between you and the version of yourself you’d fought so hard to become.

And you were going to walk through it. Even if your body had to fall apart right after.

The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the ticking clock on the wall, its minute hand crawling closer to midnight. You sat on the floor of the bedroom you shared with William, cross-legged in a halo of study materials. Sticky notes with scribbled formulas, coffee-stained notebooks, highlighted printouts. Your laptop screen had long gone dim, but the words you’d read all day still buzzed behind your eyes. Concepts and theories swirled with a dizzying rhythm. But none of it, none of it, could compete with him.

You hadn’t seen William in days.

He’d left for an away match three mornings ago, just before the sun blinked awake. He kissed your temple and whispered “good luck, mon ange” before slipping out the door with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You were barely awake when he left, and maybe that’s why you hadn’t told him about the dream. The one that kept replaying in your mind like a song you couldn’t skip.

It had hit you out of nowhere in the middle of the night, a vivid, visceral dream that felt less like imagination and more like memory—like something your body remembered before your mind caught up. The weight of him on top of you. His heat sinking into your skin like molten gold. The way his hands gripped you—one on your thigh, spreading you wide, the other braced in the sheets near your head, muscles tight, veins raised. His breath had ghosted your lips, hot and ragged, and in your sleep you swore you could feel him dragging inside you, deep and deliberate, the stretch of him making your toes curl beneath the covers. He moaned your name against your mouth, low and reverent, saying filthy, beautiful things in French you couldn’t translate but understood perfectly.

That dream had been haunting you ever since.

It followed you into the daylight, lingered in your bloodstream, made your cheeks burn and your thighs press together under your desk. It whispered through your lectures, tangled itself in your textbooks. When you’d leaned over your notes earlier that afternoon, you caught yourself staring blankly at the page, breath uneven, remembering the press of his chest against yours and the scent of sweat and skin and sex. It was maddening. He wasn’t just under your skin—he was in your head.

And the worst part? You couldn’t even touch yourself. You were too exhausted to chase release, too focused to let yourself fall apart. You needed to pass this test. You needed a future. But the wanting didn’t go away—it just simmered under the surface, curling low in your belly, waiting.

At 11:48 PM, you gave in. Not to the ache between your legs—but to the one in your joints, your back, your mind. The kind of ache that begged for mercy, for softness. You sighed, long and weary, and began gathering your materials with slow, stiff movements. Every muscle protested. When you stood, it felt like you were peeling yourself off the floor one tired limb at a time. You winced at the sharp pull in your hips and the dull throb in your knees. Your hands trembled slightly as you stacked your books on the desk, palms heavy with fatigue.

You shuffled to the bathroom like an old woman, aching and bent. When the hot water hit your skin, it nearly brought tears to your eyes. Steam curled around your tired body, loosening the knots in your shoulders, sliding down the sore curves of your back, pooling at your feet. For the first time all day, you sighed in relief. You let your head fall forward under the stream and allowed yourself one moment to feel clean and held.

But then… there he was again.

William.

He wasn’t in the room, but he was there—in your mind, in your memory, in your body. You closed your eyes and instantly saw the dream: his broad chest above yours, the sweat dripping from his brow, the shadows of his abs contracting with every deep thrust. Your lips parted. Your breath caught. The water became white noise as your thoughts twisted hot and fast. His voice was in your ear, rough and low, groaning praises in that thick accent that always made your thighs twitch. You could feel him—your body remembered.

You clutched the shower wall, eyes shut tight, breath coming in short, needy bursts. The heat between your legs was unbearable, an ache that no amount of rinsing could soothe. But still, you didn’t let yourself give in. Not now. Not when you were this close to rest. This close to peace.

You rinsed quickly, rubbed lotion into your tired limbs, wrapped your satin scarf carefully around your edges. Your bonnet followed. You moved with slow, intentional movements, like you were putting yourself back together. Piece by piece.

When you finally collapsed into bed, it felt like the softest thing you’d ever touched. The cool sheets kissed your skin. The pillow cradled your head like a lover’s hand. You exhaled, deeply, audibly. You let your bones melt into the mattress.

And this time, you didn’t fight the dream.

You let yourself drift, the echo of him waiting in the corners of your mind. His hands. His voice. The way he moaned your name. You sighed once more, heavy and full of want, and closed your eyes.

Finally, sleep took you.

You were deep in sleep — not just resting, but completely tucked beneath its weight. Buried in blankets pulled up to your chin, your face pressed into the pillow, breath steady and slow. The quiet hum of the night wrapped around you like a lullaby. You didn’t hear the keys in the door. You didn’t hear the soft click of it closing. You didn’t hear the sound of a duffel bag settling by the wall or the even softer footsteps that padded down the hall.

William stood in the doorway of your bedroom, his shoulders finally relaxing as his eyes landed on you. A slow, almost shy smile curled on his face. His chest lifted with a quiet sigh, the kind that came from arriving somewhere sacred.

Home.

Not just the apartment. You.

The weight of being away, of hotel rooms and locker rooms and noise, fell from his body all at once. You were here. Sleeping soundly. Safe. Still wrapped in that navy-blue throw blanket he always teased you about — the one that barely covered your legs but that you insisted on using anyway.

He stepped forward quietly, careful with each footfall. But when he caught sight of something on the floor, he paused and looked down. Your glasses. Just sitting there at the edge of the rug, slightly askew. He bent down to pick them up, brushing his thumb over the arm of the frame with a soft exhale.

You only ever left them like that when you’d been up studying for hours. He hated when you pushed yourself that hard. Always said, “My beautiful girl needs her beauty rest,” in that quiet, scolding way he saved just for you — all wrapped in love and worry. It always made you roll your eyes and smile. But he meant it. Every time.

He placed the glasses gently on the nightstand next to your side of the bed, next to the lamp you’d probably forgotten to turn off before you passed out. His eyes drifted back to you, to the curve of your cheek half-buried in the pillow. Your skin glowed in the low light. Your lips were parted just slightly. He crouched beside the bed, leaned in slowly, and kissed your forehead so gently he barely touched you at all. You didn’t stir. Didn’t even twitch. Just kept sleeping — warm and safe and deep.

God, he missed you.

Quietly, he made his way into the bathroom, pulling his clothes off as he went. The sound of the water echoed softly behind the door as he stepped into the shower. It was his ritual — he always washed the day off of him before climbing into bed with you. He couldn’t rest unless you were the last thing his skin touched.

The hot stream hit his back and shoulders, and he let his head fall forward with a low groan. He was sore — not just from the match but from sleeping without you, being without you. He reached for the bottle of your soap, the one with the soft lavender and almond scent you always used when you needed to feel calm. He popped the cap open and brought it to his nose, eyes fluttering shut.

God, you.

Even your soap made his chest ache with longing.

He took his time rinsing, running his hands over his face, his chest, his arms, letting every thought of the outside world fade. When he stepped out, he towel-dried quietly and rubbed lotion into his skin, moving slower than usual. He was tired. But nothing — nothing — could keep him from sliding into bed with you.

He lifted the sheets and slipped beneath them carefully, his body molding instinctively to yours. He reached for you like muscle memory, like gravity pulling him in. His arm curved around your waist, pulling you just slightly back into his chest. His hand splayed gently across your stomach, his fingers brushing soft, absentminded circles into your skin.

He tried to be careful. Tried not to wake you.

He failed.

Your body tensed in the slightest way, then melted as your senses caught up to his scent. You inhaled softly, deeply. That smell — clean, warm skin and fresh soap, the edge of cologne still clinging faintly to him. You didn’t even have to open your eyes.

“Will…?” you murmured, voice soft and warm with sleep. “Hi, baby.”

You shifted onto your other side so you could see him, still half-asleep, still fuzzy around the edges. Your leg slid between his, finding that familiar groove. Your hand came up to rest gently on his face, thumb brushing his cheek.

He smiled down at you, touching your face in return. “Sleep, mon cœur. We’ll talk in the morning. I make you breakfast, okay?”

You pressed your face into his chest, breathing him in like he was oxygen. “I missed you,” you whispered.

His arm tightened around you slightly, his fingers slipping into your hair. “I miss you too, bébé. So much.”

And just like that, you were sinking into him, into the safety of his bare chest, his warmth wrapping around you. His heart beat slow and steady beneath your ear. But the comfort was quickly accompanied by something else. Something hotter. Heavier.

The dream.

That dream — the one that had haunted your body since the moment he left — came rushing back, fast and vivid. The feel of him above you. Inside you. The stretch. The moans. The French.

Your hips moved before you realized what you were doing. The tiniest grind against the muscle of his thigh. Slow. Barely-there. Just enough to soothe the ache blooming low in your belly. You didn’t think he’d feel it.

But he did.

“Y/N?” His voice was quiet, curious. “You okay?”

You stilled. Caught. You chuckled softly into his chest, your cheeks warm.

“Yeah… I’m just— I, um. I had a dream.”

You felt his fingers pause in your hair. Then lift your chin gently so your eyes could meet his.

“I didn’t get to tell you because you left so early,” you murmured, your voice barely above the hush of breath between you. “I’ve been thinking about it…” The words trailed off, floating somewhere between hesitation and need.

You weren’t ashamed — not even a little. But you could feel the weight of his body beside yours, the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was tired. You knew that. You knew his schedule, the way his body gave everything to the pitch. You also knew how he loved — fully, without complaint — and you didn’t want to take advantage of that love. Not now. Not just because you were aching.

But he was right here. Finally. Right under you, right within reach, and your body was already humming, remembering.

“You can tell me,” William said softly, his voice threaded with quiet certainty. “I will do it.”

He was always like that. Always ready to give — not out of obligation, but because it brought him joy to please you. No matter how long the day had been, how sore his legs were, how heavy his spirit felt. Tired, hurt, sad, happy, anxious — it didn’t matter. Your feelings always came first. If you needed him, he was yours. Entirely. Every time.

He would do anything for you.

“I know, Wilo. But it’s okay, baby,” you said gently, pressing your hand to his chest as if to ground yourself. “We’re both so tired. I can wait until the morning. Really, it’s okay.”

You meant it, even as your voice cracked just a little. You hated the idea of asking for too much. You loved him too much to let your need come at his expense. You wanted him, yes — God, you wanted him — but you didn’t want him sleep-deprived, worn down, trying to pour from a cup you wouldn’t let refill.

But his response was immediate.

“Non” he whispered, shaking his head. “Bébé, Ça va. I do it for you. Anything. I will do it.”

Before you could reply, before you could stop him, he moved — gently, reverently — and flipped you onto your back. His body slid over yours, settling against you like he’d done this in his own dreams too. One hand found your waist, grounding you. The other pressed into the mattress beside your head, holding his weight like it had in your vision.

Just like the dream.

He looked down at you, eyes locked on yours. Deep. Intentional. Like nothing else in the world existed but this.

You swallowed hard, heartbeat pounding beneath your ribs.

And he didn’t say another word.

He didn’t need to.

Your heart swelled at his words, at the reverence in his touch. At the way he held you like you were precious. Like this moment was sacred. You couldn’t ask for anything more—nothing better than a man who met your desire with tenderness and a promise, every time.

“Fuck,” you breathed, your voice a sigh wrapped in awe, “I love you.”

Your hands cradled his face as you pulled him into a kiss—sleepy and slow, warm as dawn creeping through closed blinds. He melted into it, his lips pressing to yours with that same drowsy devotion, one hand sweeping down to cradle your hip as if to say, I’m here. I’m yours.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered against your lips, his voice like velvet. Like breath in your lungs. Like the dream.

You exhaled shakily, eyelids fluttering. “Just—” you inhaled again, trying to center yourself in the thick, molten gravity of it all. “Just like this. Mmmm…”

You were already gone.

And soaking.

You’d been wet since the shower. Since the steam and heat and your own thoughts betrayed you. Since his scent curled through the sheets the moment he stepped into the room. Every part of you ached for him—your body, your mind, and most of all, your heart. You didn’t want to just feel him. You wanted to be with him. Skin to skin. Soul to soul. You wanted to be heart to heart while he made love to you.

His lips found your neck then, soft and wet, trailing kisses down the side until he reached that tender space under your chin. He licked slow circles there, kissed around it like you were sugar under his tongue, and then dipped back to your collarbone.

You whimpered.

Your legs wrapped around his hips instinctively, anchoring him there, where you needed him most. He adjusted to you in the dark, lining your bodies up until the thick ridge of his clothed length pressed flush against your bare center.

You gasped.

A low, drawn-out moan left both your mouths at once. That simple grind—him in boxers, you in nothing but one of his oversized tees—was enough to make you shiver. Your hands slid into his curls and pulled gently. Your hips rolled up to meet his, desperate for friction, for him. He pressed down harder. Slower. The tension coiled.

This—this was what your dreams were made of. Literally.

He reached down between you and slipped his fingers through your folds, slow and slick. He moaned, audibly, like it was him being touched.

He muttered, reverent. “So wet. So ready for me.”

You shook your head. Yes. You were. You had been. Since the night the dream burned itself into your brain like a brand. Every beat of your heart since then had whispered I need him. I need him now.

He sat back just enough to tug his boxers down, freeing himself with a quiet urgency. The heat of him met the wet of you in one slow, teasing drag—his tip sliding through your slick folds, parting you, nudging your clit before gliding lower again.

“Ugh,” you moaned, spine arching.

“Mmmm,” he groaned in unison, both of you trembling at the sound of how wet you were—obscene, like a mop dropped on a tile floor, soaked to the edge.

“Please,” you whispered, grabbing his face, pulling his gaze to yours. Your voice shook, threaded with need. “Please, Will.”

He melted. Every time you begged—even softly, even sweetly—he unraveled. Not because you needed to beg. Never that. But because it meant you wanted him. Really wanted him. And there was no greater honor than that.

He lined himself up.

And pushed the tip in—slow.

Then pulled out.

Then in again, deeper. The middle of him now. Still slow. Still deliberate.

Then out.

Then three-quarters of the way in.

Then out.

Until finally—finally—he sank into you fully, hips flush against yours, his breath caught in his throat.

You clung to him. Back arching. Lips parting.

Everything about it was slow. And soft. And so unbearably good.

And in that moment, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

He began to move inside you slow and sweet, like he had all the time in the world to love you properly. Each stroke was languid, his hips rolling in a rhythm that felt more like music than motion—low, sensual, deliberate, as if your bodies were swaying together underwater. He kept his forehead pressed gently to yours, your skin dewy from the heat rising between you, both your eyes shut like it was too sacred a moment to look at directly. Like you had to feel it all to truly believe it was real.

His breath slipped across your lips, warm and uneven. His moans didn’t come from his throat—they came from deep inside his chest, soft and broken like prayers. You could feel them tremble in your own body. And you caught them in your mouth, kissing him with the same fragile energy, like if either of you moved too quickly, the moment might evaporate.

Just like the dream. But better—because he was here, real and warm and holding you like he never wanted to stop.

Your fingers curled around his face, thumbs brushing softly along the curve of his jaw. You wanted to keep him close, to ground yourself in the reality of him—his weight above you, his scent of soap and warmth, the slight dampness of his curls brushing your forehead. Your back arched naturally, body seeking more of him, and his chest slid over yours with perfect, tender pressure. Every part of you was touching—skin to skin, heart to heart.

And the way he moved…

His hips rolled slow and deep, like the tide. He wasn’t just thrusting—he was grinding, dragging himself against every aching inch inside you with such delicious, devastating care. It was intimate. It was consuming. It was love made into movement.

You could feel everything—every twitch of his body, every stretch of your own, every little shift of heat and slickness between you. It was so different from how you usually fucked. Usually there was more grit. More grip. Hands on your throat, filth in your ear, his pace fast and hard like he wanted to fuck you into the mattress.

But this…

Sensual. Soft. Sweet. Yearning.

This was soft rain drizzling into a calm river lined with willow trees. This was silk slipping across warm skin. This was a whisper in the dark.

“Does this feel good, mon cœur?” he asked, voice ragged, nearly inaudible, his lips brushing yours with every word. His hand tightened around your thigh like he was holding on for dear life.

Your answer was breathless, almost desperate. “Ugh—yes, baby. Yes…yes…”

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was tasting every part of your mouth. His hand slid up to your breast, fingers spreading softly before he gave it a gentle squeeze, and your whole body clenched around him in response. The feeling of his thumb brushing your nipple, the stretch of him deep inside you, the sheer intimacy of it all—it was overwhelming. You moaned, soft and broken.

And he felt it. “Putain… Y/N…” he groaned, voice breaking as his own pleasure deepened. His thrusts slowed even more, hips rocking into you with aching precision. He wasn’t chasing an orgasm—he was worshipping you. Feeling every flutter, every squeeze, every pulse of your body welcoming him in.

Your legs began to tremble. The heat coiled low in your stomach, tighter and tighter with each slow stroke. You could barely keep still—your hips rose to meet his, the wet slap of skin against skin growing louder with every motion. You were soaked, more than you’d ever been. You could hear how wet you were—your arousal squelching obscenely with every slow grind of his hips. You whimpered into his mouth.

“I’m so close,” you whispered. “Please, baby—don’t stop. Just like that…”

You clung to him, your thighs locking around his waist as your orgasm approached. Your nails dragged softly down his back, and he groaned at the sensation. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. His body answered for him. His pace stayed steady, that same sensual rhythm, even as his own breath hitched and stuttered.

Your release hit hard.

It rolled through you like a wave crashing against rock, tearing a cry from your throat as your body shook beneath him. You clenched around him hard, again and again, and he moaned raggedly into your mouth. You could feel his rhythm falter just barely, his hips grinding deeper.

And then he was there with you.

You felt his whole body tense above you—his arms trembling, his stomach flexing against yours, his legs beginning to shake. He let out a long, low groan and you could feel him pulse inside you, the warmth of his release flooding you in slow spurts. Your name left his mouth like a confession, broken and reverent.

The world went quiet after that.

Your bodies stilled, locked together, breath slowing in perfect sync. He collapsed into you carefully, pressing soft kisses to your cheek, your collarbone, the corner of your mouth. You could feel his heart beating against yours, fast and unsteady, like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

And he stayed inside you.

Neither of you moved. He just held you there, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other brushing his fingertips gently along your spine. He whispered something in French against your hair, something tender and quiet that only the two of you were meant to understand.

Your eyelids fluttered closed again, exhaustion pulling you under. His warmth, his weight, the soft stickiness between your thighs—it was all so comforting. You felt full. Safe. Loved.

And he stayed awake just a little longer, holding you like a promise.

He needed to feel you this close. Needed to stay connected in every possible way. He didn’t want to let you go. Not now. Not ever.

He looked down at your sleeping face, kissed the tip of your nose, and whispered, “Je t’aime.”

His precious girl. His angel. His home.

His moon, his stars, his sun.

tag list: @sucredreamer @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt @kennaskorner

@leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas

@amirawrah @simplementemeencantafutbol

@kjlovesbigwilo @kyoshithewriter

note: hey y’all. my writers block is gone (for now) and finally wrote something after 564 days🥳. i actually had this idea ahead ago but i haven’t been able to wrote anything. no song this time, crazy lol. anyway, as always enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The spotlight was where you thrived. Not just a place you stepped into, but a place you belonged—like a second skin stitched from gold thread and flashbulbs. You didn’t just stand there for attention; you existed there, luxuriated in it, stretched yourself across its glow like you were soaking in sun on the French Riviera. The light found you and lingered, as if even photons were seduced by your presence.

The cameras, the murmuring crowds, the rising tide of admiration that always seemed to follow in your wake—they weren’t distractions. They were fuel. You moved like a secret whispered on velvet. Every gaze that trailed behind you fed something warm and pulsing inside your chest. Something electric. You loved being watched, not in some hollow, thirsty way, but with the quiet arrogance of someone who knew they were worth watching. You didn’t chase attention—it chased you, breathless and grateful.

You weren’t the type to try. You didn’t need to. You were the woman they designed phrases like “showstopper” for. The one who walked into a room and made even the chandeliers pause. Heads turned not because you demanded it—but because not turning felt like a mistake. Your presence was magnetic, your allure effortless. You were the main event in every room you entered, and you wore that truth like perfume: subtly, seductively, completely.

You liked your life the way you liked your drinks—fast, full-bodied, and with a little bit of a kick.

You craved momentum. You thrived in the blur of packed calendars and back-to-back calls. You wanted your name on everyone’s tongue—group chats, editorials, podcast recaps, late-night tweets. You didn’t just live in the moment; you owned it. And modeling, well… modeling didn’t just suit you. It was written in your bones.

To you, it wasn’t a job. It was tempo. It was transformation. You could turn it on like a light—be storm or siren, flame or silk. You understood angles the way a dancer understands gravity, knew when to soften and when to scorch. And when the camera flash cracked the air like lightning? You gave it thunder. You gave it legend.

And fame? Fame never rattled you. You wore it like vintage Versace—bold, intentional, a little cheeky. You smiled at the whispers, winked at the headlines, never let your crown tilt. Fame was the easiest part. You didn’t chase it. You invited it in, offered it a drink, told it to take off its shoes and stay awhile.

Of course, the perks were nice. The way velvet ropes parted like scripture when you approached. The hotel suites. The fashion house gifts. The stylist who FaceTimed you from Paris when a last-minute gala popped up in Cannes. But the real magic was in the small, sparkling details: handwritten notes from designers who said you were their muse. Messages from fans who swore you’d made them feel beautiful just by existing. Little girls clutching your campaign ads with their eyes wide and their hair in braids, whispering that they wanted to be you one day.

That part kept your feet on the ground. That part reminded you that what you were doing meant something.

But if there was one thing—just one—you couldn’t stand?

It was the way people treated your love life like public property.

Not your skincare routine. Not your clothes or your shoot locations or the hotel you were spotted leaving. No—him. Whoever he was at the time. The man beside you in one blurry photo and suddenly you had a whole new narrative.

You could tolerate curiosity when it was shallow. But this was invasive. Speculative. Obsessive. Every dinner outing became a Reddit thread. Every hand brush or shared laugh became a fucking thesis paper. Theories built off the shape of a shoulder. Your happiness dissected like gossip was an Olympic sport.

At first, you pushed back. You denied, deflected, dodged every “Who are you seeing?” like it was a punch. You didn’t owe anyone an explanation. But eventually… something shifted. You stopped fighting. Stopped hiding. Started playing the game your way.

Let the rumors hang in the air like perfume. Let the people guess.

A little mystery wasn’t just protection. It was power.

Like tonight.

Tonight, you weren’t just in the spotlight—you owned it. On the red carpet for the highly anticipated F1 movie premiere, you were nothing short of divine. A vision dressed in liquid moonlight. Custom, of course. A designer two-piece crafted just for you: a white satin bustier, sculpted to frame your body like it had studied you first. The beading at the hem sparkled with each breath you took. The trousers—wide-legged, trailing the floor—moved like melted pearl, rippling over your heels like they were floating. Around your neck, diamonds dripped like water. Your skin glowed like dusk. Your hair was pulled sleek, not a strand out of place. And your lips—plush, painted, kissable—curved in the kind of smile that made photographers forget their settings.

You looked like wealth. Like elegance dipped in sin. Like you knew something everyone else didn’t.

And maybe you did.

Because tonight… you were thinking of him.

William.

The French defender. The wall of muscle wrapped in calm. A man who made silence sexy. Whispers had followed the two of you for weeks—restaurant sightings, hotel lobbies, courtside seats at games. Photos that weren’t exactly damning, but weren’t innocent either. A laugh shared too close. A hoodie that may or may not have been his. Internet sleuths were working overtime. Was it a PR stunt? A new situationship? Was it love or lust?

You weren’t saying. Not yet.

As you made your way down the press line, the usual questions came: “Who are you wearing?” “Do you follow Formula 1?” “Are you team Mercedes or team Ferrari?” You answered smoothly, charmingly, letting your voice curl like smoke. And then it came. The question you’d been waiting for.

“We’ve seen you out with a certain someone recently,” the journalist teased, eyebrow arched, tone playful. “What’s going on with that?”

You didn’t blink. You smiled, slow and sweet, head tilting just so. A laugh like honey spilled from your lips.

“I’ve been seen with a lot of people lately,” you said, teasing right back. “Life’s moving fast—I can’t track every person I’ve seen.”

Another laugh. Breathier this time. A glimmer in your eye. The journalist grinned, knowing she wouldn’t get more. Not yet.

“Okay, okay,” she relented. “Last one. What’s your dream ride, Ms. Y/N?”

You let it linger. Let your lips part as your tongue tucked into your cheek. Your eyes went to the camera. And then—

“My dream ride?” you repeated, voice syrupy. “A Rolls Royce.”

You smiled like you knew something they didn’t. Because you did. And with that, you turned and walked away, heels clicking like applause trailing behind you. You checked your phone briefly before heading inside the theater.

And there it was.

Already posted. Already viral. Already on his For You Page.

Wilo – *link to the video*

Can get you your dream ride.

You – How quickly?

Wilo – 8 days. 6 if I’m lucky.

You – Expedite shipping please 🙏🏾.

Wilo – Will do what I can. See you soon sexy x.

You bit your lip as you locked your phone, the flutter in your stomach unmistakable.

He always knew how to keep you smiling.

~~~~~~~

Later that night, curled on your couch under a cashmere throw, skin still glowing with champagne and attention, you opened Instagram one last time. Posted a story thanking the premiere team. Tagged the designer. Then sat back, letting the comments roll in.

“you’re fw wilo i knew it!!!”

“new WAG alert 🚨🚨🚨”

“she bad af AND she got saliba? i’m not okay”

“ok but imagine how good the sex is 😭😭😭”

“tell wilo to tell saka i love him 😏”

“you didn’t confirm it but you didn’t deny it either 👀”

“you’re a goddess. period.”

You laughed out loud, the screen casting a soft light on your face.

It wasn’t a hard launch. Not quite a secret either. It was something better—something soft, luxurious, intentional. Like silk over skin. A reveal that hinted without screaming. That let you have something for yourself, while giving the public just enough to feed on.

And that felt… good. Right. Like breathing for the first time in weeks.

Because the truth was, those twelve names they’d paired you with over the past year?

They didn’t matter.

There was only one man who made your heart thud when your phone lit up.

Only one who touched you like your body was gospel.

Only one you were willing to be patient for, to risk it all for.

His name?

William.

Wilo.

Your dream ride.

~~~~~~

Now here you were.

Days later. Different outfit, same ache in your belly.

Because he listened—of course he did.

Wilo was many things: fine as hell, easy to read, sometimes slow with his texts—but when it mattered, he heard you. He always did. He read between the playful, flirty lines you texted after the premiere. Picked up on your hints like signals sent in code. He caught every one.

And then he moved.

Quietly, smoothly, confidently.

He expedited the shipping of himself right to your damn door like he was the package. Fragile, maybe. But fully intact. Fine as hell. Marked priority.

It didn’t take six days. Or eight like he said it might.

It took five. Just five.

And honestly? You’d take five days of silence in exchange for the look on his face when you opened the door—over and over again, without question.

Because that look had done something to you.

And everything since then had made it harder to pretend like this was casual. Like y’all weren’t careening straight into something big and breathless and impossible to deny.

No more games.

No more ducking cameras. No more strategic exits or slipping out of hotel lobbies like shadows. No more avoiding each other’s tags in Instagram photos, no more “that could be anyone’s arm” captions. No more pretending like you didn’t spend most of your week wrapped up in each other.

You weren’t hiding anymore.

You were moving through the world together now.

Arms linked. Steps matching like rhythm. Bodies tilting into each other like you’d done it for lifetimes. Every touch was second nature. Every glance told a secret. Every sidewalk became a runway when you walked beside him.

And people noticed.

Oh, did they notice.

You trended for three days straight. Three. Days.

Your names bounced off each other in hashtags like echoes. Twitter could barely keep its lungs. Every five minutes, someone reposted a blurry photo of the two of you: laughing, holding hands, sharing a look so heavy it could sink a ship. Existing in the same frame was enough to send entire fandoms into tailspins.

You were becoming the dream couple of someone’s stan account fantasy.

The soft launch to end all soft launches.

A couple curated by God, styled by accident, photographed by fate.

Even your orbits started bleeding into each other.

Some of his teammates had started following you.

Your mom followed him—him!—and had the nerve to send you a screenshot like, “He seems sweet. I like his eyes.”

You’d been caught doing normal things: shopping for groceries, making out in the back of some building you were doing fittings at for an upcoming show, comparing the scents of fabric softener like you were building a home, laughing outside a corner store with matching plastic bags swinging from your hands. He kissed your temple like it was routine. Tied your sneaker on a public sidewalk like it didn’t matter who saw.

At one point, you caught yourself fussing in his hair—standing between his knees as he sat on a bench outside your apartment—and realized…

You were acting like he was yours.

And maybe he was.

Maybe he liked it that way.

The truth was simple: you’d both stopped pretending.

There were still no labels. No contract. No talk of titles or timelines.

But there was… this.

Whatever this was—sweet, slow, electric. The two of you wrapped around each other like you were studying, tracing, learning. Getting close enough to burn but never pull away.

And sure—maybe it scared you. Maybe the speed of it made your heart knock sideways in your chest.

But you didn’t show it.

Because tonight? Tonight was easy.

One of your favorite kinds of nights: no pressure, no flashing lights. Just you and Wilo, walking hand-in-hand down your block to the little Italian place you loved—the family-owned one that always played Anita Baker like it was church, the one where the gnocchi melted in your mouth and the chef greeted you with a hug.

The hostess led you to your usual table by the window without even asking.

You stood across from him, pretending to study the menu.

But the truth was, you couldn’t concentrate on anything.

Not when he looked like that.

Not with that fresh damn haircut. That razor-sharp fade that made him look even more edible than usual. Skin deep and golden under the glow of the wall sconces. Jaw dusted with the clean edge of his beard. Eyes slow and knowing, lips parted slightly every time he said your name.

Every time he licked them?

It was like being touched without contact.

Your brain stopped functioning properly somewhere around the wine menu. It was too much. Too sharp. Too clean. Every glance was a seduction. Every movement, an invitation. You started fidgeting with yourshirt, thighs pressing tighter together every time he leaned in.

You were not going to make it through a meal.

When the waiter came to check on you, you didn’t even pretend.

“Can we have it to go, please?” you asked sweetly, voice wrapped in velvet.

Wilo blinked, surprised. “I thought we stay and eat ‘ere?”

You tilted your head, lashes low. “I’d rather eat at home.”

He stared at you for a beat.

Then his mouth curled slowly. Lazily. Like he knew exactly what was waiting at home and couldn’t wait to unwrap it.

He reached, pulled you in gently—arms folding around your shoulders, chin resting on your crown like he could hear your pulse from there.

“Okay,” he murmured, soft lips brushing your hair. “We eat at home.”

You melted against him, cheek resting on his chest as you took in the scent of him. Expensive. Warm. Slightly sweet. Like cedar and cream and something uniquely him.

“Mm.” A hum slipped from your throat uninvited.

He chuckled low and deep, the sound vibrating through your bones.

“I know bébé,” he said, mouth near your ear. “We will be home soon. You can ride your Rolls Royce.”

You laughed, a soft, surprised snort that crumpled against his hoodie.

He always knew.

Maybe your thoughts were just too loud around him. Or maybe he really saw you—heard the things you didn’t say, felt the way your body responded to his like a magnet.

Either way, at that point, you were ninety-nine percent sure the entire restaurant could guess what the rest of the night had in store.

And honestly? You didn’t care.

~~~~~~

Back at your place, the clothes came off before the lights even had a chance to come on.

Well—his clothes.

You had rules. House rules. The kind that kept your energy clean and your peace preserved.

No outside clothes in the bedroom.

No exceptions, no matter how fine the man.

So like he’d done before, Wilo stepped over the threshold of your sanctuary and peeled himself out of the day like it didn’t belong here. Left his hoodie near the door. Kicked off his sneakers with the laces still tied. Shrugged out of his shirt like it owed him nothing.

You slipped into the closet, traded your dinner outfit for something soft—just a black tank and cotton shorts that skimmed your thighs and hugged your hips. Comfortable. Breathable. Slightly dangerous.

When you stepped back out, he was in front of the vanity mirror—shirtless, brushing out his curls with an easy, self-assured rhythm that made your mouth water. Calm. Casual. Knowing exactly what he looked like.

And still pretending like he didn’t.

The shorts on his hips hung low. Teasingly low. Just enough to show off the deep dip of his waist, the firm line of his stomach, the warm sheen of skin kissed by lamplight. His back flexed with every movement. Shoulders broad. Collarbone gleaming.

You bit your lip, pulse kicking.

The only thing you could think, over and over, was:

Don’t bother fixing your hair, baby. I’m about to ruin it anyway.

He caught you in the mirror—your gaze hungry, your posture poised.

And he turned slowly. Walked to you like he had all the time in the world. Stopped at your knees, opened your legs a bit so he could step between them as you sat on the bed. Reached down with both hands and cradled your face.

Held it like it was art.

Held you like you were his.

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Like silk. Like sky. Like something sacred.

Your hands rose instinctively, fingers wrapping gently around his wrists—not to pull him closer. Just to feel him. Anchor yourself. Let him know you were here. You were ready.

He pulled back just enough to breathe. Just enough to look at you—really look.

“You tell a lot of people about us,” he said quietly. Not accusing. Just… observant.

You blinked. Searched his eyes. “Is that a problem for you?”

“Non,” he said with a faint shake of his head. “But you move fast… all the time. We can be slow… sometime.”

A kiss followed. Featherlight.

You smiled, lips brushing his. “Whatever you want baby.”

Then you kissed him again. For real this time—mouth open, breath shallow, body leaning in. Your fingers skimmed his skin like a map you already knew by heart, but wanted to rediscover just the same.

And that was it.

That cracked him open.

He melted into you, pressing you down into the sheets like you were made to be there. His hands slipped beneath your shirt, palms trailing over your skin like they had a purpose, like they had faith.

He found your waist—warm, firm.

Slid up your ribs. Up your sides. Reverent.

Your breath caught. Eyes fluttered.

It was soft.

It was warm.

It was velvet.

And the rest of the world vanished.

The kissing didn’t stop.

Didn’t stutter. Didn’t stray.

It just deepened—grew more molten, more intentional, more spellbound by the gravity of being this close to someone who truly saw you. Who felt you like music. Like sunlight. Like a slow tide pulling two bodies into the same current.

You moved together beneath the sheets like something blooming in real time. Tangled limbs and flexing hips. A slow, steady grind that built from the center and spread outward. Breath became sound—quiet moans slipping from your lips, low grunts blooming in his throat. Heat collected in the space between you. A hush of friction. A rustle of cotton. A hiss every time a new nerve lit up from a touch that felt too good to be gentle.

One of his hands found your neck. Not tight, not demanding—just resting. Just holding. A reminder that you were here. That he was too. The other slipped beneath your waistband, bold and familiar, nestling right where you needed him most. His fingers explored you like he was reading Braille—slow and sure, mapping every tender spot, coaxing them open with reverence.

Your hand mirrored his. Slid around the weight of him like a practiced secret. Stroking in time with his rhythm. Giving back what he gave you. Matching his patience with your own.

You were in sync.

More than that.

You were in communion.

Breath to breath. Pulse to pulse.

Each of you listening without speaking, answering without words.

He pressed his forehead to yours, sweat already misting the edges of his hairline, and his lips brushed your cheek before hovering by your ear.

“Want you so much bébé ” he whispered, voice gravel-warm and laced with restraint. “Can I have you?”

It wasn’t just a question.

It was a petition. A promise. A vow tucked inside a breath.

And your answer floated out of you on instinct.

“Yeees.”

That single word cracked the world open.

He pulled away, exhaling hard, chest rising and falling as he crossed the room like a man possessed. Focused. Needing. His shorts came off without preamble, hitting the floor in a soft puddle.

And there he was.

All of him. Unapologetic. Glorious.

That wasn’t just anatomy. That was worship.

The kind of beauty that made you ache.

Made you want to drop to your knees and praise him with every inch of your mouth.

Your breath caught. Lips parting slightly as you stared—eyes wide, chest fluttering with anticipation. He was already hard, already slick at the tip, already impossible not to want. You watched as he reached for his bag, tore open a golden square with his teeth, and slid the condom on with the care of someone handling fine silk.

You bit your finger nail, unable to hide the hunger in your voice.

“You ever get back pain from that thing?”

He chuckled, low and indulgent. “Non. You hold it for me.”

He took a step toward the bed like he meant to climb back on top of you—but your hand on his chest stopped him. Firm. Commanding. Sweet.

“Mm-mm,” you shook your head. “Sit against the headboard for me.”

Something in his expression shifted. His brows lifted slightly, but the glint in his eyes darkened. Curious. Obedient. Turned all the way on. He circled around to the head of the bed and sat, legs parted just enough, muscles flexing beneath his skin like they were answering only to you.

His hand wrapped around himself, stroking slow—just enough to keep the edge from fraying.

And then you moved.

You crawled to him like temptation incarnate, hips swaying, arms graceful, your whole body fluid like seaweed uner soft waves. You weren’t rushing. No. You were savoring. Drawing out the moment like it was dessert. Like he was something to unwrap, taste, and savor down to the last drop.

When you reached him, he looked like he’d already lost the first round. His lips were parted, his jaw tense, his breathing shallow and uneven.

You straddled his lap, heat pooling where your thighs met his. But you didn’t sink down onto him—not yet. You hovered. Teased. Touched. Your hand found his again and replaced it, fingers curling around his length with care, with confidence. Your strokes were slow and precise, pressure perfect.

He hissed. Jaw clenched. Muscles tightening.

“You ready for me baby?” you asked, voice soft but heavy. Thick with need.

His eyes snapped up to yours, dark and drowning in lust. But when he looked at you—really looked—he saw something new. Your pupils blown wide, irises nearly consumed by desire. Your eyes looked like twin obsidian stones—glimmering, hungry, bottomless.

And he loved it.

Loved the way you didn’t hold back.

Loved that you let him see just how badly you needed him.

Loved being the reason for the unraveling.

“Of course,” he said hoarsely. “I’m always ready for you.”

His gaze dropped, drinking you in—your flushed wet lips, the rise of your chest, the softness of your thighs wrapping around his. And lower, to where your hand still worked him with slow reverence, each stroke promising more.

He groaned. Deep and broken. His hands found your ass, kneading and spreading, anchoring you to him like a man unwilling to risk losing his center of gravity.

But you weren’t done yet.

You let go of his shoulder long enough to tilt his chin up with your fingers, bringing his gaze back to yours.

“Up here,” you said, your tone silk-wrapped steel. “Keep your eyes on mine.”

His breath hitched. His eyes held yours.

He was used to your voice. Commanding in boardrooms. Charming in public. Playful in private.

But this?

This was something else. Something potent.

And he gave into it willingly.

“Yes,” he rasped. “Y/N.”

You smiled at the sound of your name on his tongue. Like a promise. Like a surrender.

“Are you gonna cum for me?” you asked, slowing your strokes, letting the weight of the question settle in the space between you.

His throat flexed as he swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“How many times?”

You leaned forward, mouth brushing his ear. Teeth grazing the lobe.

He shivered.

“As many as you want bébé.”

That did it.

Your smile turned wicked. Dangerous.

Your body swayed forward, mouth catching his in a kiss so deep it felt like a plunge into warm water.

And the night finally began.

Not with a bang.

But with a promise.

With a rhythm.

With you, riding him into a place where only the two of you existed.

And neither of you planned to come back anytime soon

You guided him in silence—fingers wrapped firmly around the base, angling him just right. His thick, glistening tip slid through your folds, slow and sure, not entering—just there. Stroking. Teasing. Claiming.

The first brush over your clit sent a jolt through your spine—so sudden, so sharp, it left your thighs trembling.

You moved him again, gliding him up and down through the slick heat of your arousal. Wetness coated him easily, like your body had been waiting all night for this exact moment. The glide turned your breath shallow. Your lips parted. Your head tipped back, spine arching as sensation bloomed everywhere at once.

But still, even with your body writhing in response, you kept one hand steady on his jaw—tilting his face toward yours. Holding his gaze.

Look at me.

You needed him to see.

See what he did to you—how you came undone with nothing but the head of him resting against you. How your breath caught. How your chest rose. How your need poured out like prayer.

His grip on your ass tightened—rough and possessive.

“Ughhh, Wilo,” you moaned, your voice a soft rasp, heavy with need.

That was all it took. He surged forward, mouth on your neck like he’d been starved for it—dragging lips, grazing teeth, open-mouthed kisses stamped against your skin with growing urgency. Every touch was wetter than the last, darker, deeper. Like he wanted to mark you. Map the shape of you in kisses and bites.

His hands slid upward, slow but sure, settling at your waist.

No more waiting.

He lifted you in one smooth motion, the strength in his arms making your stomach tighten. You braced yourself on his shoulders as he guided you down, the head of him pressing again at your entrance.

The stretch knocked the wind from your lungs.

You eased down inch by inch, the fullness taking your breath with it. That slow burn that always made your thighs shake. That feeling of being split open just right.

“Ahh—shit,” you both moaned together, tangled voices breaking in the quiet.

“So big,” you whispered against his mouth, forehead resting to his, toes curling against the sheets.

He held your waist steady, strong hands keeping you grounded while you adjusted. He never rushed you. Never pushed. Just let you take him slow, let you feel all of him. Every inch. Every ridge. Like he wanted you to remember what you were made to take.

When your hips finally pressed flush to his, your walls fluttering around him, you leaned in and kissed him deep—tongue sliding, lips sucking, kissing him like you were trying to crawl inside his chest.

Your hips began to move, slow and fluid. A soft rock forward, then back. Each grind deep and dragging, making him moan into your mouth.

His head fell back with a soft thud against the wall, a strangled breath leaving his chest like it’d been punched out of him.

“Ugh—Y/N… if you keep doing that—I will cum fast,” he warned, voice rough, body twitching beneath you.

His grip on your hips tightened, trying to slow you down—but you didn’t give him room.

“That’s okay,” you purred, breath hot at his ear. “We can go again.”

You flexed around him deliberately, rolling your hips harder now, deeper, each movement soaked in heat and want.

He unraveled beneath you.

A long, broken grunt tore from his chest. His hands clutched your ass, squeezing, spreading—like he needed to anchor himself to you. Like he didn’t know where he ended and you began.

You felt it. The tremble in his thighs. The pulse of him inside you. Once. Twice. A third.

Then stillness—his forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath heavy against your skin.

“Damn babe…” you laughed softly, chest heaving as your muscles relaxed.

“I told you,” he groaned, voice slurred with pleasure as he leaned back to look at you, eyes hazy, grin crooked. “You feel too good. I can’t last. But next time, I will.”

You kissed him sweetly, mouth soft and lazy with satisfaction. He lifted you gently, easing out with care, and you gasped at the loss—still aching even after.

He stood, peeled off the condom, and tossed it, pulling another from the drawer without a word. There was no teasing this time. Just hunger. Just intent.

He climbed back into bed with purpose, hands on your thighs, pulling you into his lap like you weighed nothing.

And this time, he teased first.

He took your hand in his, wrapping it around his softening length, guiding you into slow, steady strokes—reviving him beneath your palm.

But while you worked him, he worked you.

His fingers dipped between your legs without warning—two thick digits sliding in effortlessly, coated in the aftermath of your shared high. The heat of your body clung to him.

Then he curled his fingers forward—hard and sure—right into that sweet, swollen spot that made your hips jerk and your breath vanish.

You gasped, back arching, toes digging into the mattress.

“Shhh,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “Let me get you ready again.”

But you already were.

You were soaked. Open. Trembling.

Still full of everything he’d just given you and desperate to take more

Your arousal was a symphony—bold, shameless, wet. The slick sound of his fingers working inside you echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls like water bursting from a cracked pipe. Every stroke carved new waves of heat into your skin, crashing between your thighs, loud enough to rival your moans and ragged breaths.

“F- uck, William,” you gasped, voice fraying at the edges as he curled just right.

That spot.

The spot.

The one that made the world fade to static. The one that seized your lungs and swallowed your breath whole.

Your thighs jumped. Your hands trembled. Your head rolled back so far it nearly cracked against the wall.

You lost your grip on him. Your hand slipped from his length without a second thought, useless now—your body hijacked, your mind white with want. But that didn’t matter. Not to him. Watching you come undone was enough. More than enough. His chest rose and fell faster. His jaw clenched tight. His dick pulsed against your thigh like it was knocking, begging, waiting for its turn.

“Right ‘ere?” he murmured low, teasing—fingers relentless.

“Ooohh—yes,” you cried, eyes glassy and dazed. “Right fuckin’ there—yes.”

Your nails dug crescents into his shoulders. You braced yourself as he dragged you to the edge, each thrust of his fingers rough and reverent. He watched your face like it held scripture, reading every twitch, every plea in the arch of your brow and the part of your lips.

But you stopped him.

You grabbed his wrist, breath ragged. “Wait—wait… I don’t wanna cum yet,” you pleaded, voice nearly breaking. “I need you inside me.”

He obeyed instantly. Fingers sliding out, glistening, dripping. He brought them to his mouth without hesitation, licking them clean in long, hungry strokes. And the sight of him tasting you—savoring you—cracked something open deep inside.

You surged forward, crashing into his mouth like a wave. Tongue greedy. Lips fierce. Both hands cradled his face like you were afraid it might vanish. You kissed him like you needed to taste yourself in his mouth to believe this was real.

And while your tongues tangled, you slid down onto him again—one smooth, searing stroke. You took him like you were made for it, like your body had only ever been meant to house him.

He moaned into your mouth, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through your ribs.

“Y/N…”

You rolled your hips with slow, devastating grace—each lift and drop, a spell you put him deeper into. He groaned again, voice hoarse and wrecked, his hands back on your ass, dragging you down, deeper. And you let him.

You lived for this part. For the unraveling. For the moment when cool, collected Wilo—the man the world thought they knew—shattered under your touch and revealed the hunger he hid from cameras. That fire? That desperation? It was only for you.

“Fuck,” you hissed through clenched teeth as he started thrusting up, hard, matching your rhythm stroke for stroke.

“You feel me bébé?” he asked, eyes glued to you—dark, wide, worshipful.

That look… that look could’ve ruined cities. It nearly ruined you.

His eyes weren’t just hungry—they were drenched in awe. Lust. Reverence. Like you were the altar and the sermon.

“Keep looking at me Wilo,” you whispered, breath catching as your hips ground harder. “Don’t stop.”

The room answered for him—music made of flesh and breath and love. Wet slaps. Swollen lips in every form. Hushed moans. Raspy graons. Nasty words. The rustle of sheets. The creak of the bed. The sharp gasp when he bottomed out. Burning muscles. Every sound a chord in your own private symphony of worship and want.

Your bodies gleamed in the low light, drenched in sweat and lust. Your neck shimmered. Your lips were swollen. Your moans spilled like dark chocolate over his ears, rich and molten.

And then you shifted gears.

You began to ride him with purpose. With fire. With ownership. Like you were claiming what was yours, not asking for it.

“Harder baby,” you said—and he listened.

His hands clamped down on your hips and pulled you down to meet every sharp, punishing thrust. He slammed into you with force—deep and demanding—his thighs slapping against your ass like applause. You welcomed it. Craved it.

You buried your hands in his curls and tugged, grounding yourself as you bounced faster, filthier, hips meeting with a sinful rhythm.

“Oh my God, fuck, William—right there. Yessss,” you moaned, eyes wide, voice shattering around the edges of pleasure.

“This pussy feels so fucking good,” he groaned, jaw slack, voice thick with reverence as your walls clenched around him again.

Another slap landed on your ass—loud, stinging, perfect. Then he gripped you again, harder this time, like he wanted to etch the memory of your body into his palms.

Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole building eavesdrop. Let them all listen. You didn’t care.

The bed howled beneath you. A pillow flew to the floor. The windows fogged.

And still—you rode.

He licked his thumb, reached between you, and pressed it against your clit. Tight, furious circles.

“Make me cum baby. Please I’m right there.” you begged, a cry, a command, your voice cracking as the pressure climbed to unbearable.

He didn’t speak. He just worked.

You screamed.

Your back arched. Your hands clawed at his chest. Your thighs shook as heat surged through you like fire in your veins. Your body clenched, shook, broke.

Your ass clapped. Your legs locked. Your pussy gripped him like a vice.

And then it happened.

You froze—mouth open, eyes wild—then moaned loud and long as your orgasm overtook you. It hit like lightning. Your body stuttered. Your hips jerked. Your walls fluttered around him, dripping, milking, claiming.

That was it.

He growled your name like a curse and a prayer, his whole body seizing as he thrust once, twice—then spilled into the condom with a sound that split the air between worship and surrender.

You collapsed into him, chest to chest, forehead pressed to his. Both of you heaving. Both of you dazed. Drunk on sweat and sex and each other.

He wrapped his arms around you like he was afraid you might drift away. One hand stroked your ass softly now—like he hadn’t just marked it as his.

“You okay?” he murmured, his fingertips tracing light, lazy circles on your back.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, smiling into his neck, your voice syrup-sweet and sleepy.

Then you pulled back, lips still tingling, and whispered, “Just thinking about if I wanna be on top again next round. It’s a lot of work being a chauffeur.”

He chuckled—low, warm, real. You felt it in his chest before you heard it in his throat.

But you weren’t joking.

You’d driven him all night.

And needless to say—