StrawpurryMilky

You could still hear his voice from that afternoon in the library, casual and smooth as ever, leaning over the table with that lazy smile. “Relax, cutie,” he’d said, sliding your textbook toward himself without asking. “If you keep glaring at me with that expression, people are going to think that you fancy me.”

You had snatched the book back, teeth clenched. “The only thing I fancy is the idea of never having to see your face again.”

He’d only laughed, low and infuriating. “Harsh. Guess I’ll just have to make sure you keep seeing it, then.”

You couldn’t begin to fathom what crime you had committed—whether in this life or some unfortunate past one—to deserve being stuck with him every few weeks. Yet here you were, standing on the soft, beer-stained carpet, surrounded by a cloud of cheap perfume, laughter, and the low thrum of bass shaking the floorboards. Alcohol hummed in your veins, warm and distracting, while the partygoers whooped and hollered around the circle.

A chipped glass bottle spun on the floor, wobbling to a stop as if it had been conspiring against you all night. You stared at it like it had just declared war on you, because, of course, the neck was pointing directly at Rafayel.

For a fleeting, wicked moment, you considered grabbing it and cracking it over his annoyingly perfect head. Seven minutes in heaven. With him.

The crowd erupted—half in mock horror, half in the kind of delight that came from watching a train wreck you couldn’t look away from. Simone and Tara exchanged a wide-eyed glance that said they were both surprised and already placing mental bets.

You narrowed your eyes at them, but before you could say a word, movement caught your attention. Rafayel was already walking toward the closet—no hesitation, no acknowledgment of the chaos he left in his wake. He didn’t even look back at you, as if it was a foregone conclusion you’d follow.

That arrogant prick.

You scoffed under your breath and stood, brushing imaginary lint off your jeans, mostly to keep from flipping him off in front of everyone. Simone and Tara nudged each other like middle schoolers about to watch a fight, grinning as though they hadn’t just sold you out to the devil himself.

“Don’t wait up,” you muttered at them, your voice sharp enough to cut.

A guy from somewhere in the back yelled, “My money’s on murder!”

Another chimed in, “Nah, they’re either gonna make out or burn the place down.”

You ignored them all, though your jaw tightened. Seven whole minutes trapped in a cramped, dark space with Rafayel—his cologne, his smug smirk, his constant need to one-up you. And as you reached the door, he glanced over his shoulder at last, that infuriating grin playing on his lips.

“Don’t look so thrilled, cutie,” he drawled, holding the closet door open just wide enough for you to pass. “I promise to make it worth your while.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle you could still see. “You wish.”

His smirk deepened, lazy and sure of himself. “I do,” he said lightly, stepping in after you. “But it’s more fun when you do too.”

The door clicked shut, sealing you into seven minutes of hell. You pressed yourself into the farthest corner as the door shut, sealing out the noise of the party. Darkness swallowed the cramped space, save for a sliver of light leaking through the crack between the door and frame. Your breath caught—not from nerves, you told yourself, but from the sudden proximity.

His cologne lingered in the air, warm and heady, with some other undertone—salted, oceanic—that clung stubbornly in your head. The realization annoyed you more than his actual presence. It was unfair, you thought, that someone so irritating could smell that good.

A faint brush against your arm made you flinch. You turned your head sharply, catching the faint outline of his profile in the gloom.

“Keep to your own space, yeah?” you muttered, your voice low but sharp. You tried to shift farther away, but the closet was far too small, and you hated the way every movement brought you back within reach of him.

His laugh came quiet but deep, curling at the edges with smugness. “My bad, princess,” he murmured, leaning just close enough for the warmth of his words to ghost over your cheek. “Didn’t realize I’d already stepped on your toes tonight.”

You shot him a glare, even if you knew he probably couldn’t see much of it in the dark. His arm was still brushing yours, his casual lean making it clear he had no intention of shifting away.

“I will step on yours if you don’t move,” you warned, crossing your arms tight over your chest and turning your body slightly to shield yourself.

Instead of taking the hint, he tilted his head lazily. “So aggressive tonight,” he said softly, mock sweetness dripping from the words. “Acting like this isn’t the highlight of your night.”

You huffed, the sound sharp in the close air. “In what universe would this be my highlight?”

“In mine,” he answered smoothly, without missing a beat.

You scoffed, the sound sharp in the thick air between you. “You’re so full of yourself, Rafayel.” the words left your mouth like you were flicking a match, each syllable meant to cut.

He only hummed in response, low and lazy, and you hated how close the sound came—how it brushed over your ear like the faintest touch. The closet was warm, the air stale, and you could barely make out anything in the dark. But the sliver of light from the doorframe caught just enough of his face to make his expression clear—amused, entertained, like this was his own private game.

You scoffed again, softer this time, if only to keep from saying something that would sound too much like admitting defeat. He chuckled quietly, that smug undercurrent in every note, and then his arm brushed yours again. You stiffened, your jaw tightening on instinct, but he didn’t shift away. Instead, he leaned in just slightly, tilting his head toward you until you could feel the faint stir of his breath. One hand came up to brace himself on the wall behind you, close enough that you could feel the subtle press of his body against yours.

Your pulse ticked up despite yourself. This was absurd. Infuriating. And yet your chest felt tighter than it should.

“Stop touching me,” you hissed, shifting back as far as the wall would allow.

He gave a quiet laugh, as though you’d just said something endearing. “Where exactly do you want me to go, cutie?” he murmured, voice low enough that you almost missed it. “Closet’s only so big.”

The worst part was that he was right. There wasn’t an inch of space left between you. You rolled your eyes, even though you knew he could probably see the movement in the faint light. “Try harder.”

“Oh, I am,” he replied smoothly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a grin you could hear in his voice.

Seven minutes had never felt longer.

He smirked, leaning in just enough to test your patience, his voice dropping to that infuriatingly casual tone he always used when he knew he was getting under your skin.

“Kind of convenient, isn’t it?” he murmured, the words brushing against you like a challenge. “Whole party out there, and somehow you end up locked in here with me. Almost like you rigged it. Guess you really can’t stay away, cutie.” his next words ignited the fire in you even harder, “Especially since you can’t beat me when it actually counts.”

Your teeth clenched, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Before you could think better of it, your hand shot out, gripping the front of his shirt and tugging him just enough to close the already minuscule space between you.

“You’re delusional,” your voice was low and pointed, every word pressed like a blade. “Your ego must be eating what’s left of your brain, because you’re lying to yourself if you think I’d choose this. I’d rather be anywhere else.”

You held his gaze, and now you were close enough to make out the sharp line of his jaw, the faint curve of his mouth, and—annoyingly—just how clear his eyes looked in the thin strip of light. He stared back at you with the same infuriating calm, only a slow tug of a smirk breaking the stillness.

“Funny,” he whispered, leaning in just enough for his breath to mingle with yours. “You’re the one hanging on to my clothes like you’re about to tear them off.”

Your own smile curled, deceptively sweet. “I’d rather tear your head off.”

The space between you tightened, silent except for the shallow drag of your breaths. You hated that the air felt heavier now, that the warmth radiating from him made your skin hum in awareness. Neither of you moved back, both locked in the same unspoken dare you’d been passing between each other since the day you met.

He smirked, and you felt your jaw tighten in sync with the way your fingers curled, bunching the front of his shirt in a hard grip. He was too close, close enough that your breath caught against his, every inhale shared in the warm, cramped dark. Your pulse spiked, not that you’d admit it, not even to yourself.

You hated this. Absolutely hated him.

A sharp scoff escaped you before you planted a hand against his chest, shoving him back just enough to reclaim a sliver of space. But before you could take another step away, his arm moved and slid down from the wall behind you until his hand brushed against your waist, steadying himself.

The light contact made your pulse trip over itself. You grit your teeth, biting back the words that wanted to snarl at him to stop touching you—though you weren’t sure if you meant it entirely.

“You don’t seem in a rush for me to let go,” his voice was carrying that lazy taunt that made every nerve in you itch. His hand stayed exactly where it was, with more purpose now, his fingers settling with a certain confidence at your waist.

Your glare could have cut glass. “What kind of delusional state gives you the nerve to think you can touch me?”

You shoved at his chest again, harder this time, but his grip only tightened, pulling you forward with the movement so that your body collided with his. Your breath left you in a startled grunt, the solid heat of him impossible to ignore.

You looked up at him, startled and seething, yet heat coiled traitorously low in your stomach at the new position. Every sharp exchange, every smug remark he lobbed your way had wound itself into something you refused to name, and you’d sooner die than admit Rafayel could have that kind of effect on you.

His smirk curved lower, slower this time, his voice brushing over you like the edge of a dare. “I like it when you bite back,” he murmured, leaning just enough that the air between you thinned. “Makes me wonder what you’d do if I touched you… on purpose.”

His gaze flicked down briefly, then back to yours, full of quiet challenge. “My guess? Not much. You can’t really one-up me.”

The air felt heavy, your breaths matching his in a quick, uneven rhythm. Tension held you both still, tethered in the narrow space between his chest and yours.

“Cocky bastard,” you whispered, every word sharpened between clenched teeth. “You’ll get more than you bargained for.” you tilted your chin up, closing the space by a fraction, your lips nearly grazing his. “So either move your hand… or I’ll make you.”

His smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened infuriatingly slow, like he was savoring the moment.

“Yeah?” his voice dipped just enough to brush against something inside you. “And how exactly would you make me?”

His fingers tightened on your waist, not painfully, but with the kind of deliberate pressure that felt like he was testing how far he could push before you snapped. Heat surged under your skin, your muscles tensing as your breath came shallow, matching his.

You couldn’t even say who moved first—only that suddenly his mouth was on yours, hot and unyielding, all teeth and heat and reckless challenge. He kissed like he expected you to fight him, so you did, matching the push of his lips with your own bite until the taste of him left you dizzy.

Your whole body pressed into him, seeking leverage you didn’t want to admit you needed. His grip on your waist anchored you, pulling you closer until there was no space left to guard. Your teeth caught his lower lip, hard enough to pull a groan from his chest, low and rough.

The cramped heat of the closet wrapped around you both, the world reduced to the tangle of limbs and breath and the sharp scent of him. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging as his bent knee slid between yours, shifting your weight until your back met the wall again with a muted thud.

He didn’t stop. Your mouths were a frenzy—hot, rough, and desperate in a way neither of you would ever admit aloud. Your hands clutched at him, fisting the fabric of his shirt, not to pull him closer—though it felt that way—but to keep yourself from stumbling under the force of it all.

The taste of him lingered on your tongue, sharp and consuming, each kiss a challenge neither of you wanted to lose.

You bit at his lower lip, he returned the favor, and your tongues tangled in a battle for dominance that left both of you breathing ragged. Teeth grazed swollen lips and the sensitive skin just beneath, his mouth dragging down to your neck. His lips were warm, his breath hotter, and when he sucked a mark there, his smirk was felt more than seen.

“Someone’s enjoying themselves,” he rasped against your skin, his voice low enough to scrape over your nerves.

“Shut up,” you bit back, shoving at his shoulder, though your body betrayed you, arching into him when his hands—bolder now—slipped beneath the hem of your shirt.

Your mouth found his again, urgent and unrestrained, and you yanked hard on his hair, pulling a groan from deep in his chest. The sound vibrated against your lips, and heat pooled low in your stomach.

You were both panting now, breaths coming fast and shallow, and then you felt his bulge—hard against your hip, impossible to ignore. His thigh pressed between yours, and without thinking, you grinded down against it, the friction dizzying.

He groaned again, but this time it was laced with that infuriating amusement. “Cute,” he drawled, his tone deliberately light, even as his grip on you tightened. “Almost desperate. Must be all that pent-up frustration from wanting to fuck me this whole time.”

Your nails dragged slow beneath his shirt, scratching from his ribs down to his stomach before sliding back up again. The movement earned a low, unrestrained groan from him, his breath hitching just enough to make you smirk—though you didn’t get long to savor the victory.

His hands were already on you, firm and unapologetic as they cupped your ass, pulling you down against the solid line of his thigh. The friction sent a jolt through you both, making your bodies lurch together, grunts and gasps spilling into the heat between your mouths.

Even breathless, neither of you could resist the game.

“Feel that?” he smirked, the words curling against your ear in a delicious rasp as he shifted his leg just right, making you gasp. “You’re soaking through, cutie. Didn’t know you could get this wet just from grinding on me.”

You hissed through your teeth, catching his smirk in your peripheral, and refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter.

“Yeah? Then maybe you should be more worried about yourself,” you shot back, your voice low and edged with heat. Your fingers slipped lower, brushing the waistband of his jeans. “You’re so hard, Rafayel. I bet if I touched you just a little, you’d cum in seconds.”

His grip tightened at that, a subtle, wordless admission he wouldn’t dare voice.

What you don’t expect is his low, rough voice brushing against the shell of your ear like he knows exactly what it does to you.

“Go on,” he murmurs, the words warm and wicked, “be a good girl… touch me. We could help each other out.” The tease is casual, almost lazy, but the weight of it coils heat deep in your stomach.

Before you can throw a retort, his fingers are already at your waistband, dragging the zipper down in a slow, deliberate pull. Then his hand slips inside, the heat of his palm startling against your skin. His breath hitches in something like satisfaction, and a soft grunt escapes him, carrying both a praise and a taunt.

“Slippery already,” he drawls, his tone dipping just enough to make it sound like a secret. “Must’ve been desperate for me, huh? Can’t help yourself… even just being close to me gets you like this.”

You grit your teeth, trying to swallow the sound building in your throat, but it escapes anyway—a low, unsteady moan—as his fingers slide inside you. He doesn’t ease in; his pace starts steady, controlled, and just dizzying enough to steal your breath.

You’re too far gone to argue, too caught between his touch and the heat thrumming through you to remember whatever insult you’d been ready to throw. Instead, you crush your mouth to his, the kiss greedy and unrestrained, tasting of defiance. His fingers work inside you in a steady, deliberate rhythm, just enough to make your knees threaten to give.

You don’t let him have all the satisfaction. Your hand drifts lower, finding the hard outline pressing against his jeans, rubbing in the same measured pace he’s set for you. The sound he makes is low and rough, pulled from somewhere deep, and you drink it in like victory.

Your mouths stay locked, swallowing each other’s shallow pants and quiet moans, the kiss breaking only for sharp gasps before crashing together again. Teeth catch lips, fingers dig into clothes and skin, both of you pushing harder, faster—daring the other to give in first.

The tension snaps for you in a shiver, your body tightening around his fingers as heat floods through you. He swallows your moan like it’s his, kissing you harder, deeper, until you’re dizzy. A moment later, his hips jerk, a muted groan breaking against your mouth as he follows, the heat between you spilling over into something ragged and messy.

Still, neither of you pull away. You kiss until your lips are bruised, until breath comes in broken pulls, until it’s impossible to tell if you’re clinging from want or because neither of you can stand without the other holding you up.

“Pretty sure that was more than seven minutes,” he murmured against your neck, his tone dripping with satisfaction before his teeth sank into your skin in playful retaliation.

A sharp sound slipped from you—half moan, half hiss—your body still humming from the high, even as irritation flickered hot in your chest.

“Who knew all it would take was a couple of my fingers to strip some of that attitude away, cutie?” he added, the bait curling lazily from his lips like he already knew you’d take it.

Your response was wordless at first—a firm grip on the half-hard length straining against his jeans, followed by a hiss against his neck as your other hand tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him suck in a breath.

“How about,” your voice was low and edged with challenge, “you get me out of here and fuck me until it’s all gone, hm?”

His mouth crashed onto yours before you could blink, the kiss bruising and impatient. His hands gripped your ass and hips with a possessive force, pulling you flush against him as his smirk ghosted over your lips.

“Gladly,” he breathed, smug as ever.

“Bastard,” you muttered against his mouth, earning nothing more than a quiet laugh before he hauled you out of the cramped closet.

The hallway erupted in whistles and amused voices from classmates, but Rafayel didn’t so much as glance at them—his only focus fixed entirely, and unapologetically, on you.

 —

Your hands roamed over him in desperate, greedy paths, grabbing at whatever skin you could reach—his back, his shoulders, the flex of his arms—as he drove into you with slow, delicious thrusts that somehow felt both sweet and merciless. His body hovered above yours, holding you caged between his hips and the mattress, each movement pulling ragged moans from your throat.

The air between you was hot, tangled with the sound of panting breaths and the wet heat of messy, biting kisses that kept breaking and reforming like neither of you could stay away for long.

“I can bet,” he moaned between thrusts, his voice rough but edged with that familiar smirk, “you were this wet every time you argued back at me… isn’t that right?”

His flushed face hovered over yours, his gaze locked on you as his palm slid over your breast, kneading and teasing your nipple until it peaked under his touch.

You answered with a scoffing moan, biting back the urge to roll your eyes even as pleasure shot through you when he angled his hips just right, hitting deep enough to make your stomach clench. You lifted your hips to meet his thrusts, still unwilling to give him the full satisfaction of your surrender.

“Why don’t you quit being insufferable,” you grunted, your voice breaking when his teeth grazed your neck, “and fuck me properly instead?”

His fingers found your clit mid-sentence, circling in maddening, precise strokes that made your breath stutter. “Make me cum again, I’m close.”

“Who am I to refuse you, princess?” he mocked in a low, wicked whisper, his tone all heat and challenge.

Your back arched helplessly into him as release tore through you, your body tightening around his cock in pulsing waves. His hips jerked with the rhythm of your climax, your moans mixing with his as you dragged him into a heated kiss, swallowing each other’s sounds. His grip on your hip tightened hard enough to leave faint, perfect marks you’d find later, a wordless claim in the shape of his fingers.

Your palms pressed firmly to his chest, the heat of his skin slick under your fingers as your nails dug in for balance. You rode him in a steady, unrelenting rhythm, each movement pulling a groan from deep in his throat.

Your head tipped back, lips parted, the sound of your panting filling the room as your breasts bounced with every rise and fall. His mouth caught one nipple, sucking greedily before his teeth grazed the sensitive peak just enough to make your muscles tighten around him.

“This must be new to you, right?” he asked, though the lift of his brows and the smug curve of his mouth made it sound more like confirmation than curiosity. His tone was breathless, feigning innocence, which only made it worse.

Too lost in the way his cock filled you, you could only grunt between gasps, “What are you talking about?”

His hands tightened on your waist, guiding you down harder onto him. He murmured against your chest, his lips brushing your skin before closing around your nipple again, biting until a moan escaped you.

“Being on top,” he rasped with a smirk you could hear, his gaze flicking up to meet yours. “Considering you’re never above me in anything.”

The taunt was punctuated by a sharp thrust upward, his hips grinding into you as a low grunt rumbled from his chest. “How do you like it, princess?”

You bent forward, bracing a hand against his jaw, then sliding it to the back of his neck as his eyes locked on yours—amethyst and heat-drunk, his lips wet and kiss-bruised. Through a breathless moan, you rasped out your answer, your nails biting into his skin.

“Would like it better,” you panted, “if you didn’t run your mouth.”

He only smirked, that maddening curve of his lips catching the dim light before he ducked down to suck another mark into your neck—one of many already burning along your skin. His smugness was infuriating, but it was harder to focus on that when you felt him twitch inside you, his cock hitting deep enough to blur your vision.

“Oh, but you do like when I run my mouth, don’t ya?” his voice was low, curling with amusement before he caught your lips in a kiss that was all heat and teeth and unspent tension. You kept moving on him, chasing the high with relentless rhythm, your breath breaking against his. “Seemed to love it a few minutes ago,” he murmured between kisses, “when it was between your legs.”

A sharp moan tore from you when his thumb found your clit, already slick and swollen from the previous orgasm he pulled from you. The touch was almost too much, your body clenching around him in a shiver that drew a low, unrestrained groan from his chest. He chuckled against your skin, his fingers digging into the soft curve of your ass as if he meant to keep you exactly where you were.

“I even recall you moaning my name so nicely when you came around my tongue…” his voice rasped against your ear, warm enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Your head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut as you bounced harder, your mouth falling open on a broken gasp. You were so close you could taste it.

“Never heard my name sound that sweet from your mouth before,” he taunted, his words smug but tangled with his own uneven breaths, knowing it must turn you on.

The sound of his grunts matched the rhythm of your moans, your bodies locked in a pace that was more a challenge than surrender, both of you teetering at the edge.

You blocked out the smug noise spilling from his lips, focusing instead on keeping your rhythm steady despite the burn in your thighs. Your voice came out shaky but biting, laced with challenge. “You better not cum before I do, asshole.”

Your teeth sank into your lower lip hard enough to sting, and his answering thrust made your head tip back. He met your pace with deep, upward drives of his hips, each one threatening to push you over. His fingers dug into the flesh of your ass, guiding you, controlling the motion as if he owned the moment and you.

“Don’t worry that pretty head, cutie,” he chuckled between low, rough grunts, the sound vibrating against your chest when he leaned in. His eyes drank you in—your slack jaw, your unfocused gaze, the way pleasure had stolen the sharp edges of your expression. “I wouldn’t miss the chance to watch you cum around my cock… so freaking beautiful like this…”

His lips brushed your neck in a fleeting kiss just before your body seized around him. Heat and pleasure tore through you, your thighs trembling violently as you came with a broken, shaky moan. You felt the wet rush coat him, spill between you, soak into the sheets beneath.

His groan was deep and rough, the sound dragging low in his chest as his hips faltered. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was seconds away; you could feel it in the iron grip of his hands on your hips, in the heat radiating from his skin, in the breath he caught like he was holding back the inevitable.

Leaning down, you caught the warm line of his neck between your teeth, biting hard enough to draw another groan from him. Your lips found the sweet spot just beneath his ear, sucking until his muscles tensed under you.

That was all it took—he jerked inside you, twitching hard as heat spilled into you in thick, pulsing waves, coating your sensitive walls until you could feel it drip. His head tipped back, breath ragged, and you felt the faintest chuckle rumble in his chest, even through the haze of release.

“Can’t ever say you hate me now,” he rasped, his voice still rough with the edge of release, “not after letting me mark you like this, cutie.”

Before you could snap back, his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you down into a kiss that stole the rest of your breath. It was searing and messy, all heat and teeth, his lips moving against yours like he had no intention of letting you go any time soon. Your bodies were still pressed tight, the aftershocks thrumming between you, and every pull of his mouth tasted faintly of victory.

—

Rafayel wasn’t the type to cling to jealousy or waste energy on expectations he never asked for—but watching you slip back into that same dynamic, as if nothing had happened between you, lit something sharp and ugly under his skin. It was one thing to keep up the bickering, the constant push-and-pull you two seemed addicted to, but being so close to anyone else in this place? Laughing, leaning in, letting other people into your space the way you let him, even if just for one night? That ticked him off more than he wanted to admit.

He could lie to everyone else, but not to himself. He was jealous. Or at the very least, bothered—more than before, more than he had any right to be. Especially since you seemed intent on shoving it in his face, as though proving just how easily you could cozy up to other guys on campus might put him in his place.

Seeing you dance with that colleague tonight had made his jaw tighten, a scoff of disbelief escaping before he could bite it back. Because he knew better—he knew what you wanted. He’d felt it in every heated moment you’d given him, in the way your body melted under his hands, pliant no matter how sharp your words were.

You could pretend, you could deny—but he’d already dragged the truth out of you in the dark, in the messy rhythm of tangled sheets and bitten lips. And tonight, all he could think about was how you’d come undone for him, over and over again, chasing release like a spark to a fuse you couldn’t stop lighting—and now you were cozying up with another man.

The dynamic between you hadn’t shifted in the slightest—you still scoffed, still snapped at him, every exchange bristling with the same defiance he had come to expect. Normally, Rafayel thrived on it; it was what made this little game so addictive. But tonight, with the taste of you still burned into his memory, he had hoped for something different—some flicker of change, even if you refused to admit it.

He caught you alone near the drinks table, slipping into your space without hesitation, his shadow falling across you as you tipped the bottle. You turned your head sharply, eyes narrowing, your scoff cutting through the din of music and chatter. “What do you want now, Rafayel?”

The tone—biting, impatient—made his jaw twitch. Normally it thrilled him, but the sharp edge tonight dug deeper. Did you really despise his presence that much? Even now, after everything?

He leaned one elbow against the counter as though he had all the time in the world, his amethyst eyes catching the low light and glinting with that practiced, playful spark. He slipped the mask on as easily as a second skin, the one he always wore with you. “Back to making me work for your attention, I see.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the weight of his gaze as you poured yourself a shot. The liquid burned down your throat, leaving your lips wet when you licked the taste away. His eyes tracked the movement without restraint, though you didn’t seem to notice.

“Sometimes I seriously wonder if you don’t have better things to do than pester me all day,” you muttered, as though the idea of his presence alone grated on you.

He nearly laughed, the sound curling up the back of his throat, but the bitterness still lingered like ash. He could hide it well—he always did—but something in his chest coiled tighter, a heaviness he couldn’t smirk his way out of.

He poured himself a shot like it was second nature, tossing it back with the same careless ease he wore like armor. Then he leaned in, closing the space between you with an unbothered smirk tugging at his lips.

“Gonna pretend it never happened, is that it, princess?” his eyes found yours in the low light, sharp against sharp, daring you to flinch first.

You leaned in too, your voice dropping to a hiss that barely carried over the music. “Stop calling me that.”

His laugh was low, warm, almost affectionate in its own infuriating way. “Funny,” he murmured, tilting his glass aside. “Had you in my bed, moaning for me, and the first thing you pick up after is that attitude.”

Your glare could have cut straight through him. You scoffed, turning your head deliberately, your gaze sweeping the room—for him, it wasn’t hard to guess who you were looking for. The guy you’d been dancing with earlier. His jaw tightened before he could stop it, the weight of his stare narrowing back on you.

His voice came out rougher now, laced with the edge of something he usually hid behind a smirk. “So that’s what it is. Maybe I should fuck you slow next time. Sweet, steady—see if that’d finally get you to acknowledge it.” his head tilted slightly, the words a challenge, a taunt, but his eyes searched yours like he wanted the truth more than the fight.

You laughed, the sound sharp as glass. Through your teeth, bitter but smiling just enough to sting, you shot back, “There’s no next time. And I’d rather you dropped the cocky act.” your gaze flicked up, unwavering. “Not everyone wants to end up in your bed, Rafayel.”

The smirk didn’t falter on his lips, but the burn of your words sank under his skin all the same. Oh, how he loved your attitude. The sharpness in your voice, the fire in your glare—it always turned him on, but tonight it scraped against something else too. Annoyance. You dismissed him so easily, brushed everything off as if it hadn’t mattered, as if you’d rather erase it than admit it was real.

But he couldn’t forget. He didn’t want to forget the sound of your moans, the way your nails dug into his skin, the bite of your teeth against his shoulder, your mouth desperate and hot on his. Every mark you’d left on him still burned under his skin.

His smirk came quick, practiced, though his jaw ticked in irritation he couldn’t quite swallow down. “Well, you wanted it,” he drawled, voice low enough to coil between you, “and you seemed pretty determined to show me just how badly.”

The proof lingered—your mark, blooming faint but undeniable on the side of his neck. He saw the flicker in your expression when your eyes caught it, the twitch of your jaw before your glare sharpened even further.

You spit your words back at him, close enough now that he could smell you. Sweet perfume, deliberate and light, clinging to your skin like temptation. The thought of you applying it for someone else—for that guy you’d been pressed against earlier—made his stomach knot in a way he refused to admit. His smirk stayed fixed, masking the flare of heat in his chest, but it didn’t quiet the urge that nearly consumed him—to press his face into your neck, breathe you in, and let himself get drunk on you.

“Seriously, what’s your fucking problem?” you snapped, each word sharp enough to cut. “Yeah, we fucked. So what? You expect me to drop at your feet now and suck you off or something?”

Every syllable was a double-edged knife—turning him on even as it lit a flame of irritation low in his chest. Did you really think that’s what he wanted from you? While he’d never be opposed to the thought, that wasn’t it. Not even close. What he wanted was for you to stop pretending it meant nothing, to stop brushing it off like you hadn’t melted under him, clawed at him, begged for more until your voice broke.

His eyes lingered on yours, refusing to look away, holding the heat of your glare. You looked pissed, but he couldn’t tell if it was your usual game or if he’d really struck a nerve this time, dug under your skin deeper than you wanted him to.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to it,” he said smoothly, smirking like he hadn’t just swallowed down the words he really wanted to say—that you were driving him insane, that you’d taken root under his skin, that it wasn’t just your body he wanted. He tilted his head slightly, voice curling like smoke as he added, “Do you want me begging for it first?”

The faint shift in your expression—hesitation, surprise, something flickering behind your eyes—was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. You scoffed, your laugh short and bitter, already angling your body away like you’d had enough.

“I want you to leave me alone,” you shot back, each word bitten off like you meant to end it right there. Your smile was cutting, the kind meant to dismiss, to wound. “Enjoy the party, Rafayel.”

And before he could stop you, you turned toward the crowd—toward him, the other guy—and something inside him twisted sharp, the smirk still plastered on his face doing nothing to smother the frustration building in his chest.

Watching you dance, flirt, and laugh with that guy for hours ticked Rafayel off in ways he couldn’t keep buried—not with alcohol humming in his veins. His eyes followed the sway of your hips, the way sweat caught the low lights on your skin, turning you into something untouchable and magnetic. The guy had slipped away a few minutes ago, probably for another drink or a bathroom break—Rafayel couldn’t be bothered to care.

His focus was on you, only you. The words you’d thrown at him earlier replayed like a broken record in his mind, cutting sharper every time. He hadn’t expected you to cling to him, hadn’t even expected softness or anything close to it—but acting as if you hadn’t spent a night tangled together, bodies desperate, mouths bruised—it set something raw and restless burning in him.

He hated it. Hated how much it mattered. Hated the circumstances, hated that it made him feel like this—like he wanted to drag you away and make you admit every mark you left on his skin meant something more than just a mistake. And he knew it would probably end badly. But watching another man press into your space, lay hands on you—watching you let him, welcome him—it made his blood run hotter than the whiskey in his glass.

Rafayel wasn’t stupid enough to believe you were doing it on purpose just to rile him up. But still, the thought gnawed at him. The possibility that you knew exactly what effect you had on him—and chose to wield it—made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t laugh off anymore.

Your hips swayed slow and unbothered to the rhythm, a lazy, carefree roll that pulled him in before he could stop himself. You hadn’t even realized who pressed up behind you—he could see it in the way you welcomed the touch too easily, as if you thought it was that other guy. That thought alone made his jaw clench, the bitter edge of alcohol still coating his tongue.

His hands settled on your waist, fingers splaying possessively over the curve, and you arched in response without hesitation. That simple movement—that you’d done it for someone else—made frustration coil low and sharp in his chest. His grip tightened, pulling you flush as he dipped his face into the slope of your neck. The scent of your perfume laced with heat and sweat filled his head, dizzying, intoxicating, far too easy to get drunk on.

“You smell so good,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low enough to sink right into your bones.

You stiffened instantly, the realization snapping through you. It was him, not the guy you thought. Your body shifted as if to turn, to throw him a glare or maybe shove him away, but his arms circled tighter around your waist, holding you still, pressing you into the steady rise of his chest. His nose brushed just beneath your ear, his mouth dragging close enough that his words threaded warmth into your skin.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you asked, your voice pitched low, sharp but not steady—caught off guard, unsettled.

His lips ghosted another breath over your neck, dangerous and calm all at once, the lazy drawl of his voice cutting through the bass of the music. “Couldn’t keep watching that guy put his hands all over you.”

You scoffed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of stillness, your body swaying side to side with the beat as though he weren’t pressed so close. He took it for annoyance, maybe even defiance, and you threw your words like sparks over your shoulder. “Then don’t fucking look, Rafayel. It isn’t any of your business.”

His chest brushed against your back, solid and warm, crowding you until there was no space left to claim as your own. You rolled your hips again, half in spite, half because fighting him always ended like this—like gravity itself had shifted around him. His breath trembled against your neck, catching faintly on the perfume he couldn’t seem to stop drinking in.

“Are you drunk?” you muttered, sharp with irritation.

“No,” he rasped, voice rougher than usual, his hips sliding in sync with yours. The deliberate press made it impossible to ignore the unmistakable hardness straining against your ass. His fingers found your hips, not tentative but claiming, tightening when you didn’t shrug him off.

You scoffed under your breath, but your body betrayed you, still moving, still letting him. “Then why the hell are you all over me right now?”

He didn’t answer in words first. His lips ghosted along your neck, deliberate and lazy, before catching against your skin in a kiss that lingered too long to be innocent. He pulled your hips flush against his, making sure you felt exactly what you’d provoked, exactly how hard he was.

“It’s how it should be,” he murmured, his voice a low curl of smoke, the smirk etched against your skin as he leaned into your ear. “So do me a favor, cutie, and tell that guy to back off.”

Your laugh came sharp, edged with a bite. “I thought I told you to back off, Rafayel.” still, your hips betrayed the venom of your words, grinding against him like you couldn’t stop yourself. “I’m leaving home soon, anyway.”

That pushed him too far. His patience snapped into something darker, frustration coiled tight with want. His mouth brushed your ear, tone suddenly rougher, meaner, though still soaked in heat. “The next words out your mouth better not be that you’re leaving with him.”

His grip tightened at your waist, and the pressure sent a shiver down your spine no matter how hard you tried to fight it. You hated that your body still reacted, hated that even when you were frustrated—angry, even—it didn’t stop the rush of heat that pooled beneath your skin.

His breath brushed your ear as he leaned in, the low bass of the music vibrating through the floor and through your bones, but all you could hear was him. The two of you swayed together, not to the rhythm, but to something far more reckless.

“Get your act together, Rafayel.” your voice cut sharp, laced with sarcasm as you turned to face him. The flashing lights caught the tension in your jaw, as tight and unyielding as his own, and for a moment it felt like you weren’t dancing so much as locked in combat.

His lips curved—not into a smile, not really—but into that insufferable smirk he wore whenever he wanted to rile you. “Mm, harsh. Though, to be fair, I’m not the one grinding against strangers for an audience.” his words came low, casual, but there was a rawness underneath, the kind that betrayed too much.

Your eyes narrowed, voice dripping with annoyance. “You’re either drunk out of your mind, or you’re jealous. Whichever it is—you have no right to say that.”

His hold only tightened, and the jealousy he refused to name aloud lingered in every breath he refused to let you take alone. His jaw ticked, a scoff breaking past his lips. It was supposed to sound amused, the way it usually did when he was poking at you, but the laugh carried a sharpness he couldn’t quite disguise. Jealousy bled through no matter how smooth he tried to make it. His eyes locked on yours, unblinking, the crowd and the music dissolving into a blur behind you.

“Don’t go home with him.” the words came out low, bitten off, heavier than he intended.

You scoffed, the sound sharp enough to cut, pushing against his chest to put some space between you. He barely gave, his body rooted in place, but you turned anyway, your voice tossed over your shoulder, drowned by the bass but still slicing through him all the same. “Unbelievable.”

The sway of your hips as you walked away was infuriating, deliberate, as if you knew exactly what you were doing to him. His jaw clenched tighter, watching you head straight toward the direction that bastard had gone. Before the thought could even settle, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.

You barely had time to gasp before he was dragging you through the crush of bodies, threading you through the mess of perfume and sweat and music until the two of you spilled into a darker corner, half-hidden near the bathroom hallway.

“What the fu—” the curse was barely past your lips before his mouth was on you.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t measured. It was a smash of lips and teeth and bottled-up want that burned through every ounce of restraint he had left. He couldn’t hear another word of you telling him to back off, couldn’t stand the thought of you storming away toward anyone but him.

And to his reckless satisfaction, you didn’t shove him off. Not right away. Instead your lips parted, your tongue chasing his with a heat that shocked him as much as it thrilled him. The back of your shoulders hit the wall with a thud, and he pinned you there, his hand curling around your jaw like he needed to hold you still, like he couldn’t risk you slipping through his fingers again.

He broke just enough space to breathe, his forehead nearly pressed to yours, breath ragged against your lips. His voice was hoarse, raw in a way you’d never heard. “I’m jealous.”

The confession scraped out of him like it cost something, but his eyes didn’t waver. They bore into you, dark, heated, a storm of frustration and something softer underneath. His cheeks were warm, but his gaze was sharp, almost accusing.

“Didn’t think your little act of indifference would get to me, and it didn’t at first,” he said, his tone clipped, defensive, as if he needed to convince himself more than you. His fingers dug harder into your hips, holding you where you were, his frustration bleeding through every touch.

“Until I saw him all over you. And you—” his jaw tightened again, the words heavier, almost bitten through his teeth. “You couldn’t have welcomed him more sweetly.”

“Is that so?” you scoffed, though the sound came out thinner than you wanted, betraying the heat gathering in your chest. His eyes caught the flicker of yours dropping just once to his mouth before darting back up, a slip you couldn’t take back. You hated that he noticed, hated the way he thrived on it, as if your irritation was his favorite game.

“I don’t remember owing you anything, Rafayel,” you managed through a ragged breath, voice sharp but trembling at the edges.

His grip tightened at your waist, fingers digging into the fabric just enough to make you stumble the slightest step into him. The closeness burned. There were people all around you—laughing, drunk, tangled in the music—but the crowd blurred into nothing, leaving only the thrum of his pulse pressed against yours, the friction of your remarks colliding.

“It’s like you’re trying to piss me off on purpose,” he muttered, low and rough, the words curling warm against your ear before his mouth stole yours.

The kiss was hard, bruising—more a clash than a surrender—but your body betrayed you, answering with the same fever. Your fingers curled into the half-buttoned placket of his shirt, yanking him closer until the last breath of air between you vanished. He groaned against your lips, the sound half frustration, half need, his tongue meeting yours in a reckless tangle. The taste of him was dizzying—bitter with jealousy, sweet with desire—and it made your head spin worse than the alcohol.

When he tore back just enough to speak, his voice was ragged, every word bitten off as though it cost him something.

“I’m jealous and pissed, and so fucking turned on.” his teeth grazed your skin as he caught the line of your jaw, then your throat, nipping at the place where your pulse fluttered out of control.

His breath spilled hot over your perfume, a scent he knew wasn’t chosen for him—and that knowledge set his temper alight.

He inhaled against your neck, lips brushing dangerously close. “Tell me, cutie…” his tone dipped into mockery, sharp and soft all at once, “is that what you were aiming for?”

—

Shutting Rafayel up was easy enough if you played your cards right. And right now, with your thighs draped on each side of his head, his face buried between them, it was the most effective method you’d ever discovered.

He’d pulled you straight out of that party—cocky grin, sharp remarks, his hand at the small of your back like he had every right to lead you wherever he pleased—and somehow, the two of you ended up here again, tangled in the mess of his sheets, tearing at each other’s clothes like you were starving.

He hadn’t wasted a second once the door shut. The moment he shoved you back onto his bed, Rafayel dragged you over his mouth, pinning you there with a kind of desperate arrogance, tongue lapping at your folds like he had something to prove.

Your thighs trembled with every stroke of him, the slick sound of his mouth against you filling the room. He groaned into you, the vibration making you jolt, fingers tightening around the headboard as you rocked against him.

“Fuck—Rafayel,” you gasped, the words breaking into a moan as his hands urged you down harder, forcing you to grind over his mouth like he wanted you to drown him.

You couldn’t help laughing breathlessly, the edge of smugness curling your lips. “Didn’t know you liked shutting up this much,” you panted, voice cracking as he sucked hard on your clit, pulling another shaky cry from you.

He hummed against you in response, and the casual defiance in it made your chest tighten with something more dangerous than lust. Still, you couldn’t resist taunting him, voice pitched with a mix of moan and tease. “Do you wanna make me cum, Rafayel? Hm? So eager to please me for once?”

That had his fingers digging into your thighs, bruising and possessive. He pushed his tongue deeper, fucking you with it, and you cursed, head falling back, vision hazing. But you weren’t done. You leaned into the crueler edge of the game, your smirk curling even as your words hitched mid-breath.

“Maybe the other guy would’ve been just as eager… you know, the one who whispered all kind of things in my ear while grinding behind me—”

Your taunt cut off in a broken scream when he growled low into your pussy and sealed his mouth around your clit, sucking so hard your whole body jerked. The orgasm ripped through you with a violence that made your thighs quake against his grip, soaking his face as you cried out his name like you couldn’t hold it back. And the bastard didn’t even slow down.

“S-shit, ahh…” you gasped, the sound breaking out of you before you could bite it back. His mouth didn’t let up, not until you cried his name, your whole body trembling as your hips moved helplessly against his tongue, too sensitive to bear it yet too desperate to stop. A low growl rumbled in his throat at the sound of your curse, vibrating against you, and then suddenly—his grip clamped around your thighs, dragging a startled cry from your lips as he flipped you onto your back.

Before you could catch your breath, he was already over you, stealing your mouth in a kiss that left you dizzy, his hips grinding down into yours, the hard line of him pressing insistently through the fabric of his pants. His lips broke away only to trail down your throat, and then his teeth found you, sucking rough marks into your skin like he meant to brand you.

“You already got me so worked up…” his voice was rough, almost bitten out, “but then you go and say his name while I’m between your legs?” he sank his teeth lightly into your neck, the sting chased by the drag of his tongue.

Your protest melted into a groan as his fingers slid inside you, stretching you with merciless precision. He moaned low when your release slicked against his touch, making each movement faster, deeper, your body clenching around him in desperate pulses. His other hand spread over your ass, holding you open for him as his mouth closed around your breast, sucking hard, leaving your nipple aching under the wet heat of his tongue.

When his eyes lifted, messy hair falling into his flushed face, the burn in them was enough to make your stomach twist. Jealousy and hunger sharpened the edges of his gaze, the sound of his voice rough and almost mocking. “If you wanted it rough, cutie, you could’ve just asked. No need to piss me off, pulling shit like this on me.”

Your laugh came out broken, shaky, your voice trembling on each gasp. Still, you managed, “Where’s the fun in that?”

He kissed you then like he was trying to win something, all heat and defiance, his mouth clashing against yours in a mess of teeth and breath. You answered with equal force, your hands already curling tighter in his hair, dragging him closer until you broke the kiss just to flip him beneath you.

The motion was sharp, your thighs locking around his hips as you shoved him down onto the mattress, stealing a groan out of him that sounded far too satisfying.

“You’re so easy to trigger, aren’t you?” you taunted, breathless as you pressed your mouth to his throat, nipping at the skin until he tilted his head back with a curse. Your fingers fumbled at his belt, deliberately slow, grazing him in ways that made his jaw clench.

“Maybe it’s time someone puts you in your place. Because clearly…” you scoffed, dragging your nails lightly over his stomach as you marked his neck, “…you don’t know where you stand.”

His hips twitched under the drag of your palm, his breathing uneven now—finally losing that insufferable composure that always drove you mad. His pants and boxers were gone in what felt like seconds, and you perched just above him, teasing, stroking him in slow, deliberate movements that had his eyes darkening, his chest rising sharp with every breath.

When your mouth wrapped around him at last, he swore violently, a hand flying to your hair, gripping hard enough to make your scalp sting. The sound that tore out of him was raw, unguarded, his back arching off the sheets.

“S-shit, fuck…” he hissed, the word breaking, and you almost laughed around him, because the victory was already rushing through your veins, warm and heady. The Rafayel who always had a sharp retort, always stayed a step ahead, was now groaning under your mouth, bucking helplessly into you, fingers threaded tight in your hair as if he’d lose himself without the anchor.

He looked almost beautiful like this—breathless, undone, stripped of every cocky remark he usually wielded like a weapon. You could admit it now, he was dangerous when quiet, his charm sharper in the silence between gasps.

“Cutie shit—just like that,” his voice cracked, raw and heavy as his hand tightened in your hair. “I’m not gonna last.”

The ragged sound of his breathing filled the space, and just when you felt him twitch against your tongue, he pulled you away with a guttural growl. His mouth caught yours in a kiss that was messy, desperate, teeth clashing as if he couldn’t stand the distance for even a second longer.

“Not yet,” he rasped against your lips, his grip bruising your hips as he dragged you up into his lap. “Not until I fuck you so good you forget whatever guy you were entertaining earlier.”

You barely had time to roll your eyes before he flipped you over with startling ease, pressing you down and sliding into you in one rough, unrelenting thrust. The breath tore out of you in a broken moan, nails sinking into his shoulders as your body stretched around him.

“You’re tight, princess,” he groaned into your ear, hips snapping forward, the sound spilling out of him low and guttural. “Fuck, you take me just as good as last time.”

Whatever sharp retort you might’ve had died the moment he set a brutal rhythm, pounding into you with a pace that stole the ground from under your thoughts. Pleasure tore through you too fast, too much—until you were trembling around him, clenching hard as your release crashed over you.

“So sweet when you come for me,” he rasped, voice unraveling as your walls squeezed him tighter. “Squeezing me so goddamn t-tight…”

He pulled out only to drag you forward, manhandling you face-down, ass high, the mattress dipping under his weight as he shoved back inside without warning. The thrust punched a scream out of you, raw and unguarded, and he chuckled darkly at the sound, his fingers digging deep into your hips as if to brand you there.

“You wanted rough, didn’t you?” His tone was half-growl, half-smirk, sharp with the kind of heat that left no space to breathe. He snapped his hips hard against you, deeper, faster, each movement sharp enough to leave you reeling. “Wanted to make me jealous, huh? Then take it.”

Your mouth hung open, words failing as he pushed you past every edge, the drag of his jealousy turning him feral, reckless—eager to ruin you until there was nothing left in your head but him. And in truth, you loved every second of it. Because this version of Rafayel—the one who burned with want, who touched like he was starving, who let his jealousy unravel into raw need—was utterly, devastatingly irresistible.

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You do not turn at the voice. Eleanora drifts into the edge of the window’s reflection, every curl in place, every line of her pale rose gown already settled and smoothed days ago. Her confidence has never been the loud kind. It is something inherited, worn the way other women wear a coat in cold weather: simply, and without thought.

“I am excited.” Your chin stays in your palm; you do not turn from the window. “I am vibrating with anticipation, in fact. Can’t you tell?”

Her laugh is soft and quick, and the cushion sinks gently as she lowers herself beside you. “Mother is convinced I shall have a proper proposal by the second ball.”

“That is rather optimistic of her.” You hadn’t meant to say it quite so flatly, but the words leave you that way all the same.

“She is not wrong.” Eleanora’s fingers tug at a thread on her sleeve, more for something to do than because the thread is loose. “There is already talk of it. Lady Whitcombe swears the Duke of Ravencourt will be at the Astor Ball, and he, well...” She give you a sidelong glance, a small tilt of her brow. “You know how long the arrangement has been in place.”

Ah, him.

The name goes through you like a draft from a door you hadn’t realized was open. Rafayel Vale, the future Duke of Ravencourt, promised to your sister since the two of them were small enough to need help into their chairs at the dinner table, in one of those quiet family agreements made over wine glasses and sealed with handshakes and signatures and fortunes you have never been shown. You have never met him. You have never even seen him. You have only ever heard of him, year after year, the way one hears of distant places one will likely never visit.

He rarely comes to town, they say. He has been abroad for years. He is peculiar, brilliant but peculiar, and collects old paintings and refuses invitations and has shown no interest in courtship at all, except for the one chosen for him before he was old enough to object: your sister’s.

The thought slips out of you before you can soften it. “I wonder if he is dreadfully boring.”

Eleanora’s laugh is half a snort, half a sigh, and her shoulders give a small, amused shake. “He is a Duke, darling. I am hardly expected to love him. Only to keep myself from embarrassment over the soup.”

You turn toward her then, resting the side of your face against the window frame, and look at her the way you sometimes do when you forget to arrange your own expression.

“Do you mind it?” You hear how soft your voice has gone, and you do not try to correct it. “That you have never met him. That it has all been arranged.”

For a moment her composure holds. Then it slips, very quietly, only at the corners of her mouth and the edges of her eyes.

“I mind being married off like a trinket.” Her gaze drifts down to the gloves still folded in her lap. “And I mind not having a choice. But choices, these days, are only afforded to girls who marry well.”

After a delicate pause she straightens in her seat, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, the smile she finds for you almost bright, and reserved only for you. “You shall have more freedom, you know. You are not promised to anyone.”

No, you are not. Not the eldest and not the heir-maker, only the afterthought in pearls. And yet freedom feels a fragile thing inside this house, wrapped as it is in expectation and powdered into rouge and fastened at the back by hands that are not your own.

A knock at the door interrupts the quiet between you, and the door creaks open on a maid mid-curtsy.

“The carriage is ready, Misses. Madam says the ball waits for no Lady.”

Eleanora rises in one practiced sweep, all silk and perfect posture. You follow more slowly, smoothing your skirt against your palms because your palms need something to do. In the mirror by the door, your rouge sits too pink against your cheeks, and the smile you offer the girl in the glass arrives a half-beat late, as though she had to be reminded of it.

Somewhere in the city, a man you have never met is also dressing for the evening. You step out into the corridor, and the carriage is waiting in the drive, and your gloves are too tight at the wrists.

And with that, the Season has begun.

—

The ballroom glitters like a dream dipped in gold. Chandeliers bloom overhead, throwing crystals of light across silk gowns and polished floors; laughter curls around the violins, and perfumed fans flutter like butterfly wings in time with the slow rise of the orchestra. It is the first ball of the Season, and every eligible family in London has come to play its part.

Your mother insisted on white for your debut: soft chiffon, pearl beading at the waist, sleeves cut just off the shoulder. You feel like a porcelain doll being moved across a chessboard, and you keep your shoulders very still so the feeling does not show on your face.

Eleanora is art. One glance at her, and the suitors flock like moths to a flame; her rose-colored gown shimmers with every turn she takes, her laughter falls into all the right places, and she dances as though she had been born to do it, which she likely was. You do not particularly mind. You sip your champagne near the edge of the floor, offering a polite nod to a young gentleman who has only just tripped over his own shoes trying to reach her before the next waltz.

“She is rather enchanting, your sister.”

You turn. A tall, freckled young man stands beside you, his cheeks faintly flushed with wine, his smile a little crooked at the corners. “Though I confess I find myself rather more curious about the other debutante at her side.”

Your brows lift. “Curious, My Lord? Or drunk?”

His laugh comes easy, with no offence taken at all. “Both, perhaps. May I have the next dance?”

You hesitate only a moment before placing your hand in his. The music rises, and so do you. You dance twice, once with the freckled gentleman (Lord Daniel something, you think), and again with a kind-eyed Viscount who fumbles through his small talk but smiles handsomely when you turn one of his fumbles into wit. You laugh. You curtsy. You do everything you are meant to do.

It is impossible, however, to ignore how the room revolves around your sister. She has not left the floor since the first chord struck. A new partner with every song, an admiring audience wherever she pauses. You catch glimpses of her between the turns of your own, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks faintly flushed, her posture as perfect now as it was on the carriage cushion hours ago.

And then, somewhere just behind your shoulder, an intrigued whisper.

“Did you see? The Duke of Ravencourt is here.”

The name slips between fans like a small kept secret.

“I thought he would not attend.”

“He never does. But this Season, well, everyone knows why.”

“He is to marry the Everleigh girl, isn’t he?”

“The older one, yes. They say it was arranged when they were five.”

“And is it true he…”

You turn too quickly, a little louder in your own bones than you would like, looking for the voice and the source of it. But all you find are swirling gowns and smiling mouths and the soft, indifferent glitter of the chandeliers. No sign of him. Your heart gives an unexpected flutter beneath the silk of your bodice, a small, uneven kick you cannot quite explain to yourself. You have heard the name all your life, and yet he is here, somewhere, breathing the same air as you, and somehow that is a stranger thought than you would have guessed.

Eleanora laughs again, that musical sound carrying across the dance floor as she turns in the arms of a dark-haired gentleman you do not recognise. Perhaps it is him. Perhaps not. You watch, you listen, but Rafayel Vale, the Duke of Ravencourt, remains as elusive as his reputation, still nothing more than a name and a whisper.

Another glass of champagne is pressed gently into your hand, your third of the evening, perhaps your fourth. The effervescence prickles pleasantly against your lips, the sweetness fresh but not quite cool enough to settle the flush that has climbed into your cheeks after so many turns about the floor. You have danced with no fewer than six gentlemen by now, each perfectly polite, each thoroughly forgettable.

“You dance with such elegance, Miss Everleigh.”

“Your sister is fortunate to have you at her side.”

“Might I call on you this upcoming week?”

You smile. You curtsy. You return civility for civility. But your mind has long since drifted elsewhere, pulled by curiosity, by the soft, persistent weight of a name that keeps brushing past your ear like a breeze you cannot quite catch. Rafayel Vale. The Duke of Ravencourt. And still, no one points him out. No introductions, no dramatic arrival, no parting of the crowd. You are beginning to suspect he has not come at all, despite the whispers, despite the excitement that had rippled through the room earlier like a pebble dropped into still water.

You are about to take your leave from the floor when you catch the flicker of it. A subtle change in the air. The orchestra has not stopped, nor have the conversations, and yet for a single breath the room itself seems to hush, the way a forest goes still when a hawk passes overhead. You turn, and there, just beyond the far end of the ballroom, near the top of the grand marble stairs, stands a man dressed in midnight black.

No one announces him. He does not need announcement. He stands with one hand loosely gloved, the other resting against the gold edge of the balustrade, and surveys the ballroom below with an expression that does not demand attention so much as quietly require it. He is beautiful in the way storms are beautiful: elegant, distant. Dangerous. His hair is of a beautiful, striking purple and long enough that the soft waves brush the collar of his coat. And his eyes, even from across the distance, are sharp and watchful, mesmerizing as two pools of blue and pink, his jaw cutting cleanly beneath the candlelight.

You do not need to ask who he is. You already know, deep below your ribs, where things that you just know settle.

Just behind your shoulder, someone leans toward someone else. “Ah, there he is. The Duke.” Only confirming what your pulse has already done.

He descends the stairs unhurriedly, greeting no one, walking with the easy disinterest of a man who is not in the habit of trying to impress, and yet every head in the room turns toward him as he moves. Even Eleanora’s. You watch her gaze snap upward, watch the moment his eyes find hers, only for a breath, only long enough to acknowledge what is already understood between two families. Then, with an unflinching grace, he crosses the ballroom and offers your sister a bow.

“Miss Everleigh.” His voice is low and refined and controlled, like water flowing over stones.

Your sister curtsies, perfect as ever. “Your Grace.”

And for the first time in your life, you are standing only a few feet away from the man who has, without ever having known your face, been promised to your family since before you could spell his name. So that is him, at last. The man whose name has been stitched into the fabric of your family's future like gold thread, the Duke your mother speaks of in hushed and reverent tones, the one your sister was destined for before she had even learned how to flirt or curtsy properly.

You do not linger on the sight of them. You watch only long enough to see Eleanora extend her hand, and to watch him take it with a bow that is too shallow to be entirely respectful, and yet too quietly attentive to be entirely proper, which is interesting, you think, but it is not your concern. You turn away.

“Miss Everleigh.”

You face the gentleman waiting beside you with a smile sharpened just enough to cut through the soft fog of champagne. “Lord Renswick.” A small dip into a curtsy. “Have you finally decided to brave the dance floor?”

His grin is sheepish at the corners. “It is hardly bravery, when the reward is a turn with the loveliest debutante of the evening.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Flattery, My Lord? We have not even danced yet.”

“I am hoping to improve your opinion of me before I embarrass myself entirely.” He offers his arm, his brow lifting in hopeful invitation. “Shall we?”

You allow him to lead you into the next waltz, your slippers barely whispering against the marble. You dance, and you laugh, and when he stumbles, you tease him gently for it. Another gentleman approaches you before the music fades, and then another, and the evening passes in a soft haze of pleasantries and compliments, of silk gloves and careful steps and smiles that never quite reach your eyes.

You are being seen, properly seen, not merely as Eleanora’s sister but as yourself. And yet somewhere beneath the swirl of figures and the murmured invitations, you keep catching the soft, persistent sound of his name.

“The Duke has not danced with anyone else as much as he did with her.”

“He spent nearly the entire evening in conversation with Miss Everleigh.”

“They are to be married before summer, I hear.”

You do not seek him out, not deliberately. But you notice all the same, how he does not hover near the punch and does not court attention, how he simply exists, like a line drawn in darker ink than the rest of the room. Eleanora has his company almost exclusively; they speak often, their heads bent slightly toward one another, and she laughs in that polished way she perfected during her finishing school years. You catch him smile only once, perhaps twice, or perhaps you imagine it. He offers his hand to two other ladies for a dance, both times out of a clear and impersonal courtsy, and both ladies look slightly dazed when he returns them to their chaperones.

By the time the final waltz begins, you have found your way back near the windows again. A gentle breeze drifts through the open panes; the sky outside is deep and velvet blue, dotted with the soft promise of rain. You press your fingertips to the glass for the cool of it, and behind you the ballroom glitters on. Your sister is still dancing with him.

So that is the man who will be her husband, you think again, and you do not envy her, not truly. He is distant, unreadable, a mystery, but not a mystery that is yours to solve. You are only a little curious, after so many years of hearing his name in whispers, and curiosity is a small enough thing that you can put it down again whenever you like.

The ride home is quiet at first. Outside the carriage window, London twinkles beneath the night sky, the gas lamps glowing like stars caught in glass, and the wheels clatter softly over the cobblestones in the rhythmic lull that always comes after a long evening of dancing. Inside, you sit across from your sister, your gloves resting delicately in your lap, your fan still tucked in your hand more from habit than from any continuing need of it.

Your mother sighs for the fifth time in as many minutes, fanning herself furiously though the carriage is hardly warm.

“Well, I should say that was a most successful beginning to the Season.” Her voice carries all the breathless theatre it always does after an evening she considers a triumph. “Eleanora, darling, you were radiant. Simply radiant. And you, dearest,” her gaze moves to you, soft with the kind of approval she reserves for unexpected moments, “you were charming. I heard Lord Pelham himself compliment your wit, you know. Wit, my love. Not merely your appearance. A rare thing, that.”

You offer a faint smile. “How generous of him.”

Eleanora’s quiet chuckle is half-lit by the carriage lantern, and there is a strange softness in her expression, a contentment you do not often see outside the privacy of moments like these.

Your mother lifts her fan again. “Six dances. Four requests for calling hours. And, oh, did you see Lady Renswick watching your every move?”

“I did.” Eleanora’s voice is low and amused. “She nearly dropped her fan when the Duke took my hand.”

Your mother’s fan stops mid-wave, her expression shifting into something very nearly reverent. “The Duke. Good heavens. I still cannot quite believe he came. I had truly thought we should have to drag him out of some crumbling estate by force.”

“He was…” Eleanora pauses, her gaze drifting briefly to the window, the lamplight catching faintly in her eyes. “Unexpected. Not at all what I had imagined.”

You look at her then, with quiet intrigue. “What did you imagine?”

She tilts her head, the consideration moving slowly across her face. “Someone older, perhaps. Someone colder. Less sharp than he is. He does not speak much, but when he does, it is never empty.”

You hum. “And?”

Her smile is small and knowing. “He pays attention to everything around him.”

You raise a brow. “Even you?”

A shrug, the smallest lift of her shoulder beneath the silk. “Especially me.”

Your mother gives a delicate gasp of delight and resumes her fanning with renewed vigour. “Well, then it is settled. We shall expect him to call within the next two days. Perhaps even sooner, given how much time he spent at your side this evening.”

“I do not think he is the sort of man to follow expected schedules.” Eleanora’s gaze does not leave the window.

You do not say it aloud, but you find yourself agreeing with her. You lean your head against the inside of the carriage wall, watching the lantern light flicker softly over your gloves.

The Season has begun. Your sister’s future, the one stitched in gold and promise, is unfolding in front of all of you. And somewhere in the shadows of it, a man made of whispers has finally stepped into the light.

—

The garden smells of lilacs and early rain. Sunlight spills over the hedgerows in gold-tipped strokes, catching on the rim of your teacup as you sit beneath the shade of the wide ivory parasol. Bees hum lazily between the roses. A soft breeze stirs the hem of your skirt and carries with it the faintest, fading echo of music from last night’s ball, as though the violins have not quite let you go.

You swirl honey into your tea absently, listening to the soft murmur of your sister and your mother seated nearby. They are reading from The Society Pages, their lips twitching with every name mentioned.

“Lord Eastmere danced four times with Lady Henrietta. That will certainly be remarked upon." Your mother’s nose lifts in delicate disapproval.

“And here, oh, listen. ‘Miss Eleanora Everleigh glowed in rose silk and grace, receiving the attention of none other than the elusive Duke of Ravencourt.’”

“They flatter.” Eleanora’s eyes gleam over the rim of her teacup, despite the lightness in her voice.

You do not comment. You let the sound of the page turning fade into birdsong and breeze.

The first caller arrives before noon. The butler appears at the edge of the garden with the perfect composure his post demands. “Miss Everleigh. Lord Renswick requests a moment of your time.”

You rise, smoothing the folds of your skirt, and offer a pleasant smile as the young Lord is shown through the open doors and into the dappled green of the garden.

He bows. “Miss Everleigh. Might I say, the morning pales in comparison to your presence.”

You do not roll your eyes, though it is a near thing. “Good morning, My Lord. How kind of you to visit.”

He speaks of the ball, of your dancing, of how he had hoped to see you again. You answer with grace, with interest even, but something inside you stays carefully unmoved. He is not unpleasant. None of them are. They simply lack a thing you cannot quite name and have not yet decided whether to name at all.

A second gentleman comes not long after. A third arrives in the late afternoon with a bouquet of spring blooms and an awkward compliment about your voice. Each caller is welcomed; each is given your attention, your politeness, your laughter in the right places. And yet, with every charming smile and gloved hand pressed briefly to yours, you find your thoughts drifting elsewhere, slipping out of your own garden and toward a pair of eyes that have not yet sought you out, and that you have not quite admitted to yourself you are waiting for.

By the time the sun begins to lower, streaking the garden in amber, the butler reappears once more at the edge of the lawn. You glance up, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. “Yes?”

He clears his throat gently and bows. “No further callers for the day, Miss.”

You nod, not disappointed, not expectant, only thoughtful. “Thank you.”

You return to your tea, now gone cool. Across from you, Eleanora has set aside her book and is absently turning the stem of a rose between her fingers, slow as a clock that has forgotten the hour.

“He has not called.” Her voice is soft and unbitter.

You look up. “The Duke?”

A small nod. “Not that I expected him to arrive the next morning with a bouquet and a poem. But he did say he would be in town this week.”

You sip your tea. “He does not seem the type to rush.”

“No. He is not.” Her tone holds no bitterness, only plain observation. Eleanora has never been a girl who chased affection. She has always expected it to arrive on its own terms, in its own time, and she has rarely been wrong.

You glance toward the garden gate. The warm breeze rustles the hedges, but no footsteps come. Still, it is early. Much too early to assume anything.

By evening the callers are gone, your mother is content, and your sister is thoughtful in that quiet way of hers. You are content to watch and to listen and to wait for the Season to unfold as it always does, slowly, elegantly, and with its own peculiar sense of order. If the Duke is to be part of your sister’s story, he will arrive in time. And if he does not, well, that, too, would be telling.

—

The gown is periwinkle this time, threaded with pale silver and pinned at the shoulders with clusters of tiny sapphires. You say nothing as your maid fastens it, only watching your reflection in the mirror with a mild detachment while she smooths the folds. Eleanora has gone through three dresses before settling on one.

“Do you think he will be there tonight?” Eleanora’s voice is carefully even, her gaze fixed on the curls your mother is arranging at the crown of her head.

You know who she means. “I imagine so. It is Lady Warwick’s ball.”

It is the third time she has asked this week. He has not called once. Not even a letter. After all the glances and the evening spent in her company, the conversations near the card tables, the dance the rest of the room could not stop noticing, there has been nothing. Even the Ton has begun to murmur about it. The papers have commented, their tone careful but curious.

Your mother is trying to stay composed, and almost succeeding. “He is a Duke, darling. He is dreadfully busy, I am sure of it. Arrangements, estates, affairs of business. Men like him do not spend their days penning sonnets and waiting in parlours.”

But it is not poetry Eleanora wants. It is certainty. And he, with all his poise and polish, has offered her none.

Lady Warwick’s ballroom is suffused with gold light and the scent of blooming orange blossoms. The crowd is lively, the musicians sharp and practised, and by the time you arrive, the dancing has already begun.

You make your greetings, you smile when expected, you allow a young baron to compliment your hair. You even laugh once, genuinely this time. Eleanora remains composed beside you, her gown elegant, her posture perfect. But you know her well enough to read the small flicker of restlessness in her eyes. Where is he?

You see him the moment he steps into the room. He is dressed in dark navy and silver this evening, a sapphire brooch pinned at his collar. He does not linger at the entrance and does not pause for greetings. He moves straight through the ballroom, parting the crowd with nothing more than presence, and then there he is, standing in front of your sister.

“Miss Everleigh.” His bow goes deeper than the one he offered last time. “I owe you an apology.”

Your sister blinks once, the surprise quickly tucked away. “Your Grace.”

He reaches into his coat. From his gloved hand, he draws a small, velvet-wrapped box and places it delicately in her palm.

“For my absence.” His voice is quiet and measured. “I assure you, it was not meant as discourtesy.”

You do not look away from them, but you do not move, either. A quiet statue at your sister’s side. Eleanora opens the box slowly. Inside is a brooch, silver filigree shaped like a crescent moon, a pale gemstone set in its centre. It is not extravagant, nor loud. It is tasteful, and rare, and very beautiful.

“You needn’t have.” Her voice has gone softer.

“I did.” A small, deliberate pause. “May I claim a dance, if you have not promised it to another?”

She hesitates only a moment. “Of course, Your Grace.”

You step back as he offers his arm. She takes it. They move to the floor once more, the crowd subtly turning to watch, and you remain at the edge of the dance floor, untouched by the small drama of it, your fingers gently clasped in front of you, your thoughts still clear.

You do not watch them dance. Not because it hurts, because it does not. Not because you are jealous, because you are not. But because watching feels unnecessary. It is predictable. Rafayel Vale has returned, and he has returned to your sister’s side as he was meant to, as he has been for years, in name if not yet in affection. So you turn away, and you smile when another gentleman bows before you.

“My Lady.” His voice is smooth and warm, like polished amber. “You have been standing far too long without a partner. Might I correct such a tragedy?”

You lift your eyes to the gentleman before you. He is striking, but not in the brooding, storm-swept way the Duke is. No, this man wears charm like a perfectly tailored coat: light brown hair elegantly curled, a golden signet ring on his right hand, a smile that curls ever so slightly at the edge as though he knows something you do not. And his title?

“Lord Wessex.” His bow is elegant. “Second son of the Marquess of Clarendon. Though I am told I am the more tolerable of the two.”

Your brows lift, amused. “You have quite the opinion of yourself, My Lord.”

His grin is unrepentant. “Only when it is justified. May I?”

You place your gloved hand in his.

Lord Wessex is a skilled dancer. Not just in form but in conversation. Where the others have asked the same tired questions (what are your hobbies, do you enjoy embroidery), he asks instead about the books you read, the places you wish to see, the way your eyes light up when speaking of the sea, despite the fact that you have never once seen it in person.

He keeps you laughing, and thinking, and on your toes. And when he leads you to the refreshments table, he does not hover or smother. He offers you a glass, nods warmly at your appreciation, and keeps the conversation moving like a current pulling you along beside him.

“They speak of your sister and His Grace as though the match is already sealed.” His gaze drifts toward the couple in question, his smile still in place but quieter now.

“It was arranged.” You keep your voice light. “A long time ago.”

“Arranged." He turns the word in his mouth like a pebble, considering. “Such a word leaves so little room for choice, doesn’t it?”

You glance at him. “Do you not believe in arrangements, My Lord?”

“I believe in lightning strikes.” His eyes find yours. “Not family bargains.”

You tilt your head, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Then I suppose the Ton must frustrate you endlessly.”

His laugh is warm and unforced. “You have no idea, Miss Everleigh.”

By the end of the evening you have danced with him twice more, once by his request and once by your own quiet invitation, and both times have left your cheeks flushed and your thoughts pleasantly tangled. And while your sister ends the night with the Duke at her side, the talk of the room once more, it is not his presence that lingers on your skin as you step into the carriage. It is Lord Wessex’s voice still echoing in your ear, unhurried and certain.

Lightning strikes when you least expect it, Miss Everleigh. I do hope I am standing close when it happens.

—

The sun has barely settled above the rooftops when the butler appears in the parlour, his expression neutral, his voice carrying just enough weight to make the room pause.

“Lord Wessex and the Duke of Ravencourt have both requested to call this morning.”

Your mother nearly drops her embroidery. Your sister freezes with her teacup held in midair.

You simply blink. “Both?”

The butler inclines his head. “They await in the front drawing room, Miss.”

For a moment, no one moves. Then your mother claps her hands together as though summoned by divine will.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Eleanora, you look lovely, that gown is ideal. And you, dear, yes, you will stay. It would be rude not to.”

You almost laugh. Rude, of course.

The drawing room has been polished to near-blinding shine. There are fresh flowers in the vases, just slightly overdone. The maids have barely finished arranging the tea service before the two men are escorted in.

The Duke enters with the same quiet command he carried at the ball, dressed in a dark coat with silver cufflinks, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. His bow is effortless, and his gaze settles on Eleanora with a soft nod.

“Miss Everleigh.” His voice is low and even. “Thank you for allowing me the visit.”

Eleanora curtsies, serene as ever. “You are most welcome, Your Grace.”

And beside him, light where Rafayel is shadow, stands Lord Wessex, smiling, charming, all pale waistcoat and sunlit presence. His gaze finds you almost immediately.

“Miss Everleigh.” His warmth is unmissable. “I confess I feared you might have forgotten me since last night.”

You raise a brow. “That would have been quite the feat, My Lord, considering how many times you stepped on my slipper.”

His grin only widens. “A bold accusation. Perhaps I should call more often, in defence of my honour.”

Tea is served. The Duke sits beside Eleanora; their conversation is soft and low and careful, words about estates, about travel, about the architecture of Bath. You and Lord Wessex, on the other hand, drown in laughter and playful remarks: a small joke about your mother’s over-watered lilies, a question about your favourite poet that, unlike the others, he actually listens to the answer of. He watches you speak with a kind of gentle interest that is easy to receive, and easy to enjoy. The Duke, for his part, never once looks your way.

The next party is held on the sprawling estate of Lord and Lady Pembroke, beneath cream-coloured canopies and strings of flowers that flutter like silk ribbons in the breeze. There are games set up on the lawn, and plates of sugared strawberries, and lemon water and delicate ices passed on silver trays. You walk beside Eleanora, both of you fresh-faced in pastels: a lilac gown for her, a pale blue for you. And they are there, of course, as they always seem to be now.

The Duke stands tall and composed in a dark grey coat, close beside your sister beneath the shade of an old ash tree, listening as she speaks, offering a quiet smile when she makes some soft remark. And across the lawn stands your suitor, Lord Wessex, lounging like he belongs in every summer painting ever made. When he catches sight of you, his expression lights up at once.

“Miss Everleigh.” He rises with one graceful movement, his voice warm and unfeigned. “You have saved me from the tortures of idle company. Walk with me?”

You glance at your sister. She gives you the faintest nod. And so you do. You walk the gardens with him, speaking of travel and philosophy and music you are not strictly supposed to enjoy. He plucks a wildflower from the hedgerow and offers it to you. You laugh and tell him it clashes terribly with your gloves.

And when you pause to rest beneath the roses, you find yourself glancing across the lawn. The Duke is still there, though he has shifted, standing now a few steps behind your sister as she speaks to another couple, and his posture is not what it was. His gaze is no longer on Eleanora. It is on you. Not direct, not rude, but unmistakable in its direction. A flicker of awareness. A moment caught like a breath held between pages of a book. And then, as though realising it himself, he looks away, just as Lord Wessex turns to say something clever that pulls another laugh out of you.

The grand hall is glowing. Every window has been draped in silk, every chandelier lit to bursting. The air shimmers with perfume and warm anticipation, and music pours from the raised platform where a quartet plays its first waltz of the evening.

You have barely stepped two feet beyond the threshold when he appears.

“Miss Everleigh.” Lord Wessex stands handsomely turned out in dark green, his cravat pinned with a gold brooch shaped like a fox, his smile brighter than the chandeliers themselves. “I was hoping to steal your hand before some other poor soul got the chance.”

You lift your chin. “You assume I would say yes, My Lord.”

His bow goes low and theatrical. “I rely entirely on hope and your mercy.”

You let out a soft laugh and extend your gloved hand. “Very well, Lord Wessex. Just this once.”

His expression turns triumphant. The dance is effortless. You move together as though you have done it a hundred times before; you know he will make a joke right before the turn, and that he will lean in slightly before the dip, just close enough to make your skin warm but never improper, never forward. He is a gentleman with a wild spark.

Afterward, he offers his arm and guides you to the refreshment table, refusing to let a single foppish lordling cut in. You spend the next hour beside him, talking and sipping chilled wine and laughing once so hard that you have to hide your face behind your fan. He makes it easy. He makes you feel seen.

Across the ballroom, the Duke is at your sister's side once more. They speak in quiet tones. He escorts her to a dance, then to another, though that one is not hers but another lady's, partnered with him out of expected courtesy. His face remains unreadable, his words careful. But every time your laughter rings out, or your gown brushes past the edge of the room, his eyes find your silhouette, just for a second.

Lord Wessex offers you another dance before the night ends, and you accept without hesitation. The Duke, for his part, asks for none of you. But he does watch, just once more, as you dance away with another man, your laughter drifting like perfume behind you.

—

The bell above the door gives a soft chime as you step inside. It is cooler here, and dimmer, the thick scent of paper and aged wood pressing gently around you like a familiar shawl. Shelves tower around you, heavy with worn spines and leather bindings, a world apart from ballrooms and fans and powdered smiles.

You pull off one glove and tuck it beneath your arm as you wander. Most ladies prefer the modiste, the milliner, the tea room on Hanover Street where the windows let in perfect sunlight. But here, in the dust-warm hush of a bookshop, you can breathe.

You find yourself in the poetry section, of course, your bare fingertips brushing the titles, your brow slightly furrowed as you search for something half-remembered, alone with your own thoughts.

Until a soft shift of leather soles catches your ear. You turn, expecting a clerk, and freeze.

He stands not three paces from you, dressed in deep blue, no cravat, no gloves, simpler than you have ever seen him and no less composed for it. The Duke of Ravencourt. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The absurdity of it makes your lips twitch faintly, of all the places, of all the afternoons. He regards you with that same unreadable expression of his, as though he were trying to make sense of something.

“Miss Everleigh.” His voice, when it comes, is low and measured. “This is unexpected.”

You curtsy, very slightly, regaining your composure. “Your Grace. I might say the same.”

His gaze flicks briefly to the book in your hand: Keats, you realise, only now. Then back to your face. “Do you favour poetry?”

“On quiet days. And on rainy ones.”

He nods, almost to himself. “A fine choice.”

You wait, wondering whether he will say more. He does not.

“And you, Your Grace?” There is a touch of amusement laced through your words, in spite of yourself. “Are you here for poetry, or for politics?”

His lips curve, only just. “Neither. I prefer philosophy. Or anything with weight to it.”

Your brow arches. “Is that so, Your Grace?”

He looks at you for a long moment, still distant, but not unkind.

“I did not expect to find you here.” His admission comes after the silence has stretched long enough to mean something. “But I am not displeased.”

Your heartbeat ticks once, then twice, soft and uneven beneath your bodice.

“Nor am I, Your Grace.” You keep your voice quiet. “But I shall let you return to your… weighty thoughts."

He inclines his head. “And you to your verse.”

You curtsy, slight but proper. He bows in return. There are no lingering glances, no breathless goodbyes, only a few pleasantries exchanged, two minds acknowledged, and a silence between them that somehow says more than the words have.

—

It is one of those warm spring afternoons when everything feels too golden to be entirely real. The garden terrace is full of soft laughter and the rustle of silk gowns; ladies fan themselves under the shade trees, while gentlemen cluster near the wine table, discussing horses, Parliament, and who had worn what at last Thursday’s dinner. You arrive beside your mother, your carriage late by fifteen minutes for a wheel that needed adjusting.

“Smile, darling.” Your mother adjusts your glove without asking. “Your sister may be absent, but you mustn’t let that reflect poorly on the family. A touch of colour in your cheeks would not hurt either.”

You smile. You nod. You adjust. Eleanora woke this morning feeling unwell, no fever, but pale and weak, and your mother would never permit a less-than-perfect appearance at a public affair. Her instructions earlier had been gentle but firm. You will attend in her place. Just be seen, dearest. And speak kindly if anyone asks after her.

So now you stand in your sister’s shadow, only without her beside you to cast it. You move through conversation with practised ease. Three ladies ask after your sister. One older gentleman mistakenly calls you by her name, and you correct him gently, no sting in your voice. And then you excuse yourself, drifting toward the edge of the terrace where the rose-covered trellis offers a moment of quiet. You are just reaching for a glass of water when a familiar voice drifts behind you.

"Miss Everleigh."

You turn. There he is, the Duke, alone. Not at your sister’s side. Not deep in conversation. Not scanning the crowd for another Lady to dance with. He stands a respectful distance away, one hand loosely clasped behind his back, the other holding a glass of white wine.

“Your Grace.” You offer a curtsy, calm as you can manage. “I am surprised to see you without company.”

His lips twitch at the corner. “It seems the pattern of surprises between us continues.”

His eyes study your face, not in a way that lingers, but in a way that makes you feel slightly restless beneath the skin. “Is your sister not attending?”

You shake your head. “She is unwell, Your Grace. Nothing serious, only a passing fatigue.”

“I am sorry to hear it.” His voice is quiet, and smooth as ever, though beneath it there is something unreadable once again, something that does not quite settle.

“I hope you do not feel… obligated to entertain me in her absence, Your Grace.” You add it carefully, watching his face.

“I do not.” The reply comes quicker than you expected, not curt, only honest.

Your brows lift, amused despite yourself. “Then what brings you to my corner of the garden, Your Grace?”

“Curiosity, perhaps.” A small pause, and then, almost like a confession, “You have a talent for appearing where I least expect you.”

You blink, and a small smile finds you. “I assure you, Your Grace, I do not do it on purpose.”

“A pity.” His voice has gone quieter. “It is becoming a habit I rather look forward to.”

You do not have time to answer, because somewhere across the terrace someone is calling your name, Lord Wessex, of course, waving from the far end with that signature grin of his. You turn back to the Duke.

“If you will excuse me, Your Grace.”

He inclines his head. “Of course.”

You curtsy again. He bows. And you walk away, toward the man who wants you, and away from the one who has only just begun to wonder whether he should.

“Was that the Duke I saw you speaking with?” Lord Wessex offers his arm as you return to the centre of the terrace.

“It was, My Lord.” Your fingers brush the embroidered edge of his sleeve as you accept.

“And how was His Grace this fine evening? Did he frown at you with poetic intensity?”

You smile. “He was polite. Curious, perhaps. But there was no frowning.”

He clicks his tongue, mock-disappointed. “How dull. I had hoped for at least a glower.”

You laugh, soft and warm, as he guides you toward a quieter corner of the garden path, where lanterns hang low and glowing between branches of wisteria. You walk together in companionable silence for a moment.

“You always find me easily, My Lord.” You keep your tone light.

“That is because I always look.” There is no hesitation in him at all when he says it, and that is what stills you, just a fraction, the unguarded sincerity of it.

The conversation drifts easily after that, as it always does between you. He asks about your favourite lines from the bookshop. You ask about his childhood summers spent on a windswept estate in Devon. He makes you laugh with an imitation of a distant cousin who once proposed to a woman mid-faint.

It is easy, this thing between you. Not dull, not predictable, but certain, somehow. And when he asks you for a dance under the stars, you say yes without thinking twice. You dance in the soft evening breeze, the music from the terrace drifting down like petals from above, his hand steady at your waist, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You are quiet tonight.” His voice is low at your ear as you turn.

“My apologies, My Lord. I had not realised.”

“Quieter than usual. Not unhappy, I hope?”

“No.” The answer is honest, and easily given. “Just enjoying this moment.”

His smile is small and pleased. “Then I shall consider myself fortunate.”

Somewhere on the terrace, the Duke is dancing with another Lady. He does not fumble, does not charm, does not smile too wide or step too close. He is composed, as always, fulfilling his role and bowing when required and saying the right words at the right times.

But when your laughter drifts once more across the lawn, his eyes, just for a second, turn toward the sound and linger there again.

© zaynessbeloved 2026. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!

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And then your gaze landed on the massive roll of primed canvas propped in the corner, the one he’d been saving for something special. An idea sparked, warm and a little reckless, at the base of your skull. Maybe you could help another way this time, since comforting words didn’t always get Rafayel out of his head.

“What if we laid that canvas on the floor?” you tilted your head toward it. “A big piece. And just... have fun with it? Hands, no brushes. See what happens.”

Rafayel peeked out from under his arm, one blue-pink eye regarding you with suspicion. “That’s a very expensive canvas to finger-paint on, cutie.”

“You said your brain was a barren wasteland. And since when did you care about how expensive it is?” you raised a curious eyebrow at him, watching him peek at you, registering the words.

He sat up slowly, a grin already pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Well, I can always buy another one, I guess.”

You helped him roll it out across the studio floor, shoving furniture aside until there was nothing but white stretching between you. Rafayel disappeared for a minute and came back with an armful of paint, squeezing generous pools of blues and reds and greens directly onto the canvas like a man who had just remembered what fun felt like.

It was innocent at first. You knelt across from each other, dragging your palms through color, pressing handprints and swirls and abstract shapes into the surface. Rafayel was muttering to himself, something about composition and negative space, already half-lost in it. The mental block he found himself in was slowly cracking. You could see it in the looseness of his shoulders, the way his fingers moved with more confidence now.

And then he reached across and dragged a stripe of blue down your bare arm when you were lost in your own thoughts, focused on your side of the canvas.

You looked up. He was smirking, all mischief and zero remorse, already loading his fingers with more paint. “You had a blank spot. I was helping covering it up.”

“Helping,” you repeated, biting back a smile. 

“Mhm.” he leaned closer, drawing a slow, deliberate line from your collarbone down to the neckline of your shirt, his touch featherlight. “Composition, remember? The canvas extends to... everything in the frame.”

The paint was cold on your skin, having you shiver for a second until it slowly warmed from your body heat. His fingers were warm underneath it, too. Despite your best efforts, the sensation of it had you swallow rather tightly, turning his smirk into something a tad bit more dangerous as his eyes followed the movement.

Two could play this game.

You dipped your fingers into the green and reached for him. He went still as you pressed your paint-slicked hand flat against his bare chest, feeling his heartbeat jump against your palm. You dragged your fingers down a lot slower than he did, five green trails down his sternum to his stomach. His muscles tensed under your touch, and you knew it was because of the sensation it left behind.

“You know what I’ve been thinking, Raf?” you kept your voice light, conversational, even as your fingers traced the lines of his abdomen. “You’re always the one making art. Always the one doing the painting.”

“That’s... generally how it works, yes.” his voice was steady but his ears were already starting to flush.

You pushed gently against his chest until he leaned back on his hands, looking up at you. You shifted closer, settling yourself between his legs, and dipped your fingers back into the paint. You chose the cadmium red this time. You drew a line along his jaw, his throat, down the side of his neck, watching the color bloom against his fair skin, accompanied by the goosebumps raising through the same path your fingers followed.

“Nobody ever paints you, though.” you let your thumb trace the curve of his collarbone, pressing just enough to feel the bone beneath. “Nobody gets to admire you like this. Ruin you a little.”

Rafayel swallowed hard. You watched his throat work, watched the flush creep from his ears down to his neck and chest, blooming pink underneath the streaks of green and red. “Are you... offering to ruin me, cutie?”

You gave him a cheeky smirk and dragged your paint-slicked fingers lower, across his ribs, feeling the muscles tense and jump under your touch. “I’m here to change that. Will you let me?”

You didn’t wait for permission, and kept touching him up and down his chest and torso. Your gaze was on his through all of it, though. And you saw his eyes change in real time, taking on that look you knew so well, the one that meant the teasing facade was crumbling and what was underneath was raw and wanting and very, very focused on you.

His hand caught your wrist gently, and he brought your fingers to his mouth. He kissed the tips of them, one by one, not breaking eye contact. Green paint smudged against his lips.

“You,” he murmured against your fingertips, “are the most dangerous person I’ve ever met. And I’ve met sea monsters. None were as bold as you, I’ll give you that.”

You laughed, but it came out breathless, because he was pulling you forward now, guiding you into his lap. The canvas was a mess beneath you, smeared with every color he owned, and when your knees pressed into it on either side of his hips, the wet paint squelched and neither of you cared.

His mouth found your neck, painting kisses instead of pigment, warm and open-mouthed against your pulse. His hands slid under the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off, and then his fingers were everywhere, dragging color across your skin like he was mapping something sacred.

“As much as having you ruin me sounds tempting…” he breathed against your collarbone, pulling back to take you in. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown, tracing the mess of color across your body with something between artistic obsession and reverence. “Your body is too beautiful to leave unscathed, don’t you agree? What kind of artist would I be if I didn’t map every inch of it, hm? Paint it, worship it… Ruin it.”

Your chest ached at that. You cupped his face with both hands, smearing red across his cheekbones, and kissed him. He tasted like coffee and the sweet, lingering taste of croissant you shared before all this happened. Unable to hold still, your hips shifted in his lap, pulling a  groan from him against your mouth, low and unguarded.

The rhythm found itself without either of you deciding on it. Slow, languid, your body rocking against his while his hands gripped your hips, steadying the moves, feeling as you lost yourself in the moment. 

The paint between your bodies made everything slick and amplified, every point of contact blurred into sensation. You clung to him tighter, moaning into his mouth when his hands moved under your skirt and gripped your ass, smearing paint all over your cheeks.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered against his lips, then moved to kiss down his neck.

“That’s your fault.” his fingers tightened on your ass, pulling you closer. His forehead dropped against yours. “You come into my studio... offer to paint me... look at me like that...” he trailed off with a shaky exhale when you rolled your hips deliberately slow and torturous. “Half the time I think you’re clueless on purpose, cutie. About what you really do to me.”

You couldn’t deny that. You could feel exactly what you did to him, hard and wanting beneath you. But hearing his voice crack like that, the way the words fell apart before he could finish them, it undid something in your chest every time. It wasn’t just lust clouding your minds, and it wasn’t just your body that turned Rafayel into a wanting, turned on mess. It was everything you did, your mere presence was enough for him to let go and let himself feel everything you made him feel. To surrender.

His mouth found yours again, hungrier now but still tender, still him, all that intensity wrapped in gentleness. His hands moved everywhere, painting mindless patterns across your back, your thighs, dragging you as close as physics would allow. Every roll of your hips drew a sound from him that he tried to swallow and couldn’t quite manage.

“Raf...” you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for, just needing him to know you were right here.

“Yeah, I know.” his lips brushed your jaw, your cheekbone, the corner of your eye. “Don’t stop moving your hips, okay? C’mon cutie, follow my lead—fuck, yeah, keep going like that...”

The pleasure built slowly, like a tide coming in, each wave pulling you a little closer to the edge. You buried your face in his neck and let yourself feel all of it, the slick drag of painted skin, the warmth pooling low in your belly, his heartbeat hammering against yours.

When you came, it was quiet, a full-body tremor that started at the base of your spine and rippled outward. You clung to him, fingers digging into his painted shoulders, and Rafayel held you through it, murmuring soft things against your hair, praises that blurred together into something that sounded a lot like worship. He followed you moments later, his whole body tensing, face buried in your neck with a broken sound that made your heart stutter.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The studio was quiet except for your heavy breathing. The afternoon light had gone amber, casting everything in warm gold. The canvas beneath you was a catastrophe, handprints and drag marks and the unmistakable impression of two tangled bodies, layered in every color he owned.

Rafayel’s fingers traced idle shapes on your bare back. You could feel his heartbeat slowing against your chest, his breathing steadying out.

“So,” you murmured, pressing a lazy kiss to the paint smeared on his jaw. “Creative block over... yes or no?”

He let a laugh out at that, the kind that shook through both of you, warm and bright and startled out of him. His arms tightened around you.

“Cutie, I just got enough inspiration to last me the rest of my life.” his lips brushed your temple, lingering. You knew he was smirking, “We’re framing this, by the way.”

“It’s obscene, Raf.” you squinted at him, making him laugh again.

He pulled back enough to look at you, paint smeared across his cheekbones, hair a disaster of violet and blue paint, ears still flushed pink. His eyes were soft and full and looking at you like you were something he’d spent centuries searching for. It made your cheeks match the color of his ears.

“It’s a masterpiece, though.” His thumb swept across your cheek, leaving a final streak of gold. “And I’m never selling it. This—” you felt him drag you closer, the movement making you both whimper in unison at the friction. “—is for my eyes only. And for future uninspired nights when I feel lonely.”

You smiled against his mouth when he kissed you again, slow and sweet, and thought to yourself that for someone who claimed to be artistically deceased an hour ago, Rafayel had never looked more alive.

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You nuzzled your face into his neck, inhaling softly. He was all sweaty, as were you, but he still smelled so fucking good. Even in your tired state, you couldn’t deny how sexy your boyfriend was when he got all sweaty. It was rather intoxicating, and you inhaled the scent one more time, eliciting a soft chuckle from him.

“Are you tired, starlight?” his hands moved to stroke over your hip in a soothing manner, keeping his voice all soft.

You nodded into his neck, not bothering to lift your head. You felt his hands travel slowly under your dirty uniform jacket, taking it off. When you didn’t complain, he moved to stroke all over your back, dragging you a bit closer to him.

Your back arched with the movement, the position making your pussy glide upwards on his half-hard cock. It made you both moan softly in unison. You were both exhausted, lacking the energy to do much else in this situation. But both of you were clearly turned on. 

Maybe it was his scent that made your mind all hazy. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Still, you wanted to keep going, wanted to use the little bit of energy you had left for this. Fighting alongside Xavier on the field always made you crave him. Usually, your missions together would end up with a heated fight in bed until you were both too exhausted to do anything else but sleep. If the mission didn’t tire you out, Xavier made sure he would.

But tonight you were both overworked, so you settled for this. Your hips moved slowly out of their own volition, chasing the friction only Xavier’s clothed cock could elicit. Delicious, a feeling so good it left you unable to form any words, so you started leaving soft pecks over his neck instead. 

His strong hands were still gripping your hips, but they lacked any strength or command. He just let you lead, murmuring soft things into your hair. Occasionally, he let out a moan or two, which made you even wetter than before. You liked knowing that even just this—you on top of him, moving too slowly and too languidly over his cock—made him crave you. So you kept your pace, grinding slowly up and down his clothed cock which was now very hard. The uniforms were already dirty, and you wanted to make an even bigger mess.

You felt your head being dragged away from his neck, but before you could even think of a complaint, his lips slotted over yours, kissing you gently. You moaned into his mouth, feeling his cock twitch under your throbbing pussy at the sound. 

There was no rush. Just you and him, chasing each other’s warmth after a long day. Moving in tandem while you kissed, with your cunt gliding over his thick cock while his hips thrusted softly upwards with each glide. 

The kiss broke at some point, if only because you were both left breathless and panting hard. Your eyes opened at last, and were met with Xavier’s half lidded gaze, blue diamonds tracing your features. You needed the release, he could read it on your face. He needed it, too. 

You cupped his face, bringing it closer to yours as you picked up the pace slightly. 

“I’m going to… baby, I’m going to cum…” you panted against his lips, body trembling when his uniform pants caught directly onto your sensitive clit when you changed your position slightly to the left.

“Yeah?” Xavier was smirking up at you, licking his lips before cupping your jaw with one of his hands while the other remained firmly on your hip.

“Yeah… Please, I need this.” you were sure you were close to babbling nonsense, but your mind was too tired to even beg properly. Thankfully, Xavier was taking mercy on you tonight, because you felt him kiss you again before giving you green light to take what you needed from him.

“I know you do, my star.” his thumb stroked over your jawline, dragging your lower lip down and parting your lips, “Do you need my help?”

You were so close, you didn’t even need much more than this to cum. It was enough, he was enough. You just needed him to kiss you again, needed to have him close, drown in him, his scent, while his tongue gently devoured your own. It kind of felt like you needed permission to cum, and you couldn’t do it without kissing him anymore.

Xavier knew it too. But he loved how compliant you were, how soft and perfectly responsive you continued to be for him even in your tired state. He felt craved, felt wanted and loved when you verbalized what you wanted from him. Knowing he was the only one able to give it to you. 

“Just kiss me. I want you to kiss me…” your pleaded, eyes rolling back when his hips jolted upward, making you almost regret you didn’t have him inside you right now. It felt too good.

“You’re so beautiful, do you know that?” praises left Xavier’s lips as easy as waterfalls fell over cliffs, “Bunny, I’m also close…”

Xavier wasn’t one to whine or beg, but hearing him say he’s close made a shiver run through your body and go down straight between your legs. You were pretty sure your underwear was beyond repair, and your uniform wasn’t any better. Wetness coated the material, but it made it all the much better. 

“Please, Xavie… cum with me?” you were gasping, seeking his lips. Your hips were moving faster now, if only you could just reach the peak. So, so close… 

You needed Xavier to kiss you.

“Yeah, yeah I will…” his hand moved down from your hip to grab your ass, guiding your movements as praises kept leaving his lips. “Gorgeous… so pretty…” Each praise made you moan louder, clench around nothing, curse yourself from being too worn out to properly ride your boyfriend. “You feel so good on top of me…”

You felt your vision blur, tears running hot down your cheeks, and that was all it took for Xavier to kiss you again, at last. His hand still guided you over his cock, even as your whole body tensed from pleasure. The orgasm rippled through you, making you cling to Xavier for dear life as he swallowed your scream. 

He kept dragging your cunt over his cock even as you went boneless in his arms. You kept kissing him, tired as you were, until you felt him splurt his cum into his own ruined boxers. Panting hard, you gathered your last ounce of strength and nuzzled your face in his neck once more. “I love you.”

As the words left your mouth, so did your consciousness. You fell asleep right there in your boyfriend’s warm embrace. And yet, you didn’t have to be awake to know what Xavier responded. 

After all, he had just shown you.

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The shower helps. Warm water rinses the remnants of your desperation down the drain, though it doesn’t wash away the memory of how you moaned his name, over and over. By the time you towel off, you’re already deciding what to wear.

You reach for the white skirt suit—sleek blazer, crisp blouse, and the skirt that hits that perfect line: professional enough to pass scrutiny, short enough to make his eyes flicker. You pair it with heels, gloss your lips just lightly, and smile at your reflection. 

—

The morning hum of the shared staff lounge is comfortingly routine. The coffee machine sputters and gurgles as you wait, one hand braced on the counter. Another professor offers a polite smile on his way out, leaving you in the hush of the empty room. You lift your cup, inhale the bitter warmth, and feel the fog of your hangover lifting a little.

You’re just about to leave when the door swings open, and you almost collide straight into Rafayel.

Your coffee nearly sloshes over the rim, but his hand is there instantly, steadying your wrist with infuriatingly good reflexes. The contact is polite, helpful, but your heart skips hard anyway. His amethyst eyes catch yours for a beat too long, and then they’re sliding down the line of your blazer, pausing at the curve of your skirt, before climbing back up with a gaze that drinks you in whole.

“Pardon me,” you murmur, breath steady even as your pulse hammers. “I should get going,” you murmur lightly, eyes tipping up to his. “Wouldn’t want to give my students an excuse to skip the seminar.”

His chuckle is quiet, low in his chest, the kind that makes heat crawl up your spine. “Mm,” Rafayel hums, eyes dragging slowly down your body and back up again, deliberate but subtle enough to pass for nothing. “Somehow, I doubt they’d skip. Not with the…interesting topics you’ve been covering this semester.”

The words are innocuous, polite even, but the way he says them makes your stomach tighten. Interesting topics. His tone makes it sound indecent, like every student in your classroom sees what he sees now—your skirt hem brushing against your thigh, the curve of your blouse beneath the blazer, your lips glossed just enough to shine.

You tilt your head, feigning composure, though your pulse betrays you. “Well,” you reply softly, lifting your coffee, “I do try to keep them engaged.”

His smile curves sharper, amused, like he hears everything you didn’t say. “I’m sure you do.”

The pause between you is weighted, your heart hammering, until you finally step past him. But as you go, you feel his eyes linger on your back, hot and assessing, as though he’s memorizing the sway of your skirt with every step.

—

Your seminar is already in motion, the room warm with the low hum of student chatter and the scratch of pens. You’re mid-discussion, pacing near the front with your coffee set aside, when the door opens.

You don’t expect him to join your seminar. Yet Rafayel slips in as though he belongs there, smooth and unbothered, drawing only a few curious glances from your students. Professors join each other’s lectures often enough, it isn’t unusual. But it’s him, and that changes everything. He takes a seat at the back, legs stretched in a casual sprawl, amethyst eyes already fixed on you.

For the first few minutes, you keep your focus razor-sharp, your voice steady as you guide your students through the material. But you feel him, and his attention doesn’t waver. Every time you shift, every turn of your body, his gaze trails down, deliberate and unashamed.

You know it’s the suit. The first time you wore it, you’d seen it in his eyes—the way they lingered a second too long on your curves. And now, you’re sure he can’t look away.

Your students are engaged, responding, taking notes. You smile as you guide them, keeping your composure intact, though inside your chest, your heart beats too fast. His gaze burns across your thighs when you lean against the desk, across your chest when you adjust your papers, across your lips every time you pause mid-sentence.

At one point, it gets shameless. You’re explaining a passage, your hand gesturing toward the board, when you catch him leaning back in his seat, one arm slung lazily over the chair, eyes dragging down your body like he’s stripping you bare in front of thirty oblivious students.

Your words stumble just for a second. You recover quickly, masking it with a sip of water, but you know you faltered.

When your eyes lift to his again, he’s already smirking faintly, a soft chuckle slipping past his lips, low enough only you can hear. Heat flares under your skin. You force your face straight, professional, but it takes everything in you not to laugh or groan in exasperation.

He’s doing it on purpose. He knows he’s distracting you. He knows you’re trying not to react, and he’s enjoying every second of it, lounging there like the smug bastard he is, all too aware of how annoyingly hot he looks doing it.

Your lecture continues, every word measured, every smile deliberate. But your body is burning, your panties damp, your skin alive under the weight of his eyes. By the time class finally ends, you’re not sure if you want to strangle him or drag him into your office and ruin both of your carefully constructed masks.

————

The corridor is nearly empty when your last class of the day ends. You gather your things, heels clicking softly against the floor, only to stumble into the professors’ room.

He’s there. Rafayel stands with another colleague, the two of them speaking in that casual, professional rhythm. You offer a polite greeting to both of them, your voice steady despite the sudden rush of heat under your skin. His eyes flick to yours for only a moment—measured, unreadable, yet searing all the same. You don’t linger, you collect your bag, smile at the both of them, and leave. But he lingers with you.

By the time you reach your office, the door shutting softly behind you, your pulse is still uneven. You set down your things, reaching for the stack of papers waiting on your desk, but your body feels heavier than the work itself. The hangover is still throbbing faintly behind your eyes from last night’s wine, though most of your colleagues are probably suffering the same. Yet Rafayel had seemed fresh, composed, as though last night hadn’t touched him at all.

Just as quickly, your thoughts spiral back to the dinner, back to the balcony, to the way he’d brushed your hair back with that feeble excuse. The way his thigh had tensed beneath your hand. The way you’d shared a glass, his lips touching where yours had been, his eyes drinking you in like he could taste you already.

Your breath hitches. You think of the seminar, of his gaze shamelessly trailing down your body from the back row, his soft chuckle when you faltered. You think of last night, how you soaked your sheets, desperate to be filled and left only wanting more.

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper, bracing both hands against your desk, eyes shutting tight. Your panties are already damp, heat curling low in your belly.

You should go home, grade the papers and sleep. But your body betrays you, burning hotter with every remembered glance, every imagined touch.

You lock the door. The click echoes loud in the quiet, your heart leaping as though you’ve crossed a line simply by doing it. You slip out of your blazer, and drape it over the chair. Two buttons come loose from your blouse, baring the faint swell of your chest to the empty room.

You pace once, twice, biting your lip so hard it almost hurts. God, you’re so turned on, so restless.

If you keep quiet—if you’re quick—it’ll be fine. It’s late. Most of the building is empty. No one has to know.

Your hand drags down your thigh, the fabric of your skirt brushing hot against your skin. The ache between your legs throbs sharper, needier. Your breath comes short, your body remembering every inch of tension, every unspoken promise in his gaze. And you know it’s him you’re about to think of. Him you’re about to touch yourself to, again.

The papers on your desk blur into nothing as your body wins over your better judgment. You tug your chair back just enough to sit, legs pressing together for one last moment of hesitation. Then you give in.

Your skirt rides up as you part your thighs, the air cool against heated skin. One hand braces against the desk, the other slides beneath the edge of your blouse, teasing over the soft lace of your bra, before drifting lower. Your panties are already damp, clinging to your folds, and when your fingers press there you have to bite down hard on your lip to keep the sound in.

Your eyes fall shut. You picture him instantly—Rafayel lounging back in that chair during your seminar, gaze shameless as he undressed you from across the room. His voice low in your ear on the dance floor, smooth and amused, like he knew exactly how wound up you’d be later.

You circle your clit slowly, building the arousal, hips rolling against your hand. Your other hand slips lower, tugging your panties aside so you can thrust two fingers inside, needy and unrestrained. The heat curls fast, desperate. You’ve been craving this since last night, since you left him on the balcony with his hand still warm against your thigh, since you soaked your own sheets, desperately trying to relive this craving for him.

You pant softly, grinding against your fingers, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet office. The thought of him seeing you like this—hair falling over your face, blouse unbuttoned, skirt bunched around your hips—makes your pussy clench tighter around your fingers. You moan his name under your breath, barely audible, but it tumbles out anyway.

You’re close, so close, when the doorknob rattles. Your entire body seizes, heart lurching into your throat. The lock holds, but someone is there. A shadow shifts at the frosted glass panel of the door, and then a soft, low voice hums through. “Still here, Professor?”

His voice. Rafayel. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You yank your hand away, breath ragged, trying to straighten your skirt and blouse in frantic silence. Your pussy aches from the abrupt stop, slick still coating your thighs, your fingers trembling as you wipe them against the hem of your skirt.

You swallow hard, forcing your voice steady. “Y-yes. Just catching up on grading.”

There’s a pause, and then you hear a faint chuckle. “Diligent, as always. Can you open the door, though? I have something of yours, so I thought I should return it.”

Your fingers are still trembling when you smooth your skirt down, tugging your soaked panties back into place, buttoning your blouse with frantic haste. You draw in a sharp breath, then another, trying to steady yourself, trying to scrub the flush from your cheeks and the ache from your thighs. By the time you unlock the door and open it, your smile is in place, though your heart hammers mercilessly.

Rafayel stands there, phone in hand, that composed expression soft with something curious. “You left this,” he says, tone polite. “Found it in the professors’ room. Thought I might catch you before you left.”

Your chest loosens, relief flooding in, though your skin still prickles under the memory of almost being caught. You take the phone, your fingers brushing his, but he doesn’t let go.

“Grading with the door locked?” his voice is mild, teasing, his head tilting slightly. 

You force a polite smile, tilting your head just enough to match his. “Some quiet helps with focus,” you say evenly, though your insides are twisting, wound tight and trembling from being pulled so close to release only moments ago.

Finally, he lets go of the phone, only to step forward, casually, unhurried, as though the movement is entirely natural. You step back instinctively, keeping the distance, but he closes it again with ease. His eyes flick to the stack of untouched papers on your desk, then back to yours, glinting. And then lower, down your body, pausing where your blouse strains faintly, then climbing back up again with a gaze that lingers too long.

“You missed a button,” he murmurs, soft, comfortable, as though he were pointing out a smudge of ink. His words sink into your skin like heat.

Your eyes snap down, cursing yourself silently. He’s right, your blouse is buttoned wrong in your rush. Before you can fix it, his hand lifts.

“Allow me,” he murmurs.

Your throat goes dry as his fingers brush the wrong button, slow and deliberate, unfastening it. The air feels thinner instantly. You back up another step, your desk pressing against the backs of your thighs.

He doesn’t fix it. He unbuttons another, and another. Each motion is agonizingly slow, his eyes never leaving yours, composure unbroken even as your breath grows unsteady.

The cool air of your office kisses your skin as the lacy bra beneath is revealed, nipples peaked against the thin fabric, aching for attention. His hand hovers, then dips, fingers sliding just between the swell of your breasts, stopping there as though he has all the time in the world.

Your throat works around a dry swallow. Your hands press back against the desk, bracing yourself against the dizzying rush of want tearing through you. The sexual tension is suffocating, higher than it’s ever been. His eyes are steady, his voice low as silk, his composure intact, but every line of him screams hunger. And you’re shaking with the need to give in. One more brush of his fingers and you’ll break.

Your voice is soft, low, as though the words are nothing more than polite banter, “You were supposed to fix it.”

Rafayel’s smirk blooms slowly, devastating. His hand doesn’t retreat—it curves up, cups your breast through the thin lace, his palm warm and firm. “I did fix it,” he murmurs smoothly, thumb brushing over your hardened nipple in a teasing stroke.

The sound that escapes you is more of a groan than a sigh, muffled quickly by your teeth sinking into your lower lip. Your head tips back instinctively, eyes fluttering as his body closes the distance, heat radiating off him, the faint trace of his cologne threading into your every breath. You brace harder against the desk, your knees softening under the wave of sensation.

He leans in, voice deceptively gentle, as though he’s merely checking on a colleague. “You’re flushed,” he murmurs against your cheek. “Is it the hangover? You really did have too much wine last night, huh?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh, though it comes out huskier than you intend. “I like to indulge in things,” you whisper, tilting your head just enough that your lips nearly graze his ear. “The wine wasn’t the only thing I indulged in last night.”

His fingers pause, the stroke of his thumb over your nipple slowing as though savoring your words.

Your slick drips hotly down your inner thigh, your body screaming for friction, for release, and still you keep your composure just enough to play this game. His hand teases at your breast, fingers circling lazily, keeping you strung tight as his eyes gleam with curiosity.

“Oh?” his voice is a hum, amused, coaxing. “And what else does my diligent colleague indulge in?” his lips curve faintly, the edge of his teeth flashing. “Especially when emboldened by that much wine.”

You bite your lip, your back arching subtly into his palm, pressing into the deliberate pace of his hand. The warmth of his body is intoxicating, pressing faintly against yours, and your voice drops to something low, dangerous, and deliberately seductive.

“Sex.” the word is a whisper, but it lands like a spark in the charged air between you.

His exhale is sharp, controlled, but his fingers press harder into the swell of your breast, his thumb flicking your nipple with a firmer tease this time. His body shifts infinitesimally closer, until your thighs brush, until you can feel the heat of him through the thin barriers of your clothes. In that moment, with your panties wet and clinging, his hand on your chest, and his gaze molten on yours, you know neither of you can hold this line much longer.

His head tilts, lips brushing dangerously close to your ear as his voice drops to that smooth, smug tone that makes your skin tingle. “Sex,” he repeats softly, like he’s tasting the word. You feel his bulge grazing your thigh, unmistakable, hard against the thin fabric that separates you.

Your imagination unravels in an instant; him bending you over this desk and taking you rough from behind, his breath hot against your neck; him bracing you against the edge, towering over you until you fall apart under him; him dropping to his knees, spreading your thighs wide, his mouth and tongue devouring you until you scream his name into the walls.

Your breath shudders as your hands slide up the length of his arm, slow and deliberate, until you find his hand still cupping your breast. You take it, guiding it down, over your body, dragging it slowly, sensually until it rests against your hip. “I know it shouldn’t happen here,” you murmur, voice husky, “but…”

His eyes narrow slightly, pupils blown wide as you go on. “Last night, I went home. I undressed myself until I was only in my soaked panties—drenched, just like they are right now.”

The groan that leaves him is low, rough, breaking through his composure. His fingers twitch against your waist.

You lean closer, whispering against his mouth, “I spread my legs, touched myself all over my body, and moaned a certain name until I ruined my sheets.” You don’t say whose, but you don’t need to. The knowledge glints in your eyes.

Something inside him snaps at the admission. He groans again, deep in his chest, and in one swift motion, he lifts you. Your ass hits the desk with a soft thud, papers scattering to the floor as he steps between your parted thighs.

One of his hands tilts your chin upward, forcing your gaze to meet his. His lips hover a breath from yours, his tongue wetting them as he smirks faintly, devilishly. “Tell me,” he whispers, voice dark and coaxing, “what name did you moan while you chased your high, ruining those sheets, hm?”

His other hand slips lower, sliding along your bare thighs, mercilessly slow. The heat of his palm skims the slick trail you left behind, teasing higher, fingers brushing lightly against your soaked panties. The pressure makes you moan softly, head tipping back, lips parting as you fight to breathe.

Your eyes lock onto his, pupils blown wide with months of repressed want. You both know it now, this isn’t just teasing anymore. This is the culmination of every stare, every smirk, every polite word that was really an indecent promise. And as his fingers circle closer to where you need him most, your lips hover a whisper from his, and you both know you’re about to cross the line you’ve been dancing on for far too long. Oh, how you want to cross that line, finally.

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, breath shaky, lips only inches from his. “I’ll either tell you…” your voice dips low, sultry, “…or I’ll show you.”

His fingers graze the soaked fabric again, circling your clit through the lace, teasingly light but enough to make your thighs tremble. His mouth hovers close, his breath warm, lips brushing yours as he whispers with maddening calm, “Then show me. Show me how you moaned last night, and all those other nights you’ve touched yourself.”

The confidence in his tone cuts through you, scorching—he knows. He knows it was him filling your fantasies.

Your head tips back as pleasure ripples through you, his lips ghosting over the line of your jaw before he forces your chin back up, tilting your face until you’re caged in by his gaze. Amethyst eyes, half-lidded and burning, a slow smirk tugging at his lips as if he’s savoring every second of you spread out like this.

Then you feel his fingers finally move, pulling your panties aside with agonizing slowness. The air is cool against your drenched folds until his hand dips lower, gathering your slickness, coating his fingers. You moan, soft and desperate, the sound slipping free so close to his mouth you almost kiss him.

“Mmm,” he hums, voice silken with taunt, “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

Two fingers press into you, sliding in deep, stretching you around them. He thrusts slow, deliberate, dragging out every wet sound, every trembling shiver, his thumb brushing your clit with cruel patience.

Your eyes roll back, a strangled moan escaping, and finally his name breaks free from your lips. “Rafayel…”

The groan that leaves him is guttural, vibrating against your lips as he leans in closer. “That’s it,” he growls softly, lips brushing yours with every word. “That’s what you moan when you cum on your sheets every night. Thinking of me, isn’t it?”

His fingers curl inside you, stroking the spot that makes your thighs quake.

“Not ‘Professor Qi,’” he whispers, smug and sharp, nipping at your lip before dragging his mouth back just enough to watch your face twist with need. “Never formal with me when you’re writhing in pleasure like this. Just Rafayel.”

You can barely breathe, body clenching around his fingers, soaked and needy. You’ve played polite for months. You’ve kept the mask, smiled through the sexual tension, hidden your eyes when they betrayed you. But now you’re coming apart for him, exactly as he knew you would. And his name feels so good moaned from your lips that you’re certain you’ll never stop.

The composure you’ve guarded for months shatters the moment his fingers curl just right inside you. Your body jerks, thighs trembling around his hips, your hands clawing for purchase—one braced against the desk, the other curling tight around the back of his neck.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, eyes rolling back as you move with him, hips shifting in frantic rhythm to keep his fingers pressing that sweet, devastating spot. The wet sounds are obscene, slick dripping down his hand and soaking the desk beneath you.

You can’t hold back anymore. You claim his lips in a desperate kiss—hungry, bruising, the sound of your moan caught between your mouths. He matches you instantly, tongue sliding against yours, fevered and consuming. His other hand rises to cup your jaw, holding you there as if you might break away, as his fingers pump faster, deeper, merciless now.

“Faster,” you gasp against his lips, needy, breathless. “Please, Rafayel, faster, need it faster…”

A slow, knowing smirk ghosts against your mouth, and he gives in, his thrusts sharper, quicker. The speed makes your whole body quake, pleasure searing through you. He drags his mouth down your throat, teeth grazing, lips sucking hard under your ear until you whimper, whispering yes, yes, yes between curses that dissolve into open-mouthed moans.

Your head tips back as his tongue drags over the tender mark he’s made, and you’re gasping, incoherent, “Don’t stop, oh god, don’t stop—I’m cumming—yes, yes yes—fuck, cumming—”

He pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you, his face flushed, pupils blown wide, his smirk gone molten with hunger. His voice is rough when it comes, whispered against your lips, low and commanding. “Cum for me, princess. Juuust like that.”

The words break you. You shatter in his arms, back arching as you cry out, clenching hard around his fingers. Your release spills hot and messy, soaking his hand as waves of ecstasy roll through you. He holds you steady through it, mouth claiming yours again, kissing you like he’s drinking every sound you make. 

His fingers don’t stop completely. They slow down, dragging in and out of your  walls that are still clenching around them, teasing you through the aftershocks while his mouth moves against yours in a messy, breathless kiss. Your trembling thighs fall wider around his hips, skirt bunched high around your waist, the desk under you damp with your release.

Your hands are frantic, tugging at his shirt buttons with clumsy urgency. He chuckles against your lips when he catches the glazed roll of your eyes, savoring how far gone you already are.

“This is hardly the best place,” you gasp between kisses, voice pitched with desperate need. “But I’ve fantasized about this for so long. We can figure out the consequences later—just…I need to feel you inside me.”

That admission breaks something in him. With a groan, he finally withdraws his hand from between your thighs, fingers glistening as he fumbles his belt open. The sound of the buckle clinking makes your core pulse all over again. He drags you into another hungry kiss, rougher this time, teeth clashing against yours.

Your palm slides down, pressing against the thick bulge straining his trousers, boxers already damp with precum. He groans deep into your mouth as you rub him, the sound guttural, raw.

His lips brush your ear, voice low and taunting even as his breathing turns ragged. “Are you sure? Maybe you can hold on a little longer.”

You can feel how hard he is, the weight of him twitching against your hand. You know he’s just teasing. You know he wants this just as badly. So you take advantage. Your fingers slip inside his open trousers, curling around him at last, stroking him slow and firm.

Leaning into his neck, you whisper against his flushed skin, “I know you’ve pictured me naked plenty of times. So why not give me what we both want?”

His chuckle rumbles low in his throat, cut off by a shuddering moan as your hand squeezes him tighter, stroking in steady rhythm. His head falls forward, lips dragging along your shoulder as he exhales hard.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, voice dark and hungry. “I’ve imagined bending you over every piece of furniture in this university. All the different ways I could make you moan for me.” his hips jerk into your hand, his composure fracturing. “Those pretty sounds…you have no idea how many times they fueled my fantasies.”

Your thighs squeeze around him, your pussy aching and wet all over again at his open admission.

Your nails drag down his chest as you slip your hand free, his shirt already hanging open where you’d fumbled the buttons loose. Rafayel pulls back just enough, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as his fingers work swiftly to free himself.

When he pushes his trousers and boxers down, you can’t stop your eyes. You lick your lips shamelessly, gaze drinking him in. His cock springs against his stomach, flushed red at the tip, leaking already. Your thighs clench around nothing, already fantasizing about the way he’ll stretch you, the way he’ll hit every place you’ve dreamed of for months.

He chuckles lowly, catching your look, his hand curling around yours. He guides it downward, sliding it over his body until your fingers wrap around his shaft again. He leans close, his lips brushing yours as he whispers, amused, “I know that look too well. The same one you used every time you pretended to be subtle while undressing me with those pretty eyes.”

You whimper softly when he moves your hand, forcing you to stroke him, his own hand covering yours. Together you pump his length, slick smearing across your skin, the steady drag of both your hands making him shudder. His groan rumbles into your mouth as you kiss him, messy and breathless, lips clashing in raw hunger.

Then he smirks, breaking the kiss just long enough to murmur against your swollen lips, voice dark with amusement. “I know what you’re thinking.” his hips twitch into your hand, sharp with impatience. “But why don’t you tell me again? Tell me how badly you want me to make a mess of you right here in this university.”

His tongue flicks your lower lip, his breath hot. “Or…” he smirks, sharper now, fingers flexing around yours as you stroke him harder. “…are you going to keep acting innocent, even while I take you raw on this desk? Letting me fuck you like the good girl you are—the one who can’t stop giving me those shameless ‘fuck me’ eyes?”

Your thighs press tighter, your pussy dripping onto the desk beneath you, the heat between your legs unbearable. Your lips trail down his neck, peppering desperate kisses, little nips that make him groan low in his throat. His hand slips from yours, abandoning his cock only to find your soaked panties again, tugging them aside in one sharp, impatient motion. You gasp, pulling him closer with parted thighs, guiding his tip until it grazes your entrance.

The two of you moan in unison, your mouths swallowing each other’s sounds, the contact almost unbearable in its promise.

“Do I really need to say it?” you whisper, voice trembling between seductive and innocent, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You can feel it already, how soaked I am because of you, how ready to take you.”

His groan vibrates against your skin as his thumb presses to your clit, circling it lazily, making your body clench tight around the thick head of his cock as it nudges, probing for more.

You bite his shoulder, your voice breaking in needy whispers. “I’ll feel so good wrapped around your cock. Stop teasing me.”

He pulls back, forcing your chin up, making you look at him—his amethyst eyes molten, half-lidded, devouring. Then he arches your back over the desk, pushing you down until you’re splayed against the scattered papers. His hips press forward, slow but steady, stretching you open inch by inch.

Your head tips back, a sharp moan spilling from your lips as your eyes roll back. “Y-yes…” you gasp, voice high and broken, “oh god, yes…”

He groans, watching your body take him, the way you clench greedily around his cock. “Better than your fantasies, isn’t it?” he taunts softly, pushing deeper, until your walls flutter and squeeze around him.

His pace builds, sharp thrusts making the desk creak under your weight. One of his hands hooks under your thigh, lifting it high until your heel digs into the air above his shoulder, the new angle letting him drive even deeper.

You cry out, biting your lip hard, but his other hand pushes two fingers past your parted lips. “Shh,” he groans, voice guttural, his hips slamming forward. “Keep quiet for me.”

You suck his fingers, muffling your whimpers, your body trembling violently under him. His pace is merciless, wet sounds filling the office as his cock slides in and out of your dripping cunt.

“Fuck,” he groans, flushed and ruined, sweat gathering at his temple. His eyes burn into yours, sharp with hunger as he ruts into you. “You’re so tight and wet. You really wanted me that badly, huh?”

Your thighs quake, your voice muffled around his fingers, but your eyes say everything. You wanted this. You needed this. At last, he has you exactly where you both always knew you’d end up—splayed open on your desk, shameless and moaning his name.

His pace is steady, controlled, every thrust deliberate, but his words come sharp, sinking under your skin.

“You know…” his voice is low, confident, almost amused as his cock drives deeper, “we both knew it would end up like this, didn’t we?” he leans down, lips brushing your ear as your body jerks beneath him, his fingers still filling your mouth. “All those months of pretending, of being polite…just so we could fuck like this.”

Your moan vibrates around his fingers, your legs trembling wider, shamelessly squeezing him deeper inside.

His smirk curves against your cheek as his words drop darker. “Tell me something… when I knocked on your door earlier, were you touching yourself in here? Is that why you were so flushed, clothes all a mess?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, your thighs quake, and you nod, sucking his fingers deeper, desperate, clenching around him as though admitting it sets your body on fire.

He groans, the sound guttural, his hips snapping harder. “Knew it.” he changes his angle, hips tilting until he hits that devastating spot deep inside you, and your body arches violently, eyes rolling back. The climax tears through you, trembling hard around his cock, pussy spasming and soaking him. Your eyes glaze over, mouth slack around his fingers as your muffled cries fill the room.

He pulls his fingers free only to smear the slick saliva down your chin, trailing it along your clavicle before dragging your lace bra aside. His hand pinches your nipple, rolling it between his fingers until you’re moaning yes, yes, louder, your head thrashing back against the desk.

“It’s too much,” you gasp between sobs of pleasure, “too deep, mhmm, but so good…”

His cock twitches inside you, his breath turning ragged, broken by groans. He grips your thigh tighter, nails biting into your skin, anchoring you open. His other hand finds your clit, circling mercilessly.

“God, you should see the look you’re giving me right now,” he groans, voice dark with hunger. “Begging me to make a mess out of you.”

You keen, back arching as your pussy clenches tighter around him, pulling him deeper with every pulse.

His chuckle is soft, shaky, ruined. His thrusts stutter, his body trembling with restraint. “Fuck, so warm around me…” his head drops to your shoulder, teeth scraping at your skin as he groans raggedly. “I’m close. I won’t be able to stop thinking about this every time I see you now.”

And you know, with how hard you’re clamping down on him, with how your own moans spill freely, that you’re lost to him too.

Your whole body trembles at the sound of his groan, that raw admission spilling against your ear—that he’s close, that he’ll think of this every time he sees you. It makes your walls clench tighter around him, excitement surging through your chest and sinking low into your belly. You know right then you’ll never be able to forget how good it feels, how he’s fucking you so rough and deep, like all the fantasies you’ve played with at night weren’t nearly enough.

You’re gasping, back arching against the desk, every thrust making your thighs quake, your voice breaking down until all you can whisper is, “Don’t stop… please, don’t stop…” you can feel yourself slipping into overstimulation, body trembling uncontrollably, and still you want more, need more.

“Cum inside,” you beg against his jaw, panting, your lips dragging against his flushed skin. “I know you want to. I know you’ve dreamed about this, of fucking me like this. So please.”

His hips jerk at your words, stuttering, his control faltering as a guttural groan rips out of his throat. He bites down on your neck, his voice rough and ruined as he whispers, “You’re so sweet when you beg…I’ll give you what you want.”

You moan shamelessly, urging him closer with frantic little whimpers, nails digging into his back as your lips collide in a messy kiss—biting, gasping, desperate. His hands grip hard at your waist as his thrusts grow erratic, hips twitching with every push until he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a loud, broken groan.

The heat floods you, thick and overwhelming, and the sensation alone pushes you over again, unexpected but undeniable. Your body arches, your eyes roll back, and you cry out, “Shit—” as your pussy clenches around him, milking every drop, the feeling of him filling you pulling a second orgasm out of you like you’re unraveling from the inside out.

Your bodies stay locked together, his forehead pressed to yours as you both shudder through it, messy and raw, the air heavy with the scent of sweat, sex, and everything you swore you wouldn’t let happen—yet couldn’t stop. As you cling to him, thighs shaking, his cum dripping hot inside you, you know there’s no undoing this now. Not after how good it felt to finally break.

————

When you finally make it home that night, the weight of the day hits you all at once, but not in exhaustion. No, you are lit up from the inside, your skin buzzing, your body still aching with the ghost of what happened in your office.

Every step, every motion replayed in your mind. Months of sexual tension, stolen glances, polite nods hiding hungry eyes—all of it snapped, broken, the moment his hands touched you. You could still feel him, feel the way he pressed you against the desk, raw and reckless, his composure unraveling as he fucked you until you could barely think. The sound of his groans, the heat of his body above yours, the mess you both made.

Reckless. Dangerous. Still, even as you sat on the edge of your bed, your thighs pressed together, you couldn’t help the shiver that ran through you. A hunch thrummed low in your belly that this wouldn’t be the last time. You’d both crossed the line now. There was no pretending anymore.

By the time you step into the shower, you’re already panting softly, images flooding you again—the mess of his purple hair falling across his forehead, those amethyst eyes drunk on your pleasure, his flushed cheeks as that confident, devastating smirk pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

Your fingers drift down without hesitation, sliding between your legs where you’re still tender, still sensitive from him. The first touch makes your knees buckle, your body jerking against the tile, but you don’t stop.

Your breath comes fast, filling the small space with desperate pants as you rub yourself, chasing the memory of his cock filling you, stretching you, hitting deep until you broke apart on his name. You moan softly, your voice echoing off the shower walls, your hips rolling helplessly against your hand.

It doesn’t take long. The thought of him messy, flushed, fucking you raw on your desk sends you spiraling again, climax ripping through you with a strangled cry. You brace one hand against the wall, legs trembling, your other hand working frantically between your thighs until your body convulses, pussy clenching around nothing.

You sag against the tile, gasping, water beating down on you as the pleasure ebbs, but the want doesn’t fade. If anything, it coils tighter, leaving you needy all over again. Because no matter how many times you touch yourself tonight, it won’t compare. You know it now, undeniable and dangerous, that only Rafayel can ruin you like that.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

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