ISLAM MAKHACHEV X READER PART TWO
This part’s a bit long but it’s worth it at the end I promise, I love ya'll sm. However, if you wanna skip to the smut you guys can start reading from the 6th dash line!!
The click of the door sounded like a gunshot in the silent room.
Islam couldn’t even move. He just sat frozen on the edge of the bed, his hands still pressed flat against the sheets, his fingers gripping the fabric tight. His chest was heaving, his breathing totally ragged. The room was so quiet now, making the memory of your little soft noises feel even louder.
He was in complete shock.
Slowly, he looked down at his lap. The front of his boxers was soaked through, the damp stain sticking to his skin. It was proof of exactly what he'd just let happen. Islam hadn't even touched you, but his whole body was shaking, totally wrecked and completely unspent. The strict discipline he spent years building up was completely gone, ruined in five minutes by a girl he didn't even know.
A massive wave of guilt hit him so hard he felt sick enough to throw up.
He forced his legs to move and stumbled into the bathroom. He ripped off his ruined boxers and stepped into the shower, turning the water up until it was burning hot.
He grabbed the bar of soap and started scrubbing his thighs, his stomach, his chest, every single spot you had just touched. He scrubbed violently, his hands gripping the soap so hard it hurt. He rubbed his skin until it was raw, angry, and bright red under the hot water, trying to literally wash the feeling of you off his body.
He turned the water off, barely even drying himself before he pulled on a clean pair of sweatpants.
He dropped to his knees right there on the cold floor, burying his face in his hands. He pressed his knuckles against his forehead and tried to pray. He closed his eyes, desperately trying to remember his usual prayers, begging for forgiveness and wanting his mind to just go blank.
But the words wouldn't come. The only thing stuck in his head was the sound of your voice whispering in the dark. Every time he closed his eyes, he didn't see his faith, he just saw your bare legs in the dim light.
Totally defeated, he crawled back into the empty bed. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He stared blankly at the ceiling, his body still hot and completely restless, knowing he was totally ruined.
When he woke up the next morning, the first thing he felt was a heavy, confusing fog in his brain.
Islam lay completely still under the sheets, staring at the ceiling as the morning sun cut through the blinds. For a few seconds, he actually convinced himself it was all just a bad dream. A crazy, vivid nightmare brought on by the stress of the fight and the brutal weight cut. There was no way that had actually happened.
But then he rolled over and looked toward the bathroom and saw the damp, crumpled boxers sitting in the corner of the floor.
It was real. His stomach dropped, that sick wave of guilt rushing right back to his chest.
The rest of the day was absolute torture for him. During the final morning weigh-ins and the team meetings, his coach kept yelling at him to focus, asking him where his head was at. Islam kept nodding and pretending to listen, but his eyes were constantly scanning the hotel. Every time he walked through the lobby, stood near the elevators, or passed the vending machines, his eyes would subconsciously dart around the corners. He was lowkey looking for you everywhere, desperately trying to see if you even existed or if he was completely losing his mind.
You, on the other hand, made sure he didn't see a single trace of you.
You stayed entirely out of sight, hanging out in your room or leaving the hotel early with your friends. You weren't hiding out of fear or embarrassment, you were just incredibly satisfied. You knew exactly what you had done to him. The thought of him losing his mind, his perfect holy boy discipline completely wrecked by you without you even having to take off your shirt, made a smug, wicked smile spread across your face all day.
You knew you were living rent free in his head, and the fact that he was desperately looking for you made the victory taste so much sweeter. You had completely ruined him.
That night, while he was getting ready for bed, he walked over to the door to lock it for the night. His hand hovered right over the metal lock, but he completely froze.
A massive, disgusting wave of hesitation hit him. Deep down, in a part of his mind he absolutely hated himself for, he wanted you to come back. He kept thinking about the way you looked standing between his knees, and a dark, desperate part of him wanted it to happen all over again. Shaking, he slowly pulled his hand away. He left the door unlocked, just a tiny bit open, and walked into the bathroom to take his shower, his ears hoping for the sound of the click.
The next day was the exact same torture. He still hadn't lost hope, his eyes constantly scanning the hotel hallways and the lobby, but you were like a ghost. That night, his skin burning with a mix of shame and anticipation, he did the exact same thing, he left the door unlocked, stepping into the shower and waiting.
And still, you didn't show up.
By this point, he was completely losing his mind. It had been two full nights since you were in his room, but you had fucked up his brain so badly he couldn't function. He had prayed a million times, begging God to clear his head, but his knees were raw from the floor and the prayers felt empty. He had never, ever done anything like this in his entire life. He was a good boy, a disciplined fighter, someone who never broke.
Now, Islam was leaving his door open like an invitation for a girl he couldn't even find. Since he couldn't spot you anywhere in the hotel, a terrifying thought started to creep into his mind.
Was it all a hallucination? Were you even real?
By the next afternoon, the silence in his room was driving him crazy. He hadn't slept, his mind kept looping back to you, and he desperately needed to get out of his own head.
He decided to walk down to the same vending machines to grab a drink. As he approached the machine, his chest tightened, the memory of seeing you there in the dark hit him. He reached into his pocket for change, but as he looked down at the floor near the ice dispenser, his eyes caught a tiny flash of pink.
He bent down, his fingers brushing against the cold tile. It was a lip gloss. A cheap, fruity smelling tube that must have fell out of your pocket when you where there that night. He picked it up, rolling the small plastic tube between his palms. The scent hit him immediately, the exact same sweet, dizzying smell that had been all over his skin.
He stood there in the middle of the public hallway, staring at it like a crazy person. You were real. He wasn't hallucinating.
Desperate for a distraction, he shoved the gloss deep into his pocket and headed down to the lobby to meet his team. They were sitting on the lounge couches, reviewing some tape on a tablet, but he couldn't focus on a single word his coach was saying. His eyes were glued to the massive glass entrance of the hotel.
You were walking back in from the outside pool with your friends, your skin sun kissed and your hair damp. You were wearing a loose sundress, laughing carelessly as one of your friends recounted a joke. He entirely froze, his breath hitching in his throat. He expected you to scan the lobby, to look for him, to acknowledge the massive, sinful secret burning between you. But you didn't even glance his way. You looked so completely unbothered, so entirely satisfied with yourself, while he was sitting there with his chest aching, practically suffocating in front of his friends.
Before he could even process the ache of being ignored, his coach tapped his shoulder. "Come Islam, let's head up to the rooms and rest before dinner."
He swallowed hard, nodding numbly as he followed his coach and teammate toward the elevators. The doors slid open, and they stepped into the cramped metal box. He leaned his back against the wall, staring blankly at the floor as the elevator started to rise.
The elevator stopped on your floor. The doors slid open, and his heart violently slammed against his ribs.
There you were. You were standing right in front of the doors, still giggling with your friends. When the doors fully opened, your eyes instantly collided with his dark, desperate stare. For one terrifying second, the world completely stopped. Islam could feel the heat radiating off you. He thought his coach would hear his heart hammering. He braced himself for you to step inside, to be trapped in this tiny space with him.
But you just looked right through him. Your eyes dropped to his chest, a slow, incredibly smug smirk pulling at the corner of your lips. You knew exactly what you were doing to him.
"We'll catch the next one, guys," you said to your friends, your voice smooth and completely casual. "This one's a little too full."
The doors slid shut, cutting off his view of your face.
The elevator kept moving up, but he just stood there, his hand in his pocket tightly gripping your lip gloss. He was completely trapped in the silence of the elevator, his pulse racing, realizing that you had total control over him, and you hadn't even said a word to him.
That same night the alcohol was buzzing hot through your veins, making your mind beautifully reckless. You had spent the whole evening drinking with your friends, but no matter how loud the music got or how much you laughed, your thoughts kept drifting back to him. Back to the way Islam had choked on his breath in the elevator, and the way his dark eyes had practically begged you for mercy in the lobby.
Standing in front of the mirror before slipping out, you looked at yourself. You were wearing a tiny, super short black slip dress, the kind with thin spaghetti straps that left your shoulders completely bare and a hemline that hit dangerously high on your thighs. You had promised yourself that ruining him once was enough. You had told yourself that breaking his untouchable, holy boy persona a single time was a perfect victory and you should just leave it at that.
But as the clock ticked sharp to 2:00 AM, the craving to see him break again became a physical ache. You wanted to see that look in his eyes when he realized he was powerless against you.
You slipped out of your room, closing the door silently behind you. The hallway was dead quiet, the heavy carpet cool beneath your feet as you walked down the dim hallway. Your head spun a little from the drinks, your heart hammering a frantic, loud rhythm against your ribs with every step you took toward his room. You had no plan. You didn't know how this was going to go, or if he’d finally snapped and found his restraint again.
When you reached his door, you hesitated for a second, staring at his room number. You reached out, your hand trembling slightly from a mix of anticipation and the alcohol, and wrapped your fingers around the cold metal handle.
A slow smile spread across your face in the dim light of the corridor. Islam didn't lock it. He had left it open, waiting for you, praying for you to step through. In that exact second, as you pushed the door open into the pitch black quiet of his room, you knew you had him completely trapped and it was going to be so damn good.
The door swung open, and the heavy scent of sweet perfume and alcohol instantly flooded the room.
Islam froze, his heart stopping mid beat. Still on his knees on his mat, he slowly turned his head.
He had just come back from a brutal practice and hadn’t even bothered to change out of his gear or unwrap his hands. Instead, he had gone straight to the mat the second he walked through the door, desperately seeking comfort, hoping that throwing himself into prayer once again would finally quiet his mind and help him sleep better tonight.
You were leaning against the doorframe, completely drunk. Your eyes glassy but locked right onto him with that same intense focus. You were swaying slightly, a slow smirk playing on your lips as you watched him on his knees.
The contrast was insane. He was in the middle of trying to save his soul, and you had just stumbled in from a wild night out.
"Still being a good boy?" you murmured, your voice thick and a little slurred, dripping with a mockery that went straight to his blood.
He stood up slowly, his limbs shaking. Every single prayer he had just whispered completely evaporated. The sight of you drunk, exposed, and entirely unbothered by his space, destroyed whatever defenses he had left.
"You're drunk," he whispered, his voice thick with a mix of anger, frustration, and a terrifying amount of relief that you finally came. "You need to go back to your room. I am... I was praying."
You didn't care. You kicked your heels off, letting them thud loudly against the carpet, and stumbled forward. You didn't even let him finish his sentence. You walked straight in front of him, completely ruining his plans for tonight.
You reached out, your hands sliding right under his grey t-shirt, your fingers digging into his bare waist to steady yourself. Your body pressed right into his, warm and heavy. "I don't care," you breathed against his chest, looking up at him through heavy lids. "I wanted you tonight."
Islam let out a ragged, broken gasp as you dropped to your knees right there in front of him.
The vulnerability was absolute. He stood frozen, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, trembling, completely paralyzed by the sheer audacity of what you were doing. When your hands slid down his sweatpants, pulling them low on his hips, his head fell back, his jaw clenching so tight it throbbed.
He was totally exposed, trapped between a desperate need for control and the overwhelming rush of your touch. You paused for a second, looking up one last time to see if he would finally snap and stop you, but he didn't. Instead, he stared straight down into your eyes, his dark eyes completely naked, exposing just how defenseless and undone he felt beneath you.
Looking down at his cock, you took in the view. He was built heavy and large, who knew such a holy, disciplined man was hiding this under his sweatpants?
Instead of going straight in, you wanted to tease Islam first. You wanted to make him beg for it; you wanted to force his hands onto you. You started slowly, pressing a soft, deliberate kiss to the tip, while your fingers wrapped around the rest of his cock, rubbing him with the lightest, most agonizingly slow strokes possible. The very second your skin made contact, broken whimper escaped his throat. He looked down at you, his mind going completely insane, wanting nothing more than for you to finally take it all.
You kept your eyes locked on his, watching his control completely disintegrate. You flicked your tongue against the sensitive tip, swirling it slowly before sliding your mouth down just an inch, testing his limits.
A ragged gasp tore out of him. His hands, still wrapped in that white training tape, twitched violently at his sides. He was fighting every single instinct that told him to grab your hair and pull you closer, forcing himself to just stand there and take the torture.
"Please," he choked out, Islams let out a raw, desperate whisper that barely made it into the quiet room. It was the first time he had ever broken his silence like this, his pride completely discarded. "Please, just..."
You ignored his plea, pulling back just enough to leave him cold, your thumb slowly wiping away the moisture at the tip. He let out a low, pathetic whine, his hips involuntarily twitching forward, chasing the heat of your mouth. The sheer desperation in his eyes was intoxicating; the untouchable fighter was completely at your mercy, his knees trembling on his own room.
Unable to take the distance anymore, his discipline snapped entirely. His wrapped hands came down, not to push you away, but to bury his fingers firmly into your hair, his grip tight but careful as he guided you back down. He looked down at you through heavy, dark eyes, completely surrendered to the sin, a heavy groan rattling in his chest as you finally took his cock all the way in.
His wrapped fingers tightened in your hair, his knuckles pressing against your scalp as he guided your rhythm, his movements losing all of their usual calculated control. He was completely running on pure, desperate instinct now. His head fell back, his throat exposed in the dim light as a deep, heavy groan tore out of him with every single stroke.
The room was completely quiet except for the heavy, desperate sound of his breathing and the wet friction of your mouth. Islam was moving his hips into you now, unable to keep himself still, completely chasing the blinding heat you were giving him. All the discipline he prided himself on was entirely gone, replaced by a raw, frantic need to break.
"God," he choked out, his voice cracking, a mix of a prayer and a sin as his grip in your hair tightened just a tiny bit more.
He was reaching his limit, his muscles locking up and his chest heaving under his tshirt. He didn't look down at you anymore, he couldn't. His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth clicked together as a sudden, sharp shudder ran through his entire body. With one last, deep, trembling thrust, Islam completely unraveled, letting out a broken, breathless sound as he released his cum in your mouth.
He stayed frozen like that for several long seconds, his breath rattling in his chest, his hands slowly loosening in your hair until they were just resting heavily against your head, completely ruined on the floor.
The room plunged back into a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the loud, ragged sound of his breathing.
Slowly, Islams wrapped fingers slid out of your hair. He stayed standing, but his head dropped backward as he buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook as he tried to catch his breath, his chest heaving under his tshirt as the reality of what just happened crashed down on him.
You, on the other hand, stayed completely calm. Sitting on the floor right in front of him, you casually reached up and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. You adjusted the thin spaghetti strap of your black dress that had slipped down your shoulder, and ran your fingers through your messy hair to fix it.
Satisfied, you stood up. You turned around, completely ready to disappear into the hallway and leave him wrecked just like you did the first night. It was the perfect exit.
But as you took your first step away, you felt a firm, trembling grip wrap around your wrist from behind.
You stopped, looking over your shoulder.
It was him. He was still standing right there, towering over you. Islams wrapped hand was holding onto your wrist tight enough to keep you there, but gentle enough that it didn't hurt. His eyes were wide, completely dark, and swimming with a mix of defeat and desperation. He couldn't just let you walk out this time. He couldn't handle being left alone in the dark with his thoughts again.
"Don't," he whispered, his voice incredibly cracked and raw, his throat moving as he swallowed hard. He looked down at you, completely stripped of all his pride, his grip tightening just a fraction on your wrist. "Don't just leave me like this again. Please."
You turned your body around slowly, not pulling away from his grip. Instead, you stepped right back into his space, your bare feet inches from his. You looked down at his wrapped hand holding your wrist, and then up at his tortured face. The alcohol was still buzzing hot in your head, making you feel entirely fearless, entirely in control.
Slowly, deliberately, you lifted your free hand and touched the edge of the white training tape around his knuckles. You found the loose end, the piece frayed from his long hours at the gym and how hard he’d been gripping and began to unpeel it.
The sound of the tape slowly unraveling was loud in the quiet room.
"I thought you were praying," you murmured, your voice low, heavy with alcohol and a teasing, wicked mockery. You unrolled another layer, letting the white fabric flutter down to the floor. "I thought you were a good boy."
He let out a sharp, ragged breath, his chest heaving as he watched your fingers dismantle the last piece of the disciplined fighter he had left. He looked like he was physically in pain, his jaw clenching so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.
You pulled off the last loop of tape from his hand, leaving his bare palm exposed. You brushed your thumb over the rough, hard calluses of his knuckles, looking up into his dark, wide eyes.
"I tried," he choked out, his voice a deep, broken growl that vibrated against your chest. He looked down at you, completely defeated, all of his holy boy restraint dissolving right into the air. "I tried. I can't."
The second the words left his mouth, his bare hands came up and instantly cupped your face. His grip was firm, his rough palms hot against your cheeks as he tilted your head up. He leaned down and slammed his mouth onto yours, kissing you like a drowning man who had finally found air.
It wasn't gentle. It was starving, frantic, and filled with days of pent up desperation. He groaned into your mouth, his tongue instantly tangling with yours as his hands slid down your neck, over your bare shoulders, and tightly gripped your waist. He pulled you so flush against him that the thin fabric of your short black dress felt like nothing at all.
Without breaking the kiss, his hands slid lower, hooking right under your thighs. He lifted you effortlessly off your feet. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your hands burying into his hair as he carried you backward across the room, his heavy steps fast until your back hit the mattress.
Islam broke the kiss for just a split second, chest heaving, as you reached down and hooked your fingers under the hem of his grey tshirt. He lifted his arms immediately, letting you pull it up and toss it blindly onto the floor, exposing his heavy, muscled chest. Without a word, he reached down and shoved his sweatpants off, kicking them away until he was left in just his boxers.
He didn’t waste another heartbeat. He came right back down over you on the mattress, his heavy frame pinning you into the sheets.
His bare hands found the thin spaghetti straps of your black slip dress. Slowly, his dark eyes locked onto yours, he slid them down your shoulders, baring your chest to the cool air of the room. He leaned down, his mouth pressing hot, heavy kisses along your collarbone and up the side of your neck, making a quiet gasp hitch in your throat.
He groaned against your skin, his hands moving down to the top of your dress, ready to pull the fabric down completely so he could press his lips to your breasts. He was moving fast now, completely consumed by the rush of finally having you under him.
But right before he could pull the fabric down, you brought your hands up and firmly pressed your palms against his bare chest, stopping him right in his tracks.
He froze, his breath hitching. He lifted his head, looking down at you through heavy, hooded eyes that were filled with confusion and raw need.
You just looked up at him, a slow, incredibly smug smirk pulling at your lips. The alcohol made you feel completely untouchable. You didn't pull the dress down for him, and you didn't let him do it either. Instead, you kept your hands flat against his chest, holding him back just enough to torture him.
"Not so fast," you whispered, your voice thick and dripping with control. "You don't just get to take whatever you want."
He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as his jaw clenched. He looked like he was about to lose his mind, his broad shoulders trembling slightly from the effort of holding himself up.
"Please," he rasped out, his voice a deep, pathetic crack. The disciplined, holy boy was completely gone; he was entirely at your mercy now. He leaned down just a bit, his forehead almost touching yours as he practically begged. "Please... just let me. Tell me what you want me to say."
You held his gaze, enjoying the sight of him trembling above you, completely stripped of his discipline. You let your fingers trail slowly up his chest, stopping right at his collarbone, keeping that agonizing bit of distance between you.
"Tell me who owns you tonight," you whispered, your voice a dark, teasing purr.
He let out a ragged, desperate sound, his eyes closing as he fought the sheer weight of the humiliation. But he was too far gone. The scent of your perfume, the heat of your skin, and the alcohol clouding his own judgment had completely destroyed his pride.
"You do," he choked out, his voice thick and strained as he forced the words past his lips. He opened his eyes, looking down at you with total, unfiltered vulnerability. "You do. Please."
Satisfied with his surrender, you slowly slid your hands away from his chest, letting them drop to the mattress.
That was all the permission he needed. His restraint snapped completely. He hooked his fingers into the top of your black dress and pulled it down, exposing your breasts to the dim light of the room. He buried his face in your skin with a heavy, shuddering groan, his mouth finding your breasts. He sucked the nipples into his mouth, his tongue swirling over it hard and desperate, making a sharp, loud gasp rip from your throat.
You arched your back off the bed, your fingers immediately flying up to tangle into his short hair, anchoring him against you. He didn't tease you anymore; he was completely gone. His hand slid down your thigh, gathering up the rest of the short dress until it was bunched around your waist, his large, rough palm sliding up your bare inner thigh with a possessive, heavy pressure.
He used his knees to nudge your legs wider apart, settling his heavy frame directly between your thighs. He broke away from your chest, his face flushed and his breathing completely chaotic as he looked down at you. His hand reached down, hooking into the waistband of his boxers and shoving them down his legs until he was completely bare against you.
The hot, heavy length of him pressed right against your center, sending a violent jolt of heat straight through you.
"Look at me," Islam rasped, his voice a commanding, dark growl as his hands came up to grip your wrists, pinning them to the mattress beside your head. He locked his dark, desperate eyes onto yours, refusing to let you look away. "Look at what you did to me."
And with one deep, heavy plunge, he drove himself all the way inside you.
A loud, broken cry caught in your throat as your eyes widened, your hips tilting up involuntarily to take the sudden, overwhelming fullness of him. He clenched his jaw so hard the muscles in his face went completely rigid, a low, guttural groan rattling deep in his chest as he buried himself to the hilt. He stayed perfectly still for one agonizing second, stretching you open, his chest heaving against yours as he took in the sheer, blinding tight heat of you.
He was moving with a heavy, desperate rhythm, his broad shoulders slick with sweat as he buried himself inside you over and over again. The alcohol was buzzing loud in your ears, making every sensation completely heightened, and you wanted to feel the full, unrestrained weight of the beast he had been trying so hard to lock away.
You arched your back against the mattress, your fingers digging hard into his muscular shoulders. "Harder," you choked out, your voice slurred and breathless. "Harder. Put your hand on my neck. Choke me."
He froze instantly, his entire body going rigid above you. He stopped mid-stroke, his chest heaving violently as he stared down at you through dark, hooded eyes. He hesitated. He knew exactly how strong he was, his training making him acutely aware of his own power, and the last remnants of his protective instincts screamed at him to pull back.
"No," he rasped, his voice a deep, strained growl as he shook his head, his knuckles turning white where he gripped the sheets. "I can't. I'll hurt you. You're drunk."
"Please," you begged, your voice a desperate, needy whimper as you tilted your hips up, chasing his heat and refusing to let him back away. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper into you. "I want it. Please, just do it."
Hearing you beg for it completely shattered the last of his restraint. A dark, predatory look took over his eyes, and all the pent up frustration and aggression from the last three days exploded.
He didn't hesitate anymore. His large, rough palm came up and wrapped firmly around the front of your throat. He didn't squeeze enough to completely cut off your air, but the heavy, dominant pressure of his hand pinned your head back into the pillow, trapping a sharp gasp in your lungs. At the same time, his other hand gripped your hip with bruising force, pinning you flat against the bed.
He pulled back all the way and drove into you with a sudden, violent force that made your eyes widen. He set a brutal, punishing pace, his heavy frame slamming against yours with a relentless, overwhelming power. Every single stroke was deep, heavy, and raw, making the headboard thud violently against the wall.
With his hand heavy on your neck and his body driving into yours, the pleasure became entirely too much to handle. Your mind went completely blank, your fingers clawing at his wrists as you drowned in the sensation. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, letting out guttural, unhinged groans against your skin as he completely took control.
He was reaching his absolute limit, his muscles locking up, his grip on your throat tightening just a fraction as a sudden, sharp shudder ran through his entire frame. With a few last, deep, trembling thrusts, he completely unraveled, letting out a broken, breathless sound as he came inside you.
Islam collapsed forward, his heavy chest heaving against yours as his hand slowly slid off your neck, leaving you both completely breathless, tangled in the sheets of his pristine room.
He didn’t move for a long time, his heavy body pinning you into the mattress, his face still buried in the crook of your neck as his breathing gradually slowed from frantic gasps to deep, exhausted thuds.
The second his weight shifted and he rolled off you to lie flat on his back, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, you moved. The haze of the alcohol was still humming in your veins, but it gave you a cold, detached sort of energy.
You didn't linger. You didn't lie down beside him, and you didn't offer him any comfort.
Sitting up, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed. You pulled the top of your black slip dress back up, sliding the thin straps over your shoulders. You ran a hand through your messy hair to shake it out, then stood up, your bare feet stepping onto the carpet.
He didn't move to stop you this time. He just watched you through dark, hooded eyes, his chest still heaving slightly as he took in the sight of you completely unbothered, erasing every trace of the chaos you had just caused.
You walked over to the middle of the room, casually picking up your black heels from the floor.
You looked back at the bed. He was looking right at you, completely stripped of his pride, looking so intensely vulnerable it was almost brutal. He looked like a man who had just realized he sacrificed everything and still ended up with nothing.
You gave him one last, slow, incredibly smug smirk.
"Goodnight, good boy," you murmured, your slurred voice dripping with that same effortless mockery.
You turned around and walked out, the bedroom door clicking shut softly behind you.
The room plunged back into a suffocating, freezing silence. He stayed frozen on the bed, staring at the closed door, the heavy scent of your sweet perfume and expensive alcohol still suffocating his bedroom. He was left entirely alone in the dark with his thoughts, completely ruined, knowing he had broken every single one of his rules and you still left him anyway.
